Page 68 of Street of Dreams
Jake locked the door behind him and unloaded his pockets. Rolls of hundred-dollar bills tied with rubber bands fell onto his bed to the tune of five thousand dollars.
He went into his closet, moved a mountain of dirty laundry, and uncovered the safe. A few rotations of the dial revealed more money than he’d seen in his lifetime. And it was all his. Well, most of it. He grabbed the satchel with today’s earnings and felt the weight of it in his hands. It was a good day. He locked the safe, hid it behind his laundry again, and closed the closet door.
With the pouch full of money in his backpack and double checking that his bedroom door was locked, he headed downstairs to make the ride to the north side. As soon as his boots hit the bottom step, he heard the front door open. Just a little hiccup, he reminded himself. He knew how to handle his old man. They met face to face in the living room.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bruce bellowed.
“I needed to pick up an extra set of keys for the stock room at the liquor store.”
“That fucking store is taking up a lot of your time.”
“I did my runs today. Money’s in the locked box on your bedroom door, like always.” Jake pulled a few hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. “Here. House cut on the store.”
Bruce took the money and eyed it greedily before shoving it into his pocket. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but as long as you’re giving me a cut, we don’t have a problem. Now get the fuck outta here. I got business to take care of.”
Less than twenty miles separated South Side and the Finestra’s social club on the north side of Chicago, but the economic demographics were eons apart. Flashy cars lined a street that looked as if someone had just steam cleaned it with a pressure washer.
Jake moved the money from the backpack to a leather carry bag, shrugged out of his motorcycle jacket and slipped into a wool blazer that cost more than most people in South Side made in a month. Walking up to the solid black door always set off warning bells, but he portrayed pure confidence as he knocked. Two men in charcoal suits answered the door, blocking it like a brick wall.
“Jake King,” he stated. “Mr. Finestra is expecting me.”
They stepped aside and let him in. Another suit greeted him with a nod of the head and indicated that Jake should follow him into a back room. The floor was covered in some kind of stone that made the heels of the man’s impeccably shined shoes click with each step.
Salvatore Finestra, the head of the most powerful Family in all of Chicago, sat behind a chunky wood desk with a granite top and a fat cigar between his lips. Four other men, besides the man who accompanied Jake into the room, stood in pairs to the left and right of the desk. They wore dark sunglasses, even though they were indoors, and stood motionless with their hands folded in front of them.
Jake nodded once at the boss of the Finestra Family, knowing that he wasn’t supposed to speak directly to the man unless addressed, and handed the bag of money to the Captain at Mr. Finestra’s side.
“It’s all here, Don Finestra,” the burly man said, after rummaging through the bag’s contents.
Salvatore Finestra stood from his desk and filled the room with his intimidating presence. The two men at his right stepped aside so he could pass, and he stopped directly in front of Jake, puffing heavily on his cigar. He eyed Jake’s jacket, lifted his upper lip, and raised his shoulders. “Valentino with dungarees and a T-shirt?” His thick Italian accent dripped with disapproval. Then he raised his hand, palm up with thumb pressed against the other four fingers, and bobbed it in front of Jake’s face. “Disgrazie.” He stuffed the cigar back into his mouth, shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a solid gold billfold two inches thick with hundred-dollar bills. He removed a stack of bills and handed them to Jake. “Buy yourself a whole suit. And wear a collared shirt and a tie next time you come to my place of business.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake took the money. “Thank you, Mr. Finestra. I meant no disrespect.”
“Paulie will be by the store tomorrow with the next job.” Mr. Finestra waved his cigar, and it created a zigzagged curtain of smoke in front of him. “You don’t talk or ask questions. People appreciate that.” He puffed on his cigar, walked behind his desk, and sat back down. “You can go.”
Jake was escorted to the front door by the same guy with the clickity-clack shoes. With his hand on the doorknob, the guy stopped, pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it to Jake. “Mr. Finestra likes you, kid. Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you.” Jake took the envelope full of money, put it in his pocket and left. He didn’t bother counting it. Trust was implied on all parties. He was playing a dangerous game by getting involved with the Finestra Family, but he needed to do something because he couldn’t just sit back and wait for Ben to turn 18 any longer. He needed help, and Salvatore Finestra was probably the only person who could take care of the situation.
Driving down I-90 with a hefty wad of cash in his jacket pocket and more on the way, Jake felt the days rolling by until freedom finally presented itself. He began to whistle and tap his fingers on the steering wheel, so he clicked on the stereo to look for a song that matched his good mood. His heart lurched the moment he heard Mac’s voice come through the speakers. The words toStreet of Dreamsfilled his ears, and excitement almost blew his head off. Mac was on the fucking radio! He did it! Mac was a famous rock star!
“That was Chicago’s very own Reid Mackenzie topping the charts with a song about the most famous street in South Side,” the DJ began.
Jake turned up the volume and listened with his heart ballooning with pride.
“This hometown boy is just off a six-month tour with The Third Rail and has been recently spotted in L.A. with a male love interest. Big kudos to Reid Mackenzie for being out and proud. Chicago loves ya, man. Pick up his debut album this Tuesday, and don’t miss Reid Mackenzie’s next appearance at Rocktoberfest in Black Rock City, Nevada the weekend before Halloween.”
Jake slammed on the brakes so hard that his truck skidded sideways and screeched to a halt in the middle of I-90. Horns blared and drivers cursed as they nearly slammed into him, but he didn’t give a fuck. He pulled onto the shoulder, heart hammering and burning with jealousy. He stared at the faceplate on the stereo, stunned, and began to question whether or not he heard the DJ correctly.
He grabbed his phone and punched Mac’s name into the browser. Hits filled the screen, and he scanned them frantically until he found what he was searching for. He clicked on a photo and felt sick to his stomach. It was Mac. Smiling. Happy. Walking down a street lined with palm trees with his arm around . . . Another. Fucking. Guy.
Jake punched the steering wheel. Twice. “Mother! Fucker!”
