A Consequence of Living
an excerpt

A lot of people figured that Harry was dead. It was a justified thought. God knows he pissed off enough people, and we're not talking husbands whose wives had been playing around on them, here. Harry had had some bad dealings with Bianco and Spino; the kind of run ins smart men avoided. Harry was smart, but he was also unlucky like no one else, and always did seem to be exactly where he shouldn't be at the very worst time. Those Italians pretty much ran Chicago these days. They owned the cops, at least the most of them, and probably the mayor, too. Gambling, rackets and black market dealing had made them rich as Creosus, and rich men could buy anyone. That was the other theory people had about Harry. Either he'd messed with the Italians once too often or found out something he shouldn't have and been given a swimming lesson in the Michigan, or else he'd made a deal and lined his pockets with those gangsters' dirty money.

People love to think badly of other people. Always have done, always will. I'm the only one who knows what really happened to Harry Glick. I'm the only one he trusted to know and not rat him out. That's what being partners is all about. Truth is, Harry really did push the mafia too far and they were going to introduce some new holes to his anatomy, in all kinds of inappropriate places. Harry knew he was in big trouble, but it wasn't like he could go to the cops. Those bastard seamuses would probably have handed him right over to the Italians. Harry was in a hole, so the only thing he could do was climb out of that hole and run, fast as he could.

That's what Harry had done. He'd left everything he didn't need, which was most of what he had, when push came to shove, and he'd gotten the hell out of Chicago. Hell, he hadn't stopped at the city limits, or even the state line. Harry had run hard and he hadn't stopped 'til he reached the ocean. And we ain't talking the Atlantic here. Harry ran west 'til he hit the wide blue Pacific and probably would have gone further if he thought he could make it in Japan. He was that scared. The one thing it turned out he did need was a pretty little girl called Shelly who worked in a deli around the corner. Him and Shelly were all set up in Los Angeles now, happy as pigs in shit, or two peas in a pod, living under a nice fake name that only I know. I got a letter every month or so, just so I knew how things were for them. Last one said Shelly was in the family way, so they were getting married. Mazel tov to them. I'd have loved to be Harry's best man, but he liked the Italians not knowing where he was and I don't know anyone else in LA - if I ran off to California someone would figure out why, and then Harry would be in trouble all over again.

Of course, so long as the Italians didn't know where Harry was, they were happy for everyone else to think he was at the bottom of the lake and filled with holes. It was better for their reputations that way. If people thought that someone like Harry Glick, a two bit Jewish private dick, could foul up the mob's operations and get away with it they'd lose respect for the Italians in question, and respect was everything. Respect and fear. People knew that if you messed with Mickey Bianco or Alfonse Spino, or any of their made men, you'd get what was coming to you, and no mistake. Fear was power.

All of Chicago thought that the Italians had tapped Harry, but there was no evidence, so the cops couldn't do anything even if they had a mind to, and the DA couldn't prosecute. All the while, Harry was sunning himself on a Californian beach with a young wife and a kid on the way. It was a winning situation for about everyone involved.