Chapter 34 - The Lockers on Canal Street
The old Pennsylvania Railroad freight depot on Canal Street looked like a relic of an industrial age that Chicago had forgotten. Rust-streaked corrugated metal, weeds pushing through cracked asphalt, and the constant, rumbling groan of commuter trains passing overhead on the elevated tracks.
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle.
Julian parked the sedan two blocks away behind an abandoned meatpacking plant. We walked the rest of the way on foot, collars high, hats pulled low. In my coat pocket, the brass key felt heavier than lead.
"We have forty minutes until Gabriel sits down at Table Seven," Julian said, checking his watch under his sleeve. "If Matteo’s men are already sweeping the terminal, we’re walking into a kill box."
"Matteo thinks Arthur died in the warehouse," I countered, keeping my eyes scanned on the perimeter. "The text said 'the old man in the wheelchair made it out,' but Matteo assumes an invalid with no car couldn't get more than three blocks from the port. He doesn't know Arthur had a driver from the union."
We approached the pedestrian entrance to the cargo storage facility. The neon sign above the door flickered erratically: *LAKESHORE COLD STORAGE & FREIGHT.*
Inside, the air was chilled and smelled of diesel fuel, dust, and ozone. Rows of gray metal lockers stretched down a dimly lit concrete corridor, numbered in faded stenciled paint. Overhead fluorescent tubes buzzed like dying insects.
"Locker 114," I whispered, pointing toward the third aisle.
Julian kept his right hand inside his jacket, fingers wrapped around the butt of his Glock. We moved down the aisle, our footsteps swallowed by the distant rumble of the tracks above.
We reached the row. Locker 114 wasn't a standard footlocker. It was an oversized freight cage, six feet wide, secured with a heavy industrial padlock.
I slid the brass key into the lock. It turned with a dry, mechanical *clack*.
I pulled the chain loose and swung the metal gate open.
Inside, sitting in his motorized wheelchair surrounded by stacked wooden crates, was my uncle Arthur. He had a gray wool blanket tucked around his withered legs, and a heavy tactical laptop rested open on his knees, its blue screen casting an eerie glow over his hollow, weathered face.
"Maya," Arthur rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraped across pavement. "You look like your mother."
I knelt before him, taking his cold, trembling hands in mine. "Uncle Arthur. You're alive."
"Barely," he coughed, pressing a handkerchief to his lips. "Thomas... did he..."
I closed my eyes and shook my head once.
Arthur let out a long, ragged exhale, closing his eyes against the dim light. "He was always stubborn. I told him the safe in the office was compromised. I told him Matteo had bought the port security six months ago. He wouldn't listen. He thought honor still meant something in this city."
"Arthur, the ledger," Julian interrupted, stepping into the cage and pulling the metal door half-shut behind him. "Signora Rossi said you had the secondary network. Gabriel is walking into La Trattoria del Lago right now to face Matteo. We need the proof that links Matteo to the explosion and Leo's murder."
Arthur opened his eyes. They were sharp, devoid of the frailty that clung to the rest of his broken body.
He tapped the screen of the laptop.
"Leo didn't just find shipping manifests, Maya," Arthur said, turning the computer toward me. "Look."
On the screen was a high-resolution surveillance file, dated three days before Leo’s death. It showed a private back room. A round table laid with white linen and silver cutlery. Table Seven.
Sitting at the table was Matteo Rossi, Councilman Costello, and a third man whose back was to the camera.
"That’s the meeting where Leo’s execution was ordered," I said, a chill running down my spine. "Gabriel told us there were five men on the commission. Who is the third man?"
"Watch the time stamp," Arthur said.
The video played. The third man leaned forward into the light of the overhead chandelier to sign a paper napkin with a gold fountain pen.
My breath stopped.
The man on the screen was not an aging mobster. He was young. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a custom Italian wool suit with silver cufflinks shaped like maritime anchors.
Julian.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
Behind me, the soft, distinct sound of a hammer cocking on a semi-automatic handgun broke the humming silence of the warehouse.
May you like
"You really shouldn't have looked at the third seat, Maya," Julian said from behind my head.
***
