Kept Boy to Made Man - 16. Bosses

The man’s mind was working quickly. His hate-filled eyes bore into the dark-haired detective in the driver’s seat before shifting to the federal agent next to him. They knew his name and his base of operations. Jason Rizzo wondered what else they knew. His subconscious tracked their course through the busy city streets.

It was difficult not to smile. The incompetent fools hadn’t bothered to frisk or restrain him. It would be so easy to draw the sub-nose revolver hidden on his left ankle. He spent almost a minute imagining what it would feel like to blow Juan Ramos’ brains all over the windshield and dash. As tempting as the idea was, it would be too quick. He wanted the man to suffer.

The detective signaled his intent to turn. Jason Rizzo’s eyes left the men to take in his surroundings. The car crossed over the Chicago River before also driving over a large rail yard. The detective took several quick turns before pulling up to a run-down warehouse close to the tracks.

“Where the fuck are you taking me?” Riz asked aggressively.

Neither lawman said anything as they stepped from the car. Riz found himself being guided towards a side door next to a neglected loading dock. The weeds pushing up through the cracked concrete were the only sign of life the man could see.

He thought about his gun once more as he looked at ominous plywood-covered windows. Riz knew of several buildings like this that he himself used in his lust for money or blood. He found the place more intimidating than he would ever admit as he imagined the men behind him doing more painful things to him than asking questions.

. . .

Detective Ramos and Special Agent Thompson hadn’t had time to plan an approach, but they both knew their objectives. While they wanted to learn what they could from the miserable man in front of them, it was more important for Jason Rizzo to learn some very specific things from them. They both hoped he had been paying attention to where he had been taken.

Jim Thompson was far more familiar with the subtlety and subterfuge Daniel Janick had tasked them with. The Marines typically took a more straight forward and aggressive approach to ops. It was that fact as well as Juan’s own insecurities that made him step back into the older FBI man’s shadow.

“Jason Rizzo. I’ve been hearing some disturbing things about you,” Agent Thompson said from across the hastily procured table set in the middle of the large open space behind the deserted loading dock doors.

Riz took his eyes off the men and woman setting up desks and computers to glare at the man who had yet to ask a question.

Jim could see the barley contained aggression rippling through the mafia man’s rigid body and clenched jaw. He took a few seconds to formulate an approach that would accomplish the goals of their odd assignment.

The man’s hatred toward Detective Ramos was reenforced as Jim followed Jason Rizzo’s quick but malevolent glances to the young man standing in the shadows. He decided on his approach, hoping Juan was quick enough to catch on.

“Ignore the junior detective, Mr. Rizzo. This is now an FBI investigation.” He watched the man’s eyes return to his own. “Your name keeps coming up. First, from the mouth a dirty cop, and then from a lowlife pervert. You should really reconsider the friends you keep.”

Jim used the same disgusted emphasis on the words ‘cop,’ ‘pervert,’ and ‘friends.’ He paused for a few seconds to let the association settle into the man’s subconscious mind before insinuating further.

“If I had my way, I’d have you in federal holding while I ripped your life apart. Instead, I’m stuck babysitting junior back there in this neutral shit hole while the FBI and CPD fight about who has the bigger dick.” Jim pressed the transmit button of his silenced radio three times under the table before sitting back in his chair.

“What do you know about Charles Miller and the sick things happening in his house?” Jim’s disgusted tone and expression were not an act.

“I don’t know who or what you are talking about,” Riz said as he mentally chewed on the discord he was picking up between the FBI and the CPD.

The side door opened suddenly, admitting a large man in FBI emblazoned coveralls carrying a cardboard box. He looked around before fixing his eyes on Agent Thompson and starting towards the table.

“Hey, Special Agent Thompson, where do you want th-"

Riz watched the man’s feet tangle, causing him to tip forward comically. The box few from his hands as he sprawled face first on the dirty concrete just feet from the table.

The contents of the box flew free. Every eye watched as photo albums and VHS tapes clattered to the floor. Riz visibly flinched as he saw the images contained in the albums now open on the floor next to him.

“What the fuck?” Thompson screamed as he jumped up.

Jason Rizzo’s shock subsided over the thirty seconds it took for the three Keystone Cops to pick up the evidence that had been spilled across the warehouse. He had no doubt where those images and videos had come from and was once more asking himself how much they knew.

Juan Ramos’ mind was moving quickly as well. The evidence drop had been planned, but Jim’s impromptu animosity towards him and the department was unexpected. The young detective was certain the Agent had a plan, even if Juan himself had no idea what it was. He decided to play along.

“I told the Chief not to let you sanctimonious clowns touch that stuff before we had the chance to analyze it. What the hell, Thompson?” Juan glared at the coverall-clad man and then the agent in turn. “If Miller walks because you idiots fucked up-”

“Stack the stuff over there,” Jim interrupted in mock irritation as he pointed towards an empty pallet that had been quickly reclaimed from a pile of refuse for the purpose. “And get your shit together!”

Jim was pleased both by Ben Fisher’s performance and Juan’s. He growled before returning to the table and his question.

“Charles Miller, Mr. Rizzo. Start talking.” Riz watched the train of federal agents as they began stacking boxes in the corner of the abandoned warehouse.

“Again, I have no idea who or what you’re talking about,” he said, deciding that maintaining ignorance would be safer than fabricating lies.

. . .

The interrogation room door opened, allowing Martin Crenshaw to step back into the hall. The man had been wringing information from Charles Miller for forty minutes. He was almost overwhelmed by the scale of the network the Chicago field office had stumbled upon. The Deck, as he now knew it, was by far the largest and most sophisticated child trafficking ring he had ever encountered.

Fifty-four members, each with their own local and regional operations, all involved in some of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Charles Miller had only ever met a handful of the other Cards. The structure was clever, even if it was unnecessarily dramatic. The four Suits each had their own leadership and hierarchy. Charlie was the Ace of Spades.

The Ace, as with the face cards and Jokers, held unique roles in the Deck. Aces were the heart of each suit, receiving the organization’s raw goods and distributing them out across the network. Charlie was unique, in that he also managed several of the Spades most valuable revenue streams with what he referred to as his studio and talent agency.

Unfortunately, Charles Miller didn’t personally manage his stable of boys, which meant Martin didn’t yet know where to find the talent the man represented. He hoped his next conversation would point him in the right direction.

. . .

“Good evening, Sal,” Martin said flatly.

“I’ve got nothing to say. I want a lawyer.” Sal Distefano was far from the cocky man he had been in a different interrogation room forty-eight hours before.

“Maybe you aren’t a stupid as I was led to believe.” The Agent from Washington DC paused. “You are in trouble, Sal. I’ll get you a lawyer if you insist, but there’s no way out of this for you. You and your late partner are on camera incriminating yourselves as accessories to child pornography and trafficking before attempting to murder Charles Miller. You’ll get life. I don’t need to tell you what the other inmates will do to you when they find out you were a cop.”

Martin saw that he had the large man’s full attention.

“I’m safer in prison than I am on the streets,” he said carefully as his thoughts turned to Riz’s likely reaction to his failure.

“You won’t see the streets again, Mr. Distefano, but the right information might keep you out of a supermax. We want the boys.” Martin put his proverbial cards on the table and waited to see how Sal would respond; he didn’t have to wait long.

“I want my own cell, and I want it in writing. Get me that and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Sal sat back as far as his restrained wrists would allow.

Martin Crenshaw was silent as he moved towards the door. Time was not on their side. Every hour that passed increased both the damage and danger experienced by the children held by The Deck.

. . .

“Will you be joining us this evening, Ms. Ramos?” Rosa placed the last side dish on the table in front of John Renkin.

“Not this evening, sir. I want to bring dinner up to Micah.” The boy had refused to leave her spare bedroom all day, and she was anxious to check on him.

“How is the boy?” John Renkin asked curiously.

“Terrified, sir. It is heartbreaking to see how much damage has been done to the child. I’m not at all confident that it can be undone.” Rosa left the family to their dinner as she returned to the kitchen only steps away.

“I cannot believe you allowed her to bring that urchin into our home, John!” Rosa heard Rebecca almost hiss at her husband.

She shook her head as she placed the tray with three plates in the dumbwaiter. She sent the small elevator up to her apartment before mounting the nearby stairs.

“He is a child, Rebecca; a child that needs help we can easily provide. I let you run this house as you see fit, but I am still the head of this family. Rosa is free to do as she pleases with the space I provide as a part of her compensation.” Rosa stopped listening to the fading discussion as she reached her apartment on the top floor.

Juan’s daytime replacement sat on the couch just beyond the door to her spare bedroom, almost as if he were standing guard. She knew it was for Micah’s safety, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the boy would understand. He had been a prisoner for a long time, held by other men. Would he see this man as a protector or yet another master to be feared and obeyed?

Rosa retrieved the tray of food before setting her own small table for three. She knocked before entering Micah’s room.

“Micah? Dinner is ready, honey.” She found him sitting on the comforter in the same corner of the floor he had slept in.

Their eyes met, but his looked vacant.

“Would you like to sit at table to eat? I made Mary’s favorite lasagna. I think you’ll like it as much as she does.” The boy’s stomach growled loudly, but he showed no other reaction to her offer of food.

She sighed sadly. It took her a few trips, but she soon had two steaming plates, silverware, napkins and two glasses of milk sitting on the floor beside him. He barely moved as she settled onto the floor several feet away.

The small Hispanic woman bowed her head, silently petitioning God for a miracle. She ate as Micah watched, telling him about the day she spent with the Renkin children. The young boy barely heard her words over the warring thoughts within his head.

Micah and Boy wrestled for control. Thomas’ encouraging words clashed with the commands of Mr. Jenkins. He heard his parents whispering, but their love was drowned out by the anger and violence of too many other men.

He wanted to break out of his shell like he had the day before, but his fear and conditioning made it almost impossible to trust the small woman or the man just outside the room. Micah sat wearing nothing but Boy’s armor, hiding in the deep recesses of his mind. He knew someone would come to hurt him soon. Boy would protect them like he always did.

“Micah? Honey? Would you like me to feed you? You need to eat.” Boy was relieved that she didn’t tie him up or hit him before forcing him to eat the delicious food.

. . .

John Renkin had intended to spend the evening together as a family. Instead, Mary was watching her brother while he and Rebecca continued their dinnertime argument in the relative privacy of his study.

“She is paid to watch our children, John, not someone else’s. I can’t believe you let her talk you into reduced hours!” Rebecca’s tone and volume spoke to the fury she felt.

“She didn’t ask. It was my suggestion. You didn’t hear Mary. She thinks we don’t love her because we’re never around. I don’t want someone else to raise our children, Rebecca. That is our job as their parents!” John Renkin tried to lower his heart rate with several deep breaths.

“And we will raise them, once they are old enough to wipe their own butts and hold an actual conversation! I gave you your precious heir, but I will not give up my life to be a common housewife. You forget who you married, John Renkin. My family practically built this city!” John had been expecting some version or those words.

He had never been good enough for Rebecca or her father. The man had inherited his family’s real estate empire built over several generations. John, in contrast, came from a working-class family, making his own fortune through luck and hard work. Rebecca’s superior pedigree was often used to overrule his authority as the man and breadwinner of the Renkin house.

He felt another small part of his pride wither. While some men of his generation would quickly divorce an emasculating wife, he felt obliged to stick by the commitment he made to Rebecca and their children, mostly. His thoughts turned to a certain junior investor as his mind pointed out his deepest and most shameful hypocrisy. He knew he would let Rebecca win this and every argument eventually, if only to assuage the deep guilt he felt for his ongoing infidelity.

“Let’s try the new schedule through the summer. We can revisit it once Mary returns to school in the fall.” Rebecca searched her husband’s eyes, weighing his proposed compromise against her need to win.

“Fine, but I will not change my mind. Rosa will again work evenings and weekends starting in the fall, or I will find another poor immigrant woman who will.” He nodded his acceptance of her ultimatum.

John Renkin wasn’t sure who he hated more in that moment, his wife or himself. He found himself thinking about his office, away from the suffocating and oppressive presence of his wife. His eyes followed his wife out of the study. He couldn’t help but think that his children would likley be happier with their nanny after all.

. . .

Feelings of fury and relief wove through Jason Rizzo’s mind as we walked away from the warehouse currently being turned into some sort of joint command center for the FBI and CPD teams investigating Charles Miller. He almost laughed at incompetence and infighting he had witnessed.

They had the mastermind of Charlie’s entire operation sitting right in front of them and didn’t even realize it. He hadn’t told them anything, refusing to make the same mistake Charlie had made in the courtroom. He would not be goaded into incriminating himself.

Of course they didn’t offer to bring him back to his restaurant. Getting a cab in this near-abandoned part of town was going to be impossible. Each step he took increased his frustration and anger.

“Fucking Juan Ramos!” He screamed several minutes later.

With no other option, he moved forward thinking of all the awful things he wanted to do to the stocky young Hispanic man with the military crewcut. The further he was forced to walk the bloodier his machinations became.

. . .

“How do you think Micah’s doing?” Brendon had been worried about his new young friend since finding him catatonic in his bedroom the previous afternoon.

“I doubt he is doing well. I think I know what Roger meant when he said he was one of the lucky ones. As bad as I had it growing up, Micah has had it much worse.” Thomas sounded sad and faraway.

“We should go see him, Tommy.” The teens were sitting in separate chairs behind Melissa’s desk.

Thomas didn’t respond. He was thinking about the pain and fear he felt in Micah’s small body. At first, the memories of the previous day made him want to cry, but his sadness quickly turned to anger. The more he thought about the wounded soul he had held in his arms, the stronger that emotion became until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

“I hate my uncle so much!” He screamed. “I hate him, Brendon! I hate him!”

The tears finally came as Thomas fell sobbing into his boyfriend’s side. Brendon did his best to comfort him over the armrests of the office chairs they had commandeered.

Roger poked his head out of his office. The man's heart broke as he witnessed the teens' attempt to sooth each other’s pain. He silently returned to the lists on his desk. Names, ideas, dreams, problems. Those lists were what he could do to make a difference in the lives of Micah and boys like him. Thomas’ pain, his own pain became fuel as he focused on them once more.

It was several minutes later that Thomas pulled away. His mind had been busy as he dumped his emotions into Brendon’s neck. He looked at his boyfriend now with determination.

“Come on. I want to see if Donald has time to help me with something.” Thomas was up and moving before Brendon could ask why he needed the young attorney’s help.

. . .

Hank Monroe set the now-empty TV dinner tray on the coffee table in front of him and sighed. IA had cleared him, ruling that his use of deadly force was justified to save the life of a suspect. He had been cleared of wrongdoing, but he had not been cleared to return to work.

The department shrink was worried about his mental state. Hank didn’t put a lot of stock in the man’s opinion but also didn’t really want to return to the station. He had felt obsolete and useless for a long time. Now he also felt anxious.

The memory returned once more.

“Get away from him, Joe!” He heard himself say.

Shock, then fear, then acceptance.

Joe’s thumb knuckle turned white as he began to press on the plunger of the large syringe. It was as if that knuckle was the only thing in the room until his focused widened to include the defiant expression Joe Gallo was shooting at him.

Shooting.

He felt the gun kick in his hand, as blood, bone, and brains exploded on the wall behind the man he had worked with for years.

He smelled both the metallic odor of blood and the acrid stench of gunpowder.

The ringing in his ears, the sight of Joe’s angry dead eyes falling, were both interrupted by Sal Distefano.

Chaos.

And then nothing. He remembered the nothing. The shrink said it was shock, but what did that quack know.

Administrative leave until his retirement; that was his reward. He lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips. He’d abandoned the glass several re-runs ago, or maybe that had been the day before. He couldn’t remember, or maybe he just didn’t care.

He sat back, knowing the memory would be back soon. He waited. There was nothing else to do but wait for it to play again.

. . .

Stepping out of the cab in front of his restaurant did nothing to improve his foul mood. Riz threw some bills at the driver, even though he would have rather shot the man instead. He tromped towards the door. It opened even as he reached out for the handle. His eyes moved from the handle to the thin, leisure-suited waist of the man pushing it open. Jason Rizzo's eyes climbed the man’s body even as it moved inappropriately close.

He didn’t see but could feel the barrel of a gun pressing hard into the soft flesh below his ribcage. His polo shirt didn’t stop the chill of the steel, and it wouldn’t stop the bullet siting ready in the chamber.

“The boss wants a word.” His eyes met the cold stare of the old man in front of him. “Let’s take your car.”

Riz wanted to gouge out the artifact’s eyes and shove them through his smug little lips. Ignoring a summons was foolish, but killing the boss’ pet, while satisfying, would be a death sentence.

“Whatever you say, pops,” Riz said through gritted teeth.

Jason Rizzo moved to the adjacent lot and his Ford Taurus SHO. He liked the car. It was similar in size and power to the large road yachts the relics above him preferred but with sex appeal and a sport-tuned suspension. He would have preferred something sportier, but he needed a large trunk.

Riz unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat. He thought about pretending to adjust the seat so he could grab his hidden gun but realized there was no point. Killing the old man sliding in behind him wasn’t an option, at least not yet.

. . .

Martin Crenshaw left Sal alone once more as he stepped out into the hall. He waited for the local SAC who stepped out of the observation room seconds later. The small man didn’t look as happy as Martin expected him to be.

“We found them,” the DC man said.

“Some of them, but I can’t think of any way to pull them off that farm without sacrificing the ones we haven’t found yet.” Martin suddenly understood the man’s frustrated expression.

“Well, we can at least put eyes and ears on the place. We will think of something, and hopefully we will be able to uncover more of the players as we see who comes and goes.” The thought of leaving the boys in captivity didn’t sit well with either man.

“I’ll send Thompson with a squad from HRT. As frustrating as it is, they’ll need to stay out of sight unless it looks like the boys are in danger. More danger than usual, that is.” Daniel sighed. “Dig into Charlie Miller again. Focus on transportation and trades. We need to know how The Deck moves the boys. That may tell us what to look for when we identify other dealers or whatever they call themselves.”

“Cards,” Martin said offhandedly. “The fuckers call themselves Cards.”

. . .

“Mr. Rizzo.” Another old man sat behind an even older desk in the office above the Wonderlanes Glo-Bowl. “Enzo has been telling me some disturbing things.”

“What has Enzo been telling you?” Jason Rizzo found himself getting nervous for the second time that day.

“I am no saint, but I have never cared for people who trade in children. It is more than illegal. It is an infamnia, disgraceful,” the man said as he crossed himself. “I looked the other way when you made your deal with devil, but I cannot look the other way when you drag the rest of the family into hell with you. Who is the man handing out playing cards and asking for you by name?”

“Playing cards?” Riz was genuinely confused.

“A Jack of Spades pictured as a young boy licking a frozen ice treat.” It took several seconds for Jason Rizzo to make the connection to the psychotic man he had met once years ago, the blood draining from his face as he did. “Who is he, and what have you done, Mr. Rizzo?”

. . .

“Come in,” Daniel said at the expected knock.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Qian Chang said as sat before his boss.

He had been expecting the summons. He was prepared to be benched, possibly even dismissed from the Bureau. He kept his past buried for years. Some of it was in his file, but he had never before let it affect his performance on the job. Daniel would rightly see him as a liability.

“How are you, Qian?” That wasn’t what he expected, but he should have; Daniel Janick was a kind and caring man above all else.

“I’m a bit of a mess, sir. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my past when I volunteered. I endangered the team on Tuesday.” Qian dropped his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Daniel’s disappointment.

“Qian?” Daniel said softly, causing the man to raise his eyes. “You didn’t endanger anybody. You are the reason Micah is safe. He probably would have died in that basement if you hadn’t heard him and acted as you did.”

Tears fell from Qian’s eyes. The boy’s name was Micah, and he was safe.

“Micah,” he said the name aloud, letting it soothe a small amount of his own pain.

“Yes, Qian. He’s terrified and traumatized, but I’m guessing you understand that better than I do.” Daniel reached across his desk with his hand palm-up, causing Qian to first panic and then gratefully accept the offered support. “I don’t know your pain, Qian, but I am seeing entirely too much of it in the lives of people I have come to care about. You will have all the support the Bureau can offer.”

“It has been an honor to work for you, sir,” Qian said, knowing what was coming.

“Are you quitting, Special Agent Chang?” Daniel asked as he bit back a smirk.

“Um, no? I assumed you were letting me go.” The man’s confusion and pain squashed any levity Daniel felt.

“First, I am nominating you for an accommodation, and them I am going to try to keep you from taking my job.” Daniel squeezed Qian hand. “Qian, I am never going to let you go. I have two proposals, and you may choose which is best for you in this moment. First, I will approve a three-month paid sabbatical to do with as you please. Or you can accept the role of Superhero Big Brother for several scared little boys.”

“Sir?” Qian was completely disoriented.

“Micah is currently staying with Detective Ramos’ mother. Juan is staying with them in the evenings, but the boy needs an agent nearby during the day. We also rescued a set of eight-year-old twins from Charles Miller’s on Tuesday. Agent Thompson has been taking the night duty, but I am sending him out on an assignment and need a replacement.” Daniel watched Qian process the information and saw the question form in his mind.

“Superhero Big Brother?” Daniel nodded warmly before explaining.

“Dr. Fenton has informed me that you are not ready for field work. He also told me that contact with others who have experienced similar trauma would be the best thing to help you process your own. I watched a formerly abused teenager work magic with Micah in minutes. I believe your past means those boys will feel safer around you than anyone else.” Daniel’s mind was replaying Thomas’ interactions with Micah. “You understand them in a way others never will.”

“I don’t want the sabbatical, boss. When can I meet my little brothers?” Qian didn’t bother to wipe the fresh tears falling from his eyes, and neither did Daniel.

. . .

Mary had been trying to distract Joshua from her parents’ angry words all evening. She had changed his diaper and gotten him into bed herself. He had the wiggles, so she read her story out loud until he fell asleep. Now she was reading it silently to herself.

"It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "That isn't the wind. It is different. It is that crying I heard before."

Mary knew all about the strange noises the wind could make. She lived in the Windy City. She also knew the sounds of crying.

"I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody is in bed and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock—I don't care!"

The young girl was glad Rosa was much more like Martha than Mrs. Medlock. She kept reading, excited by the rebellious adventure. Mary snuck through the large empty house with the other Mary, through the tapestry door and into the room from which the crying came.

The Mary’s met Colin together. He was a sad boy who made Mary think about the sad boy staying with Rosa. Nobody wanted him, not even his father. She knew a little about how that felt.

"Do you want to live?" inquired Mary.

"No," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But I don't want to die. When I feel ill I lie here and think about it until I cry and cry."

Mary was crying now too. It must be awful knowing something bad is going to happen, wanting to die but also not wanting to. She finished chapter thirteen reading how the other Mary helped Colin fall asleep just like she had with Joshua.

The young girl turned off her light and tucked herself into bed wishing someone would sing to her while they stroked her hand. Mary thought about rain, and wind, and sad crying boys who thought they were going to die. She also imagined secret gardens and boys who could talk to animals.

Mary looked forward to talking to Colin again in the morning, but then she remembered the sad boy’s name was Micah. She wondered if he’d be less sad if she and Dickon showed him their secret garden. Mary Renkin drifted quietly to sleep. In her dreams, the story and her life melted together until there was only one Mary living in a huge and mysterious house on the Chicago moor.