One Last Piece of Chocolate Cake

Little Marco was the epitome of everything Detective John hated in the criminal underworld. Supremely fat, lazy, and not as smart as he thought he was, the man was as far away from Al Capone as John was from Princess Diana. John sat in his car at the corner, watching the obese gangster through the pair of old binoculars he kept for stakeouts. The obese man was practically spilling out of the booth he sat in at Giovanni’s. Red leather jacker blended in with the red leather of the booth. Hands going back and forth with mechanical precision between the plates in front of him and his mouth, you would think the man had recently escaped from one of those month-long dieting facilities. But no, Little Marco probably spent more time in his corner booth than he did in his own bed.

But that made sense, since the booth was essentially his office whenever he was busy overseeing the illicit activities of the Chicago Outfit in this part of the Windy City.

The Detective grunted in annoyance. He’d been sitting still so long, binoculars glued to the restaurant window and the gangster beyond it, that his legs had started falling asleep. Shifting in his seat, John shook out first one foot then the other. Though the tingling set in, John was well aware that he would have to call it a night so he could get out and do some walking soon. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was still there.

John had been surveilling Little Marco for nearly two weeks now, sure that he was the point of contact for payoffs regarding a number of high-profile burglaries in the area. It had been becoming a pattern more and more in recent years. Thieves, unaffiliated with the Outfit, would get their hands on valuable merchandise, like jewelry and art, then fence it through Little Marco as a way to make the stolen goods disappear. After being sold, Little Marco would take his cut, then hand off payment to the thieves under the guise of payments for ‘consultant work.’ The next one of which was supposed to happen today.

Unfortunately for Little Marco, an anonymous tip meant John was here to observe the handoff. If he could catch some pictures of the money changing hands, he would have enough evidence to get a warrant. After that, it would only be a matter of time before everything came falling down.

A grey sedan passed by where the John had parked his car to surveil Giovanni’s. Pulling into the takeout spot, two men in ill-fitting suits got out to head into the restaurant. John almost mistook them for regular customers at first, but for their heads turning on a swivel to look around the parking lot as they made their way inside. They might be who John was waiting for.

Setting his binoculars aside, John picked up the camera he had brought along to photograph the handover. The two men approached the table. When they stopped alongside it, Little Marco looked up, said something that John couldn’t make out, then extended his greasy hand to shake theirs. John frantically clicked the camera as a few words were exchanged between the men, at which point Little Marco smiled and handed over a thick envelope that had been tucked into his red leather jacker. One of the men took the envelope, nodded, said something that was likely a thank you of some sort, then they spun on their heels to leave the restaurant. They passed a waiter heading over to Little Marco’s table, serving tray laden with one of the biggest desserts that John had ever seen. A truly gargantuan slice of chocolate cake.

John smiled as the two men pushed open the restaurant’s door to head back to their car. He had the evidence he needed for the warrant. This might well be the beginning of the end of Little Marco, and if he moved quickly enough, he might be able to snap up the thieves as well. John bent over to set the camera down, tucking it securely in the traveling case. Sitting back up, the detective reached for the keys in the ignition, but something caught his eye before he could turn them.

The car that the two men had arrived in was still parked, and a third man was now getting out of the back. Younger than the other two, he moved with a deadly grace, and the way that his hand rested in his overcoats pocket set of warning bells in John. As the man stepped towards the restaurant, the detective started swearing when he pulled out a handgun.

Cursing at his luck, John reached for his radio to call for backup, but he moved too quickly and fumbled it. The radio dopped, and he lurched forward, fumbling for it. John moved too quickly, and the forgotten seatbelt locked up, preventing him from seizing the radio. Swearing louder, John released the seatbelt, bent over and picked up the radio, but before he could do more than sit back up, gunshots rang out.

Radio still in his grip, John’s eyes darted to look at the restaurant. The hitman burst out of the doors, jumped in the car, and the three men went churning down the road, screeching tires struggling to get a grip on the asphalt. John ducked back down, as he saw the pistol emerge from the passenger window, aimed in his direction. The gunman put three shots into the side of his car before they spun out of sight.

The danger passed for the moment, John struggled to turn the ignition, but the engine refused to start. One of the bullets must have been a one-in-a-million shot, taking out the engine. With the gunmen getting away, and John unable to follow, he pulled himself out of the car and ran in the direction of the restaurant. By now, everyone inside was in the process of running to their vehicles to get away. Frustrated at the fleeing witnesses, John couldn’t give them too much of a hard time, since if he had been a civilian witnessing a hit like that, he likely would have tried to flee as well.

Holding up his badge above his head, John tried to calm the fleeing mob down. He was only partly successful, some cars still leaving as quickly as they could without hitting one another. Stepping inside, the detective panned his eyes over the chaos. Food and broken plates lay scattered over the floor. Some of the high-top tables were overturned, a few people frozen in fear on the ground. All this the detective saw quickly, and just as quickly dismissed.

Little Marco was slumped over at his booth, face buried in a slice of chocolate cake. Shaking his head, John picked up one of the fallen chairs to sit down until reinforcements arrived. What should have been a simple case just got a lot harder.