Sam Reaves's commentary that goes along with Fred Pascente's story is excellent. Binder, author of The Chicago Gay Einbrecher Rape Porno "A tale from the underworld that's rich in Outfit history and the characters that come with it. Pascente's memories unspool like letters from a dark and fading Chicago. T he calls came at three in the morning sometimes, the bleating of the phone tearing Fred Pascente out of a deep sleep. Those were the hard ones, the ones that got him out of his bed in a bungalow on a quiet street in Melrose Park, Illinois, a blue-collar town on the western fringe of Chicago. The hardest were the ones that took him out into the dead of a bitter winter night, a harsh wind in his face and hundreds of miles ahead of him. Other times the calls interrupted dinner or deep-sixed plans for an evening on the town with May, his wife. They took him away from family celebrations and card games; they cut short shopping trips and movie outings. When the calls came it was drop-everything time, and the cell phone was always on. When the calls came, it meant somebody somewhere needed something and needed it now. Fred Pascente climbed into his well-traveled Chevy Silverado and drove. Sometimes the first stop was O'Hare or Midway to meet a flight; he had Homeland Security clearance for access to secure parts of both airports. Often it was a hospital: Loyola Medical Center in Maywood, just down the road from his house, or one of the cluster of institutions in the Illinois Medical District, a massive hospital complex on Chicago's Near West Side that looms over the old Italian neighborhood on Taylor Street. Occasionally there was time to grab a cup of coffee or a sandwich; often there was no time to do anything but jump on the expressway and get there, fast. And sometimes it was hurry up and wait, stand around and banter with the security guard while a team of doctors packed up something that would save a patient's life in Minneapolis or St. The security guards liked him. Fred was good at the banter, the jokes and the jibes and the bullshit — he'd been doing it all his life. Fred Pascente still moved like the athlete he'd been in his youth, a big man and still robust, curly black hair gone mostly gray and face filled out, carrying the weight from a lifetime of good Italian cooking but carrying it well. He liked to laugh and to Gay Einbrecher Rape Porno other people laugh; make him wait by the door with the security guard and in two minutes he'd make a new friend. Fred Pascente was an independent hauler of emergency freight. Working mainly for a courier company based in Rosemont, Illinois, hard by O'Hare, he was on call from nine at night to six in the morning, six or sometimes seven days a week, to deliver medicines, freshly harvested organs, whatever needed to get from Chicago to somewhere else, usually in the Midwest but sometimes as far away as New Jersey. He delivered vital parts to a Lear jet stranded on the tarmac in Cincinnati and isotopes for surgery to a hospital in Madison, Wisconsin. He got paid per job plus mileage and expenses; he made a good check. He needed it. At seventy-two Fred Pascente was still a er, hustling to make the nut. His kids were grown, but there was a wife to support, a mortgage to pay, and repairs to make, grandkids to buy presents for, friends to buy drinks for. And there was no pension and never would be. The pension was supposed to come after a twenty-six-year career as a Chicago police officer, but it went up in smoke when a pension board ruled that a man who did the things Fred did doesn't deserve to retire on the taxpayer dime. If you asked Fred what those things were, he'd tell you. Fred wouldn't give you excuses. What he did, he did, and that's why he was out there on Gay Einbrecher Rape Porno road at seventy-two years old instead of in a beachside condo in Florida or a house on the edge of a golf course in Vegas. Las Vegas was another thing that had gone up in smoke; Fred spent a lot of time in Vegas over the years, but that was all over. The people that run Nevada have certain standards to maintain, and some years ago they were persuaded that Fred Pascente failed to meet them. Nevada officials keep something called the Black Book. You won't find a copy at the library, but you can see it online. Its official name is the Excluded Person List of the Nevada State Gaming Control Board, and you can find it on the GCB's website. If you went to the Excluded Persons page and scrolled down a few rows, you'd see Fred Pascente's photo there. This is the list of people who are banned for life from entering any casino in the State of Nevada.
For him, San Francisco is haunted by Stuart, his missing ex-lover. It's time you got outta the house, girl. As soon as the shop was empty again, Peter got out the stepladder, climbed up to his drawing, and erased the elf's index finger. From its earliest days, Chicago was the kind of One-T feat. David Fincher 3.
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