“Congratulations on your retirement,” I said. “A grateful city thanks you.”
31
Dad wasn’t sure he would go to the funeral. This surprised me.
“Ach! Frownie don’t care about that crap,” Dad said. “We go to funerals to make ourselves feel better. The dead don’t give a damn.” He had a point.
Despite the funeral taking place only two days after Frownie’s death, the simple graveside affair was well attended by Frownie’s “younger” colleagues: sun-tanned, craggy-faced men in their early eighties, who flew in from Florida to pay their respects. One of them eyed me then approached with a determined look. “He was a mensch,” the man said and cupped my ear. “You should be lucky to know one man like him your whole life.” Then the man turned and walked a few feet away and as if on cue, stopped and turned back to face me. “He was a mensch!” he repeated loudly and then dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.
Most of the men had wandered away when I noticed Dad standing in the back just inside the cemetery tent. An associate held his arm while he leaned on his cane with the other. Under his open trench coat I saw the same ancient argyle cardigan sweater he wore when he had knocked on my door after having just been released from prison. He shook his arm loose from the associate then walked to me. A torn black ribbon hung from his lapel. We both stared at the nearby grave.
“You decided to come,” I said.
“You see the respect Frownie got?” Dad said.
“The number of people?”
“Damn right. All those guys making the trip, a lot of them coming from Boca Raton. And at their age! Former cops, hoods, bookies, gamblers, pimps, Fed hacks, you name it.”
“I bet you and Granddad got that kind of respect, too.”
Dad laughed. “Me? Not even close. Your great-granddad—you bet he did. Even more. You see, Frownie knew how to juggle them all, keep ’em all happy. That was his gift.”
“I think over time those types wore on his conscience, though.”
Dad gave me that familiar scowl, a fixture of my childhood. “You still trying to find a murderer to chase? Just so you can also get killed?”
“I’m on a murder case now. I told you all about it a few days ago.”
“Bullshit! When?”
“When I came over. You don’t remember me coming over?”
Dad didn’t respond. Then he said, “I guess you want me to respect murder investigating?”
“Trying to bring justice to the family of an innocent man? Doesn’t that deserve respect?”
Dad thought about it. “You want honor. That’s what you want. Respect was different in me and Frownie’s day. It had to do with being tough! Your great-granddad showed our family could be tough. He saw how they looked at us and he took it right to them. Capone and the rest didn’t scare him. And we went to war just like the rest. My cousin Leo navigated a bomber lying on his back after getting hit by flak and won the Distinguished Flying Cross. My cousin Freddy flew fifty missions in a P38. He had twenty missions under his belt when two replacements showed up all cocky. He hears one of them say, ‘Ever notice how the closer we get to combat, the fewer kikes you see?’ Freddy kicked the shit out of both of them while the others watched. He showed everybody who was tough. And he got respect.”
This same conversation had taken place many times in one form or another throughout my life. Unfortunately, a definition of respect would never bridge this generation gap.
“So you’re mad at me again for working a murder investigation?” Dad waved at the associate, looked me over, but said nothing. I said, “You let me off easy a few days ago. You said you weren’t going to worry. You said there’s no point in worrying.”
Dad looked at me as if I had just called him a piece of shit. Then he seemed to remember something. He turned to the associate and said, “Let’s go. My shows are gonna start soon.”
32
Izzy’s voice mail “greeting” emitted an extra helping of gloom, as if anticipating every call would bring only bad news. In my most cheerful voice, I asked him to call me and then headed to the Old Town neighborhood where I had encountered the oversensitive city parking officer. I wandered twenty minutes before I spotted a female officer. She looked early forties, prematurely gray, with a braid reaching the small of her back. I said hello, and she sort of nodded and said, “Question?”
“Do you know where Jones is working today?”
“Nope. He moves around a lot.”
“Can you tell me where the city’s parking office is?”
“You can pay your tickets online or at city hall or at one of our payment processors.” She handed me a card listing addresses.
“I don’t have tickets. I want to visit your office, where you and your fellow officers report before your shift starts.”
“We work for the Department of Revenue. Check with them.”
“Your office is at the Department of Revenue? In city hall?”
“Check with them.”
“So you can’t tell me where your office is?”
“We’re not required to give out that information.”
“But it’s all part of the public record. Your salary, your name, your annual reviews, it’s all information readily available.”
“Then you don’t need me to tell you about it.”
She had rehearsed this conversation, and had said it all many times before. “I’ll bet you’ve been instructed not to give out information.”
“We are not required to give out information.”
“Then why bother talking to me at all?”
“We’re here to help people. Do you have a question about parking?”
“Thanks for your help. I think I’ll go over to the Department of Revenue and check with them.”
The lady turned around and continued her walk.
—
It was a nice day and I had a decent parking place near my office, so I walked to Sedgwick and took the Brown Line downtown, back to the tenth floor of the Wolfe Professional Building where I once again stood in front of Young Businessman’s mother. Her look told me she had a finger hovering above the “security” button.
“I mean no harm. I just want a word with your son.”
“He’s not here.”
“Is he coming in today?”
“That’s none of your business. How do you know my son?”
“We talked in the lobby after you threw me out.”
“What’s his name?”
“We didn’t officially introduce ourselves.”
Mommy shook her head in disgust. “I don’t know what kind of sicko you are, but if you leave on your own, I won’t call security.”
Down in the lobby, leaning against a marble pillar, I watched John and Jane Public walk to or from their various conferences, presentations, pitches, speeches, talks, forums, and every other type of gathering associated with that beloved force of nature called capitalism. I couldn’t help but notice how the City of Big Shoulders had morphed into the metropolis of expansive stomachs and vast rear ends. Buttons and zippers on Armani shirts and Dior skirts strained against the forces of Italian beef, Polish sausage, and deep dish pizza—a metaphor waiting to be conceived.
“Don’t move,” said a voice followed by a poke in the ribs, followed by laughter. “I’m just messing with you!”
Young Businessman’s chubby face then appeared. I pretended not to have been startled. “I tried to find you upstairs. Your mom wouldn’t give you up.”
“You know what a Judas Chair is?”
His suit conformed to his portly body as if custom made, although the knot of his tie was still loose.
“A what?”
“It’s a pyramid-shaped seat. You’re lowered onto it. Very painful. That’s what it would’ve taken for my mom to give me up. So what do you want?”
“I’m looking for a guy named Rich Jones.” I gave a description and said he worked as a parking officer but that I saw him hanging out with the guy who delivered the package to
Konigson’s office. “And what the hell is your name?”
He now stared through the lobby as if he hadn’t heard me. “Yeah, I know him. He’s a pathetic son of a bitch.”
“How do you know him?”
“He writes parking tickets. And sometimes he was a driver for Konigson, like a private chauffeur.” He gave me a goofy grin.
“I got a feeling there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”
He leaned back a bit and pretended to size me up. “You asked me my name? How about I ask who the hell you are and why I should tell you anything?”
“I’m a private investigator.” I gave him my card. “A few weeks ago a parking officer was murdered near his home. I want to find out why.”
He stared at the card, said my name, and gave me a smug look. “There are really people who still do this detective stuff? I mean, I know about finding birth parents and cheating husbands, but murder? What kind of money you making?”
“You ask that question as if really expecting an answer. As if you don’t expect me to say ‘None of your fucking business.’ ” I took out a roll of cash from my pocket and peeled off two fifties. “I’ll tell you what. You give me some useful information, starting with your name, and I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
“Jerry,” he said and laughed loudly. “That’s awesome! You guys really do that? Money talks, right? I mean, it’s the norm in city business—”
“That’s right, Jerry. It’s just business. Everything is just business. Now tell me what you know about Jones.”
“Like I said, he was Konigson’s chauffeur.” Again with the goofy grin. “But only on special occasions when he went out to party with his bitches.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how these fat cats get young babes to fuck them in exchange for buying them whatever they want? That’s just the way it is. That’s what I’m gonna do someday. Why not?”
“Terrific. So Jones used to drive him on dates but then he stopped?”
“Yeah, I guess he started messing up.” Jerry began sniffing the air. “You know what I mean?” He sniffed more. “Get it?”
“Cocaine?”
“Oh, yeah, big time. Jones started moving blow around the city for some gangs but got caught dipping into the inventory. Usually, you’re a dead man when that happens. Konigson’s got a soft spot. Word is, he bought Jones some time.”
“What’s he doing at Vector Solutions?”
“I don’t really know. He still writes tickets, when they can get him out there. I don’t think they know what to do with him.”
“What about the guy who carried the package into Konigson’s office?”
“He’s a Revenue hack. A real crony. Probably mobbed up. I always see Jones with him. Sometimes Jones is in his parking uniform.”
“Where’s the parking office?”
“In city hall. In the basement somewhere. Too many threats to have the meter maids out in the open when they’re just hanging out.”
With that tidbit, I peeled off another fifty and handed over three bills. Jerry shoved them into his pocket and said, “It was a pleasure doing business.”
Frownie told me the best investigators are the ones who know how to make friends. You never knew who might turn out to be a valuable resource.
33
Before heading into the bowels of city hall, I stared at one of the domed ceilings of colorful frescoes depicting allegorical backdrops of seed sowing and abundant harvests and thought how much more efficient society had become by planting money instead of waiting for rewards to sprout from seeds.
The only signs of visible life in the basement came from the open doors of various storage rooms where archivists spent their days managing one hundred and fifty years of documents. Compared to the breezy foyers above ground, the silence of the marble and terra-cotta halls reminded me of a mausoleum.
I knocked on one of the open doors and said, “Hello?” From behind a portable shelving unit, up popped a balding, skinny head with half-frame reading glasses on the end of his nose. His face looked washed out under the fluorescent light, as if he hadn’t seen daylight in months.
“Yes?” he said, surprised to see me.
“I was told the parking office was down here somewhere. Is that true?”
The man laughed, stood up, dusted off his knees, and smiled as if genuinely happy to talk to me. “Parking, huh?” He laughed again. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. Seems like all kinds of people come through these halls and disappear somewhere. Mayors, aldermen, dignitaries, police chiefs, prisoners in orange jumpsuits. Why not ticket writers?”
I took out my cell phone. “You ever see either of these guys down here?” I showed him the picture of Package Man and Jones.
“Yeah. Usually together.”
“Where do they go?”
“No idea. I just see them walk past the door or I pass them in the hall.”
I looked down the hallway toward the elevator. “I’m curious. Do you remember if they’re always walking in the same direction?”
He pondered my question. “Can’t say for sure, but I think they always come from the same direction as you.”
“What’s in the sub-basement?”
“As far as I know, just doors that open up to the old coal tunnels that run all throughout downtown. You want to leave a message if I see those guys again?”
“No, thanks.” I gave the man my card. “If you happen to notice which door they disappear through, give me a call. You’ll be rewarded for your services.”
The man took the card, then nodded and smiled as if paid a great compliment.
I got the feeling Jones and friend entered the building through the lobby, took the elevator down, opened a locked door to a secret office, and then exited the building at an unofficial location. Outside, I checked the perimeter of the gargantuan building. The solid granite exterior revealed no phony walls leading to secret passageways or planters disguising stairwells to subterranean hideouts.
Back inside, I strolled the lobby with the nagging thought that, somehow, the glittering ostentation represented ground zero for tragedy. While leaning against the marble wainscoting under portraits of three jailed aldermen, I thought of billionaire buddies Konigson and Elon, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of big-city politics that crony capitalism had become a part of their genetic makeup, and blurring the line between public and private money occurred without forethought.
I wondered if after decades of success, they couldn’t help but buy into their own mythology that their actions had no consequence not easily handled. Someone screwed up. An immigrant parking officer dead. Konigson panicked, aggravated the mistake by calling the city editor of the Republic, demanded that an otherwise innocuous murder story—in a city brimming with murders—be spiked.
“Sir?” Three police officers stared at me, keeping a five-foot cushion.
“Careful. With my back against the wall I got nothing to lose—”
“Sir, do you have some business here?”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Probably better if you wait outside.”
“I’d rather wait inside.”
“We think it’s better if you wait outside.” They stepped forward.
“I’m a public citizen waiting in a public building.”
“You’re a public citizen loitering in a public building.”
The officer handed me a card with Chicago Municipal Code 8-4-015. I read aloud, “ ‘Remaining in any one place under circumstances that would warrant a reasonable person to believe that the purpose or effect of that behavior is to enable a criminal street gang to establish control over identifiable areas, to intimidate others from entering those areas, or to conceal illegal activities.’ ”
“You think I’m enabling a criminal street gang?”
“We think you’re loitering.”
“You mean loitering
as defined in a post-9/11 world.”
“Are you going to cooperate?”
“You think I’m intimidating others from entering the building or do you think I’m concealing illegal activities?”
“We don’t know what you’re doing here, which is why you are going to leave.” Another step forward.
“Oh, that’s right. The ordinance refers to how a reasonable person would think, not police officers.”
“I’m going to ask you one more time—”
“Actually, I could use some fresh air.” I stepped away from the wall, and they escorted me through the lobby inside a human triangle. I had never felt so safe.
34
Loitering once again, this time across the street near the Picasso sculpture, I watched for any sign of Jones or some indication of the parking office’s location, but after forty minutes, the only evidence I saw confirmed my previous observation of an overfed populace.
An unmarked gray Econoline van pulled up to the bus stop on Washington Street in front of the subway entrance. The sliding door opened and three city parking officers climbed out. From the way they smiled and joked with each other, I surmised their shift had ended. As they approached the stairwell, I hurried over and followed them down to the platform, where they walked behind the crowd waiting for the Blue Line’s appearance, then down a short flight of steps to track level. When one of them reached for a door handle, all but invisible to the uninitiated, I sprinted to catch up but arrived as the door slammed shut. I cursed loudly, grabbed the door handle intending to pull it out of the wall, but almost smashed myself in the face when it flew open with ease. Light from a brightly lit hallway now greeted me. After my pupils adjusted, I stared down the corridor and replayed the previous few minutes to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating.
A young Latina officer appeared from behind, smiling broadly. “Excuse me,” she said. I held the door open and watched her enter.
I said, “Is the parking office down here?”
“Follow me.”
She walked ahead of me at a fast clip, glancing behind occasionally to say, “Still with me?” The hallway turned left at a ninety-degree angle and continued for at least a hundred yards where another door awaited. Along this route, we passed several other doors with the words “Coal Tunnel” painted on them. The final entrance opened into an L-shaped room full of parking officers, some in street clothes looking as if getting ready to go home, others in uniform ready to start their shifts.
Windy City Blues Page 15
