Windy City Blues
Page 25
I wanted everyone to shut up. Regardless of Kalijero’s experience, all brains were vulnerable to momentary lapses of attention, and that’s all it took for disaster. The cop approaching from behind ordered Boris and Vlad to interlace their fingers on the back of their heads. They quickly obeyed, which made me more suspicious. I backed off another step, just wanting to get out of Kalijero’s peripheral vision, hoping he would forget about me. He stood about four feet in front of Boris and Vlad, his gun fully extended in arms straight and locked, while the other cop gripped Boris’s fingers with one hand and began patting his upper body down with the other.
While waiting his turn to be handcuffed, Vlad once again started yelling in Russian at Tamar in a derisive tone, undoubtedly describing her cousin in the most offensive way possible.
“Shut up!” Kalijero shouted but Vlad kept it up. Tamar showed no emotion, just remained focused on Elon.
This seemed to anger Vlad more. He began yelling louder, practically screaming like a lunatic. The other cop was just about to twist an arm behind Boris’s back when Vlad leaned forward and spit on Tamar.
Kalijero’s initial response was to raise his leg, suggesting he was about to kick Vlad in the stomach, but Tamar responded first by rotating her gun to shoot Vlad once in the thigh, before aiming it back at Elon, now curled up on the ground, covering his head with his arms.
The next twenty seconds unfolded as if we were on stage with a director shouting instructions. Despite Vlad dropping to the ground screaming, clutching his bleeding leg, he still persevered to produce a gun from under his jacket, even though Kalijero stood over him, screaming at him to show his hands. I unholstered my .38 as Boris thrust his elbow backward against the other cop’s head, stunning him long enough to move a hand under his own jacket, which meant Kalijero was now dead to rights. I fired into Boris’s chest then watched him drop beside Vlad, now also bleeding from the chest, although I had not been conscious of Kalijero firing his weapon.
The image of Tamar kneeling over Elon, holding a gun against his head, sent me airborne with two tragic images racing through my mind, the first being Tamar gunned down by Kalijero or another cop. Considering the gory anarchy that had just taken place, one could argue they were within their right to do so. The second thought was Tamar’s gun discharging into the back of Elon’s head as I landed on top of her, before I had the chance to wrap myself around her like a straitjacket, making sure the gun remained pointed down.
With Tamar securely in my clutches, I closed my eyes and held her tightly, happy to just lie on the ground, waiting for the delirium around us to play out.
52
One week later, Ellis Knight got his story and more. “BOOYA!” One hundred and forty-four-point type, above the fold.
“East met West the other evening on the banks of the Calumet River, where, for one night only, delicious khachapuri, ajarian, churchkhela, gozinaki, and pakhlava were served à la mode Chicago-corruption style with a traditional side of Georgian blood revenge, and a generous sprinkling of white slavery. The attorney general served up dessert in the form of an indictment of Deputy Director of Revenue Lou Elon for numerous felonies.” The article recounted putting the smack down, busting caps, and working girls, as Knight and The Partisan scooped the world with a story of murder, prostitution, and the Department of Revenue Money Laundering Service.
Subsequent editions gave accounts of Giorgi “Gigi” Geladze’s cooperation with the Illinois and U.S. attorneys general in exposing the Russian mob’s involvement in human trafficking, prostitution, and the murders of Jack Gelashvili, Lada Soboroff, Rich Jones, and Wilbert Palmer. Because Gigi claimed to have no knowledge or information regarding the death of Gordon Baxter, the manner of death was reclassified to “pending investigation.” Several weeks later, with no evidence of a third party’s involvement, and after interviewing family members and his doctor, the fatal outcome was deemed accidental. In exchange for his cooperation, Gigi would get to spend the rest of his life in the Witness Protection Program. As suspected, Gigi’s testimony included detailed descriptions of how the murders were carried out by the two Russian gangsters, Andrei Fyodorov and Evgeny Kozlov, who had been sent to Chicago “on loan” from an unnamed branch of Russian organized crime.
The prosecution was unsuccessful in proving Lou Elon had anything more than an implicit knowledge of the killings, which spared him from a first degree murder charge. Notwithstanding the prosecution’s failure, seven months later Elon received a fifty-year sentence for his role in human trafficking, prostitution, and money laundering. The Russian gangsters survived their wounds only to bask in their devotion to blood oaths and codes of silence, refusing to cooperate or show any remorse. It took ten months before they were sentenced to life imprisonment at the supermax prison in Florence, Colorado.
Konigson’s cooperation with prosecutors served him well. Despite admitting he solicited the services of a prostitute, no charges were filed.
News organizations from around the country picked up the story, focusing particularly on Tamar, her life briefly becoming a cause célèbre that brought attention to the plight of Eurasian immigrants and their vulnerability to organized crime. For my fictional role in the murder of Rich Jones, I was allowed to plea to a Class C misdemeanor and pay a one-hundred-dollar fine, the result of my failure to report the murder within an acceptable time frame.
With the future of the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery in doubt, due to many years of unpaid taxes and the district attorney seizing all assets, Tamar desperately tried to raise enough money to satisfy all the statutory and municipal vultures flying lethargic loops around the North Side neighborhood. The Georgian community pitched in what they could, but with all the various penalties and fines, the debt seemed insurmountable.
I felt a touch ashamed that it took me several weeks before I thought of Frownie’s 1933 Cadillac V-16. Having no idea how antique cars were valued, a cursory search on the Internet revealed that, in excellent condition, this model could command in the neighborhood of four hundred thousand dollars. I immediately spoke with Tamar about the importance of diversifying investments, and my intention of offering the vehicle as collateral until it legally came into my possession and could be put up for sale. “I’m just looking for a safe investment,” I said to Tamar.
—
The Kutaisi Georgian Bakery reopened with great multicultural fanfare as all ethnicities of the neighborhood showed their support and appreciation for a fellow immigrant’s outrage over organized crime. Izzy, Kalijero, and Knight were also in attendance. Kalijero stayed only long enough to claim he never would’ve shot Tamar and he always intended on showing up at the port with backup. He also thanked me for possibly saving his life.
Izzy gave me an envelope with my final payment and congratulated me on brilliant work. The first time we met, he had said that my genius for exploiting the momentum of my first murder case would drive me to solve Gelashvili’s murder. I still had no idea what he meant and no desire to ask him. As I stuffed the envelope into the breast pocket of my jacket, Izzy watched me with a judgmental smirk. Inviting him had been a mistake, I decided.
“What is it, Izzy?” I said. “What am I doing wrong?”
“I’m just wondering if you’re as happy about solving this murder as you are about receiving the money.”
I tried to think of a quick, insulting retort, but just said, “I’m going to walk away now,” then headed to the buffet table for a cup of syrupy carbonated Georgian punch.
—
Dad opened the door, said, “C’mon in,” as if expecting me, then started hobbling away. I hadn’t called first.
“You’re not alone, are you?” I yelled. “Where’s the associate?”
Dad stopped in front of his bedroom door, performed a multi-step about-face, said, “He just disappeared,” then rotated himself back to face his bedroom.
After he shuffled inside I walked over and watched him struggle to place himself into an overstuffed chair next
to his bed. On television was an old episode of The Rockford Files. I put a hand under his elbow to help him sit. “Don’t do that!” he hissed and I jumped back.
I sat on the edge of the bed, next to his chair. He stared at the TV looking disengaged from the program, like someone staring out a window. “I have a girlfriend,” I said. “Her name is Tamar.”
Dad turned his head slightly toward me and said, “Oh, yeah? Very nice,” then turned back. I heard the front door open along with the sound of crinkling paper bags. I walked into the hallway to see the associate carrying groceries.
“Hey, how ya doing?” he said. “I’m Arthur.”
I followed Arthur into the kitchen. “Dad said you just disappeared.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “I told him I was getting groceries and that I’d be back in an hour.”
“Seems like he’s getting worse.”
Arthur agreed and told me Dad had an appointment with a neurologist the following week. I returned to Dad’s room and watched him stare at the TV. “Arthur’s back,” I said. “He just went out for groceries.” Dad didn’t respond. I said, “I miss Frownie. The world isn’t the same without Frownie.”
Dad turned to me, smiling. “They don’t make ’em like Frownie anymore,” he said. “Boy oh boy, you should’ve seen him in the forties, wearing a fedora and a herringbone tweed overcoat. He was made for this role, you see, because he gave off an air of confidence. Frownie was a natural at sensing which people became friends you trusted and which became friends you knew not to trust. They were both important, you see….”
Next, I asked Dad about the old days, back when Great-Granddad ruled the Bloody Twentieth Ward, and listened to romantic stories of Prohibition-era Chicago, stories I had already heard in one form or another, extolling Great-Granddad’s skill at playing the game of corruption and how it paid off handsomely—until the cost of defending against a murder indictment ruined the good times.
“Yeah, too bad,” Dad said wistfully. “It was all a frame-up, you know. It was Capone’s bodyguard, Machine Gun Jack McGurn, that killed the guy. But Granddad stayed loyal to his guys, you see. He had to defend them, too.”
Dad didn’t want to talk anymore and returned to staring at the television. I observed him for a while, wondered what memories those blue eyes were watching. When I said goodbye he gave me a haphazard wave. Just as I reached the doorway he said, “Say hi to that girl of yours.”
BY MARC KRULEWITCH
Maxwell Street Blues
Windy City Blues
PHOTO BY LESLIE IRVINE
Like his character Jules Landau, MARC KRULEWITCH, the author of Maxwell Street Blues and Windy City Blues, is descended from an infamous Chicagoan. He grew up in Highland Park, Illinois, and now lives with his wife in Colorado.
Facebook.com/marckrulewitch
@makkrul
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