Paul Revere Square was an ersatz slice of New England plopped along the frontage of Kimberly Road, a sprawling commercial strip on the western edge of the Cities, connecting Davenport and Moline. Mostly Kimberly was middle-class mini-malls, and franchise restaurants with “Mister” in their names; but Paul Revere Square seemed to cry out, “The wealthy are coming.”
I parked my rental job in the side lot and walked toward the courtyard square where wooden signs extended from buildings on wrought iron, swinging in the gentle chilly breeze, and lampposts lit up the overcast afternoon with yellow electric lights that pretended to be gas. Despite the efforts to look old, these brick buildings were new, the mortar barely dry, and a good many of the storefronts had yet to be filled. Saturday afternoon or not, there weren’t many people wandering the courtyard of shops, though those who were were well-dressed.
Several handsome fortyish women in mink jackets over slacks outfits wandered into a shop where, a glance in the window informed me, fancy dresses were displayed on the walls like museum pieces.
Two- and three-story brick buildings—an anomaly on this commercial stretch where low-slung and cheaply built was the standard—loomed on the periphery, making me feel more like I was in a fortress than a mall. Of course, this wasn’t just a mall; various medical specialists kept offices here, and Butterworth Tours, E.F. Hutton, several insurance firms, a massive bank. Building A, for instance, numbered among its occupants the Obstetrics and Gynecology Group, and Slices and Scoops. The latter had nothing to do with either obstetrics or gynecology: it was a deli restaurant with “home-made” pie. I ate lunch there. So did several pregnant women.
Just after one o’clock, I wandered into Ridge Real Estate World, on a lower level around the corner from the courtyard shops. I found myself in a waiting room where cream carpet and cream walls set a soothing tone, and a large elaborately framed picture of George Ridge, the company founder, was the dominant wall decoration. The wall was otherwise covered with plaques various civic and mercantile groups had awarded to Ridge and/or his company. A good number seemed to have to do with public speaking; several were from the Toastmasters, for instance.
I stood and stared at the picture of Ridge for a good long time, and finally I heard a pleasant voice say, “Could I be of help?”
She was brunette and she was petite and she was attractive; she wasn’t as attractive as Angela back at Best Buy, but this woman, too, had most likely been a cheerleader and/or a beauty queen, only somewhat more recently than Angela. She had money-green eyes and too much make-up and a forced, sparkling white smile. She also wore a blazer: a blue one with a RIDGE crest over a white frilly blouse.
This, apparently, was my day to encounter attractive women-in-blazers.
I put on a smile and walked over to the desk. “I had an appointment with Mr. Ridge,” I said.
I thought that would send her scurrying to a desk drawer for her appointment book, but she only smiled and shook her head. “You must be mistaken,” she said.
I took off the smile, put on a concerned, confused look. “I don’t think that’s possible. My secretary called . . .”
“Mr. Ridge is out of the country. I’m sorry if there’s been a mix-up.”
“I see. Where is Mr. Ridge, exactly?”
Her smile tightened. “He’s in Canada. Giving a seminar. He will be back Tuesday, however.”
“And available?”
“Yes. I can probably make an appointment for you, for then.”
“I’d appreciate that.” I dug for my billfold in my inside suitcoat pocket, removed a business card. “My name is Ryan, and I’m president of the company. I’m sorry for the confusion I’ve caused.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Ryan,” she said, coldly pleasant. “And might I ask the nature of your business with Mr. Ridge?”
“I’d like to invest some money,” I said.
Her smile disappeared; she didn’t frown, but she definitely was not smiling.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.
Why?
“Well,” I said, “I really would prefer to discuss it with Mr. Ridge.”
Her eyes narrowed and she kept them narrowed as she examined the business card. Then she stood and twitched her cold pleasant smile and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Certainly,” I said.
She left the reception area and I glanced around some more, wondering why anyone in a real estate office would be confused that I wanted to invest. But then this was the damnedest real estate office I’d ever seen. It was more like a doctor’s reception area, or a lawyer’s. Where were the prominently posted photos of houses with their detailed listings? Where were the eager-beaver agents, in their fucking blue blazers, scurrying after my (after anybody’s) business?
Nothing here but this big fat gilt-framed photo of George Ridge, and an attractive, icy receptionist. I walked over to look toward where she’d gone; down to the left was a hallway off of which were a few offices. The place smelled new, smelled of money, yet it was small for a real estate operation, particularly one that had (as the late Mr. Werner had told me) made George Ridge a millionaire.
Finally she came back, a small woman with a nice body under that blazer and skirt, not that I cared. She gave me the phony smile and a hard appraising look from the money-green eyes.
“Mr. Janes will see you,” she said.
I gave her a phony smile back. “And who is Mr. Janes?”
“He’s a vice president with the company. He’ll be able to help you.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Ridge.”
“He’s out of the country.”
“Who’s on first?”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Janes. Point me to him.”
She walked me there; she was wearing Giorgio perfume. Linda had used that. Expensive fucking shit.
The office was small and rather bare. Janes was a young, thin, pockmarked man wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a big smile. I’d seen a lot of smiles today, but this one I almost believed.
“Mr. Ryan,” he said, grinning, pumping my hand, like we were long-lost buddies. “Sit down. Please.”
A chair opposite him was waiting.
His desk was filled with paperwork and he was in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his tie loose. He had a coffee cup, from which steam rose like a ghost.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, and sipped the coffee. “Can I have Sally get you a cup?”
“No thanks. Kind of you, though.”
“Excuse my appearance. I don’t generally deal with the public on Saturday. I’m only working because half our staff is on the road this week, and I’m up to my armpits in alligators.”
“I know the feeling.”
He put the coffee cup down and folded his hands on top of some of the paperwork and leaned toward me, his eyes tightening, his smile tightening. “I understand you’re looking for an investment opportunity.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sally tells me you’re the president of your own company.” And he grinned, and shook his head, as if amazed, as if it was all he could do to keep from saying, “Gosh.”
And the hell of it was, he seemed sincere.
“Frankly,” I said, “all I did was hand Sally . . . is that your receptionist’s name?”
He nodded, but added, “She’s an executive assistant, though.”
“Executive assistant. Sorry. Anyway, I just handed her my card, is all. She doesn’t know any more about my business than you do, but in point of fact I’m president of an auto parts outfit in Milwaukee. My secretary was supposed to have called and made an appointment for me to talk with Mr. Ridge, but there was a screw-up somewhere.”
He laughed. “These things happen.”
Christ, this guy made Up with People seem glum.
“At any rate,” he said, “investment opportunities.”
“Yes.”
“You do understand we
’re a privately held company, not offering any stock.”
Huh?
“Certainly,” I said.
“Mr. Ridge will, I’m sure, appreciate your interest, but that’s just the way it is. You’re not the only one who’s been so inspired by Mr. Ridge’s program, or impressed enough by the growth of our company, to make such an inquiry.”
“Perhaps we’ve got our wires crossed . . .”
“Have we?”
“Isn’t this a real estate office?”
He seemed puzzled. “In what sense?”
“Well, in the sense of offering properties for sale. Houses, land. You know. Real estate.”
And now he was amused. He laughed like a bad impressionist doing Burt Lancaster. “You don’t think Mr. Ridge actually sells real estate, do you?”
Well, that answered one question: who was definitely on first.
“What exactly does Mr. Ridge sell?”
“Why, advice, of course.” He sat up. “Is that all you’re interested in?”
I smiled, shrugged.
He smiled ruefully, shook his head. “My apologies. When Sally informed me that you were the president of your own company, that you’d had an appointment with Mr. Ridge that had somehow fallen through the cracks, that you wanted to invest with us . . . boy, is my face red. Excuse me.”
He rose and left the small office.
I just sat there wondering what the fuck this was all about. I wondered if the son-of-a-bitch would be so cheerful if I let him suck on the nine-millimeter a while.
Then he entered and we exchanged shiteating smiles and he sat and handed me across a tan book about the size of a dictionary, only it wasn’t a book: it opened up into a carrying case for a dozen cassettes.
“The whole program is there,” he said.
“Program?”
“Everything you’ll need to know about no-money down real estate. How to take advantage of distressed properties. The creative use of credit cards. That is how George Ridge became a millionaire by the time he was thirty.”
No money down real estate! Is that what this was?
“You don’t sell real estate here,” I said. “You’re strictly in the business of selling books, tapes. Putting on seminars. How-to stuff.”
“Certainly. Surely you knew that.”
“Of course,” I said. “But I was under the impression that you were also in the real estate business proper.”
He shook his head no. “Not at all.”
I didn’t blame them. This scam was much safer.
“I was also under the impression that Mr. Ridge was available for private consultation.”
“You desire direct advice on investing?”
“That’s right. Excuse me, but I can’t talk to a goddamn tape.”
And I patted the tan carrying case.
He nodded, eyes narrowing, seeing the wisdom of that. “You’d like to sit at the feet of the guru of real estate, so to speak.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“I can understand your desire. And from time to time Mr. Ridge does do personal consulting. But it is expensive. He’s a very busy man.”
“I know. I understand he’s in Canada, at the moment.”
“Yes, Toronto, with two of our other top people.”
“And he’ll be back, on Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“I’d still like to arrange an appointment. Even fifteen minutes of his time would be appreciated.”
Janes stood, increased the wattage on the smile, extended his hand. “I’m sure Sally can arrange that. Just tell her I’ve given my okay.”
“You’ve been very helpful. What time Tuesday is Mr. Ridge getting back from Canada?”
“Oh, he isn’t getting back on Tuesday. He’s flying in Monday night.”
That’s all I wanted to know.
“As I say, you’ve been very helpful,” I said, and left him and his positive attitude behind.
I stopped at the desk of the “executive assistant” and told her Janes had approved an appointment, and made one for eleven o’clock Tuesday morning. Fifteen minutes was all I got, but what the hell. I’d make and keep my own appointment with him, Monday night, when he arrived by plane from his Canadian seminar.
On my way out I paused again to stare at the portrait of George Ridge.
A friendly looking, slightly heavy-set man of about fifty, a smile cracking his well-lined face.
It had to be a recent picture. He had looked much the same when he came to my A-frame to offer me that million-dollar contract.
9
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I DROPPED THE rental Buick off at the airport, where I stopped in to check available flights to Toronto. There was nothing direct—all flights had O’Hare connections, with return trips likewise routed through Chicago. That meant anybody coming back from Toronto Monday night could be on one of half a dozen flights offered by a trio of small, shuttle-service airlines. This would make it easy for me to be on hand to welcome George Ridge home.
An airport shuttle bus dropped me at the Blackhawk Hotel, but I didn’t go up to my room. I didn’t even go into the lobby. Instead, I stopped in at the DEMOCRATIC ACTION PARTY NATIONAL CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, which was located in one of the street-level storefronts that were a part of the hotel’s eleven-story building.
A banner in the window wondered PRESTON FREED—WHY NOT A REAL PRESIDENT?, and so did several other smaller red, white and blue posters, without obstructing a view of the bustling activity within the modest boiler room set-up: two rows of half a dozen banquet tables on either side, with staffers manning (though more frequently womaning) the many phones, all of which were red, white or blue. The patriotic color scheme extended to the various posters on the white walls, which pictured Freed himself, a smiling, boyishly handsome man in his vague forties, with rather long stark white hair. On one side wall, where it could be viewed from the street through the front window, a large color portrait of the candidate revealed eyes that were spookily light blue in a well-tanned face. He was wearing a tan suede jacket and a riverboat gambler’s string tie and looked, in the massive color blow-up, like a cross between Big Brother and Bret Maverick.
The busy campaign staffers were mostly young, between twenty and thirty, closer to twenty in most cases. It surprised me, somehow, though it shouldn’t have. Vietnam-era relics like me have trouble believing the stories about a conservative younger generation, but here was the proof, as clean-cut and persistent as those Mormons who periodically show up at your door.
And so many of these zealots were young women. Girls. They weren’t wearing blazers, like Angela at Best Buy and Sally at Ridge Real Estate; but they were color coordinated, like their phones, blouses of red, white or blue, skirts of the same; the designer label on these threads, if there were one, would most likely read Betsy Ross not Betsey Johnson. The men—boys—wore white shirts and red or blue ties and navy slacks.
There was almost constant movement, the living flag of the Freed campaign headquarters seeming to constantly wave as its individual components would gesture animatedly during the phone solicitations, or hop up eagerly from a seat to consult another staffer, often one of those with a computer, one per banquet table. Girls and boys with faces full of no experience, as pretty and handsome as a collection of Barbie and Ken dolls come to life, they were enough to make you wake up screaming from the American dream.
By the front window, in the small, eye-of-the-hurricane reception area, were two tables of Democratic Action party literature, one of which bore a communal coffee urn, styrofoam cups and a plate of cookies. I nibbled a cookie, a Lorna Doone, and thumbed through some of the campaign literature—much of it railing against the “Drug Conspiracy”—and overheard a phone solicitation by a pretty, bright-eyed blonde, of perhaps twenty.
“Your savings will be sa
fer with us,” she was saying, with the utter conviction of the very young. “You mustn’t trust the banks—their collapse is imminent . . . I understand your concern . . . yes, unless Preston Freed is elected President, you can rest assured that your Social Security checks will stop within eighteen months. Your contribution is much appreciated, but I must stress that we can protect your savings as well.”
I felt fingers tap my shoulder and I turned. A willowy redhead with a faint trail of freckles across her nose and dark blue eyes and red full lips was extending a hand for me to shake. She was in a red blouse and a blue skirt.
“Becky Shay,” she said. “Volunteer for Democratic Action.”
“Jack Ryan,” I said, shaking her hand. “Holdout for Creative Skepticism.”
Her smile glazed and so did her puppy-dog eager eyes, as she tried to sort that out.
I let go of her hand and said, “I’m just giving you a bit of a hard time. I’ll tell you frankly—I picked up some literature on your party, at O’Hare, and read it on the plane coming here. I’m interested. I want to hear more.”
The glaze melted away. “Where shall I start?”
“Anywhere you like.”
She gestured toward the table of literature. “I’d suggest you pick up some of Mr. Freed’s position papers. They are far more eloquent than I. And no contribution is necessary—though it is appreciated.”
“What’s the ‘Drug Conspiracy’?”
“A complex alliance between the banks, certain governments and the crime syndicate.”
“Oh. What are they conspiring to do, exactly?”
“To fatten themselves off the masses.”
Everything this kid said sounded prerecorded; it was like hearing the robot Lincoln at Disneyland give the Gettysburg address: patriotic and hollow.
I leafed through a booklet. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with ‘international Zionists,’ by any chance?”
“Certainly. You’ve heard of the Illuminati?”
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