The sky was overcast that night, shutting out the moon that had been providing romantic enhancement for the boys and girls down on the beach for much of the week. Tired of sitting in the shadows doing nothing, Zany had fetched himself a couple of beers. It was a mistake. Now he had to go to the bathroom.
But he didn’t budge. They were coming. They had had their way with the little beach town all right, but that didn’t mean they weren’t klutzes. He heard their car or van pass slowly, then, a few minutes later, come by again—same engine sound, same slow drive-by.
Zany sat up straighter in the chair, getting a tighter grip on the pistol and resting it on his knee, pointed at the window screen. He’d rigged up a hand switch that connected via an extension cord to the lamp in the far corner. It would keep him in shadow but light the intruders up bright and clear.
The first noises came at the back door, a muffled rattle of the lock. He feared they might break the glass or otherwise bust their way in, compelling him to make a quick change in tactics, but they proved more subtle than that.
Now there was more noise along the side of the house. Then, at long last, came the creak of a floorboard on the porch. A long silence followed, after which he heard a long, ripping scrape. They were cutting the window screen. Garden-variety burglars. Zany had caught a hundred cases with entry like that.
He raised the pistol. There were more ripping, cutting sounds, then the first of them lifted the severed screen and stepped inside. He looked around a moment, listening, then turned to help the other. When both were inside and standing—in the process crossing a legal threshold as concerned lawful home protection shootings—Zany hit the light.
“Don’t you motherfuckers move!” he shouted.
He hoped the vehemence of his shout and words would freeze them, but instead they panicked. The black man of the pair went for something in his belt that Zany, as he squeezed his trigger, fervently hoped was a firearm.
Zany’s bullet hit him in the lower chest, knocking him back against the window. The other guy started to leap to the side, going for his belt, too. This time Zany could see it was a gun.
He fired two shots, the last one going high, hitting the man in the head. He dropped like a piece of furniture.
The black man was moaning and crying, clutching his middle, profanities burbling and gurgling out of his mouth. Dogs were barking. Blood was spreading on the carpet.
Zany came just close enough to them to make sure they posed no further threat, then went to his phone.
“Grand Pier police,” said Vaclav.
“Barbara, this is Zane. I’ve had a burglary at my house. There was gunplay. Two suspects hit. Get someone over here in a hurry. And get an ambulance.”
George Hejmal pulled up in minutes, a patrolman with him—a young officer, who was a nice guy but something of a yo-yo. Looking at the two gunshot victims, he kept saying “God Almighty.”
“Do you have an ambulance coming?” Zany asked. “The one guy’s hurt pretty bad. I don’t think the other’s moving.”
“Never gonna move again,” Hejmal said.
“Well, watch them both good, anyway,” Zany said. “I’ve got to take a leak.” He put his hand to his stomach. Urination wasn’t all he had to attend to in the bathroom.
When he returned, having flushed an odd mixture of used beer down the toilet and washed his perspiring face, he found the two policemen standing with their backs to the perps, staring at him.
“We won’t need an ambulance, Zane,” Hejmal said. “The black guy’s expired.”
“Shit,” said Zany. “I was counting on that not happening. Do they have weapons?” He didn’t want to take another look at the bodies.
“Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “Two great big goddamn automatics.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Zany said, going for his phone. “I’m calling in the State Police. I want these two individuals identified real good.”
Hejmal glanced at the bodies, then back at Rawlings.
“We’ve got a problem here, Zane. You’re just a civilian now, and you’ve shot and killed two men. I’m going to have to make out a report. I mean, hell, Zane, I think I’m supposed to take you in for questioning.”
Zany shook his head. “You’re not talking to a civilian, George.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a shiny new leather case, dropping it open to reveal an even shinier silver badge. “You’re talking to a deputy sheriff. I was sworn in three weeks ago.”
“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want Judy to find out.”
“Well, I guess she will now.”
CHAPTER 22
Poe cancelled his television interviews and took the next available flight back to Chicago. He had Mango get the word out to the newsies when he’d be arriving, and there was a mob of them at O’Hare. The airport manager turned an unoccupied waiting area over to them for an impromptu news conference.
Poe, eyeing the group warily, stepped to the microphones and made a brief statement relating his shock, grief, and concern for the victims’ families. Then, directing his words to the television cameras, he made a detailed announcement. He was halting all helicopter operations at Meigs immediately and switching them to Midway instead. This was easy enough, as the city, at the request of the National Transportation Safety Board, had temporarily closed Meigs, but Poe said he meant his abandonment of the field to be for good.
Then he announced he was forming a committee to work for the permanent closure of Meigs and the transfer of the property to the Park District, noting that the city had informed the F.A.A. more than a year before that it was contemplating taking exactly that action.
Finally, he said, he would ask the Park District’s approval to erect his ethnic museum complex not at Cabrini Green but on the Meigs Field site, which he said he hoped would be named Immigrant Park.
A reporter jumped in with a question. Weren’t the museums a key part of his Cabrini Green complex? What did this mean for the rest of the project?
“Everything’s changed. I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”
“You mean you’re not going to go ahead with the world’s tallest building?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“There are reports that you’re running short of money.”
“If you’re talking about the piece in the Trib, it didn’t say I was going broke. It said the Cabrini Green site might not produce as much revenue as we’d like. We might have to find another location.”
“Like Meigs Field, Mr. Poe?”
Poe colored. “Look! I just told you! I don’t know what I’m going to do yet! The first thing is to take care of the people who were injured in that crash. And the families. Then I want to make sure that no aircraft flies into Meigs Field again. This could have been a major disaster. There were boaters and picnickers and all kinds of people all around there. People have been telling me for a long time that Meigs should be closed. I didn’t listen to them. Now I am. So should you. Loud and clear.”
“Have you talked to the mayor about this?”
“Yes.” It was true. Poe had called him as soon as he’d heard about the crash, though that was all they’d talked about in their brief conversation.
“You told him you wanted to put your building on Meigs Field?”
“No, damn it! I just said I thought Meigs should be closed, and all I’m saying now is that the museums should go there. The Field Museum is near there. So are the planetarium and the aquarium. It just makes good sense.”
A news commentator from one of the TV stations was waving his hand. Poe recognized him before he could stop himself, wishing he hadn’t.
“Mr. Poe, what would you say to those who might accuse you of exploiting this terrible tragedy to further your own agenda?”
Poe’s voice got very deep. “You son of a bitch,” he said, slowly, hoping this would make the newscast sound bite. “How can you be so damn cynical at a time like this? My employees w
ere on that helicopter! People who have been with me for years! One of my closest associates, one of my closest friends, Bobby Mann, my casino manager, was killed. I could have been on that chopper. And you’re accusing me of exploiting? For God’s sake, I’m just trying to do what’s right.”
He wiped his eyes, stepping back. Yeats moved to the microphones.
“Mr. Poe has to leave now,” he said. “He’s going to the hospital to meet with some of the survivors. Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen.”
Poe and his entourage were already moving swiftly down the concourse.
Poe took only Mango with him in the limo. He trusted Krasowski with his life—for good reason—but put up the glass divider anyway.
“You’re just hell on wheels, aren’t you, Mango?”
She saw something in his eyes she hadn’t expected. His grief was genuine. What the hell next?
“It was an accident, Peter. The rotor blade came off. That’s what everybody’s saying.”
“Sixteen people on that chopper. Old ladies. Honeymooners. Three people killed in the terminal. Eleven in the hospital. A real slaughter this time, Mango.”
She lighted a cigarette. “Can’t take it back.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Had to be done, Peter. Bobby was fixing to have you taken out. He was scared you were going to kill him.”
They were speeding along the Kennedy Expressway, Krasowski steering the big stretch—license plate “Poe l”—in and out of the traffic.
“How do you know that?” Poe asked.
“He was making more phone calls again—to Philly. I decided the time had come to ice him. I got some help from our Chicago friends.”
“You iced him and eighteen other people.”
“Had to do it. Saved your life, Peter.”
“And maybe got me involved in a murder rap. The worst fucking murder in Chicago history.”
“An accident. There’ve been a lot worse airplane crashes. For God’s sake, Peter, nobody’s going to accuse you of blowing up your own helicopter. If they figure out what happened—and that could take them weeks, if they ever scrape together all the bits and pieces of metal—the first thing anyone will think is that somebody tried a hit on you, like with your boat.”
“Wonderful.”
“Don’t be a wimp about this. You’re ahead of the game now. You’ve just got to keep moving. Everything’s lined up, right? Just like you wanted.”
“Not the mayor.”
“I don’t think he knows what to do, what to think. But I’ll bet he won’t reopen that airport.”
He rubbed his chin. “Any word from Inland Empire about some up front money yet?”
She shook her head. “Yeats said they’re still waiting to hear from Tokyo. Mr. Yamaguchi is taking a real serious interest in this.”
Two hundred million dollars was serious money, but Yamaguchi was worth billions. Poe wondered what it would be like to actually own a billion dollars, not owing a penny.
“So what’s next?”
“Matthias Curland is waiting for you at the penthouse.”
“Oh, boy.”
“I told him to be there. Don’t worry. He’s the least of your problems. You just gotta lean on him hard now. The guy’s a cream puff. Some fucking German. Cold as steel on the outside, but soft and gooey inside. He’s not like his brother. Christian may be a high-society lush, but he’s got guts.”
“What about that Kirchner?”
“I’m afraid it’s goners, Peter. I don’t know what that dumb cop did with it, but if he was going to make serious trouble about it, we would have heard by now. Anyway, they can’t touch you.”
“They might get to Larry Train.”
“They won’t.”
He wasn’t going to ask what she meant by that.
“We took a couple of casualties in Michigan,” she said. “Going after that painting. That hayhead cop got trigger-happy.”
“Mango …”
“They were outside hires, remember, Peter? Nothing to worry about. Like those Purple Gang guys Capone used in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
He shook his head. “Now I’m Al Capone.”
“You’re sitting pretty, Peter. Lighten up.”
Matthias was waiting in the penthouse living room. Poe was expecting a fight, but the architect seemed strangely calm, if darkly serious.
“Your wife is upstairs,” he said coldly.
“You two have a tiring day?
“The helicopter crash made her sick.”
“Me, too. I was just at the hospital. Those poor bastards. I need a drink. You want one?”
“No, thank you.”
“You look like you need one. Brandy?”
“All right.”
Poe returned with two snifters and a bottle of Courvoisier, then took a seat opposite Curland. They stared at each other—the mongoose and the cobra.
“Let’s get to the bottom line, Matthias,” Poe said, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I still want you to do my building. No matter what.”
“What does that mean, ‘no matter what’?”
“It means that I don’t want anything to interfere with that. Not what’s between you and Diandra, not anything.”
“She wants to leave you.”
“Maybe she does. But let’s put that aside for the moment. There’s been a change in plan. It’ll be on the news, so I might as well tell you now. Because of the accident, I think Meigs Field is going to be closed. So I want to put the building up on Meigs.”
The statement was a lob. Poe waited calmly for Curland’s return shot, but he just sat there, though some of the color drained from his face.
“Solidarity Drive,” Curland said finally. “The road that goes to Meigs is Solidarity Drive.”
“I guess it is.”
“You’ve been planning to put the building there from the beginning. You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”
“You lied to yourself, Curland. Did you really think rich people would want to live at Cabrini Green? It was never a go. It was just a way to get things started. I don’t understand how you could be so dumb not figure that out.”
“If you’re equating intelligence with dishonesty, I suppose I am dumb.”
“Well, it’s time to smarten up.”
“And so I have. I want nothing more to do with you.” Matthias got up.
“Sit down,” Poe commanded. Matthias ignored him, heading for the door.
“If you ever want to see Diandra again, pal, you’d better freeze in your tracks.”
Matthias halted. “Diandra has nothing to do with this,” he said, turning.
“The hell she doesn’t. Look, just hear me out. Then you can make your decision. All right? Five minutes?”
“I don’t know what you could possibly have to say that would change my opinion of you and your plans for this building.”
“You’d be amazed.”
“I’m not even sure there’s going to be a building, Mr. Poe. There was an article in the Tribune this morning that said your investors were backing out.”
“There’s going to be a building. And the investors aren’t backing out, not if I put it up on the lakefront. That’s the deal.”
“Fine. Go get another architect. I’m not going to be part of construction on the shoreline.”
“It’s not a crime, pal. And you’re already part of it.” Poe rose, brandy snifter in hand. “Come with me, Matt. I want to show you something. Five minutes.”
Reluctantly Matthias followed him out to the big windowed room that contained the tabletop mock-up of the city. Poe turned on the overhead spotlights. The model of Matthias’s building, the mastlike tower painted a brilliant crimson, glittered brightly.
“This is how it’s going to be, Matt. We’ll have to move it out into the lake a little. Make an impoundment—devote as much of that peninsula as we can to park land, to please the tree and grass lovers, not to speak of the Park
District. It will cost more money, but my Japanese friends have plenty of that.”
“It’s monstrous. It overwhelms Grant Park. It dominates the city. It’s too big. It can’t go there. The city has kept the lakefront open for more than a century. You can’t come along and change that.”
“That’s bullshit. What do you have here? Lake Point Tower, right on the lake. What’s this, overlooking Grant Park? The Standard Oil Building, over a hundred stories tall. What’s this big fucking thing? McCormick Place. I’m not doing anything different than these developers did.”
“You’re putting up a wall between the downtown of Chicago and the lake. For God’s sake, Poe, is your ego that big? If you need a new site, why not down here, over the Illinois Central tracks?”
“The tallest building in the world—the greatest building in the world—my building, is not going to go over any goddamn South Side railroad tracks. It goes here. Nowhere else.”
“People died there today—in one of your helicopters. No one’s going to let you put this up on their blood.”
“Yes, they are. Everything’s rolling.”
“And so am I. Good night, Mr. Poe. I wish you’d move to another city.”
Poe let him get as far as the doorway this time. “You want Diandra?”
“She wants to leave you. She’s not your property. You can’t stop her.”
“Sure I can. You, too. Hear me out. I’m going to make you an offer.”
Matthias stopped. Here it came, just as Diandra had predicted.
“I’m going to give you a choice, Curland. If you walk out of here and Diandra goes running after you, I’m going to make the both of you real fucking sorry you ever even heard my name. She won’t get a penny. She signed a prenuptial agreement—ironclad. If she files for divorce, I’ll contest it. I’ll drag you both through the courts, and I’ve got a lot of friends on the bench. I’ll give interviews to the newspapers, to the magazines, to TV—along with some fascinating snapshots I had taken. I’ll give your society friends the biggest scandal they’ve had to giggle about in years. I’ll go to the cops—and I’ve got a lot of friends with the cops—and tell them they ought to look into your relationship with that murdered girl, Jill Langley—how you were screwing her on the side and ditched her. How that might have something to do with her turning up dead in your sailboat. That’ll get into the papers, too. Your name—your family’s name—won’t be worth shit when I’m through.”
The Big Score Page 41
