by Dan O'Shea
“Happy birthday, indeed, young man. This is your father’s legacy. Never lose it. It is magic. It can buy anything.” It was the happiest Lynch had been since his father’s murder.
At 5.15am Lynch and Johnson sat in her kitchen, drinking tea, Johnson in her panties and an old Golden Gophers sweatshirt, Lynch showered, dressed again, figuring he’d have to head straight to work.
“You never told me if it works,” said Johnson.
“Jesus, Johnson. It works, OK? Needs a little rest now, though.” Lynch giving a little laugh.
“I know that works, Lynch. The magic coin? Does it work?”
Lynch fished out his keychain. The coin was threaded onto the metal loop. He set it on the table. “Tried it once, my senior year at Mount Carmel. I was, I dunno, sort of a jock punk then. Not really, I guess. I was never comfortable with that, but that was the crowd I hung with mostly. Anyway, spring break that year, some of us got to talking shit like guys do. You know, I know this guy, my old man knows that guy. So I say I know Paddy Wang. Which gets me a big bullshit from everybody. I mean, they know my old man had been a kind of quasi-ward boss on the side, but they figure that’s Triple A ball at best, and Paddy Wang, well, Paddy Wang is the big leagues.”
“So you figure you have to show them, right?”
“Yeah. I figure we drive down to the Pagoda, flash the coin, maybe we get comped a meal. Maybe Paddy even comes out, says hello. Anyway, we’re driving down Cicero, just north of Chinatown, and Mutt Warren – he was this big slob of an offensive tackle, complete asshole – he sees the Manila, titty bar used to be down that way, another joint Wang owned. It was pretty infamous. He says, you’re tight with Paddy Wang, you get us in there.”
“Hey,” Johnson said. “This is getting good.”
“So we park, we’re walking up to the door, and there’s this guy, looks like Oddjob from the Bond movies, standing there, and he doesn’t even talk to us, just makes this shooing gesture. So I hold up the coin. Guy kinda freezes, give this little nod, and opens the door. So, anyway, I made my case. Coin works.” Lynch took a sip of tea, feeling kind of sheepish.
“Oh, no you don’t, Lynch.” Johnson pulled her feet up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees, leaning her head forward. “You have to finish this story.”
Long exhale from Lynch. Sip of tea. “OK. Place is pretty seedy, really. Got the big runway down the middle, couple of Asian girls up there, supposed to be in pasties and G-strings, but they’re not. Not real crowded. It was a weeknight, and it was early yet, at least by the standards of that sort of joint. Some guys at the tables, they’re probably mostly OK, you know. I mean, a little loud, a little drunk, but mostly guys in their twenties just not grown up yet. But the guys lining the runway? I knew right off I never wanted to be one of those guys, staring up into these anonymous crotches like they’d just found God. I tell the guys I made my point and let’s get out of here, and I think most of them were ready to go. But Warren, Jesus, he’s turned into one of the guys at the runway already. Says we’re all fucking pussies, must be gay, and that turns the group’s whole mood around. Nobody wants to be the guy when we get back to school Monday who gets the rap for chasing us out of the Manila. Thing is, though, we’re all standing there, trying to be cool, not one of us has any idea what we’re supposed to do. Do we get a table? Do we go join the mouth-breathers at the runway? Then one of Paddy’s Suzy Wong girls walks up, and I’m thinking this has to be one of those girls who stuffed me into that robe when I was eleven, but it can’t be because it’s been seven years. I think he must clone them or something. Anyway, she walks up, takes my elbow, says, ‘Mr Lynch, gentlemen,’ and she ushers us through this beaded curtain and into this room off to the right. Mess of food on the table, appetizer-type stuff. Beers on the table. And four of those girls, like up on the runway.”
“Meaning naked?” Johnson asks.
“Yeah. Meaning naked. So we sit down, and these naked girls are serving us food, serving us beers. Suzy Wong standing in the doorway like a chaperone. Warren pawing at the girls. They don’t actually say no, but they’re pretty good at avoiding him. Finally, he says to me, ‘Hey, Lynch, use that coin, man. I bet we can do these chicks right here.’ This whole thing’s got me pretty weirded out already, and now it looks like it’s going to get ugly. And I say, ‘That’s it, we’re out of here.’ And this time, the other guys are with me. They pretty much jump up out of their seats. Warren sees it’s going against him and is just kinda pouting. And then fucking Warren, he grabs this one girl from behind, got his hands all over her, and instantly that Oddjob guy is behind him, peeling his arms off her like they’re pipe cleaners. And the Suzy Wong chick, she steps forward, says if I give her my keys, she’ll have the car brought around. So, we’re out on the walk, car’s waiting. Just as I’m walking around the back, this stretch Lincoln pulls up, back window slides down, and there’s Paddy Wang.
“‘Young Lynch. What a surprise to see you again,’ he says. I’m thinking I should apologize or something, and all I get out is ‘Hi.’ He says, ‘Do you know the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, young Lynch?’ I say yeah. He says ‘In which a man trades his magic beans for a cow?’ I say yeah again. He says ‘Seems a waste of magic beans, doesn’t it, young Lynch?’ And the window goes up, and the Lincoln glides off, and I get to drive home, car full of guys carrying on about how they grabbed this and grabbed that, and Warren saying how he should have kicked the Oddjob guy’s ass, and I’m just hoping this doesn’t get back to my mom, and I’m feeling stupid and dirty and not grown up at all.”
“So the coin works.” Johnson looking a little sad for him, Lynch amazed how well she understands, falling more for her all the time.
“Need to be real careful what you wish for,” said Lynch.
CHAPTER 20 – CHICAGO
Jose Villanueva sat at one of the plastic tables outside the pastry joint on Wabash, drinking his coffee, eating his chocolate croissant, and trying to find a way out of his current fix. An L train crashed and banged along overhead, but the noise didn’t bother Jose.
Jose was a professional creeper. Best alarm and second-story guy in the city. You wanted something out of somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, you wanted Jose, especially if that somewhere was wired up. Jose’s workload was increasingly by referral. Work-for-hire stuff. Private collectors looking for a certain piece, industrial espionage, some work coming out of divorces. Once, some fat cat sent him into a house up in Lake Forest. All he wanted was a painting of a cocker spaniel. Wife got it in the settlement, so he was going to take it. Jose telling the guy that was going to point right back at him. Jose telling him that he’d better take some other shit, make it look good. The guy saying take all the shit you want, just get me the damn picture. Guy paid him five grand for the painting; Jose made another fifteen on the other stuff he grabbed.
No, the El didn’t bother Jose. What was bothering Jose was that Magic Mel hadn’t been at his joint down on Halsted, not for almost a week. Magic Mel had been Jose’s main fence for going on six years now. Jose still did some traditional residential work on his own. Got leads through a bent realtor. Guy’d see some nice stuff going through houses, get the addresses to Jose. And Jose’d take the shit to Magic Mel so Mel could turn it into cash.
Magic Mel was a discreet guy, working out of the back of his plumbing supply store, big ticket goods only. Didn’t attract attention handling watches and jewelry from street heists. Tied into the Italians, everybody said. Got you a decent price, got it pretty quick.
Magic Mel owed Jose for some shit he dropped off last week. No big deal. Couple of pieces, maybe two or three grand on Jose’s end. But Mel wasn’t around, and nobody seemed to know where he was. First couple of days, Jose thought maybe Mel had pissed off the Italians, maybe he’d turn up in the Cal-Sag channel in a day or two. But then the Italians had sent someone to see Jose, asking did he know where Magic Mel was. Then Jose started hearing whispers maybe the Feds had Mel, that they were m
ilking him for stuff on the Italians. And if they were, Jose figured, then Magic Mel might just give them Jose, too. Fuck, probably give them Jose instead.
Jose thinking maybe he should try to get out in front of this, go see his lawyer. That’s when a small Asian woman pulled out a seat.
“May I join you, Mr Villanueva? I am sure you remember me from our previous business.” She set a briefcase down on the sidewalk beneath the table.
Jesus, thought Villanueva. It was the chink chick from that U of C job back – what, three, four years ago? He had some bad nights sleeping after that. Guy was some hot-shit professor in town for a lecture at the U of C. She told Jose all she needed was the guy’s laptop. Simple job, guy was staying at the Westin downtown. Then, two days later, the guy gets popped on the Midway. Cops writing it off to a street robbery, but Jose feeling different about it. Job paid good, though. Ten large just to take a laptop out of a hotel room.
“Hey,” said Jose.
“Are you interested in another easy job?” she asked.
“Depends. Going to kill anybody after this one?”
Chink chick sat unmoving, looking dead into his eyes. “It is good to take an interest in your work, Mr Villanueva. It is unhealthy to take too much of an interest, however.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Villanueva. “Look, I got a lot on my plate right now.”
“Worried about your fence, Mr Villanueva? Magic Mel?”
That shook up Villanueva. “I don’t know any–”
“Of course you do, Mr Villanueva. Halsted Plumbing Supply. Let’s not waste our time, shall we?”
Jose took a sip of his coffee, took a bite of the croissant. Jesus, this bitch scared him.
“OK,” said Villanueva. “You got something to say, say it.”
She pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and slid it across the table. Villanueva looked at it. Pictures of a very small camera and an even smaller bug. Definitely top-end shit, both because of the size and because you just figured this chink chick, she wasn’t here about some retail crap.
“Surveillance shit of some kind,” he said. “I haven’t seen it, and I’ve seen most of em. If you want me to beat this shit, you’re gonna have to get me some schematics or something.”
“I don’t want you to beat them, Mr Villanueva. I want you to collect them.”
Villanueva took another sip from his coffee, looking at the chick, trying to get some kind of read. Nothing.
“Collect them from where?” Villanueva asked.
The woman slid him another piece of paper with an address on it. Jose looked at it. Sacred Heart Church. Shit. The Marslovak shooting.
“The transmitter should be inside one of the confessional booths. The camera will be secured to the bottom of one of the pews, pointing at the confessional. Find the camera first. It will show you which confessional to search.”
Villanueva set the papers down on the table. “I know what happened at the church,” he said.
“Just think of cats, Mr Villanueva. Think of curiosity and cats. Now, we understand that you are a professional and, as such, are entitled to your fee. We propose twenty-five thousand dollars. In addition, we will ensure that no difficulties befall you resulting from the unfortunate situation involving Mr Mel. You understand, of course, that we will require absolute confidentiality.”
“Shit, lady, I don’t even know who this ‘we’ you keep talking about is. When you need this done?”
“Tonight.”
“When I get paid?”
The chick slid an envelope across the table. “In advance. We’re going to trust you. We’re going to assume you don’t want to deal with our collections department.”
“You wanna set up a drop? I mean, I’m assuming you want your toys back.”
“You can take them to Mr Mel’s, as is your habit,” said the woman. “They will be tended to.” She picked up her briefcase from under the table and stood up, raising her hand to flag down a yellow cab heading south on Wabash. “Mr Villanueva?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t get caught, don’t get curious, and don’t get careless. I don’t think you’d care to meet me under less collegial circumstances.” She turned, walked off, and slid into the back of the cab, and it pulled away.
Villanueva slid the envelope into his coat pocket, thinking for a second should he open it, count it, then thinking what difference would it make. He swallowed the last of the coffee and left what was left of the croissant on the table. Not much of an appetite all of a sudden.
CHAPTER 21 – CHICAGO
Lynch grabbed Bernstein at the office, and they headed over to MarCorp to talk to Eddie Marslovak about the waste hauling deal.
“Might want to bring up Andes Capital, too,” Bernstein said as Lynch flipped off some guy trying to muscle a Land Rover into their lane.
“What’s that?”
“Venture capital firm down in Miami. Seems to stick cash into MarCorp’s deals pretty regularly. I called a friend over at Morgan Stanley. Nothing official, but the Feds have started looking at Andes for money laundering. Think it might be washing dollars for the Medellin crowd.”
“Running a laundry for the Columbians and you call the place Andes Capital? Takes some cojones.”
“Or just dumb.”
“Yeah,” said Lynch. “Or that.”
Bernstein looked over, little crooked smile. Second or third time Lynch had seen that.
“Fuck’s up with you? Don’t like the clothes? Blame your friend Andre, he picked em out.”
“Hey, they look great. Just didn’t think you’d still be in them when you got to work the next day. Guess the date went OK.”
“Shut up, Slo-mo.”
“Hey, I’m a detective too, remember.”
Marslovak was already out from behind the desk when Lynch and Bernstein walked into his office, already on the black sofa, already with a drink. Marslovak dressed casual today, khaki slacks, deck shoes with no socks, white cable knit tennis sweater, probably a 3XL and stretched on him like a sausage casing.
“Thanks for seeing us on Saturday,” Lynch said.
“Told you I was trying to stave off divorce number three, Lynch. Whole secret to marital bliss is avoiding your wife.” Marslovak didn’t look happy. “Who’s your little friend?”
“Shlomo Bernstein,” said Bernstein. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah, yeah. Everybody’s fucking sorry, nobody wants to leave my ass alone.” Marslovak gestured toward a second man. “This is Steve Heaton. He’s my attorney. I’ve invited him to join us for today’s festivities.”
Lynch looked at Heaton. Blond, six-two, eyes like a Stolichnaya bottle that had been in the freezer for a while. Navy chalk-stripe suit, extremely white shirt, red tie. Even his skin looked clean and pressed.
“You don’t need a lawyer, Eddie,” said Lynch.
“Such reassurances are always so comforting coming from legal authorities whose personal whims decide whether and to what extent the considerable resources of our government will inject themselves into a citizen’s life, detective,” said Heaton. “I will be present today and at any subsequent meetings. Clear?”
“Clear and remarkably articulate, counsel,” said Lynch.
“Thank you,” said Heaton with a cold smile.
“So?” said Marslovak.
“When we talked the other day, you said you couldn’t think of anybody off hand that might have a thing for you,” Lynch said.
“Didn’t say I couldn’t think of anybody,” said Marslovak. “Said I couldn’t think of anybody in particular.”
“Not even the anybody attached to the waste hauling rollup in New York?” Bernstein asked.
“Checking me out, Lynch? Waste hauling,” said Marslovak. “Few too many guys named Luigi. Few too few dollars in some of the pension plans when you work the books. Somebody’d blown my fat ass away during that a couple of years ago, I’d say you might have your boys. But wait till two years after the deal’s
done, then blow away my mom on the stairs of the church? Make sense to you, Lynch?”
“It could,” said Lynch, “if there’s something you’re not telling us.”
“I think this interview is close to over, detective,” said Heaton. “My client is being fully cooperative, and now you are questioning his veracity. I warn you, I had better not start seeing hints in the paper about mob ties to MarCorp. Mr Marslovak’s enrichment resulting from the ensuing civil actions would strain your imagination.”
“So let’s talk about Andes Capital instead,” said Bernstein.
“Why?” said Marslovak.
“They’ve contributed capital to your last six deals,” said Bernstein. “Thirteen deals overall.”
“So what?” said Marslovak
“Feds are sniffing around them about money laundering,” said Lynch.
Heaton stepped between Bernstein and Marslovak.
“First of all, that’s immaterial,” said Heaton. “Since you’ve only heard they are being investigated for laundering money, I will assume they have not been convicted of, much less charged with, laundering money. Therefore, MarCorp has no reason, not legally and not even ethically, to consider that possibility. Second, it is not the responsibility of MarCorp, again, either legally or ethically, to investigate or enforce the laws regarding money laundering. We comply fully with all applicable reporting requirements. That is all we are required to do. Third, I can assure you that Andes’ various investments, which, if memory serves, are generally between $250,000 and $750,000, were made through appropriately documented channels. No one named Pedro showed up here with a suitcase full of twenties, detective.”
“So you’re saying that the money laundering charge against Andes may or may not be bullshit, but, in any event, it’s got nothing to do with you,” said Lynch.
“To paraphrase incompletely and less than wholly accurately, yes,” said Heaton.
