“We’ve got five thousand square feet with forty feet of frontage,” she said. “The telephone bank with ten cubbyholes will be in the back on the right. On the other side are private offices for you, me, and a few assistants. The back area behind the partition is for storage of signs and all our printed material. In this open area, we have room for additional desks and at least fifty folding chairs.”
Vic nodded as she talked.
Looking away for a moment, she stopped and waved, yelling, “I’ll be right with you.”
“That’s the painter, I think,” she said tilting her head toward a man in white spattered painter’s overalls near the front door. “The walls and partitions are gonna’ be light green and I ordered ten file cabinets that will be lined up in front of the back partition.”
Vic smiled. “What are we doing for the rest of the furniture and other supplies?”
“I’ve got Ben and Jeff out renting the rest of the furniture. They’re having it delivered this afternoon. And they’re picking up red, white and blue signs with ‘Victor Wayne for Congress’ in big block letters for the windows. The rest of the stuff, I’ve ordered some and we can get whatever else we need as we go along.
“Terrific,” he answered, grinning and shedding his jacket. “You really have been busy. By the way, you’ll be glad to hear that Jim has sent me his list of volunteers and campaign employees along with a promise that he would still be available to help. He also told me he made sure that the funds we had already raised would remain available.”
By late afternoon, Vic was directing workers who were delivering furniture while Ben and Jeff were hanging the window signs. Darlene, who was slumped in a folding chair with her shirttail out and a pencil sticking out from her tousled hair, looked up as she heard Jeff knock on the window. He waved and she smiled. Getting up, she walked close to the window to view the traffic on the street. Young women with buggies, kids on their way home from school, older folks strolling and stopping to see what was going on inside the new office, along with trucks delivering merchandise were up and down the street. She noticed a cluster of Asian women chattering as they walked and streams of customers at the restaurants still serving late lunches. The bank across the street had a continuous flow of people, too. Holding up a campaign sign, she waved at gapers looking in the window.
Following the opening of the headquarters, Vic, accompanied by Darlene, staff members and occasionally his sons or volunteers, made the rounds several days each week, to introduce himself, shake hands and answer questions at community gatherings, commuter stations, church groups, sports events and celebrations. It was tiring work, but Darlene insisted he do it; and as she predicted, after a few weeks, he enjoyed meeting the voters personally.
Relying on her experience at the United Fund with reporters from the Sun Times and the local TV news organizations, plus many of the political contacts of her old boss, Darlene flooded the media with positive reports from the Crime Commission. This helped Vic’s personal appearances, which were well attended and favorably reported in the news.
There were concerns though. The polls that once showed Vic ahead by almost thirty percent were narrowing.
Eldridge Palmer, the Republican candidate, for the seat, was not a dynamic speaker and made few personal appearances, but his newspaper ads and TV commercials attacking Vic’s ethics by keeping his connection to Sally Ray in the headlines was having an effect. And while Victor took the high road, focusing only on what he hoped to achieve for his constituents, Palmer’s negative campaign continued to take its toll. By July, the polls showed that support for Victor Wayne and Eldridge Palmer were running even.
Chapter 43
His shoulders bent, the old prisoner shuffled along as he pushed a cart loaded with books.
“What’s up Rabin, you been lookin’ at medical books all week,” he rasped as he stopped at the table where Howie was poring over a large medical text.
“My kid’s got leukemia and had a bone marrow transplant. I been tryin’ to learn about it,” Howie said pointing with a wave to three more heavy volumes sitting on the table.
Looking over Howie’s shoulder, the old man squinted, pushing his glasses in place. “Most of the medical stuff here is pretty general. Why don’t you ask around? A lot guys here have worked in hospitals and know all sorts of shit. They can tell you plenty.”
“Never thought about that Professor; any suggestions,” Howie replied, turning to face the man.
Scratching his head, the old guy looked up then back at Howie, his features scrunched in thought, as he rolled his tongue over his toothless gums,
“You know that black guy they call Doc, in building Twelve? A tall, skinny guy, I think he was a pharmacist. He’s in here a lot and reads medical stuff all the time. You oughta talk to him.”
“Good idea.” Howie nodded. “His name’s Stanton, I think.”
“Yeah that’s him,” the aged con said, gathering the books on the table, “you through with these?”
Howie nodded, closing the text in front of him and sliding it to the old man.
The next day Howie found Doc Stanton standing with a group of black men lifting weights in the yard. The tall wiry man wore his faded prison issue shirt open, with the tails flapping, over a tight fitting white T-shirt.
He looked at Stanton making a short motion with his head. “You got a few minutes? I wanta talk to you.”
“What about?” Stanton asked, glaring back and moving away from the group. The weightlifting stopped.
“My kid’s sick and I heard you know a lot about medical things. Maybe you can help me.”
The weightlifting resumed as Stanton walked in Howie’s direction to about a distance of ten feet.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s got leukemia.”
Without moving closer, they stood in the middle of the open area. A few of the weight lifters watched as did some white smokers lounging on a bench several feet away. The two men briefly glanced away, hearing shouts in the distance, from a softball game in progress where the dust from the gravel surface was billowing from a play on a base runner.
Stanton turned and looked back over his shoulder. “You gotta smoke?”
Howie nodded once, reaching into his pocket and holding up a pack of Marlboros. Stanton walked up, closing the distance between them.
He lit up, revealing a large tattoo on his forearm. “So what you wanta know?”
Moving to a bench in the shade Howie explained about the transplant and asked about the donors.
“I was a pharmacist in a hospital and I don’t know for certain, but I only knew about family members being a tissue match for patients. Anyone else, you run a big risk that the bone marrow will get rejected. I guess it’s possible that someone else could be a donor. But I never heard about that working.”
“Well, that’s pretty much what I read in all the textbooks but my old lady won’t tell me anything more. Is there any way I could find out what happened?”
Stanton lifted his cap, scratching his head with same hand. “Do you know the hospital he was in?”
“Yeah, Holy Cross in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Hmmn,” Stanton pondered a moment. “You got any bread to spread around?”
“Maybe.”
“Look man, if you got some, I can ask around and might find someone workin’ at Holy Cross and get you the name of the donor.”
“That’d be great. How much you think I’d need?”
“A grand should take care of it. I’ll give you my wife’s address in Miami and you’ll send five-hundred to her and the rest once you’ve got the info.”
That night Howie called Shirley and asked her to visit Saturday. Reluctantly she agreed, after he pleaded with her for several minutes.
When she arrived at the visitor’s lounge, Ho
wie greeted her with a broad smile.. “Hi, Babe,” he exclaimed, squeezing her arm and kissing her cheek.
Shirley’s eyes opened wide as she reared back at the sudden show of affection, causing her to lose her balance, momentarily brushing her hair on his cheek. Holding her arm, he steadied her.
He guided her to an empty steel table with metal chairs bolted to the floor, off to one side, away from the watchful guards behind the wire re-enforced glass windows, of the brightly lit cinder block room.
“My, you’re happy,” she said, smiling, as he sat next to her.
He looked more relaxed than he did two months earlier. His hair showing a few strands of grey was neatly trimmed and his prison garb appeared freshly pressed, but the biggest surprise was that he wasn’t nervously looking around and fidgeting with a cigarette.
“Why not ?” Howie grinned. “When my hot looking wife shows up in an ass hugging pair of slacks and heels, I’m happy.”
“What’s going on? She chuckled, rolling her eyes, “You sounded excited the other night.”
“Hey, I just made a fantastic connection with a lawyer who’s helped a few of the prisoners get an early release.”
“So?” She replied tilting her head and looking up at him, as she exhaled slowly.
“Well Look Babe, this guy’s good.”
“C’mon Howie, since when did you start falling for this bull?” she scoffed. “We did everything that could be done. Somebody’s conning you.”
A few feet away, at the next table a young heavyset man held hands with a short buxom gray haired woman who appeared to be his mother. She wiped a handkerchief at her eyes from time to time as they talked in muffled tones.
Looking away from the couple, Howie leaned in, looked over his shoulder, , and whispered. “Look, Shirley, this guy’s connected. I gotta get him to help me.”
She looked down, away from him.
“Gimme a break,” he murmured. “I need some money.”
He touched her shoulder, trying to get her to look at him. She resisted.
“Please Howie, you know this is bullshit.”
“Jesus Christ, Shirley, don’t give me a hard time. I know what I’m doin’. Don’t you think I know a phony deal, when I see one,” he shot back tugging harder at her shoulder..
“Easy Howie, I don’t like the way you’re acting and take your paws off of me.”
Howie pulled back, then turned, so he could look directly at her, saying softly, “sorry Babe, it’s just that I know this guy has connections and I gotta get out of here.”
Relenting she turned toward him and put a hand on his arm, sighing and making a clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth. He didn’t move, but focused expectantly on her.
“Okay already,” she whined, “just don’t get your hopes up, I’d hate to see you disappointed.”
Two days later Shirley had Jesse, the former housekeeper, who had advanced to one of her most popular escorts deliver five hundred dollars to Doc Stanton’s wife in Miami. Stanton came through three weeks later, slipping a crumpled photocopy of Dr. Frederick’s personal hospital records to Howie. It showed Victor Wayne of Chicago as David’s donor as well as naming him as the patient’s biological father.
Howie went into a rage that night, tearing up his bed and trashing everything in the cell as he screamed curses. All around him other inmates yelled and banged cups against the bars for him to shut up. He was finally subdued, by three guards who removed him to the infirmary where he was sedated.
The following week, Howie returned to his cell. He was much calmer when he called Shirley two days later, complaining about being in the hospital and not getting proper care. He ended the call with a plea for her to visit the next week and she agreed.
As usual, she dressed simply, but her elegant black pants suit and high heels set her apart from the other female visitors, most of who arrived in jeans and simple cotton frocks. Howie met her somewhat sullenly, barely acknowledging her, but immediately asking for the latest update on David as they sat alone at a table near the back of the room.
“I talk to him every day and he’s very upbeat, doing his exercises and even working a few hours a day,” Shirley said.
“That’s good.” Howie nodded. “I usually call him every week but I haven’t had a chance to since I was in the infirmary.”
“Dr. Fredericks, who I speak to at least every few days, assures me that the transplant is going well with no signs of rejection. However, he cautions that it’s still too early to make any predictions on his recovery.”
When she finished, Howie sat quietly, taking long drags on a cigarette. Then, he turned slowly, so he was facing directly at her from a distance of ten inches and asked in a very low hissing voice, “Why didn’t you tell me that the donor was David’s father, Victor Wayne?””
Shirley jumped up but Howie grabbed her arm roughly, forcing her to look at him as he growled, “You rotten cunt. He was fucking you and you lied to me to get me to marry you.”
A shriek arose from deep inside her throat as she attempted to wrench her arm away. “No, it’s not true!” she cried.
He spun her around and grabbed a small object from under his shirt collar. She jerked back but he had a vise grip hold on her arm and slashed her across the face, knocking her down. She screamed, writhing on the concrete floor as he brutally kicked and roared curses at her.
“You rotten bitch, I shoulda’ known it was that smart ass boyfriend of yours,” he shouted grabbing her hair and slashing at her again cursing, as he flailed her with his fists and kicks. “You always had the hots for that bastard. Now I know why.”
Terrified visitors and prisoners scattered, running for the doors, as two guards struggled to pull Howie away from Shirley, whose cheek and neck were gushing blood. Two more guards arrived and grabbed Howie by both his arms, shoving him to the floor and smashing his lip as he continued to scream at Shirley. They handcuffed him, stood him up and dragged him out dodging around two guards kneeling on the floor, attempting to calm Shirley as they applied pressure to the slash on her cheek and neck.
“It’s Isolation Block for you, asshole,” one of the guards growled as they shoved Howie out of the room. Another guard grabbed a bloody two inch piece of wire on the floor, three feet away and held it up.
“This must be what cut her.”
Within minutes, a doctor arrived. He quickly began applying a dressing to the wound and gave Shirley a shot to relieve the shock and pain. Minutes later, she was removed to the prison hospital, where the doctor sutured the wound and tried to make her comfortable.
Within two hours she was resting peacefully. Calls went out to her office and Jack Brown was notified immediately. He called the prison doctor for a complete report on Shirley’s condition and made arrangements to move her to Holy Cross. He was relieved when the doctor explained that the wound was nasty but could most likely be concealed by a competent plastic surgeon after it was sufficiently healed. He also assured him she was in no serious danger since help had arrived before she lost too much blood.
At eight that evening, Jack arrived at the prison by helicopter and immediately went to see Shirley. She was still sedated but he knew that she recognized him because she tried to smile. He clenched his teeth and looked at her bandaged face and the bruises that were already turning a deep shade of purple. Both eyes were swollen shut and big welts had risen up on her back and left side where Howie had kicked her. Her mouth and jaw were swollen too, and there was a puffy cut on her upper lip. She tried to speak but no sound came out.
Jack’s face turned an ashen color as he looked on, his hooded eyes barely visible as he took her hand, whispering, “don’t worry. I’m here and everything will be alright. I’ve got the best doctors at the hospital waiting for you and you’ll be there in less than an hour. The helicopter is just outside the gate a
nd as soon as the doctor says you’re ready to travel, we’ll be on our way. I won’t leave your side until you’re safe and everything is under control.”
The helicopter lifted off shortly after that with Shirley on board and Jack at her side.
Two days later Jack, his clothes rumpled and needing a shave, summoned Paul Freed to his office.
“Jesus Jack you look terrible. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I haven’t left her side or slept in two days. Close the door and sit down.”
Freed moved quickly. “How’s Sally””
“She’s gonna make it, but she’s in pretty bad shape. I’ll tell her you asked and keep you informed. But do us all a favor and keep this situation—what happened to her—as quiet as possible. Sally’s got it covered on her end.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
Jack paused and then looked up, his fingertips touching. “I think it’s time for the world to get along without Howie Rabin.”
Chapter 44
After a short stay in the prison hospital followed by three months in solitary confinement, Howie returned to a regular cell. His hair was almost all grey and he was much thinner. One of his front teeth was missing and there was a jagged scar on his lip from where the guard clubbed him the day of the attack.
“Hey, Rabin, how you doin’man? You really did a job on your old lady,” muttered his former cell mate when they ran into each other in the mess hall.
With a scowl, Howie glanced at the man, murmuring, “Yeah, that bitch had it coming. I shoulda killed her.”
“I heard she really fucked you over with the kid.”
Howie kept moving, ignoring more conversation. Several other inmates shook his hand and whispered to him, as he shrugged them off, and walked away.
Doc Stanton came over in the yard that afternoon. “When I heard what you did, I figured you got what you wanted.”
“Yeah, that lyin’ bitch, I stuck her good. And when I get outta’ here, I’ll finish the job. I’d do it now but I can’t get my hands on any money.”
Albany Park Page 45
