Windy City Knights

by Michael A. Black

  “What should we do?”

  “This name here as president is interesting,” I said. The name was Akeen Emanuel. “And the fact that he’s listed as the top dog is even more significant.” I closed the book and returned it to the nice lady. I then went to the computerized telephone information computer and waited until the three people ahead of me had looked up their numbers. After sitting down I typed in “Akeen Emanuel” and found no listing. I tried reversing the order of the names and found a listing with the same address as the one listed in the ledger. After writing this number down, I went to the row of nearby pay phones and dialed it. After three rings, a voice came on and said, “You have reached Lothar Industries. Please leave a message.” The voice had a somewhat British sound to it.

  Another Limey, I thought, and hung up without saying anything. I looked at Laurie.

  “I’m pretty sure this Lothar place is a front,” I said. “I’m just not sure for what.”

  “How does this all fit in with Paula?” she asked.

  “That’s the other thing I’m not sure of.” I sighed and glanced at my watch. I had a workout to get in at Chappie’s to night, but it was still pretty early. Fishing out some more coins, I dropped them into the slot of the pay phone and began dialing.

  “Why don’t you just use your cell phone?” she asked.

  “We’re too enclosed in here. Too much iron and steel and tall buildings. Usually you get too much static unless you’re outside.”

  She nodded and I finished dialing. Big Rich answered on the third ring.

  “Stafford.”

  “Hey, buddy, it’s Ron. How you been doing?”

  “Ron Shade. Hey, dude.” His voice was like the rumble of a tank. “I’m cool, man. You?”

  That was Big Rich…always striving to stay on the cutting edge of current slang.

  “I’m working on a case and I’m bouncing off a brick wall,” I said. I gave him a quick rundown of Lothar Industries, Akeen Emanuel, and the addresses.

  “So is there a story in all this for me, or is this just going to be another line added to the long list of favors you owe me?” he said. He punctuated the question with a deep, resonant chuckle that quickly developed into a cough. I could see his big, 300-pound body hunched over his desk, with one of his smoldering cigarettes hanging from his mouth.

  “You know I always treat you to a fair amount of scoops,” I said. Big Rich was a reporter for the Chicago Metro, a smaller competitor of the Tribune and Sun-Times. We’d worked together on numerous stories before and had sort of a mutual backscratching pact. Big Rich had an enormous amount of contacts on his computer system, as well as one of the most comprehensive stockpiles of information anywhere in the city. “Besides, this is really important.”

  He must have picked up on the urgency in my voice because he dropped the wisecracks and said, “Give me about fifteen and get back to me.”

  “I’m downtown,” I said. “I’ll come over.”

  “Okay. See you when I see you.” I could hear the clicking of the keyboard over the phone as we spoke.

  Since the Metro’s offices were sandwiched in one of the lesser buildings over near the Tribune Towers, I figured it was a little bit too far to walk with Laurie. Leaving The Beater in the parking lot, I hailed a cab and we rode over as the meter kept clicking away. The cabbie, a Third World type, smiled brightly at us in the rearview mirror. Laurie seemed fascinated as we drove over the Michigan Avenue Bridge.

  “Oh, Ron, look at those statues,” she said, pointing to the Indian and the Army officer.

  “Yeah, this used to be Fort Dearborn many moons ago. Site of a real bloody battle. If this was summer I’d take you for a boat ride.”

  “Maybe I’ll come back for it.”

  The cab dropped us off in front of the building and I paid the fare, wondering if it might be better to leave her at the Metro and jog back to get The Beater instead of taking another cab. Inside the Metro waiting room was a gigantic pinography machine, surrounded by numerous pictures that described the history of how newspapers were printed. Laurie ran her fingers over the smooth metal surface as we walked past.

  “This is really neat,” she said. “I’ve never seen one of those before.”

  “Wait till you see Big Rich,” I said with a grin.

  We took the elevators up to the sixth floor and found all 300 pounds of him leaning back in his overstuffed chair, puffing away on a cigarette, and talking to a solidly-built black guy.

  “Hey, Rich,” I said, holding out my hand. We shook and I introduced Laurie.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. Rich had long brownish-blond hair and thick glasses, but these seemed perfectly in proportion with his oversized body. If he’d stood, he would have dwarfed us in height as well as girth, but for such a large, obviously overweight man he appeared exceptionally well groomed. His drooping, unkempt mustache and the ash-laden necktie were the only lapses in his appearance. He held out his palm.

  “This is Mike Marsh, of the Chicago Reader,” he said, then smiled. “And, the second-best reporter in the city.”

  Marsh smiled as we shook hands.

  “Guess we don’t need to ask who the best is, huh?” he said with a wry grin. He shook hands with Laurie and then said he was late for an appointment. We watched him walk away.

  My nostrils flared at the cigarette smoke and he immediately crushed the one he’d been smoking into an overflowing ashtray.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said with a grin. He took out another cigarette and held it between his fingers, but didn’t light it. “I remembered that you’re supposed to be in training. The fight still on?”

  “This Friday,” I said, trying not to think about it too much. The nerves were starting to wear on me.

  “You’re getting me tickets, right?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said, thinking that if everyone I’d promised free tickets showed up at the gate expecting to get in for nothing, they wouldn’t have any seats left to sell.

  “Good,” Rich said, picking up a stack of printouts. “Now, onward and upward. Lothar Industries is a dummy corporation. All I got is that it’s connected to this guy named Akeen Emanuel, who also appears to use the name of Ganiyu Olijede.” He paused and spelled it out. “Your guess is as good as mine as to how to pronounce it. Looks like he runs some kind of an import/export business called, get this, Trader Horn.” He grinned. “Remember that old movie? Anyway, same guy, or at least he appears to be. Formed the corporations about a year ago.”

  “What kind of a name is that?” I said. “African?”

  Big Rich nodded. “My bet is Nigerian,” he said. “Now I didn’t find anything in our police report files, but there’s a Nigerian crime organization that operates in the Midwest.” He fingered the cigarette like he was thinking about lighting it, but didn’t. “To the tune of smuggling, drugs, credit card scams, clone phones, you name it.”

  “You got any more info on him?” I asked.

  “Just what’s there,” Rich said, leaning back. He placed the unlighted cigarette in his mouth and clasped his hands behind his head. “Now suppose you give a little.”

  “I can’t right now,” I said. “But I promise to let you in on anything that turns up.”

  “What kind of bullshit is this, Ron?” Rich said, unhooking his hands and leaning forward. He looked at Laurie. “Pardon my French, Miss.” Then back to me. “This mystery stuff doesn’t sound like our usual arrangement. You came here asking for help, remember?”

  “My cousin was killed,” Laurie said. “Ron’s been looking into it for me.”

  Her sudden admission seemed to startle the big man momentarily.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss,” he said.

  “We’re not sure how this part fits into it yet,” I said, “so I’m gonna pass on any further comments right now, okay?”

  Big Rich licked his lips and nodded. “Okay, but keep me apprised. But watch yourself dealing
with this Olijede guy. Looks like he’s pretty well oiled.”

  CHAPTER 25

  When we left the Metro building, Laurie asked if we could walk over to get the car instead of taking a cab. “At your own risk,” I told her. She lit up a cigarette while we walked, holding hands. So much for her quitting, I thought. As we strolled over to the corner of the Michigan Avenue Bridge we paused, with our backs to the wind, to look at the greenish water and out toward the lake beyond it. I watched the smoke, coming out with her frozen breath, drifting from her lips.

  “I always like to look at the lake,” she said. “It’s almost like an ocean.”

  “Just about as cold and unforgiving too.”

  “But it’s still beautiful,” she said, gripping my arm tightly. “Looking at it here I can almost forget about this whole tragic situation. About Paula being dead and you getting into so much trouble trying to help me.”

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m getting paid for it, remember. It comes with the territory, and I’m used to it. Getting hauled in for questioning is pretty much standard operating procedure for me. Besides, it helped light a fire under George’s ass, and he’s the one who’s ultimately got to solve it.”

  “You’re so sweet.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss me.

  Her nose and cheeks were becoming red from the cold. “I just wish it was different for us right now.”

  I put both my arms around her waist and we stared at the river some more. In front of the Wrigley Building some guy was working on an ice sculpture. The chainsaw ground off huge chunks from the block.

  We watched his artistry for a few minutes. Laurie seemed serene, but a troubling thought started to intrude on me. Becoming personally involved with a client, much less the cousin of a former girlfriend…Was this the only private investigator work ethic I was going to break on this case? The jostling crowds continued to brush by us. For all they knew, we were just two young lovers on a sight seeing tour. And for all practical purposes, that’s what we were. I certainly couldn’t claim that we were a professional private investigator and his client. And how much, when the time came, would this degree of personal involvement affect my ability to make the right decision? I hugged Laurie closer for a moment, hoping that I wouldn’t have to find out. Because deep down I knew that being a professional was all that separated me from the rest of the amateurs in this crazy line of work. And that was all that had kept me alive in the past.

  “You know,” I said, giving her a gentle squeeze, “I told you before, this thing’s probably going to get worse before it’s over. Some things might come out that might not be too pretty.”

  “I know that already,” she said. “But we’ve come so far. And I need a sense of closure on all this. I’m still not sure what I’ll tell Uncle Larry and Aunt Louisa, but I have to know the whole truth in order to put my own feelings to rest.”

  Full speed ahead, then, I thought. The block of ice was beginning to take on some kind of form, but exactly what, I wasn’t sure. I hoped the artist had a clearer image in his mind’s eye than I did as I struggled with my own problematic block of icy questions.

  “You ready?” I said. “I have to make a couple of phone calls.”

  She took a final drag on her cigarette and tossed it over the side of the bridge.

  We walked part of the way back, then the cold started to get to us so we went into a small coffee shop. I bought us two hot chocolates, set hers on the table, took out my cell phone, and dialed the gym. Brice answered.

  “It’s Ron. Put Chappie on, will you?”

  “What’s up?” he asked when he picked up the phone.

  “I need to get a hold of Young Dick Tiger,” I said. “You know if he’s still driving a cab?”

  “Yeah, I think he is,” Chappie said. “Lemme see, I got his work and beeper numbers here in my book.”

  “He’s from Nigeria, right?”

  “Yeah, just like the original,” Chappie said. “Why? You looking to brush up on your African culture?” he said with a laugh.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said. He read off the numbers and asked what time I was coming in for my workout. I told him I’d be in later and hung up. I dialed the work number first and got a dispatcher. She said that Dick was out of the office and asked if I’d like to leave a message. I identified myself as Ron from the gym, and asked if she could relay my beeper’s number as soon as possible. She said she would.

  Dick’s real name was something long and unpronounceable. I’d known him for about seven years from Chappie’s, and had even worked his corner on a few of his fights. He’d come over from Nigeria with very little money and, as they say, “a fierce determination to realize the American Dream.” Unlike the crime ring that Big Rich had spoken of, Dick worked two jobs, trained, and fought as a light heavyweight for a number of years. He used the name of Young Dick Tiger after the great Nigerian middle and light heavyweight champ of the early sixties. In his late thirties now, he’d slipped to a journeyman status as a boxer, but he still worked just as hard at it. I sipped my hot chocolate and chatted with Laurie until my beeper went off.

  I used the pay phone again and heard Dick’s familiar African-accented English as he asked me how I was doing.

  “Does Chappie have a fight for me?” he said anxiously.

  “I don’t know about that, Dick, but the reason I’m calling is that I need your help on a personal matter.”

  “Oh? How may I help you, Ron?”

  “It’s in regard to a case I’m working on,” I said. “Where you at now?”

  It turned out he was downtown as well and agreed to meet near Michigan and Washington in about ten minutes. Laurie and I began walking, sipping our hot chocolate through the holes of the plastic lids of the cups. The walk took us past the rest of the Magnificent Mile and as we neared Grant Park I saw the cab sitting by the curb at the next intersection, Dick’s familiar profile behind the wheel. We hurried up to it and I rapped on the window. Dick smiled and leaned over to open the back door.

  “Ron, how are you?” he asked. He looked toward Laurie and I introduced them. After pulling forward and flipping down the Not For Hire sign on his visor, he turned into the alley behind the row of buildings on Michigan, leaving the meter off.

  “I must admit,” he said in his clipped tones, “that your phone call has me very, very curious.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, handing him a slip of paper with the African-sounding name Big Rich had found for us. “Can you tell me if that’s an African name?”

  “Olijede,” he said. It sent a quick jolt through me when he said it. “Yes, it is Nigerian. He is a Yoruba.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “How did you pronounce that?”

  “Olijede.” He laughed, then said it slower. “Ohliejah-day.”

  “Oh, for a minute I thought you said Elijah Day. That’s the name of the guy I’m fighting this week.”

  Dick laughed again, then asked, “What is it you wish to know?”

  “I was just more or less curious about the name,” I said. “It’s come up in connection with a case I’m working on.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I take it that it involves something illegal then?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How’d you figure that? Ever heard of the guy?”

  He smiled, then said, “No, I do not know of him. But you are a detective, and he is a Yoruba. They are notorious for doing bad things. They are very stingy, crafty, and their faces are round, like a pie.”

  “I’ve never seen the guy,” I said.

  “The Yoruba are from the southern section of Nigeria,” Dick said. “When oil was discovered in the eastern part of the country, President Balewa wanted to give it to the Ibo and Efik tribes, so they could prosper. But the Yoruba and the Hausa realized that they could be rich, and seized control of the country. The military took President Balewa from the palace and executed him.” He paused to shake his head sadly. “The tribes from the area known as Biafra tried to break away to form their own count
ry. It started a civil war between them and the rest of the tribes that lasted many years and cost many, many lives.”

  “What’s your tribe?” I asked.

  “I am an Ibo,” he said. “The Yoruba are the sworn enemy of my people. Many Ibos were massacred during the conflict.”

  “So you say that a lot of Yorubas are up to no good?” I asked.

  “Yes. Many, many come to this country to become involved in smuggling, drugs, counterfeiting…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head slowly. “And the saddest part of it is that my country has many, many talented people, but the corruption has become so rampant that now the only outlet for them is to use their talents in bad ways. If I had enough money, I could go back to my country and obtain forged documents that would say what ever I wished them to say.” He laughed again, less humorously this time. “I could get them saying I was the mayor of Lagos if I wanted.”

  I asked him if he’d ever heard of a guy named Akeen Emanuel, or a couple of companies called Lothar Industries or Trader Horn.

  “The name sounds like a phony,” he said. “Akin is an African name. Sometimes it is pronounced to sound like Akeen. The other two, I have never heard of.”

  “Could you kind of nose around for me?” I asked. “I’m trying to get a line on this guy Olijede. But be discreet. And careful.”

  “I will see what I can find out, Ron,” Dick said, smiling. “Now, where can I drop you?”

  “We’re parked in a lot over by the County Building,” I said.

  Dick put the car in drive and took off. He zigzagged through the streets with an expert’s ease and we were in front of the lot in a matter of minutes. I noticed that he still hadn’t put the meter down, so I took out a twenty and shoved it at him. He shook his head and held up his vertical palm.

  “An old African custom,” Dick said. “We always help our friends.”

  “An old American custom,” I said, letting the twenty fall to the front seat. “We never ride for free. Take care, buddy.”

  He grinned, then grabbed at the sleeve of my coat. “Ron, one more thing.”