After graduating, Amiti returned to the Israeli Army for his mandatory three-year enlistment extension. Not long after his return, Mossad, the ultra-secret service branch of the country’s intelligence service, recruited him. In addition to intelligence collection, Mossad was considered responsible for covert operations suspected to include targeted killings and paramilitary activities beyond Israel's borders. His performance was never less than the very best, but Amiti’s political loyalties and patriotic principles were eventually trounced by corruption, ambition, and outsized greed.
His Mossad comrades used terms that made the job of killing seem more acceptable, or maybe to isolate the action from their consciences-substituting terms like bag, waste, eliminate, dispatch, or erase as a way of dehumanizing the deed. Amiti had no such compulsions. He didn’t try to rationalize killing. He took comfort from the thought he was no different from other professionals. His goal was wealth. His skills to acquire it, death. To Amiti, killing was an acceptable trade-off for the prosperity he desired. A client received his services upon payment of the fee. Simple.
Amiti was just above the physical size required by Mossad. He was strong, with incredible endurance and mental focus. He was well liked by his colleagues, and with his well-tuned sense of humor, he got along well with his superiors. By all accounts, his performance in Mossad was superior. That is, until he was caught in an illegal act. That got him dishonorably discharged five years ago at the age of twenty-seven.
Amiti hated politics and politicians, which he blamed for his dishonorable discharge. He would point out the illogical legislation they pass into law. If it is kosher to kill for your country as a patriot, then it should be acceptable to provide that same service for entrepreneurial gain, commonly held morality and the law notwithstanding.
His was a perfect record of accomplishment, this hired professional killer; often sought as his profession’s best, he provided wet work solutions to individuals with people problems and the money to solve them. Of course, to retain Amiti’s services, you must know someone who knows someone…but clients still managed to find him—enough that he had the option to choose his assignments.
The cab arrived at Kimbark Avenue. A smile of appreciation spread over his face as he observed the classic architectural beauty of the church. Amiti studied the masonry spires and leaded glass windows. His thankfulness was genuine. He admired the craftsmanship of the even racked joints between granite blocks. He marveled at the intricate joinery of the wooden window mullions. To any watcher, it would appear he was just another tourist rubbernecking the structure. What Amiti was doing was memorizing the building’s escape routes. He diligently practiced Mossad-taught techniques. Being careful had kept Amiti alive and out of prison for five years. He would not violate the teachings now.
Amiti approached the heavily timbered entry doors that hung on ancient iron hinges, like those he’d seen in antediluvian structures in Jerusalem. As he reached the top step to the house of worship, he saw the entry door was ajar. He was told he would meet someone from El Rukn, a gang known to Chicago PD as ruthless drug dealers, protection racket promoters, and pimps. The El Rukn label was yet another name adaptation for the Blackstone Rangers, who operated in Southside Chicago since the late ’50s. The gang attempted to shield itself from Federal inquiry under the facade of a religious organization. Most of the leadership and, therefore, the street soldiers, changed their names by adopting Muslim customs and sometimes, the traditional dress, presumably in addition to the religious practices of Islam.
Muslims or not, these guys surely are not Presbyterians. He’d heard that the gang dabbled in international terrorism, traveling to Libya to offer their services as domestic terrorists in return for money and weapons. That connection was more than a bit troubling. The Assassin’s feelings about Arab terrorists were less than good-humored. Of course, they weren’t Arabs—Muslims, maybe—but these guys were born-and-bred Southside Chicago gangbangers.
Amiti knew the name Dallas, but not the identity of the person who paid seventy-five thousand dollars plus expenses, his standard fee, to take the life of another. In fact, he preferred not to know more than necessary to complete an assignment.
This assignment was his second for Dallas. Amiti thought, this guy might become a franchise client, a recurring source of business. Wouldn’t that be just ducky! His former Mossad mentor and good friend, David Sherman, recommended Dallas to Amiti and arranged for his safe passage within El Rukn territories. Like Aspen, this contract was to eliminate a CapVest partner. If Dallas turned out to be a franchise, then the CapVest executive corps would soon be decimated.
Amiti entered the cathedral and paused in the vestibule. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, his demeanor adjusted to his purpose. Amiti stood taller, breathed deeper and easier. His face took on the placid countenance of his alter ego. Amiti morphed psychologically to the Assassin.
He could see no one in the sanctuary and heard nothing as he proceeded into the large enclosure of the church. The Assassin saw no rabbis—the Presbyterians call them pastors; the empty rows of polished pews spoke to him of the hope, joy, and sorrow they witnessed. The waxy perfume of burning candles reminded him he’d not been to a synagogue in many years. He missed it.
Sunlight spread across the stone floor through high, stained-glass windows. Odd, he thought, so many things are the same among religions: the candles, the wooden pews, the stained glass windows, and the whole atmosphere thing. He progressed cautiously on the slate floor into the church’s interior, eyes moving from left to right—still seeing no one. The Assassin advanced toward the raised altar down the center aisle.
At mid-point of the aisle, he noticed a white painted door on the right side near the altar in this vaulted chamber. It stood open to the sacristy and he saw the movement of shadows. Nearing the door, the bitter stench of cigarettes replaced the candle's perfume. What idiots would defile a holy place by exhaling tobacco smoke here? Since no worshippers or church officials were present, he called out, “Hey, anybody here?”
A beat, then, “He’a,” echoed the voice.
“Where’s ‘here?’” he asked the voice. The Assassin progressed through the pews on the right side of the sanctuary and down the side aisle toward the shouted instruction. He felt nervous. His stomach was roiling and his palms were moist. This is strange. I seem to be a bit nervous. What is that about? How about that you are unarmed, in a strange structure, and about to collude with people you are not likely to ever associate with. Nevertheless, he moved forward toward the white door and stepped into the room.
The air in the room was greasy-gray with cigarette smoke. The Assassin saw three young black men slouched around a small wooden table; each held a burning cigarette. The tabletop was empty except for a small ashtray overflowing with butts and ashes. The pretend Persian rug covering most of the small room’s slate floor was littered with ashes and stomped-out cigarette butts. The men seemed overly relaxed— either that, or maybe they were just stoned.
The Assassin spotted the leader right away. He was the one sitting in the middle chair, wearing a green turban, an Army surplus field jacket over a black leather vest on his bare black skin. Under the table, he saw Army combat boots. The other two men were bareheaded, with five o’clock shadows sprouting from shaved scalps. Dressed in a similar style, these motley crews made the hairs on the back of his Jewish neck stand up. Hey, they might indeed be Muslims.
“Dude,” Green Turban offered as a greeting. “’E’s got bidness to do, so let’s be doin it, right?”
“Fine. I am Amiti,” he said. “But the first order of this particular business transaction would be a slip of paper evidencing a bank deposit. Do you have it?” the Assassin asked the leader, while keeping a wary eye on his companions.
Green extracted the deposit receipt from the pocket of his vest and handed it to the Assassin. As he did, he smiled for the first time, showing a mouthful of large and very white teeth—all but the incisor on the left, whi
ch was gold-capped with a small diamond inlay.
“Stylish!” The Assassin acknowledged the tooth as he glanced at the receipt, smiled, folded the paper, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. The Assassin said, “Now, the final items to be discussed are the details of the job. Can we proceed with that, please?”
The two men went over the mission details for the next half hour. Green Turban’s two companions continued to smoke, spill ashes on the carpet, stare, and mumble unintelligible babble, but mostly left the Assassin to his tasks.
Again, the instructions were the hit must appear to be accidental, not an obvious assassination. The Assassin realized then he would need further assistance from this gangland ghetto geek and his faithful followers to complete the assignment. He turned to the leader. “I will need to reach you by phone. How may I contact you?”
“Yo call me da Chief. Dis phone numba…” He screeched the name of each number as he scrawled it on a scrap of a brown grocery bag. “Jus’ tell ’em yo need da Chief and yo be Amiti.”
Amiti left the church as he’d entered it. Since the day had plenty of light left, he decided a small detour to the lakeshore to see more of the old neighborhood would be pleasant. Fresh air to replace the nicotine-infused stuff in his lungs before going to his hotel in the loop. He walked a few blocks east to Stony Island Avenue and 66th Place. He needed a cab, but he didn’t see a taxi in either direction on 66th, so he walked north on Stony Island. He knew he’d find cabs in the waiting queue at the Stony Island Yacht Club.
At the next cross street, Amiti saw an older man prodding the curb with a long, red-tipped white cane. He quickened his pace. Reaching the old man, he gently cupped his elbow and said, “Hold on there, Father. Let me help you get across the street.” Poor ol’ guy, stranded out here in the middle of this fast-moving traffic, he thought.
The old man raised his head toward the sound of Amiti’s voice and smiled. “Thank you, sir…your help is much appreciated.”
“It is my pleasure, Father. Here, take my arm and we’ll get you to the other side safely.” The old man did as instructed and walked with Amiti to the security of the opposite sidewalk. Amiti watched the old man tap his way down the footpath and felt proud of his actions. If I were still a Boy Scout, that would get me a merit badge for sure.
Slocum slowly climbed the outside stairs of his office building on this hot, humid September morning. He was careful not to trip on the loose treads, as he was very hung over. The suit he wore was rumpled and dirty, the sleeves spotted with beer stains from leaning on the dirty bar of his favorite establishment. It was Mr. Slocum’s habit to occupy his usual stool at the Anchor Chain Lounge as often as possible. Freeport is the capitol and heart of the business community in the Grand Bahama Islands group, except there wasn’t all that much business in any of the islands. A soft breeze blew through his thinning hair and tickled his day-old stubble as he reached for the office door.
As an attorney, Slocum simply survived, rather than prospered. He kept his office open by providing small legal services for major mainland law firms. Many of these tasks amounted to no more than process service on the Old Bahama Bay project when the developer defaulted on a six-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar loan. Bogged down with numerous US lawsuits, construction had stopped years ago and the property was abandoned.
One of those grand US law firms was now calling in a favor of Slocum. “Well,” the firm’s managing partner said over the poor phone connection, “we’d more or less insist on it being done in order for our firm to continue our relationship with you.”
“Yes, sir, whatever you want, I’ll get ’er done, yes siree.”
“Thank you, Mr. Slocum. We’d like you to consider taking a partner. Well, not consider it, but, in actual fact, to make our client’s brother your partner, and do it right away. You see, Mr. Slocum, our firm does several million dollars billings with this particular client. Our firm would do anything possible to keep him happy…you understand, I’m sure. We will be sending the gentleman to your office in the next several days, Mr. Slocum. He will have a letter of introduction from me.”
“Well, I don’t need any help with the business, sir, and I surely don’t need a partner to add to the overhead.” He laughed. Oh, my head hurts. Why the hell did I suck down those last few rum and cokes? This guy holds my balls in his hand and is startin’ to squeeze. A partner, yeah, that’s what I need. A partner to share in the workload that I can do in a few hours for the whole week. Geez!
“Yes, you do, Mr. Slocum. Allow me to explain. Should you elect not to invite him into your firm, the consequences of that foolish decision will be a cessation of all business from this firm and the three other US law firms you are privileged to represent, solely based on our referrals. Co-terminus with your firm, we will establish a branch office in Freeport and our client’s brother will be installed as the managing partner. Our new branch office will inherit the business you are currently being paid to do and that of our friendly associates. That new firm will also be the beneficiary of any new business we will endeavor to drive to it from here.” He paused. “Oh, just one more thing, Mr. Slocum; the insurance trust you now administer will be changing trustees. Now, Mr. Slocum, I’m very busy. I have a conference call with the White House in just a few minutes. Is there a question on the table?”
“No, sir, I understand. Thank you.” The phone clicked an end to the conversation.
“Hi, Deb, I called to talk to Tim. Is he there?”
“Garth, I don’t know why you persist.”
“Persist? What do you mean by persist? I called to talk to my kids because they are my kids, because I love them, and because I am sick and tired of you keeping me from them. Debbie, if I must, I’ll go back to court to enforce my joint custody rights. If you want a fight, then that is what you’ll get. Look, just because your name is no longer Wainwright, the boys do have my name and always will. Don’t try to alienate me from them. It won’t work.”
She was silent for several breaths, then Debbie said, “Look Garth, I can’t help it if you’re not who the boys want as a father. Norman loves…”
“I don’t give a sack of shit about what Norman does or doesn’t do. I do not intend to discuss this on the phone with you, Debbie. I called to speak with Tim and I want him to call me. Do you understand? You are playing with fire, and by God, I’ll see you burn in hell if you fuck with me!”
Wainwright took a calming deep breath. “He’s now seven years old. I sent him a birthday present by mail, for Christ’s sake, since you have made it plain that my person is not welcome on your doorstep. He said he never got it, Debbie. What did you do with it? You kept it from Tim—why? I have no way of knowing what is going on with my kids since you don’t call, write, or send up smoke signals.” Garth heard the unmistakable click as the phone line disconnected.
Fifteen
“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.” ~ Albert Einstein
THURSDAY—SEPTEMBER | William F. Clyburn almost skipped across the marble floor lobby of the Chicago office building he’d once owned. Thursday sunset, he felt more like Billy, the name most everyone except the Federal government called him. He was ecstatic about the phone call he just received from his personal assistant. His property management staff finalized the quarterly reports and the Capital Vested Corporation accountants had signed off. Clyburn’s had successfully surpassed the earn-out goals—so now, the very wealthy Mr. Clyburn would be even wealthier.
Four months earlier, Clyburn sold his investment firm to CapVest, together with the twenty-seven thousand apartment units his firm owned and managed. The earn-out structure was a terrific way for Clyburn to maximize the benefits of selling his company at a higher price and reducing burdensome tax liabilities.
His limo was waiting for him at the Wabash Avenue curb and his driver, Carlos Sanchez, was out of the automobile with the door open, waiting for his boss.
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“Hello, Mr. Clyburn. Where would you like me to take you this evening?”
Billy was dressed for a celebration. He wore his Dior Homme black pinstriped mohair suit, black Calvin Klein silk dress shirt, white silk Italian tie, and matching hanky in the breast pocket. He thought he looked very dapper. Anyone else might think that he looked like a street pimp.
“Make it The Isthmus, Carlos.” Clyburn picked up his car phone and called his wife. He explained that an important meeting would keep him from home until late. It happened all the time; she understood that was how it was with a hard-charging successful executive. She was a good wife.
Clyburn next called Classy Cassie, the affectionate sobriquet for his very good friend and sometime traveling companion. He told her to meet him at The Isthmus-Chicago. If one was going to celebrate, what better companion than the most expensive escort in the city? Cassie had many talents, chief among them was entertaining wealthy men—for a price, of course. The hotel was just a few blocks from his North State Street office. He could have walked, but didn’t want to be seen heading into the hotel by anyone on the street. Carlos knew the routine…discretion to the utmost.
Not only did Clyburn have a wife and young family to screen from his philandering ways, but he now had partners in Bellevue that, by both reputation and behavior, would be concerned with his extracurricular activities. They didn’t do that kind of thing in Bellevue. It was not the CapVest Way.
In fact, those assholes in Bellevue had insisted on including a morals clause in the employment contract as a part of the documentation of selling his firm. He’d heard that was done at the Hollywood movie studios out west. Of course, everyone knew California was the land of fruits and nuts and that the studios included the morals clause to control their actors. The CapVest people always struck Clyburn as boring and too straitlaced. Goody-two-shoes, and all that shit! These people had little sophistication, but they did have money and a large company, of which he was now a part. These new partners operated on some kind of ethics code that would not tolerate what he was about to do. Nonetheless, this was not the first and wouldn’t be the last time for after-hour’s entertainment.
The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery Page 13
