by Jim Stevens
“Who’s the FBI guy on the Board of Trade case?”
Norbert says, “Guy named Romo Simpson.”
“Romo. Who the hell would ever name their kid Romo?”
“Mister and Mrs. Simpson,” he answers.
I hang up my phone, smile again for the camera. “I’d like to speak with agent Romo Simpson.”
Her voice changes not one iota. “And who should I say is calling?”
“Alvin J. Augustus.”
She glances back to my license. “That is not the name on your insurance badge.”
“I go by an alias, since I’m still wanted in a few states.”
I wait about fifteen minutes, during which time the reception phone does not ring and no other guest arrives. This would be a perfect place for Alvin’s fired receptionist, if her career as a dental hygienist doesn’t pan out.
Romo Simpson comes into the lobby.
It takes me about six seconds to size him up, three of which I spend reading an old copy of Field and Stream. Why the FBI would subscribe to this publication is a mystery to me.
Agent Romo wears a blue suit, rep tie, and a white shirt so starched it could stand up by itself. He looks exactly like all the other agents wandering the halls. Good cover, men. He’s in his mid-thirties, probably has 2.3 kids at his suburban home, and his wife drives an American made SUV. He has that nervous energy of youth bubbling out of his pores. “Mister Augustus, I presume?”
“He couldn’t be here, so I came in his place. Richard Sherlock.”
We shake hands. He sits down in the chair across from me and notices the magazine in my hands.
“I’m not really into this,” I explain. “My idea of camping is two John Denver records in a Holiday Inn.”
He remains stiffer than his shirt. “Yes?”
“I am trying to find out who killed Alvin and I thought I’d stop by and see why you were investigating his trading practices.”
“Who said I was doing that?”
“You offered him immunity for turning state’s evidence.” I have no clue that anyone made Alvin this offer, but I throw it out to see if I can get a rise out of Romo.
“We did?”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say and quickly continue. “You needed a player who knew everybody and everything going down on the floor to make a case, so you picked Alvin.”
Romo’s eyelids flick twice. He should never attempt a career playing poker.
“Alvin would be the perfect squeal, except that old Alvin could have been the biggest perpetrator of the crimes being investigated, and you’d find yourself in betwixt and between.”
I’ve struck a tender nerve. His eyelids are flapping faster than a butterfly’s wings. “Come with me,” he says.
I pick up my license on the way past the receptionist. “It was a pleasure, Miss.”
Romo leads me into a small conference room, closes the door behind him and points me to the middle chair. I sit and immediately fondle the poorly hidden small microphone in the cup of pens and pencils in the middle of the table. “What I say isn’t going to end up on one of those reality shows on TV, is it?”
Romo sits and rolls up his sleeves, cracking some of the starch in his shirt. “You think he was killed to keep him from talking?”
“I don’t know. The more I dig, the more reasons and people I find that wanted poor Alvin in the grave.” I fold my hands together to convey an air of innocence. “Did you figure out how he was skimming the fat off the soup?”
“We have a pretty good idea.”
Yeah, right.
“I got a guy who could figure out the trading patterns in about an hour, if you want to hand over the last month or two of his records.”
“I can’t do that. It’s classified.”
“I promise I won’t tell.”
Romo tightens his already taut tie.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a copy of the photo of the guy seen coming out of the condo on Astor Street. “You know who this is?”
He studies the picture, turns to the telephone console, pushes a button and says “Delia, could you come in here a second?”
A career secretary enters. She’s about ten years from retirement, but obviously wishes she was much closer.
“Make me a copy, then put this guy through the system.”
“Yes, Mister Simpson.” Calling this guy Mister is a true chore for this poor woman.
“We’ll find out,” Romo assures me.
“Will you let me know too?”
He thinks this over. “I’ll have to clear it with my supervisor.”
“It seems only fair.”
“What else do you have for us, Mister Sherlock?”
“Actually, the reason I came here was the reverse of that process.”
“You know I can’t discuss the status of an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m not supposed to do that either, but seeing we’re rowing in the same boat…”
“FBI policy.”
“So, if I figure out how it all worked, how Alvin manipulated the market, before and after you made the deal with him and including the fact he probably scammed the Bureau in the process, you wouldn’t want me to tell you?”
“I didn’t say that.” Romo’s eyes are blinking faster than a strobe light.
“Thank you for your time, Agent Simpson, you have been more than informative.”
“I have?”
“Yes, quite.”
I have left poor Romo with the problem of figuring out what he has unknowingly let out of his bag. This will ruin the rest of his day.
___
In any investigation, it is often more important to find out what people don’t know, than it is to find out what they do know. In this case, the FBI doesn’t know how the Board of Trade is being manipulated. All they know is that cash is disappearing at an alarming rate. With no solid evidence, the FBI makes a deal to find out what they don’t know. This is risky, because once the cat is out of their bag, all the rules change. They deal with Alvin, who tells them what he wants them to know -- not what he knows -- because he knows they are in no position to make a deal. The FBI is now stuck, Alvin knows they are onto him, so Alvin can change his M.O. to work around the FBI and point the finger at the other guys who don’t know what he knows. Old Alvin turns out to be one sharp cookie, at least until his skull got crushed.
My rule of thumb on deal-making is: you make a deal only when you have to make a deal, unless you’re a TV game show host.
Anyway, Romo’s non-information assures me that Alvin was certainly not losing money hand-over-fist due to lousy gambler’s luck and addiction as Heffelfinger claimed. He has also told me a clock was ticking, that there were more people involved than merely Alvin, and that we’re not talking a few quarters being pilfered out of weekly milk money. Any case big enough for the FBI to put a hotshot like Romo Simpson on it is a big case.
___
It is a nice day, not too hot, not too humid, so I walk over to the Mercantile Exchange located on Riverside Drive alongside the Chicago River.
There are a number of traders loitering on the outside of the building’s common area, satisfying their nicotine cravings. Smokers are the lepers of the twenty-first century.
“Market up or down today, guys?” I ask one group of three.
“What difference would it make to us?” responds the tallest guy who sucks the hardest on his Marlboro.
“Any of you ever heard of Alvin Augustus?”
“Everybody’s heard of Alvin.”
“Before or after he died?”
“Both.”
“Who do you think did him in?”
“Paper said it was accidental,” the guy in the middle says.
The tall guy lights up a second cigarette. “It coulda been that wacky kid of his.”
“The trader?”
The shortest one of the three speaks, “Not much of a trader.”
“Doesn’t have the genes?”
“Insurance guy,” I say, “I hear that Alvin figured out a way to beat the system.”
“Everybody got a way to beat the system,” the first guy says.
“By cheating?”
The three boys, as if coached by a director off stage, grind out their smokes with their shoes and bid me farewell. “We got to get back on the floor.”
“Would anybody be interested in a universal life policy?”
Not one of the three responds to my query, so I call out, “Or have any friends who need lifetime protection with a cash value for their golden years?”
The three traders disappear into the building.
There is a concrete ledge to my right, so I take a seat. On the ground is a mound of cigarette butts. This is disgusting. If it were up to me, smoking would be outlawed along with a lot of other stuff including snuff, chewing gum, and Bluetooth phones worn on your ear.
I run over everything in my head, starting with the way Alvin died, all the way up to hotshot Romo Simpson. I get a headache. I should take two aspirin and lie down, but opt for a cold beer at the Sign of the Trader.
The lunch crowd is gone. It is that two-hour window between cheeseburgers and the close of the market. The bartender pretends not to recognize me from before. “What’ll ya have?”
“I have a headache; what would you suggest?”
“Gin martini.”
“Make it a light beer.”
He draws a beer from the tap with way too much head and slides it in front of me. “Four bucks.”
I give him a five and he keeps the change. If I have the time, I will report him to the bartender’s union, if one exists.
My cell phone rings. I hate that song.
“Hello.”
“It’s Tiffany,” the voice says. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Please, do tell.”
“Where are you?”
“The Sign of the Trader.”
“That dump?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there.” The phone disconnects.
I sit. I sip.
I’m lost. I feel dumb. I’m a middle-aged guy who has nothing better to do than be in a bar in the middle of an afternoon, drinking an overpriced draft beer. All the information I’ve gathered since the death covers me like the stones covering Alvin. It is all a big jumbled mess weighing heavily on my head. What few connections there are have disconnected. There is no straight through-line anywhere in the case. What nags at me the most is the fact that I still have not met one person who cared, in the least, for poor, pitiful Alvin.
Lo and behold, Tiffany walks into the Sign of the Trader with Clayton Augustus.
“There you are,” Tiffany says coming right at me. “Mister Sherlock, you look like a real loser sitting there. My God, the least you could do is wait for happy hour.”
Tiffany turns to Clayton. “You remember, Clayton?”
Young Augustus wears a thousand-dollar suit, two-hundred-dollar tie, and a pair of dark glasses. His body language tells me he’s not happy about being here.
“You two become an item?” I ask.
Tiffany gives me her evil eye.
Clayton does not offer a hand to shake. “We have to talk; there’s a booth in the back.”
Clayton leads the way. Tiffany and I follow side by side.
“He called me about an hour ago.”
“Lucky you.”
We slide into the booth, Tiffany in the middle. Clayton is about to speak, but the idiot bartender saunters over, wiping off his hands on the bar towel wrapped around his waist.
“What’ll ya have?”
Clayton pulls out a ten-spot, hands it to the man, and says, “We want to be left alone.”
“Coming right up,” the barkeep says and walks away.
This guy makes a lot of money for not doing much.
“I know who killed my father.”
“You do?”
“Christina’s bitch.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Lizzy the Lesbian.”
“Really?”
“I thought Christina was her bitch?” Tiffany is confused.
I pull up the picture in my head of Christina weeping on the shoulder of her partner during Alvin’s funeral service. “Why her?”
“She’s the only one who could have done it.”
I repeat half of my last phrase, “Why?”
“She works for an architect. She’d be the only one who’d know how to rig the rocks, so when Dad walked by, they’d let loose and bury him.”
“Did you see her at the house, in the backyard, playing around with the rock garden?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t.”
His theory is far from fetching at this point.
“Lizzy hated the old man.”
I interrupt. “No offense, but I haven’t found too many people so far that held your father in high regard.”
“Not like her. She was trying to get Christina to sue him for insufficient support, or a spot in the company.”
Tiffany asks, “Was Lizzy the one who wore the work boots in that family?”
“The chick is a bull dyke with horns. She leads half-sister around by the short hairs.”
“There’s an image I could have done without.” Tiffany throws both hands over her eyes.
“The woman hates men and my father was at the top of her list. Her and the old man used to get into it. She was like Christina’s muscle. I wouldn’t put anything past the bitch.” Clayton sits back; he’s said what he came to say.
“Never underestimate the power of a lesbian, Mister Sherlock.”
“Thank you, Tiffany, quite well put.”
“You’re welcome.”
I wish a beer was in front of me, so I would have something to do with my hands. “Well, Clayton,” I say, “that is certainly an interesting theory you have, one I will take the time to investigate thoroughly.”
“Good.”
“And I applaud the change of heart you have had in helping with the investigation, but I have to tell you that what you’ve said presents itself more as an opinion than a theory based on actual evidence.”
“You got nothing better to go on right now, do you?”
“No.”
“Then I’d say it’s about time you got into that bitch, opened her up and see what makes her stink.”
Tiffany’s eyes go to the ceiling.
“Just so you know, Lizzy and Christina were together both the Friday night and the Saturday morning of the event.” I tell Clayton.
“She could have rigged the rocks to tumble when he walked by. Don’t put that past her.”
I face Clayton. “Did your father ever give Christina money to start a business?”
The question comes at Clayton from left field, the exact place I want it to come from.
“Not that I know of.”
“Are you sure?”
“What the hell does that have to do with Lizzy the Lezzy?”
“I don’t know. I just wondered if Alvin did for Christina what he did for you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Clayton stammers.
“Was your father an investor or a actual stockholder in your firm?”
“It’s a private corporation.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Clayton adjusts his tie. He’s stalling, so I push the envelope.
“Voting shares or common shares?”
“My father and I had an agreement,” he says. “There was an initial investment on his part, but that was the extent of it.”
“You ever pay him back?”
He hesitates. “I tried.”
Clayton is not thrilled with the direction the conversation has taken.
I press on. “I have this feeling that not only did dear old dad bankroll the start-up of your company, at times
he acted as its personal banker.”
Clayton attempts to get the bartender’s attention, but the man is busy earning his ten bucks.
“And Alvin was hardly the type of guy who would hand over that much cash, not without at least a little say-so about what’s going on.”
Clayton remains silent.
“Was he exerting a little too much authority for your taste?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “He was leading you through a steaming pile a crap, wasn’t he?”
Clayton gives up the fight. “How did you know?”
“You took the bait.” I give him a sympathetic smile.
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
“Tell me about it.”
Clayton picks at his polished nails then begins, “Initially, I needed start-up cash and I needed him behind me to make me respectable. It was the ultimate raft of shit, I had to endure.”
“Some shadows never lift.”
“He would squeeze me under his thumb, the same way he squeezed the buffalo on every nickel he ever made.”
“How many people were aware of this arrangement?”
“Two, me and him.”
“That, I surely doubt.”
Tiffany has sat watching the verbal repartee as if at center court at Wimbledon. Her neck will be sore later tonight.
“Hey,” Clayton says, “compared to Brewster I barely got a dime. He must have spent millions bailing out his trades.”
I decide to try a more nurturing tact. “There’s nothing the matter with accepting the help of your father.”
“There is if there are strings attached.”
“When it comes to money, there are always strings attached,” I pronounce.
“I never knew what he had on me until he started yanking my chain.”
“How?”
“He took access to my funds,” Clayton is embarrassed to say. “An investor with a checkbook is not a good investor.”
“Did he make a withdrawal?”
“A number of them.”
“Without asking?”
“Or telling.”
“A little difficult to run a business that way, isn’t it?”
“Quite.”
“I know how it feels,” Tiffany says. “My sister used to get into my piggy bank without asking.”
“When was that?” I ask.
