Chi-Town Blues

by D. J. Herda

  Peeps shook his head.

  "He stopped short of admitting that those 'bad business deals' had been engineered by Sandalman's own son to drive us out of business. And, of course, the Old Man was all too anxious to help sonny out."

  "Yeah, I see what you mean. That's pretty shabby, all right. But at least you still had that twenty grand of stuff they delivered. I assume you used it eventually.”

  Hightower shook his head.

  “Didn't you?"

  "That's the real kicker," the contractor said. "Before we could get there to close the place in and lock the stuff up, someone drove a truck out one night and stole everything. I mean everything. I think they left the carpeting. Probably didn't want to hassle with it because the rolls are so bulky, I don't know. But twenty grand out the window. Just like that." He snapped his fingers.

  Peeps shook his head. "I hope you were insured."

  "We were, and so were the owners of the home. But when we went to put in a claim, the Hartford agent handling it said that he'd made a mistake and that he had failed to sell them theft insurance, even though he had sworn to us all along—and to our clients—that we had the most complete coverage we could possibly get. Turns out he was related to Sandalman somehow. An uncle or something. Big surprise in this town."

  "Man," Peeps said, staring down at the wine as he swirled it in his glass. Hightower thought the guy's eyes were beginning to glaze ... but, hey, after all, it was a party. Probably he shouldn't even have brought it up, anyhow. But meeting him that way seemed pre-ordained. After all, Peeps was the investigator for the D.A.'s office, the fellow he would have ended up talking to on Monday morning, anyway. And he was willing to listen. Hightower always said that, whenever fate turns your way, you'd damned well better not get caught napping.

  "You've had a run of bad luck since you moved here, that’s for sure,” Peeps added. “When did you say that was? I mean that you came to town and hung out your shingle?"

  "Two years ago. And I doubt that luck has anything to do with it. This town ... the people ..." He shook his head. "I've never seen a more immoral, a more corrupt bunch of clowns in my life. Even the police. When we reported the tools missing to that jackass detective they have down there, you know what he said? 'Don't count on getting any of them back.'"

  Peeps shook his head and took a deep swig from his glass before shifting his weight back into the sofa.

  Hightower continued: "Gives you a nice, warm, welcome feeling inside, you know? And when we reported that six-thousand-dollar roofing theft, the same cop said, 'Don't you think it's strange that you're the only business in town getting ripped off?' Can you believe it? I was so pissed, I could have strangled him."

  Peeps raised his brows. "Now that's illegal."

  Hightower smiled.

  "One thing I don't understand," Peeps said. Why would Trinidale Builders Supply want you out of business? Seems to me like they'd make more money off you if you stuck around. After all, you’re a contractor, and they sell construction materials to contractors."

  Hightower popped a stuffed mushroom into his mouth, swallowed, and washed it down with a short swig of wine. "That’s the deviousness of it all. He wanted us gone because we opened up a showroom on Main Street a few months ago. That upped the ante. All of a sudden, we're no longer just another builder in town. Now we're another builder and a materials' supplier, just like Trinidale Builders Supply. We handle everything from windows and doors to countertops, sinks and tubs, electrical fixtures, flooring, roofing. We sell wholesale to our clients. I couldn’t believe when I saw Sandalman’s prices how badly they were ripping this town off. Some markups more than a hundred percent. That’s when I decided to step in and offer folks an alternative. We're biting into the profits of Builders Supply big time. And Sandalman, I'm sure, doesn't like that one bit."

  Peeps shrugged. "I've seen him do some weird shit in this town, no doubt about it. He's one ballsy Mo-Fo.”

  "Yeah, well, weird isn't quite the word I'd use," Hightower said. "If this kind of thing keeps going on, we're going to be out of business. We're going to have to shut down. And I don't think that's something most of the people in this town want to see happen."

  "No," Peeps said absently. "No, of course not."

  Carrie stretched her arms slowly across the island countertop until she caught Hightower's eye. She was wearing a tight-fitting sundress, an impish smile, and little else. Hightower noticed that Peeps had gotten a good look, too, as the woman’s breasts swung free beneath the thin cotton chintz, two mature pears dangling invitingly from the Tree of Life. Peeps cleared his throat.

  "Hey, come on, you two," Carrie said. "I didn't invite you and Willie here to talk shop. This is a party, remember? Your glasses are empty. Saddle up to the bar, boys. What'll it be?"

  Hightower smiled. He liked Carrie. Hell, why not? She had moved to the southern Chicago suburb of Trinidale from Denver with her husband, Dom. They rented a patio apartment right across the courtyard from his. They soon became good friends—although Dom was something of a jerk, always wearing a shit-eating grin designed to hide the fact that he was constantly running away from something, always self-conscious, the class nerd, yet all the while strutting around to make you believe he was the master of his every emotion. Hightower never really understood what Carrie saw in him, except that it was a second marriage for them both, and sometimes when you marry on the rebound, shit happens.

  Other things, too, had happened once the Potashes moved to Trinidale. In the eight months that they'd lived there, Carrie, Dom, and Hightower had enjoyed dinner together several times, mostly on the patio but sometimes at their place, indoors, and they'd even done a little reckless, if harmless, imbibing from time to time. Carrie, especially, seemed to relish letting go, giving up her inhibitions—what few there were. Now, Hightower found himself remodeling an old, abandoned building for them, turning it into six condos—one for the Potashes, one for Carrie's buxom, 24-year-old daughter, and four more to rent out at a tidy little monthly profit down the road.

  Hightower handed over his glass. "Sounds like a plan,” he told the hostess. She quickly filled his glass with a toasty little Bordeaux she'd picked up at the market earlier.

  "And, you, Willie," Carrie said to Peeps as he held out his glass for a topper, "quit monopolizing the best-looking man at the party ... and our general contractor. I want you both to mingle." She turned to Stan Omado. "Stan," she called, waving her hand in the air like a cowgirl about to lasso an errant steer, "come on over here, will you? Save this party. And Christie, you, too. I want you to meet our general contractor, Darryl Hightower."

  Hightower liked Omado. He was crude, boorish, overweight, and in his seventies, although you'd never know it. He ran the other lumberyard in town, the one Hightower had given most of his business to since falling out with Sandalman’s Builders Supply.

  Omado ran his business the way the old man’s father had done fifty years before him. Along with three of his brothers, a nephew, and a niece, it was a real family operation, with Omado heading the clan. Hightower had even heard that the guy was a made man. A Mafioso with ties going right back to Sicily, and he believed it. But Omado never tried to muscle him. In fact, the guy seemed to take to Hightower like a father to a son. The fact that Omado allegedly hated the Sandalmans and Builders Supply didn't hurt any, either.

  "Hey, youngster," Omado said, holding out a thick, meaty paw. He clenched Hightower's hand, held it warmly, affectionately, squeezing his palm while grabbing his arm with his free hand. Whenever he spoke, he looked directly into Hightower's eyes, and Darryl could see in his every gesture, every glance, the posture of power. Mafia-style. "How ya been? Haven't seen you around for a few days. Are you keepin' busy?"

  "You oughta know, you robber baron. We've been buying all of our lumber from you for the past six months. I think we've been keeping your whole damned family alive!"

  "Yeah? That so? Why? You give up on Builders Supply? You on the outs with Sandalman?"
/>
  "Oh, no," Hightower winced. "Not me. Not with Sandalman."

  Stan chuckled, made more small talk, settled his large Italian frame into a small teak bar chair and spilled out what was on his mind.

  "Youngster, you're good for this town. I'm glad you moved here.” Hightower raised his brows. “No, I mean it. I really am. We've needed new blood in this town for the past thirty years ... talented blood. Oh, I've seen some good people come and go. But none of them had what it takes. None of them was ready to, you know, stick it out." He grinned. “Invest in their futures here.”

  Hightower grinned back. "You're just happy to have someone else in town who likes opera. Don't give me that crap. I'm wise to you."

  The Sicilians—they all had a love for opera. It was a real greaseball thing. They had it in their blood, their Sicilian heritage. In Italy, you go to the opera to show others how much breeding, how much taste you have—how much better, well rounded, and well trained you are than they. And Stan Omado ate it up. He had at first seemed surprised that someone so young would know the librettos from Don Giovanni and Falstaff by heart. Hightower played on that common bond. Darryl had grown up under the wing of an Italian family on the Great South Side of Chicago, after all, and knew what made a good Dago tick, another reason he got along so well with the head of Trinidale’s Omado clan.

  But it wasn't until Christie came over and introduced herself, took Hightower's hand, her massive swollen breasts straining beneath the light cotton blouse she wore over Bermuda shorts—her tanned, full legs and strong, firm thighs standing in marked contrast to the pure white of her face—it wasn't until then that Hightower felt himself spring to life. It was suddenly beginning to look like one helluva party.

  "You know," Christie said after hearing Hightower's recount of his problems with the Sandalmans and Trinidale Builders Supply, "we ought to do something about it. It's just not fair that Darryl is being singled out, targeted like that by some low-lifes who just happen to have all the power in town."

  Carrie shook her head. "Absolutely. It's abhora ... abhora ... you know that word."

  "Abhorrent," Christie said.

  Carrie nodded, convinced she’d never be able to repeat it. "That's the one!"

  Carrie's husband sneaked in behind his wife, craning his neck over her outstretched back to see into the living area, his bulbous eyes glowing thicker by the moment. "What's the one?" He turned to his wife.

  "I think it's time to get rid of the Sandalmans once and for all," Christie said. "Either that or make them reimburse Darryl for everything they've put him through. For all of his losses."

  Hightower smiled, the faintest trace of a buzz unraveling inside his brain. "Hey, I appreciate it, believe me, but I'm going to talk to the D.A. on Monday. Or Peeps, here, will." He nodded to the investigator, who was still mesmerized by Christie's architecture. "Besides, I thought Stan had all the power in this town."

  Carrie bowed down, extending her folded hands up and over her head. "You’re right. Forgive us, Stan. Darryl’s right. Compared to Stan the Man, here, the Sandalmans are rank amateurs."

  "Very rank," Dom Potash added.

  Omado stood up slowly and leaned his weight forward, his large gut swaggering before him. He started to speak, took a sip of wine instead, and then he sat back down.

  Hightower laughed suddenly. "What was that all about?"

  Omado's thick brows shot up, and his eyes widened. "What? Oh, that?" He looked to Carrie, then to her daughter, and then he returned his gaze to Hightower. "I was going to say something, but you don't need an old guy like me giving you advice."

  "That's exactly what he needs," Carrie said. "If you have an idea, let's hear it." Hightower thought he detected a tinge of slurring unfolding in Carrie's words and looked from her to Peeps, whose head was drooping against his chest, his glass sandwiched between a bulbous belly and two thick, meaty hands.

  "Hey, Stan. You know the Sandalmans better than I do. You grew up in this town with them. If you have some advice, I'm all ears," Hightower said. “Lay it out!”

  Omado waved him off. Paused. Squinted. "Well, if you're sure ..."

  Hightower nodded. "I’m sure. I want to hear it. It may be of some help."

  Omado turned from him to Carrie, then to Potash and Christie before finally glancing down at his shoes—white buck leather slip-ons with ornate gold buckles. He shifted one foot slightly. Hightower hadn't seen shoes like those since The Godfather.

  Part II!

  "It's obvious that the Sandalmans want Darryl, here, out of business. Hell, I'd want him out of business, too, if I were as greedy as they are. I know. Old Man Sandalman and I go back a long ways. I've known him since grade school if you can believe it. And I disliked him as much then as I do now."

  "Yeah, but it’s his son who's calling the shots," Christie said. "He's running Builders Supply now. His dad is retired."

  Omado cleared his throat. "That's true. But I guarantee you, the Old Man still has his hand in the business. And what this youngster here says is true. He didn't get his loan from the bank because of Old Man Sandalman. That was how all his problems started."

  Hightower's ears perked up. "You know that for a fact? How?"

  Omado held out his glass, and Carrie filled it nearly to the top, motioning for Hightower to pass his over. "Well, let's just say there's not much that goes on in this town that I don't know about. Let's just say a little birdie told me."

  Carrie handed Hightower his wine and grabbed Peeps by the shoulder.

  "What?" Peeps snapped. "Oh ... sorry. I must have ... it's been a long week, and the wine ..."

  "Pay attention, Willie. Stan has a plan to help Darryl out with the Sandalmans. Listen."

  "Well," Omado continued, "it's just what everyone says. You have to fight fire with fire. The Sandalmans are playing dirty. They're underhanded and mean. So you've got to get down to their level. Give them a dose of their own medicine. Make them realize you're not going to go away. Let them know they can't intimidate you."

  Hightower shrugged. "I wouldn't call it intimidation. I'd call it ... desperation and being scared to death."

  "What's your cash flow like?"

  Hightower paused. Everybody paused. Even Peeps appeared to perk up suddenly, straining to hear.

  "Well," the contractor said, his mind whirring, "I'll tell you one thing. As God is my witness, I'm not as rich as you."

  The room burst into laughter.

  "No one is as rich as Stan," Carrie said. "Rumor has it that whenever God runs short of cash, he looks up Omado. Of course, He doesn't like the interest rates ..."

  Omado chuckled before sipping from his glass and continuing. "Okay, so let's just say you're strapped for cash."

  Hightower nodded.

  "Say, Stan," Potash said. "I've got an idea. Why don't you lend Darryl some money. After all, if he goes out of business, our condos go down with him. And you lose the lumber sales."

  "Hey, Dom,” Hightower said, “if Illinois Custom Design goes out of business, your condos will still get finished. Someone else will step in and take over. I’ll see to that.”

  Dom held out his hand, relief washing his face.

  Carrie grabbed his arm. "We don't want anyone else to take over. We want you. We want the best." She turned to Omado. "Come on, Stan. What's on your mind?"

  "Well, I could always lend the youngster some money, that’s true. But that wouldn't solve the problem here. The Sandalmans would continue hounding Darryl until he eventually had to call it quits. Believe me. I know these people. They're rotten. They're just bad folks."

  "So?" Hightower asked.

  "So," Omado continued, "here's the plan. You and Willie, here, work up a case. Go over everything the Sandalmans have pulled, every stunt. Write down all the financial damage they've caused you. Document the thefts, list the items stolen, everything. Then get together with the D.A. and bring the Sandalmans up for charges. File a complaint and get them in court."

  "Court? What goo
d would that do? They'd just deny it," Christie said. “They always just deny everything.”

  "That's right." Carrie drained her glass and set it on the counter for Dom to refill. "Besides, these people own the courts in this town. You know that. Everybody does."

  "That may be true," Omado said. "But if we work up a strong enough case and file criminal charges—I'm not talking about some piddly little civil stuff, but actual criminal charges—there's not a jury in the world that wouldn't nail the coffin closed on the Sandalmans and their dirty business practices once and for all."

  Peeps shook his head. "I don't know. This all sounds like a civil matter to me, and that means a quick trip before the judge and just as quick a dismissal."

  "Wait a minute," Hightower said. "Isn't it criminal to conspire to put someone out of business?"

  Peeps shook his head. "Sure. But we'd need proof."

  "Well, what about that twenty-two grand worth of stuff Sandalman had delivered to the job site without me ordering it? What about their billing us for that?"

  Peeps' eyes widened, and he cocked his head as he glanced at Omado. Hightower went on.

  "And how about the insurance thing? Refusing to cover our losses? And the bank loan? And the heating contractor who ripped us off? He once told me that Scott Sandalman was his best friend. Don't tell me that's not collusion."

  "Now you're talking," Omado said.

  Peeps rubbed his stubbled chin. "We'd need a plan. We'd need to know exactly what to put into the complaint and then be able to back it up in court. We'd need documentation. And witnesses."

  "Wait a minute," Potash said, his eyes suddenly sparkling with excitement.

  Carrie squinted back over her shoulder. "What’s going on in that devious little brain of yours, darling?"

  "Wait just one minute. Hell, we've got the D.A.'s investigator right here. We've got Darryl. We've got Stan. He knows as much about the Sandalmans as anyone alive. And Christie's in law school; she could help us out from a legal angle. Why not do it? Why not go through a ... a ..." He paused, searching for just the right word. "A rehearsal? Yeah. Why don't we see right here and now whether or not we have enough evidence to build a criminal case against Sandalman? Why don't we lay it all out and see if it floats?"