Windy City Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

The kid stopped in his tracks and looked at me.

  “I’m just messing with you,” I said.

  He smiled and gestured with his middle finger.

  The receptionist smiled warmly as he approached. She started to say something but stopped when he strolled past. She and I watched him turn down the hallway. The elevator dinged and out walked a security guard. Miss Receptionist had me in her sights.

  “Can I help you with something, sir?” he asked me.

  “I was just leaving.”

  —

  At the newsstand opposite the bank of elevators, I ate a giant soft pretzel, unsure what I waited for. Perhaps Package Man had useful information. Young Businessman, too, might have something to share. The smart-ass little bastard reminded me of myself. The name “Vector Solutions, Inc.” reeked like bullshit. Solutions for the trajectory of money. The direction cash traveled from one pocket to another.

  As the lunch hour approached, elevator activity increased, and the hallway became a frenetic flow of hungry professionals. Standing on the bank of this human river, the chances of seeing either of my new acquaintances seemed unlikely. Two more pretzels and Catnip magazine helped me kill another hour while sitting on a marble bench in the lobby near the newsstand. The thought of squandered time weighed on me. Day seven of my investigation and too many unanswered questions. Would finding Jack’s killer offer comfort to Tamar?

  Maybe Elon’s family had an ancient hatred of Georgians and had settled an old score. Maybe Konigson used the emasculated article to blackmail Elon. So much yellow space between squares, so many idiotic scenarios to consider. Then I saw Young Businessman nearby paging through the magazine Capital Growth. Opportunity was knocking.

  “You always give the finger to strangers?” I said.

  He glanced at me and then back to the magazine. “You in the habit of giving strangers unsolicited advice on their mental state?”

  “I wanted to cheer you up.”

  “Who decided I needed cheering up? I’m not surprised by that welt, dude. Hang around men’s bathrooms enough and that’s bound to happen. In fact, if you’re looking to pick up a young piece of ass, I suggest you piss off now because I won’t hesitate to smash your other eye.”

  I stepped back. “All right, already. I was trying to talk to someone and the receptionist had just tossed me out—”

  “And you thought I could get you back in?”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “What’d you think of the receptionist?”

  “Think? As in—”

  “You think she’s hot?” He tucked the magazine under his arm and waited for my response.

  “A little old for me and not my type.”

  “I banged her. Many times. In the ass. She loves it.”

  I remembered how she smiled at him. The image sickened me. I said, “That’s nice, kid.”

  “At what age are you allowed to call someone else ‘kid’? I’m twenty-three and you don’t look a hell of a lot older than me, pops.”

  “Dude, you, like, so busted me! Do you, like, work for those Vector guys?”

  “You sound like an idiot. And I’m an unpaid intern. MBA requirement. Like doing things for free will help you make money later on. I suppose it does.”

  “University of Chicago?”

  “Northwestern.”

  “Top of your class?”

  “Not even close.”

  “What kind of work they have you doing?”

  “I’m an errand boy—”

  “Sent by grocery clerks to collect the bill. Yeah, I saw the movie.” He had the arrogant odor of a future billionaire. “I’m looking for Elon.”

  “Try looking across the street in Revenue.”

  “Of course! Hey, what does Vector Solutions do?”

  “Consult on transportation issues.”

  “That would include parking?”

  “Oh, yeah!” The kid’s knowing smile provoked an unexpected laugh.

  “Hey, whose office has the two bodyguards?”

  “There’s another bodyguard inside the office. They belong to Konigson.”

  This time my surprised expression evoked laughter from Young Businessman, which then inspired a loud display of mirth from both of us.

  “You got a laptop in that bag?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you let me use it.”

  “Are you stupid? You can go to the library and use one for free.”

  “I’m not at the library and I’d rather pay an unpaid intern.”

  Young Businessman stared at me a moment and then took out his computer. I placed it on the counter of the newsstand, typed “Illinois Secretary of State,” and searched the corporation/LLC database while he watched.

  “Decatur-Staley,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “Vector Solutions is a subsidiary of Decatur-Staley. That’s what you’re looking for, right?”

  I jammed a fifty into the kid’s jacket pocket and said, “Do you even know who Konigson is?”

  “A billionaire.”

  “He runs a media empire that includes the Republic newspaper.”

  “He’s rich as hell. That’s all that matters. And I have no use for newspapers. Their days are numbered anyway. As a business model, I mean. They’re finished. A niche market at best.”

  “How do you stay informed?”

  He looked as if I’d spoken Hindi. “Informed about what?”

  “About what’s going on in the world.”

  “What do I care? I’ll get my MBA, maybe work for someone else awhile, and then I’ll make my own fortune. What happens in the world is out of my control.”

  I waited for more. He took out a smartphone and started reading something. I said, “A guy with a package entered that office a few minutes before you arrived. What do you think was in the package?”

  “Ask the guy when he gets here.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Something he read angered him. He swore and then said, “What do you think was in the package?”

  “Department of Revenue cash.”

  He nodded while keeping his nose in his phone. “Sounds like a good guess.”

  “Learning a lot from this internship? Besides sending American jobs to countries that pay a slave wage?”

  “Dude, I know you’re a Fed. There’s no law says you can’t carry a pile of cash across the street in a package.”

  “How do you get an internship like this?”

  “You know somebody—duh!”

  “I bet you rank number one in your class for cockiest little shit.”

  Young Businessman shoved the phone in his pocket and faced me. His eyes then focused over my shoulder. I turned and saw Package Courier standing with Rich Jones, of all people.

  “I’ll say hi to my mom for you,” Young Businessman said as he walked away. A second later he turned and yelled, “The receptionist. That’s my mom. I was just kidding about bangin’ her.”

  What a cretin. I positioned myself near the exit and snapped a picture of Jones and friends. When Jones caught my eye, I waved and yelled his name. His look of terror was something out of a campy horror flick. He pushed his way through the crowded lobby and out the revolving door, disappearing down the street.

  28

  As I took the staircase up to my office, I saw the black wingtips first, then the tapered cuffs, and finally Palmer seated on a torn vinyl stair cover under the sickly glow of a ceiling fixture full of dead moths.

  “My god, what happened to your eye?”

  “Had you called, I would’ve suggested meeting somewhere.”

  Palmer looked around and said, “This is fine. It’s actually quite peaceful sitting up here by myself.” I think he meant it.

  “Are you still taking the El train around town?” I said while searching for the key.

  “Yes! It’s opened up a whole new world for me.”

  “The world of t
he hoi polloi.”

  Palmer laughed. “You often see the same faces on the same trains, depending on the time of day. I imagine many relationships are cultivated while riding the subway.” I had just put the key in the lock when he added, “Good thing I’m not paranoid, otherwise I might think someone was following me.”

  I turned around. “You think someone’s following you?”

  “No, no, no,” he said then laughed again and gestured for me to carry on opening the door. Inside my office Palmer took the club chair opposite my desk. “It’s been two days, Jules. Judging by your eye, I would guess much needs to be discussed.”

  “Wil, I’m going to act a little corny and tell you I don’t want to discuss my eye. Let’s change the subject. It seems that Windy City Meters LLC is run on the franchise business model. As if each district were a separate entity.”

  “That makes sense from a tax standpoint.”

  “Konigson has an office across the street from the Department of Revenue called Vector Solutions, Inc.” Palmer laughed at the name. I described the delivery of the Bankroll Warranty cash to the office and told him Vector Solutions, Inc., was a subsidiary of the investment house Decatur-Staley. “The same company that bought Windy City Meters from Konigson.”

  Palmer nodded but appeared unimpressed with my findings. “Yes, last time we spoke you were curious why someone who needed cash flow would sell a profitable company.”

  I stopped him. “Keep it simple, Wil, or you’ll lose me.”

  “I shall endeavor. Konigson and his unknown backers borrowed an enormous sum to buy Windy City. In these scenarios, one typically assigns the debt to the company just acquired, makes the necessary cuts to capital and labor, and then sells the leaner company for enough to cover the rest of his debt and make a tidy profit.”

  “But Windy City’s debt was too large,” I said.

  “Or its value had been grossly overestimated.”

  “So Konigson is bleeding red ink out the ass and then Decatur-Staley, that venerable institution where Elon and Konigson forged their friendship, comes to the rescue.”

  Palmer smiled. “Where they forged their friendship and where Elon still sits on the board.”

  On my flow chart, I drew a line from Konigson to Elon and marveled at how quickly I had covered the four inches of yellow space. I said, “I couldn’t find much on the net about these guys. It was like their lives had been expunged.”

  “People like Konigson know how to manipulate media. You show enough money, the masters of the Internet will get you erased off the Web. There’s a good chance someone looking for you won’t bother to do the necessary legwork, like in the old days.”

  Utilizing the Republic archives, Palmer had discovered how Elon and Konigson worked closely together at Decatur-Staley selling financial products to high-net-worth investors and learning the art of raising capital to acquire companies.

  “Ultimately,” Palmer said, “they’re both great salesmen. They know how to gain an individual’s trust. And once you do that, they gladly hand over money—even if they don’t understand what you’re doing with it.”

  “Wil, you gave me some great info.”

  Palmer smiled and jumped back into the story of how Elon and Konigson started many types of businesses and investment schemes until they parted ways and continued creating wealth separately. At some point, Elon became interested in city politics while Konigson built a media empire.

  “Most people don’t fully understand the influence of men like Konigson,” he said. “Supposedly, it was Konigson’s money directed at a few senators that finally got a certain piece of FCC deregulation passed. Now one company can own as many radio stations as it wants.”

  A direct human link from Konigson to a murdered parking officer obscured the significance of FCC deregulation.

  “It’s a shame,” Palmer said. “The more concentrated the media ownership, the less free is our society. But tell me what you have discovered.”

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Wil, but it’s probably best that you don’t know all the details.”

  He looked at my eye. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  Silence, until I said, “But the information you’re providing is invaluable. I mean, to Konigson and Elon, money circulates as their lifeblood. So if they’re involved in murder, the motive most likely was money.”

  “Konigson’s money, I’ll wager. If we put the financial puzzle together, the motivations will be obvious.”

  “Elon and Konigson cut a deal.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So in exchange for arranging a bailout of his debt-ridden pal Konigson, Elon gets kickbacks, not to mention a chunk of the eleven-billion-dollar profit D-S made when they sold their interest in Windy City Meters LLC. But what could the cash in the package represent? Seems like that money is moving in the wrong direction.”

  Palmer thought about it. “My guess would be money for an operating account.”

  “A slush fund! To pass cash to lazy cops about to retire. The cash that greases the wheels that make Chicago ‘The City That Works.’ ”

  In a city famous for its machine politics, the analogy of money and grease had no equal, but we laughed at the timeworn reference as if hearing it for the first time.

  29

  On the way home, I called in an order to Tasty Harmony, then relaxed on my recliner while eating a rice-bean-soy burger. Punim sat on my lap, her eyelids heavy from having just devoured two chicken livers.

  Elon and Konigson had put together a private-public apparatus where cash flowed simultaneously in all directions. Somewhere in the process the machine spit out a dead parking officer. Rich Jones worked under Elon and with Gelashvili. I assumed his reaction when he saw me in the lobby confirmed his involvement in this mess. But what about his strange confession of having started a deadly rumor?

  Beethoven interrupted, followed by Tamar’s voice. “I’m not comfortable with how we left things.” In the background, the murmur of the bakery.

  “Me, either.”

  “Want to come over later for dessert? About eight?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Seeing Tamar again pleased me but the thought of going to that grim apartment with the candles, old lady, and weird chanting creeped me out a bit. The things we do for love.

  Reading closely some of the blogs discussing Konigson and Elon, I was assaulted by the anti-government theme of libertarianism. Also linked to this dogma was a Madame Zinoyevich, a novelist turned philosopher who preached finding freedom in the pursuit of self-interests. Apparently her best-known work, The Integrity of Egotism, was the capitalist bible of her followers. In the late 1950s, Konigson met Zinoyevich, who was so impressed with the young plutocrat that he became part of her inner circle. Konigson credited Madame Zinoyevich’s influence with leading him to his early fortune in real estate. Later, he would credit Zinoyevich for his success guiding a young Elon down the same road.

  I checked out a few more links discussing Zinoyevich. She saw the “perfect human” as one attaining complete separation from the constraints of society. The world does not exist for this human nor does this human think the world should exist. Therefore, any action is justified since this human cares not the least for anything society cherishes. She actually found her living embodiment of this perfect human in a man who murdered and dismembered a twelve-year-old girl in 1927. I had no doubt Elon, with a guru who idolized psychopathic murderers, and Konigson were involved in Gelashvili’s death.

  The phone interrupted. “Yeah, Julie, it’s me.”

  Once again, it took a few moments for me to reconcile Frownie’s robust voice, which only yesterday sounded as if it was knocking on death’s door.

  “Frownie?”

  “What’s going on, kiddo? You talk to them ticket-writin’ stooges? The ones givin’ fake tickets to the nut job?”

  “I talked to a couple of them. But I don’t know who wrote what.”

  “That newspaper editor—?” />
  “Safe as kittens.”

  Frownie didn’t respond, and I thought maybe I’d been hallucinating the conversation. Then he said, “I been thinkin’ about your family.”

  “And?”

  “Well, ya know, they were just doin’ the best they could. Your old man especially. He went into the rag business to make an honest livin’. The bookmakin’ and the numbers, that wasn’t what he wanted.”

  “He told me all those little towns downstate were already doing it.”

  “Absolutely they was! Your old man just showed ’em how to do it better!”

  “He must’ve made good money. We lived in the North Shore, remember?”

  “He made some dough on the coats, too. But you know they liked him, your old man. The little stores sellin’ the ladies’ things. He showed ’em how to have fun. He should’ve stopped with the whores, though. I remember tellin’ him nobody cared about a little gamblin’ but you start bringin’ in them whores to those little towns and people are gonna notice.”

  “You can have fun, but not too much fun.”

  Frownie laughed. “That’s right! It’s like gettin’ greedy. He shoulda been satisfied with makin’ a few bucks on the gamblin’ and let it go at that. He wasn’t no pimp, though. Those gals made a lot of cash. Your dad, a few bucks, that’s all.”

  “Why are you bringing this up?”

  “They did the best they could. Your dad, his father, and his father. You do what you’re good at in these circumstances. Sometimes it ain’t somethin’ you want to brag about, but it ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, neither. Don’t be ashamed of where you come from, Julie.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  “Your old man is proud of you. I know it don’t always look like it, but he is. Even the murder investigatin’. Deep down I think he’s proud of your courage. He just worries, that’s all.”

  “He helped me with Snooky’s murder.”

  “Damn right he did! He would do anything for you. He missed out on a lot because of prison. That’s where he screwed up, but don’t hold on to anger because of that….”

  Frownie rambled on about the importance of family and not to follow his example by staying a bachelor. Somehow he transitioned to tell me for the thousandth time the story of his first girlfriend and how he copped her bare breast in the rumble seat of a 1933 Lincoln KB Convertible Coupe, a model now included in his car collection. Next came the story of falling off his bicycle and having an old man ask if he was hurt. The old man was John D. Rockefeller, the story went, and he gave Frownie a dime. Then a reminiscence of all the different mentors he’d had in life and that he could have done anything he wanted but for some goddamn reason he chose investigations.