by John McEvoy
Doyle said he would if he could, “But I’m full. It was great. I’ll have to put in an extra hour in the gym tomorrow to make up for it.” Morty said, “I wouldn’t mind.” Meaux got up and went behind the counter.
“Clarence is a good guy,” Morty said appreciatively. “And you should taste some of the other stuff he makes when he’s in the mood. Not just the crawfish étouffée, like today, but things like peppered shrimp, one of the best things I’ve ever had. And he’s always got a great pot of gumbo on the simmer back there.”
Meaux had overheard Morty. Placing the étouffée in front of Morty and sitting down at the table again, he said, “Special occasions I maybe do some catfish remoulade, crawfish casserole, maybe creole chicken….”
Doyle said, “Clarence, I’ve got to get on your mailing list.”
Meaux sat back in his chair, obviously pleased. He patted his rounded, white aproned stomach. “You like all that stuff?”
“I surely do.”
“Good,” Meaux said. “I’ll let you know next time I put together a little feast down here. Course,” he added, winking at Morty but so Jack could see it, “you got to be prepared to eat, well, a lot of things. Am I right, Mr. Morty?”
Morty laughed before dipping another piece of the hot bread into his now nearly empty étouffée bowl. “Tell Jack that Cajun story you always tell people,” Morty said.
Leaning back expansively, rounded midsection straining the white apron, Meaux said, “This baby crawfish is out walkin’ with his mamma along a ditch outside New Iberia. The baby crawfish goes on ahead, but pretty quick he comes flyin’ back down the ditch to mama. She says to him, ‘What’s the matter?’ He says, ‘Look at the big thing over there!’ Mama says, ‘Don’t worry none about that, no. It’s just a cow.’
“They keep on walkin’ along that ditch, the baby crawfish up ahead again. Pretty soon, back he comes again in a big hurry. His mama says, ‘What now?’ He says, ‘Look at the big thing right there.’ His mama says, ‘That’s just a dog. He won’t hurt you none.’”
Meaux’s eyes were crinkling up as he smiled. He patted his stomach and paused, holding back a little, until Doyle said, “So?”
“So, these two move on ahead, the mama going in front for awhile. All of a sudden the mama crawfish turns around and heads back in a hurry, speedin’ right up to the baby crawfish.
“Baby crawfish, all scarified now, asks his mama’s what’s wrong. The mama crawfish says, ‘Just start runnin’. That’s one of them Cajuns up there ahead. They’ll eat anything!”
Doyle laughed and Morty did, too, although he was familiar with the story. After Clarence signaled to the dishwasher to bring over the coffee pot, Doyle said, “Clarence, I’ll bet you’ve got some good stories from your riding days down there in Louisiana.”
“Oh, yeah, but I couldn’t have you writin’ about none of the best ones, no.”
“Why not?”
Clarence said, “There was some stuff went on down there in my day, ‘specially at the little bush tracks, that you wouldn’t want to be tellin’ racing fans about.”
Doyle grinned. He said, “Like what?”
“Well, at some of them small tracks down there in those old days, everybody took their best shot most all the time. What stewards they had was either half blind or all the way asleep. Us boys’d try ‘bout anything to win a race. There’d be trainers lightin’ up their horses with coke, jocks hittin’ ’em batteries. The motto was ‘Hop ’em. Shock ’em. Bet ’em and brag on ’em.’
“Naw, Mr. Jack,” Clarence said, “no need for you to be tellin’ those old stories to anybody.” He got to his feet. “How ‘bout you fellas tryin’ some of my bread puddin’ just came out of the oven?”
Chapter 12
Illinois House Representative Lew Langmeyer (D-Palatine) closed up his cell phone when his breakfast order arrived—toasted onion bagel, cream cheese, black coffee, the same trio every time he visited Cozy Corner, the restaurant near his Main Street office. Across the table, his legislative assistant Randi Rickert picked up a spoon and began idly stirring her bowl of plain yogurt. She was very thin and intended to stay that way. “Any progress with Wilgis?” she asked, referring to Langmeyer’s fellow representative, William “Willy” Wilgis (D-Kankakee).
“Hard to tell,” Langmeyer replied. “He’s a crafty old son of a gun. Nearly thirty years in the Illinois House, and still nobody can ever confidently predict which way he’ll go on any given bill. He’s been anti-abortion, but pro gun control. For an increase in taxes for schools, against teacher evaluation. You just never know with Wilgis. But I need him to be with me on the video slots bill. He is a powerful force, particulary with his downstate colleagues. They call him Wily Willy.
“You’ll meet Wilgis later this morning,” Langmeyer added. “He’s agreed to see me at his hotel downtown. He’s in Chicago for his annual physical at University of Chicago Hospital. Wilgis is seventy-eight years old and apparently indestructible. He’s a widower and also a terrible old lecher, so keep your distance. Your dad wouldn’t even want you to be in the same building with Wilgis.”
“My guard will be up,” Randi said.
Langmeyer, a fifty-seven year old attorney, had been representing his district for sixteen years. It included several new business parks, a growing bedroom community of white collar workers who commuted to Chicago, and giant Heartland Downs Racetrack. Owners of the latter were among his major financial supporters. They were solidly behind his proposed bill to permit the installation of video slot machines at all the state’s racetracks. Horse racing in Illinois had been hard hit by competition from the state lottery and the nine privately owned riverboat casinos. This billion dollar agribusiness was under financial siege. Langmeyer’s bill was intended to help save it, not only the thousands of racetrack workers, but the many other thousands engaged in horse breeding, feeding, and housing at farms all over the Prairie State.
A first year law student at Northwestern University, Randi Rickert was interning with Rep. Langmeyer for the summer. Her father Harold and Langmeyer were partners in a small but politically connected law firm. Randi had worked for the firm in its Palatine office the three previous summers. She had decided to devote this one to learning first hand about state politics from her father’s partner and friend. Young enough to be Langmeyer’s daughter, she was smart, pretty, and ultra ambitious. As Langmeyer had confided to Harold Rickert, “Randi’s the best intern I’ve ever had. But don’t tell her that. It might give her ideas about running against me some day. I wouldn’t look forward to facing her in an election,” he said, only half-jokingly.
Randi took a sip of water before asking Langmeyer, “Tell me more about Wilgis. I know he’s a downstate farmer. About every time I’ve ever seen him on television, he starts out saying, ‘I’m just a country boy, but….’”
Langmeyer said, “He’s from the country, all right, but don’t fall for that American Gothic guise he affects. He’s played that role to perfection for years. When he first ran for office and won, he attacked the whole Springfield establishment. Voters ate it up.
“Willy’s father owned miles of good farm land near Kankakee,” Langmeyer continued. “Right after Willy got out of the Army after World War II, his father died. Willy inherited everything and proceeded to build it up further. Way up. He’s a major factor in growing Illinois corn for ethanol production.
“And,” Langmeyer said, “he’s a notorious lady’s man. His wife died many years ago. He’s never remarried, but he’s had a longtime association with his secretary. That hasn’t stopped him from sticking his snoot under many a marital tent, both in Springfield and back in Kankakee County.”
“Wasn’t he under investigation a few years back? Allegedly for taking bribes to influence legislation?”
“Yes. Both by a committee of his fellow legislators, believe it or not, and by the feds. But nothing ever came of it. Nobody had a provable case. I think it all started with a
disgruntled staffer Wilgis dismissed, a guy with a grudge but nothing else. Wilgis just made fun of the whole thing. ‘You think I’m another Paul Powell?’ he’d say. He was talking about a one-time Illinois secretary of state who kept shoe boxes full of cash in his closet, discovered after his death. Powell was the guy who used to say, when he was on the verge of something beneficial to him, ‘I can smell the meat a cookin’.’ Wilgis said one time that Powell was a ‘poor boy possibly gone wrong. On the other hand, I’m a lucky boy who grew up to do good.’ That’s been his mantra over the years. It works. Like I said, he’s been indestructible, both physically and politically.
“And,” Langmeyer said with a laugh, “he’s famous for his cornball sayings.”
Randi looked puzzled. Langmeyer said, “You know, so-called down home expressions. When he first ran for office, Willy’s campaign slogan was Run the Squirrels Out of Office—Keep the State Safe for Nuts. People down in his district loved it.”
Langmeyer reached into his briefcase and extracted an old sheet of paper that had small newspaper clippings pasted to it. He laughed as he looked at it before handing it to Randi. “Here,” he said, “these are some examples of the wit and wisdom of Willy Wilgis that I’ve collected over the years. I can’t help it, the old rascal just makes me laugh. There’s nobody like him that I know.”
Randi began reading the clips. Langmeyer had hand written above each of the quotations from Wilgis a description of their origin.
—From a campaign speech in his initial run for the State House: They’ve been sweeping so much dirt under the rug in Springfield it’d take a Swiss mountain climber to get across the room.
—On his memory not being as sharp as it had been: Your cheek is right up on the firebox door; mine has cooled off.
Even the cool, hip Randi was grinning when she came to Wilgis’ description of a triumphant foe who had managed to kill a favorite Wilgis bill: He looked as pleased as a possum sittin’ in a pan of pork chops.
Randi did have to ask Langmeyer the meaning of the word firebox.
***
Twenty-seven miles away, on the ninth floor of Chicago’s Bolden Hotel, Representative Willy Wilgis also was breakfasting. Two room service carts had been pulled up to the arm chair in which he sat, eating with methodical ferocity, while also glancing out the window at the nearby Water Tower, listening to the “Today” show on television, and admiring the impressive bust line of his longtime secretary and paramour, a fifty-two year old divorcee named Evelyn Stortz. She was examining herself in the full length mirror on the back of their suite’s walk-in closet doors.
“You get any better looking than you are,” Wilgis said, “and I won’t be able to turn my back for fear they’ll steal you away from me.” She glanced over at him, smiling. He sat with a forkful of blueberry pancake in one hand, a glass of buttermilk in the other, round shouldered, his sizeable paunch expanding his blue dress shirt under a gray wool vest, grinning back. Wilgis had a full head of white hair, a pug nose, and an undershot jaw. His stubby legs pressed against the sides of the food table as he leaned forward to fill another plate. Evelyn had long believed him to be the most attractive man she’d ever known.
“Not to worry, Willy,” she replied. “I’m your gal. Or,” she murmured to herself, “at least one of them.” Over the course of nearly a decade together, Evelyn had come to accept Willy’s roving eye and other bodily parts. She was grateful for the Springfield condo he’d bought her, the numerous gifts he’d given her, for their extensive travels together. She was philosophical about his infidelities. “Willy strays,” she told her best girlfriend, “but he always comes back bearing gifts, looking sheepish, looking lovable. There’s only one Willy Wilgis and, for the most part, he’s mine.”
Wilgis finished off his eggs Benedict, then a stack of pecan waffles. As Evelyn nibbling on a croissant, said, “What time is Representative Langeyer coming up?”
“About ten.”
“What does he want to see you about?”
Wilgis said, “That pending bill he’s so hot about. The one that’d put video slot machines at the racetracks plus a casino here in Chicago. He introduced it in the last session, but it didn’t get too far. I figured he’d introduce it again.
“He’s got some fire power this time,” Wilgis continued. “R. L. Duncan, the man who owns Heartland Downs, is strongly behind it. And he’s strongly behind Lew. The other state tracks also say they need those machines in order to compete with the casinos on what they call ‘a level playing field.’”
“What do you think?”
“You know, I voted against the casinos before they got in nine years ago. My constituents aren’t much for gambling. Hell, even our Catholic churches don’t have bingo. But,” Wilgis added, pushing the table away and standing up to his full five-foot four, “I’ll listen to Lew anyway. There’s a connection between these horse tracks and some of the breeding farms down my way. I know some of the horse people pretty good. But the bill has got too much in it as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to tell Lew there’s too many peas on that knife.
“Besides,” Wilgis grinned, “you know I like to surprise people. Keep ’em on their toes. I’m not going to commit to anything today.”
***
It was nearly noon when Langmeyer rose from his chair in Wilgis’ suite and prepared to leave. Randi got up, too, listening as her boss said, “Thanks for your time, Willy. I’m glad you heard me out about the benefits to everybody of this bill.”
Wilgis shook Langmeyer’s hand. “I’ll give it my most serious consideration,” he said, his face crinkling into the jovial politico’s mask he had perfected over the years.
The phone rang. After Evelyn answered it, she said to Wilgis, “It’s that Reverend Simpkins. The anti-gambling man.” Langmeyer’s face reddened when he heard the name. He was somewhat mollified when he heard Wilgis respond, “Evelyn, put that four flusher on hold.” Wilgis opened the door for Langmeyer and Randi, patting her fondly on the back as he did so.
In the elevator Randi said, “Well, how did you think that went?”
“As expected,” Langmeyer said. “Wilgis isn’t tipping his hand at this point. But I’m not discouraged. Non-committal is better than an outright rejection. I can understand his reservations about selling this thing to the conservative Christians down in his bailiwick. But he has on occasion gone against their grain and gotten away with it. He carries his district by a huge majority every time.”
At his suite window, Wilgis looked out appreciatively at Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile. Evelyn came to stand next to him, linking her arm in his. He said, “What a great city this is.” She nodded in agreement.
“Tell you what,” Wilgis said, “it looks like a beautiful summer day out there. How about you and I sashay down a few blocks to see an old friend of mine?”
“Who would that be?” Evelyn asked.
“Moe Kellman.”
“The furrier? Oh, I’ve heard you talk about him.”
“That’s the fellow, honey,” Wilgis said, giving her a squeeze. “Winter will be here before we know it. Let’s go see about a new fur coat for you.”
Chapter 13
It took them less than nineteen hours to lose nearly all their racetrack haul.
Bursting with the feeling of power their heist gave them, Lucarelli and Shannon had driven into the Loop to a Wabash Avenue steak house and proceeded to feast: jumbo shrimp cocktails, New York strips, baked potatoes, creamed spinach, two baskets of rolls, all washed down with three bottles of expensive Cristal champagne. “Just like those NBA guys,” Shannon gloated, “and those rap assholes. This is what they drink. It’s all right with me, man.”
They finished their desserts just before midnight. Lucarelli said, “Whadda you say we hit the boats?”
Shannon leaned back in his chair and burped loudly. He’d just paid the largest restaurant bill he’d ever seen, adding a huge tip that had their astounded wait
ress suddenly beaming after two hours of semi-sullen serving. He said, “Sure. Let’s do it.”
At the intersection of State and Congress, Lucarelli waited impatiently at a red light. He opened his window and unleashed a huge gob of spit that splattered off the passenger side window of the black Lexus next to him. The driver of the Lexus looked at the trickling liquid, then at Lucarelli, with disbelief. He started to roll down the marred window but thought better of it after Lucarelli shot him a menacing look. The light changed and Lucarelli hit the accelerator. Shannon gleefully pounded the dash board as they sped away.
Less than twenty-five minutes later, first driving on the Dan Ryan Expressway, then the Skyway, they reached the massive Horseshoe Casino right across the state line in Hammond, Indiana. The two men had made this trip many times in the past, almost invariably leaving behind most of the money they’d brought, just as they did on their annual January trips to Las Vegas, visits marked by multi-day debauchery involving booze, grass, and hookers, with numerous hours of gambling interspersed. Aiden’s mother Bridgett, well aware of her son’s earmarking “three grand for Vegas,” which he usually came home without, once said to him, “You work hard on construction for your money, when you’re working. Why don’t you just mail the cash out to Nevada and save your air fare?”
“You don’t get it, Ma,” Aiden had replied, relishing the thought of Vegas’ well advertised promise, “What happens here, stays here.”
After lighting up jumbo cigars, Shannon and Lucarelli elbowed their way to one of the Horseshoe’s blackjack tables with a $10 minimum. In the car, on the way there, Shannon had said, “Let me do the blackjack. That’s my game. Whatever we win over here, we’ll split.”