“Come on, Diandra,” Poe said a little tersely.
“I’ll just wait here. I want to watch the sky.”
“Come on, I said!”
She rose, responding professionally, a model going to work.
What Poe had to show them was an outrageously immense amount of square footage for a city residence, extraordinary views of the city, and a lot of hard work by an expensive interior decorator with a flair for modern excess. He or she had probably done a few Los Angeles luxury hotels as well.
Poe conducted the tour much like an English nobleman wandering among ancient family heirlooms, though Poe likely had not owned the pieces he picked up and discussed for very long.
The paintings were much what Matthias had expected—contemporary works, mostly, some quite expensive. What nineteenth-century pieces there were tended to be flowers or still lifes. Hidden away in back corners or little-used rooms were a few that surprised Matthias. Some paintings from the early twentieth-century “ashcan school;” a Joseph Stella art deco pastel of New York harbor. Matthias wondered if Mrs. Poe had had anything to do with its acquisition.
He contributed little to the conversation, but did bring up the visit he’d been paid by the policeman from Michigan; and the extraordinary occurrence of a copy of one of his grandfather’s paintings turning up in a murder across the lake.
“I’m sure it was done long ago. My grandfather used to give a lot of young artists access to his collection in the early days. He wanted American art of the future to have a German influence—thought there was too much French and English.”
“Somebody got murdered over it, the painting?” Poe asked. He seemed fascinated.
“I’m not sure about that. But there was a murder.”
“And it’s a copy? Not an original?”
“Had to be. As I said, we went to my grandfather’s museum. The original was still in the vault.”
“That would be interesting to see. Do you still have the copy, so you can study them together?”
“Oh, no. He took it back with him. I just dropped him at the Days Inn over there.”
Poe nodded, then moved on to another painting. Matthias was startled to see it was one by his brother—a rendering of the Chicago skyline at dusk as seen from the lake, the crimson-topped pinnacle of Poe’s building prominent in the center.
“Your brother Christian did this for me.”
“I hope it wasn’t settlement of a gambling debt.”
“Oh, no. I paid top dollar. I thought I’d get my money back, though. Christian’s a pretty good customer of ours out in Michigan City. But he’s done well at the tables. ‘Mr. Lucky.’”
“He’s done a lot better than anyone would expect.”
“Nice guy, your brother.”
Without returning to the terrace and their drinks, they went directly into dinner. The table was comparatively small. Matthias guessed that when the Poes threw dinner parties, they were usually very large, with many tables like this set up in many rooms.
“Diandra,” Poe said, as they were served the first course—a light vichyssoise. “Did Bill Yeats call this afternoon?”
“I never answer your private phone, Peter. He didn’t call the main number.”
“He’s buying me a sailboat,” Poe said. “I was hoping to get a progress report before I talked to you, Mr. Curland. Excuse me, while I see if I can find out how he’s doing.”
As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Poe turned the conversation back to art.
“Mr. Curland,” she said, her voice so cool and soft and sensual and directed totally at Matthias one might have thought Sally was no longer there. “Do you think this apartment could use a Dubuffet?”
As a matter of fact, he did—a great grinning, mocking skull-face, hung just at the entrance by the elevators, reminding the worthies who passed of their mortality.
“I don’t suppose it would go with the decor.”
“I suppose it would depend on your mood. Sometimes, when I’m here alone, I’m in a mood for a Dubuffet.”
Returning, Poe seemed almost ebullient. He said his Mr. Yeats had located a perfect boat up at Traverse City, and would have photographs and specifications delivered in the morning. From that point on, the talk was exclusively about sailing. Poe wanted to know all about Matthias’s experience, the races he had won—and lost. What the big prizes were in Great Lakes competition. He seemed surprised to learn that so many events involved smaller craft, and were won by enthusiasts, not rich men.
“Things have changed since J. P. Morgan’s day,” Matthias said.
“How do you mean?”
“J. P. Morgan, the financier?”
“I know who Morgan was,” said Poe, a little testily. “What does he have to do with sailing?”
“He’s the one who said ‘You can do business with anyone. You sail only with gentlemen.’ But it’s not like that anymore. The big world-class events like the America’s Cup are so expensive now they have to be financed by syndicates, or entire nations. Otherwise, sailing’s become rather democratic. Here on the Great Lakes, all sorts of boats take part. The victories go to the best sailors, not the fellows dressed up like admirals.”
“And you’re a hell of a sailor, aren’t you?”
Matthias didn’t know how to respond to such a question. “I haven’t done any serious sailing in a long time.”
“But you’re good. My pal Yeats says you’re the best on the lake. Says you used to beat him all the time.”
“If your Mr. Yeats is the gentleman I’m thinking of, I don’t believe I ever raced against him much. I don’t belong to his yacht club. I couldn’t afford it.”
Sally looked at him strangely.
Poe continued to pursue the subject relentlessly. He brought up his own considerable merits as a boatsman, noting the master mariner’s certificate he had earned and that he’d become skilled enough to operate the Queen P single-handed, once he was away from the dock. But he admitted the regret he felt about having been too busy to learn sailing, that it was something he now wanted to do very much.
“There are a lot of good sailing schools around Chicago.”
“I don’t want to go to school. I want to learn on my own boat, from a top guy.”
It was very clear what he was after. Matthias’s disappointment was almost palpable. He had come to this dinner party expecting Poe to talk about his grand Cabrini Green real estate project. Yet Poe had not said a word about Cabrini Green. After dessert had been served, Matthias had pointedly tried to end the fixation on sailing by bringing up how much he thought the lakefront skyline had changed architectually since he had left, and how pleased he was with the sensible way he thought the gentrification of the area to the west of Lincoln Park had proceeded. Poe had asked if Matthias thought the park’s Belmont Harbor was a better berthing for a sailboat than Monroe Street harbor downtown. Matthias replied that it made little difference, and stared down into his coffee, letting Sally push on with a description of an apartment close friends of hers had on Lake Shore Drive overlooking Belmont Harbor.
“Not to be old-fashioned,” Poe said, pushing his chair back when Sally had finished. He struck Matthias as the least old-fashioned man he’d ever met. “But I think it’s time for the gentlemen to retire for brandy and cigars.”
The old-fashioned custom, of course, had been for the ladies to retire while the gentlemen indulged themselves with their manly tobacco pleasure at table. If Poe was unaware of that, his wife was not.
“Come on, Sally,” she said. “I’ll show you our kitchen. It’s a little like the space center down in Houston.
Sally smiled politely and got up to follow her.
Poe didn’t want to remain at the dining table. He led Matthias through several rooms and down a wide corridor to his study. Unlike the rest of the penthouse Matthias had seen, it was furnished archaically—an approximation of an old English library, with a strong admixture of state-of-the-art computer technology.
He poured two
overlarge brandies. Matthias didn’t want his, but accepted it, holding the glass uncomfortably. He was still bothered by the glass of wine he had had with lunch. Poe then offered him a cigar from a leatherbound humidor.
“No, thank you,” Matthias said. “I don’t really smoke. The occasional pipe.”
“I love ’em,” Poe said. He went to his desk, picked up a magazine with a large ketch on the cover, and handed it to Matthias after opening it to a page full of yacht sale advertisements. He pointed to a picture of a fifty- or sixty-foot sloop-rigged racing cruiser.
“It’s just like this,” Poe said. “The boat Yeats has a line on. You ever sailed anything like that?”
“Yes. My own boat is a lot smaller, though.”
Poe seated himself in a large leather armchair, nodding to Matthias to do the same in an identical chair opposite. To their right, the windows gave out onto a view of the city to the west, long lines of streetlights converging in the far distance.
He lighted his cigar.
“Are you going to be around Chicago for a while?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I came back because of a death in the family. There are some business affairs to attend to.”
“Will you be around for the summer?”
“Probably. My father’s firm has some problems I should help with.”
“I know. I know pretty much everything about you. Had someone check you out this morning. Hope you don’t mind. Always like to know who I’m dealing with. And, besides, like I said, I know your brother.”
Matthias said nothing.
“Mr. Curland. Matthias. I’m going to call you Matthias. Call me Peter. I can’t stand ‘Pete,’ but I like Peter.”
“Peter.”
“Matthias. I want you to teach me how to sail. I want to start as soon as I get delivery of this boat.”
“I’m not a sailing instructor, Mr. Poe. Peter. I’m a painter, like my brother. And an architect.”
“All right. So don’t ‘teach’ me. ‘Advise’ me. I’ll pay you a big retainer.”
Matthias couldn’t let this continue a second longer. “Mr. Poe. I thought you asked me here to talk about Cabrini Green.”
“I did. And we’re going to. But first things first. I haven’t even decided what I’m going to put up there yet. The Chicago-Menominee race is in July. I want to know how to handle my new boat by the Chicago-Menominee. I intend to enter that race, and win.”
“Mr. Poe, I can’t teach you how to sail well enough to win a major Lake Michigan sailboat race. Not in that short a time. At best, I could get you to the point where you wouldn’t embarrass yourself taking a boat out by yourself.”
“That’s good enough. I don’t plan to be the skipper. I want you to do that.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You be the skipper and I’ll be aboard as the owner. I’ll do some of the handling, when it won’t interfere with anything, and put in some time at the helm. Like, maybe at the finish line.”
Matthias simply stared at him.
“It’s only a few weeks, Matthias. I’ll pay you two thousand a week, with a big bonus if we win. What do you say, sporting proposition?”
“Do you always do things this way?”
“I like to move fast, Matthias. Like George S. Patton.”
“My last Chicago-Menominee was six years ago.”
“But you won.”
“Yes.”
“Say that again.”
“Yes.”
“Deal. Now come with me.”
The room Poe took him to contained little more than a long table, upon which had been erected a scale model mockup of the central portions of the city and the downtown lakefront, including the full sweep of Grant Park. Poe turned on some overhead spotlights, then manipulated a control that directed a particularly bright one on a section that Matthias recognized as representing Cabrini Green, minus the notorious public housing projects. In their place stood block models of two tall nondescript high-rises, one nearly half again the height of the other—both painted a bright red.
“I had Cudahy, Brown work this up for me on spec,” Poe said. “You know them? They designed the building we’re in.”
“I know them,” said Matthias, without further comment.
“What do you think of the concept? The tall one’s residential; the other, office. If it were closer to the Loop, I’d reverse it.”
“Well …”
“Straight answer, Matthias. You’re no fool.”
“They’re very predictable and uninteresting. It’s a waste of all the open space you have there. You could do something very dramatic there that you couldn’t get away with downtown.”
“Exactly. Now what I’m about to show you is strictly between us. Gentleman to gentleman, like old J. P. Morgan. All right?”
“All right. Understood.”
“I mean it, Matthias. I’m very fair with people who are fair with me. But people who aren’t fair with me, I can be really unfair to them. You understand me?”
“That’s not one of my faults.”
“That’s what they tell me. All right, Matthias. Take a look at this.”
He picked up the smaller model, held it aloft for a tantalizing moment, then set it carefully atop the other.
Matthias was stunned. It was the very last thing he’d expected. Set apart from the downtown cluster, the tower the two sections formed gave an even greater impression of height—reach surrounded by space, as Frank Lloyd Wright had envisioned for the mile-high building he had suggested for the Southwest. Absolutely extraordinary, and in the midst of this great, sprawling city.
“What do you think?” Poe asked.
“I think you’ll have the highest building in Chicago.”
“Matthias, please. The highest building in the world. Like Trump the chump was going to put up, but never could. Higher than the one those new guys in New York are planning. We’d retire the title.”
“Did Cudahy, Brown give you the idea?”
“Cudahy, Brown don’t have ideas. They just try to please clients.”
Matthias moved around the table, looking at the mockup from a different perspective.
“There are fantastic problems with a building this tall,” he said finally, stooping down to squint at the model from what would be ground level. “The F.A.A., for one. You’d be encroaching on the O’Hare approach patterns.”
“That didn’t stop Sears Tower.”
“You’d need all sorts of building permits and zoning variances.”
“That can be taken care of.”
“I’d fear for your occupancy rate. Especially for office space. Lawyers like to be near the courts and near other lawyers. Commodity traders near the Board of Trade.”
“Vacant office space can be converted to residential, if necessary. This would be the prestige address in Chicago, in the country. We’d build an entire miniature city around it—stores, schools, theaters, a park. This would be like creating a brand-new suburb, like they’re doing all the time out in DuPage County, only it would be right in the city, and it would go straight up.”
“The structural problems would be tremendous. Your core columns would take up a lot of the interior. You’d need to devote a lot of space in the upper reaches to huge counterweights to deal with the wind stress. You’d need masses of elevators.”
“Could it be done?”
“You couldn’t run water up to the top stories. Not directly. At that height, the weight of the water in the pipes would break them. You’d need a succession of storage tanks and pumping stations.”
“Could it be done?”
It was at that moment Matthias realized that all he wanted now was at hand, that his father need not go into an old folks’ residence, that his brother might be spared ending up a derelict, that the family firm might not have to disappear into the files of the city archives.
“Yes.”
“My favorite word.”
“You’d need a fantastic engineer. Like Faz
lur Kahn, who did Sears Tower. Unfortunately, he’s gone now.”
“An engineer, sure. And a doorman. But most of all, I need an artist. The whole world’s going to be looking at this. It should be art. Great art. What do you think Cudahy, Brown would come up with if I asked them for art, for a real world-stopping dramatic statement?”
“A building like the one we’re in. With a big red ‘P’ on top.”
Poe knocked the two building blocks down, the effect as startling as when he’d put the one on top of the other.
He smiled. “These are just toys. I want art. I’m not offering you anything right now. I’m not promising you anything. But I’d sure as hell like to see what you might come up with. When I got clear of that storm on my way home today, I took my chopper up the lakefront to look at your building again. It’s fucking terrific. The only thing wrong with it is that it’s too small.”
Matthias kept the irony to himself. The whole point of that building was that it managed to be something special in a relatively small space.
“My firm, my father’s firm. There are just two employees. Cudahy, Brown has three hundred. You’d need the backup of a staff like that for a project of this magnitude.”
“I’m not talking blueprints, specifications, stress estimates, all that bullshit. I just want a drawing. You do drawings. Do me one. I’ll give you a week. Then we’ll talk.”
“Mr. Poe …”
“It’s Peter. Like I say. I’m not offering you a thing, although I’ll pay you for your time. And up or down, yes or no, the sailing deal still goes.”
Matthias stared at the tabletop, his mind filled with a vision of the actual city. It might take no more than an hour or so to finish such a sketch. He was already getting an idea, something that had run through his mind years before, much as the image of Lake Point Tower must have run through Mies van der Rohe’s decades before it was even a possibility.
“I’ll try.”
“And remember. Not a word to anyone. Not to that charming lady you brought tonight. Not even to your brother. He’s a nice guy, but he talks too much.”
Matthias paid no attention to this. “I can’t believe how much has happened in the last few days.”
The Big Score Page 14