“Fine man. Credit to the city. Let me know when you have that scale model ready. Make it soon, okay? I plan to spend as much of August as I can on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Get a little fishing in. But let’s attend to this first.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I think we’re doing a great thing for the city here.”
He stood up. They all shook hands. Poe hadn’t asked for a building permit. He presumed that would be taken care of no questions asked. The people who had put up the First National Bank Building back in Mayor Daley’s day had started construction without taking one out at all. Arrogant guys, bankers.
The next step was the City Council Committee on Finance. The ordinance Poe needed approved was simple enough. It authorized the bond issue and the tax for the museums and empowered the park district to establish them. With the mayor’s support and Larry, Curly, and Moe among the committee members bought and paid for, the measure faced little ostensible opposition—unless someone took the time to read the fine print. Buried within the provisions was a single line: “the Chicago Park District is authorized to permit private commercial construction on Park District property to facilitate construction and maintenance of not-for-profit cultural institutions.”
Poe had explained to the mayor’s chief legislative aide that the language was necessary because the museums would belong to the Park District but occupy privately owned premises, and also because the park land Poe was deeding to the city would go over the underground parking garage he needed for the big building. Cooperman, no lawyer, went along with this.
The provision, of course, set an extraordinary precedent for Chicago by allowing commercial construction on park land. Moreover, because the language was general and not specifically descriptive of the Cabrini Green site, it empowered the Park District to allow commercial construction on any park property in the city, provided cultural institutions were included in the deal.
In effect, if the ordinance became law and Poe wanted to put his building up in the middle of Lincoln or Grant Park, all it would take now was a simple majority vote of the park district board to make it happen.
No one had noticed or questioned this yet, but Poe feared some lawyer with the Friends of the Parks or some other dogooding outfit might sniff it out. He was worried particularly about the newspapers’ political and editorial writers, who in the past had been very clever about finding things buried in “merely” bills.
Larry and Curly took no chances. Instead of scheduling the proposed ordinance as a separate item on the committee agenda to be explained and debated individually, they put it in with a long list of ostensibly routine omnibus measures to be approved by a single voice vote. Any committee member could of course ask to have the ordinance explained and demand a roll call. There was a liberal independent alderman on the committee who might have done exactly that, but she, happily, was vacationing in France and unable to get back for the meeting.
The measure was adopted without a single eyebrow raised.
Poe had stayed clear of the committee session, not wanting to tip anyone to how concerned he was about that little provision, but afterward met with Larry, Curly, and Moe in Larry’s City Hall office.
“You guys were terrific,” Poe said.
He’d brought Yeats along with him—his aldermanic paymaster.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you, Peter.”
“How soon can it be brought to a vote before the entire City Council?”
“Technically,” said Larry, “in five days. But I don’t know if we can get a quorum together by then. Middle of the fucking summer, you know.”
“Get it done. I don’t care if you have to drag your people down from the Wisconsin lakes or haul them in off the beach, but get them here. The mayor wants this. He wants it all taken care of before he goes on vacation. That’s all anybody needs to know.”
“There’s something we’d like to know. When are we—”
“Mr. Yeats here will take care of you. As promised. But not until I get a full council vote.”
In the end, it took seven days, but a City Council meeting was held in which the enabling ordinance passed 39 to 0, with one abstention. That came from a black alderman who made a long-winded speech about African-Americans being dispossessed like the Israelites in the Bible, but it was intended mostly for his constituents and he sat down and stayed quiet once he got it in the record.
By the time the independent alderwoman returned, there’d be nothing she could do, if she even bothered to examine the ordinance carefully.
It was a stroke of genius, deciding to pull this thing together in the middle of summer. Yeats had thought he was crazy.
“Grab yourself a drink, Bill,” Poe said to Yeats as the housekeeper ushered the lawyer into Poe’s penthouse study several days later. “Thanks for coming over.”
“You want me, Peter, and I come running.”
“I thought you’d be off sailing.”
“I’ve given that up for this summer,” Yeats said, pouring some Glenlivet scotch into a glass. He added ice, then turned to look at Poe unhappily. “I get a lot of dark stares and glances when I walk into the yacht club now. The commodore’s collecting signatures to have me bounced.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You won the race, right? That’s all that matters. The trouble is, you would have won no matter what I did. I’ve incurred the wrath of my fellow yachtsmen kinda needlessly.”
“I should have had more confidence in Curland. Hell of a sailor. The best. Anyway, you can always join another yacht club.”
“Where, Grand Pier, Michigan?”
Poe studied Yeats, trying to keep his apprehension out of his expression. “Why do you say that, Bill?”
“Because the ramshackle yacht club out there is the kind of dump I’ll probably end up in with what’s happened to my reputation.”
“Don’t sweat it. When I’m finished with this project, I’ll start a new yacht club of my own, right here in Chicago.”
“And just where would you put that?”
“You know damn well where. Now, down to business. I want to talk a little strategy. Namely, do I move now to get a preliminary Park District vote on the project as it’s set for Cabrini Green? Get their approval on the record? Or do I wait for the city to close Meigs Field and do it all with one swing of the bat when we make the switch?”
Yeats lowered himself into a comfortable chair, flicking a piece of lint off his highly polished loafers. “Where’s Diandra?”
“What do you care where’s Diandra? Don’t worry about her. She’s busy upstairs. Curland is painting her picture.”
“Shouldn’t he be working on the plans for your building?”
“That can wait a couple of weeks. This is a special order from me—a big nude for the living room.”
Yeats stared, as Poe figured a Catholic priest might stare if told of such a thing. “You mean she’s up there with him without any clothes on?”
“Nothing to worry about. They’re both kinda married to me, aren’t they? If he’s enjoying himself, all the better. We need all the Curlands for this. So what do you think? Should I move now to get a Park District vote on the deal?”
Yeats sipped his drink, then swirled his ice cubes for an annoyingly long time. “I wouldn’t do it, Peter. They’re the ones with the ultimate authority now, thanks to the ordinance you got passed. If you push them on a vote now, then come back to them with all those interesting changes you have in mind, some of them might feel a little betrayed—especially Cooperman.”
“He’ll vote for anything with that Holocaust Museum in it.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But there’s no reason to take chances. Even with his vote, you got a close margin. No, Peter. I’d do it all in one shot. In the meantime, you can sit back and let support build, which it certainly seems to be doing.”
“I never got anywhere in this life sitting back, William.”
“You asked my advice. That’s what you pay me for.�
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“That’s true. And I guess I’m getting my money’s worth, because I think maybe you’re right. Everything turns on Cooperman. If we put the park board on the record, then yank the rug, he’d feel foolish. We just want him to feel disappointed—crushed—when I let it get out that there can’t be a building like this at Cabrini Green, that I can’t get financing for such a long shot. That if he wants his Holocaust Museum it’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“That’s right.”
“But I can’t sit and wait. We’ve got all this steam up, all this enthusiasm. I don’t want that to dissipate. We’ve got to keep that working for us until the city announces it’s going to close Meigs Field.”
“Uh, Peter, I’m not so sure that’s going to happen.”
Time seemed to stop. The bomb that had wrecked his sailboat couldn’t have stunned him as much as this if he’d been there sitting on top of it. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not sure Meigs Field is going to be closed.”
“What are you talking about? That’s the deal! When they finish the new airport out south, Midway and Meigs are kaput. We’ve been counting on that since I first started this thing.”
“Midway’s out. That’s for sure. But there are some second thoughts about Meigs. A lot of businessmen and politicians use the commuter airlines that operate out of there. You need a place for general aviation. Many, many reasons to keep it open.”
“But people have been trying to shut it down for years. They almost did a couple of times. How come my guys on the City Council haven’t said anything about this?”
“They probably don’t know about it. My source is in the mayor’s office.”
“When did you find this out?”
“Yesterday.”
Poe’s turquoise eyes darkened with anger—and malice. His voice dropped low. “Why am I hearing about it now?”
“You’ve been in a real good mood. I didn’t want to spoil it.”
“Fuck the good mood! You should have got me on the horn instanter, goddamn it.”
“It’s not carved in stone, Peter. It’s just a possibility. Just something to think about.”
“Think about? Shit, Bill. My building has to go on Meigs. There’s no other place.”
“There’s the suburbs. They’re putting everything and anything up out there.”
“Fuck the suburbs! This is for Chicago. We’ve gotta do something. Can we buy anybody?”
“You can buy most everybody, but not the mayor. And anyway, you’re running a little low on the green stuff. I had to pay off our aldermen friends out of my own account. You won’t get a penny out of Inland Empire and the Japanese until you’ve got something on paper that looks like an official go-ahead.”
“Shit. Double shit.”
“I’ll work on it, Peter.”
“You do that.” Poe looked to the mantel of his study’s fireplace. There was a scale model of one of his helicopters there—a large, gold-plated model that looked something like a trophy. “I just had an idea.”
“You have one every five minutes.”
“This is a good one. A closer. We could have a heliport next to the building. Provide commuter service to the big airports. In warm weather, maybe seaplanes. That might take care of the business flyer problem. Right? What do you think?”
Yeats shrugged. “Talk to your architect.”
“Don’t be stupid. He’d wonder how you’d have seaplanes at Cabrini Green. He’d wonder what the hell I was thinking—and why.”
“He’s got to find out sooner or later.”
“We’ll make it later. Get going, Bill. I want this taken care of.”
When Yeats had gone, Poe realized how much he’d been shaking. His hands were still trembling. He had to do something, go somewhere, get out of this room, get out of the house. He called upstairs to Diandra—noting the inordinate amount of time it took for her to answer the house phone.
“Are you two finished up there—for the day?” he asked, hoping he sounded calm.
She took more time, then replied: “If that’s what you want, Peter.”
“No. That’s all right. Enjoy yourselves. I’m going out for a while. Got to talk to someone about the project. Probably be back late.”
“In time for dinner?”
“I don’t think so. How much longer do you suppose Curland’s going to take with this?”
“Why don’t you ask him? He’s standing right beside me.”
Poe had no doubt. “That’s all right. He can take as long as he wants. See you later. Don’t wait up. Bye, babe.”
He picked up his outside line, hitting the button that automatically dialed Mango. She sounded sleepy. How late had she been up the previous night?
“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Big problem. I’m going over to my Michigan Avenue hotel. Meet me in the top-floor suite, and don’t let any moss grow on that beautiful ass of yours getting over there.”
“Do you want to talk or do you—”
“Be there.”
She didn’t take long, but by the time she arrived he was well into a big glass of scotch. She looked at him apprehensively at first, then recaptured her customary poise. “Big problem, you said.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it now or do you want to get out of those clothes?”
“I don’t know. Can’t make up my mind.”
“You’re looking kinda agitated.” What he looked was a little crazy.
“I am agitated.”
Her hand went to her zipper. The dress was very tight and she had to pull hard to get it down over her hips. Her large breasts popped up as they came free of the cloth. With the dress off, she was completely naked. She must have removed her underwear before coming over. Always ready, that Mango.
“Finish your drink,” she said, heading for the bedroom. “I’ll make things comfy. Maybe we can calm you down a little.”
Mango knew about all the tricks there were to make a man feel really good, and she used them—at the end, almost desperately. Poe had tried to put on a good show, but his mind was in no way on sex. Somehow she managed to give him an erection and, somehow, got him to achieve fulfillment, but she almost failed, and that had never happened to her before. Whatever was troubling him was powerful stuff. When she was done, he just lay there, as limp as a dead man.
“You all right, Peter?”
There was a pause before he spoke.
“I’m all right.”
She lifted her head to look at his face. He was staring straight up at the ceiling.
“You sure?”
“You were fine, Mango. Like always.”
She sat up. She was covered with sweat. She felt cooler as it evaporated. “So now we talk. I’ll get you another drink.”
When she returned, he was still lying motionless. She set his glass on the bed table, but took a big slug of the one she’d made for herself. She wanted a cigarette but feared that might irritate him.
“Okay, Peter,” she said, seating herself against the headboard. “What’s wrong? Are you still worried about that missing Kirchner painting Train had? I told you not to sweat that. I’ve got people working on it. We’ll get it back.”
“I’m not worried about that. It’s a three-hundred-thousand-dollar problem. I’ve got a two-hundred-million-dollar problem. The mayor may want to keep Meigs Field open.”
“He told you this?”
“Yeats did. He’s got a guy in the mayor’s office.”
“Yeats doesn’t know for sure half the things he tips you about. Sometimes he’s just rolling dice.”
“I don’t like these particular dice. This could queer the whole fucking deal. Everything. This scares the hell out of me, Mango. It was supposed to be a certainty. They’d informed the F.A.A. they wanted to close Meigs. That’s how I found out about it. That’s when I got the idea for the building.”
“Did someone get to the mayor? Or did he just change his mind?”
“I don’t know.” Poe sat up, reaching for his drink. “I just don’t know. Worse thing is I don’t have the faintest idea what to do about it.”
“There’s always something.”
“No, there isn’t. The guy’s fucking incorruptible. And even if he wasn’t, I don’t have anything he wants.”
She looked at his bare body. He was getting a little flabby. He probably hadn’t worked out in weeks.
“It’s not like you to give up.”
“I’m not giving up. I’m just up against a wall. I didn’t even know it was there!”
She sighed. “Peter, you’ve got plenty of time. You’ve got a lot of things you’ve got to do first. We’re a long way from the sting. You’ve got the mayor to bite on your building idea. Now you’ve got to get him hooked. How soon are you going to hold the grand unveiling? The world’s-tallest-building shit.”
“Soon.”
“Make it damn soon. Work up some local pride.”
“I’m doing that.”
“Get him hooked real deep, Peter. So that he’ll be afraid of looking like a chump if he backs out.”
“But how in the hell am going to I hook him on the Meigs Field site?”
“Maybe he’s just afraid of losing jobs without the airport. Your building will mean a lot of jobs.”
“You don’t understand, Mango.”
The hell she didn’t. But there was no point trying to get Poe to think sensibly in his present state. He was scared shitless, and when that happened, he was paralyzed.
Mango would have to step in on her own, but she was ready for that. “Don’t let it get to you, Peter. Not yet. We’ll think of something. We always do.”
“Yeah, right.”
“There’s always something.”
Zany had gone for a late-night drive. He’d been staring at his computer screen to the point of going batty and needed to get away from it. Reflexively, almost as if he were still on patrol, he went through town on out to the interstate, then back again and up the beach road. A vehicle followed him out from the center of town, but disappeared onto a side road just before Zany entered the long curve that went around the huge dune that was Grand Pier’s principal landmark.
With the help of the police departments out there, he’d been working that list of East Coast art dealers and art purchasers who had shown an interest in Expressionist art. When this was done, he’d try Europe. He was paying for the calls himself and Judy would raise a lot of hell when the bill came, but he wasn’t going to worry about that now.
The Big Score Page 37