by Bruce Kading
Chacon drew the beer from the tap into a small glass, marched over to Rico, and set it down in front of him. Rico looked at the beer as if it displeased him.
Returning to the bar, Chacon flipped over the tape and Sinatra came back, this time belting out “My Kind of Town.” It was a bit too energetic for a quiet Sunday morning and mildly irritating to Rico, still struggling to come fully awake. He took a sip of beer and closed his eyes.
* * *
The foreman at the Poindexter Tube Company looked through the receptionist’s window at three Hispanic men seated in plastic chairs. They appeared ready for work, dressed in jeans, work boots, and heavy-duty cotton shirts. One, considerably older than the other two, glanced up and just as quickly looked down. Staring was not his way.
They would speak little or no English, but the foreman knew they would have the necessary documents, probably counterfeits like most of the others. More important, they would be good workers, respectful of their bosses, and do their jobs quietly and efficiently. He knocked on the window to get their attention and gestured them forward.
As soon as he opened the heavy door to the shop area, they were greeted by a wall of musty heat, a sharp metallic odor, and overwhelming noise: churning machinery, buzzing forklifts, and workers yelling to be heard over the din. The sound rose up to the cavernous rafters of the plant and came back down in a cascade of colliding echoes. With windows mounted high on the walls, you could see only the sky and nothing of the surrounding community, making the shop seem like a world unto itself. Miguel peered up at the dirty haze and copper sunlight that streamed through the windows. It reminded him of Guadalajara.
The foreman led them to a huge, oblong machine that, at the moment, stood idle. He called over to a flaxen-haired young man who was using a hand-operated forklift to move a pallet of metal tubes. “Russell, show these guys what they’re getting into, would you?”
Russell walked over and pushed a black button on the side of the old machine. A vibration shuddered through it, and dozens of tubes hanging from a track at one-foot intervals began moving into a large opening. Thirty seconds later the tubes reappeared through an opening at the opposite end. Dull and gray before, they were now glistening silver. Russell hit a red button and everything stopped. After removing the treated tubes he stepped over to a box of untreated tubes and demonstrated how to fasten them to the metal prongs hanging from the track. This would be their job: place the tubes on the prongs, run them through the coating machine, remove and stack the treated tubes on pallets for later shipping, and keep the machine supplied with paint solutions.
After Russell had demonstrated each part of the job, the foreman led them back into his tiny office. He made copies of their counterfeit documents and told them they would make $4.50 an hour. Ten minutes later, the three of them were back inside the plant, working the tube coating machine. They’d been hired.
The two younger men were good workers and deferred to Miguel, who instantly became their de facto foreman. Within two hours they’d become comfortable with the system and were already joking with one another as if they’d been processing tubes for weeks. Satisfied that the new job was going to work out and that the other two could handle things for a few minutes, Miguel excused himself.
As he walked to the washroom there were glances from other workers interested in the new face, and he nodded and smiled at them. In his head he calculated that he’d be earning over five times what he’d made in Guadalajara. He flashed on his family, now so far away but depending on him. They had no idea that their lives had just undergone a dramatic shift of fortune.
He was grateful to find that nobody was in the large, dingy washroom. Miguel stepped into the nearest stall and latched the door behind him. It was quiet except for the muted din of the plant machinery. He removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped the moisture from his face. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself against the walls with both hands and whispered a prayer of thanks. A wave of emotion shook through him. It was powerful and gained strength—like a deep, vibrating volcano. Tears began pouring down his cheeks. He held his handkerchief close to his mouth to muffle the sobs. What would they think if they were to find him here—crying like a child when he was supposed to be working? He blew his nose and dabbed the moisture from his eyes and cheeks. It took a minute to pull himself together.
Miguel couldn’t stop smiling as he stepped back into the glorious, symphonic racket of the Poindexter Tube Company.
5
Marcos Ortega was curious about the shake in Sixto’s voice and his reluctance to discuss the matter over the phone, but he wasn’t worried. After all, Sixto was a bit high strung and tended to overreact to small problems. It was probably a minor issue with one of his vendors—the kind that came up from time to time.
They’d agreed to meet at the Fullerton Lanes, a bowling alley on the North Side. With pins clattering and bowlers shouting, it was a good place to talk and not be overheard. It was also far from Marcos’s home, so they weren’t likely to run into his friends or acquaintances.
The bowling alley was housed in an old brick building that covered several acres near the banks of the Chicago River. Inside were fifty lanes, a restaurant, bar, and poolroom. In the evening hours, it was crowded and there was often a party-like atmosphere. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the bowlers’ heads, its odor mingling with that of popcorn, hotdogs, and pizza.
Marcos arrived early and ordered a large basket of French fries and two bottles of Corona. He took a table at the end of the dimly lit mezzanine in front of lane fifty, far from the other spectators. By the time Sixto arrived, Marcos had inhaled the fries and was relaxing like a well-fed cat with his legs stretched out, sipping his beer while watching a group of giggling young women roll gutter balls. He flashed a big smile when his friend stepped up to the table, but Sixto responded with only a sullen nod.
“I love this place,” said Marcos breezily. “Best fries in town. Do you want a basket?”
“No. I don’t like French fries,” said Sixto. “Anyway, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I got you a beer,” said Marcos, shoving the bottle across the table, a bit irritated with Sixto’s grim mood. Sixto took a few sips of beer and stared distractedly at the lanes. They sat silently for a minute.
“So, what is it this time?” asked Marcos finally. “You sounded worried.”
Sixto took a long swallow of beer and set it on the table. “It’s Salvador Rico,” he said.
“Ah, the Panamanian.”
“Yes. I wanted to get as much information as I could before bothering you with it. I wanted to take care of it myself. But I’m afraid you will have to deal with Rico.”
“What exactly is the problem?”
“As you know, I told him the rules and gave him an area. He set up shop in the back of a photo studio and was working like any of our other guys for the first few months. Then I found out he’s been hanging around Sheridan and Broadway, working the streets like a drug dealer. It was getting people’s attention.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes, of course. I told him we want a low-key operation. He said he understood, that he would do as I said. That was three weeks ago, but then one of my guys saw him over by Kedzie and Diversey doing business on the street again—way out of his area. I made his boundaries very clear, so there was no confusion about it.”
Marcos grunted and shook his head.
“Now I find out he’s hired vendors of his own,” said Sixto. “He’s got a guy assembling the cards for him in the back of that photo studio. He funnels business to his vendors from a bar called El Palacio on Sheridan—owned by a Cuban guy who lets Rico use his place for business and probably gets a cut.”
Marcos listened calmly, though there was now a clear, hard look in his eyes.
Sixto continued. “He’s charging two-fifty for a green card and social security card, sometimes more, depending on who he’s dealing with. His guys are even hanging
around the Devon area—going after the Indians and Pakistanis. He’s overcharging and has no respect for boundaries.”
Marcos glared coldly at the lanes, thinking about his conversation with Salvador Rico at the restaurant. It had gone against his instincts to take on a non-Mexican, even on a trial basis—his first serious blunder since starting the business.
Though the air-conditioned bowling alley was cool, Sixto’s face was flushed and beads of sweat were popping out on his forehead. He grabbed a napkin from a canister on the table and wiped it across his face. “He’s trouble, this guy,” he said. “I went to talk to him again a couple of days ago. He acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Finally, he doesn’t deny it and says if Marcos has a problem with it, you should talk to him. He threw me out of the bar. I was lying there on the curb!”
Sixto took a moment to gulp what was left of the beer and looked nervously out at the bowlers, apparently hesitant to continue.
“There must be something else,” said Marcos.
“Yes, and you’re not going to like it.” Sixto paused before continuing. “He’s sending his boys down to work the mall on Twenty-Sixth Street.”
Marcos’s eyes flamed, and he slammed his huge fist on the table, sending both beer bottles flying to the carpeted floor, along with the empty basket. Sixto sprang from his chair and stepped back from the table.
“Why have you not told me of this earlier?” bellowed Marcos, leaning over the table. “This termite invades my territory, and you say nothing?”
Sixto scanned the surrounding area. The noise from the lanes had absorbed the outburst, and nobody seemed to have noticed. He retrieved the bottles and basket, and cautiously returned to his chair.
“I’m telling you now. I just found out yesterday about the guy at the mall,” said Sixto unsteadily. “But this Rico is not going to listen to me.”
Marcos ran his hand back through his hair, took a deep breath, and looked out at the bowling lanes for a few moments. Suddenly, a sheepish grin crossed his face.
“I am sorry, my friend,” said Marcos. “You have done nothing wrong. It is I who made the mistake when I agreed to take him on.” He reached across the table and patted Sixto on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I will take care of Rico. You wait and see.”
* * *
When lunch hour arrived the next day, Marcos left the tortilla plant, and drove slowly down Twenty-Sixth Street and into the parking lot of the mall—a large, white building that housed small shops selling an endless variety of imported Mexican pots and trinkets, leather goods, and clothing. Shoppers could get a decent Mexican meal at one of the stands, where they cooked food on small burners. Prices were low, and thousands of people passed through every day. The music of a mariachi band blared out from loudspeakers mounted on the roof of the building.
Marcos bought a steak burrito wrapped in aluminum foil and returned to his car. Scanning the parking lot, he noticed a tall young man wearing bell-bottom jeans standing at the farthest corner of the lot in front of a coin laundry. He was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. The man gestured at a pickup truck to pull up close, and he leaned inside the open window. After a brief conversation, the truck pulled away. The man stuffed something into his pants pocket and counted the bills he’d just received.
Moments later the young man heard feet on the pavement and looked up at the massive figure of Marcos Ortega closing in on him. Before he could react, Marcos spun him around, grabbed him by the shoulder and seat of his pants, and flung him violently against a wooden fence that ran along the alley. The baseball cap went flying. The young man was on the ground, wedged against the bottom of the fence, looking terrified.
“Listen to me carefully, young fellow,” said Marcos in Spanish. “You will not sell anything on the street again. Not here, not anywhere in this city. I am not a violent man, but nobody sells the documents around here without my permission. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Give me the money and the documents.”
The young man, hands shaking, handed over a wad of cash, two small facial photos, and several counterfeit green cards and social security cards.
“So, you are working for Salvador Rico?” asked Marcos.
After a brief hesitation, the man spoke in a trembling voice: “Yes, he sells the cards to us and tells us where to go.”
“Tell Salvador Rico that Marcos Ortega wishes to speak to him. He has twenty-four hours. Now get out of here and don’t forget what I told you.”
The young Mexican nodded meekly and began to pick himself up off the ground. Marcos let out a soft chuckle, turned away, and returned to his car. He drove slowly to the tortilla factory, certain that the matter would now be quickly resolved. Did Rico think he could just brush Sixto aside with no consequences? Even worse was sending vendors across town into his territory—a very personal provocation. So be it. Salvador Rico would be made to understand very clearly who was in charge of the counterfeit document trade in Chicago.
* * *
Wind swept through cottonwood trees along the river, the leaves rustling together like fine sandpaper. There was a quarter moon on the eastern horizon and a scattering of stars overhead. Below, the Chicago River moved like black ink, so narrow here that it seemed no more than a large, gurgling creek.
Marcos pulled off Fullerton Avenue onto a narrow road that wound through a grove of trees and descended into a clearing that served as the bowling alley’s parking lot. The gravel lot offered privacy, as it was well below the street and was obscured by the trees. To his surprise, Fullerton Lanes was closed that Sunday night—the parking lot unlit and, so far as he could tell, completely empty. The darkened building, vaguely ominous, stood outlined against the sky like a huge ship at sea.
Had he known the lanes were closed, he would have suggested a different location. Still, he’d agreed to meet in the lot, not inside. He turned his brights on and drove in a tight circle to illuminate every part of the lot. Seeing nothing, he backed the car up to the bushes lining the banks of the river, turned the lights off, and shut off the engine.
A wave of foul air from the river passed through the open window. He rolled his window up halfway and waited uneasily, expecting to see another pair of headlights at any moment. His watch said it was ten minutes past the meeting time of eleven o’clock. He thought about what he would say.
A few minutes passed. Then he could make out the faint sound of boots on gravel, obscured at first by the wind and rustling leaves, but it grew louder, a rhythmic scraping. Marcos looked to his left and could see an indistinct black form walking swiftly toward him in the darkness. A shaft of light from across the river flashed through the trees and for an instant fell on sharp-pointed cowboy boots with silver tips. He jumped out of the car and walked a few steps toward the advancing figure.
“What’s going on?” he shouted into the wind. “Where’s your car?”
The only reply was a bolt of orange and an explosion from a gun’s muzzle. The .38-caliber bullet pierced Marcos’s skull, and he felt a flame of intense heat. Staggering back, he caromed against the rear of his car and rolled heavily over a small stand of cottonwood saplings along the riverbank, coming to rest, facedown, over the embankment. For a moment there was only the sound of the wind in the trees.
The shooter slowly stepped over to the body. There was just enough light from across the river to see that Marcos was no longer moving.
Two minutes later a car emerged from behind the bowling alley and stopped momentarily, its headlights aimed across Marcos’s motionless body. Apparently satisfied, the driver pulled slowly out of the parking lot.
* * *
The manager of Fullerton Lanes discovered the empty vehicle and Ortega’s dead body the next morning. Detectives from the Belmont district were pessimistic, having little to work with—no witnesses, no other tire marks near the car, and no empty shell casings. The wind had apparently muffled the gunsh
ot, as there had been no reports of disturbance in the area. Footprints could not be lifted from the hard-packed gravel, and five hundred dollars in cash was left untouched in his wallet, which seemed to eliminate robbery as a motive.
The coroner reported that the slug had entered the left side of Marcos’s forehead at a slight angle and was fatal within seconds. The police made the usual inquiries: talking to his family and close friends, his boss, and a few coworkers at the tortilla factory. His young wife, who had only recently arrived from Mexico with their children, knew very little of her husband’s illegal business and chose to say nothing about it to the police, nor did his friends, none of whom wished to become entangled in a police investigation. Sixto Montoya assumed Rico was responsible, but he decided that the safest course of action was to get out of the document business and stay clear of both Rico and the police. Weeks passed with no new leads, and the police closed the case.
“Marcos respected us,” declared Joe Willis to a gathering of agents at McGinty’s. “He told me once he wouldn’t mind going into politics. Maybe it was some politician who had him knocked off—saw him as competition, a rising star. Hell, we’ll probably never know.” Willis lifted his glass in a toast. “Anyway, here’s to Marcos Ortega, one of the few tonks who tried to make our job easier. I’ll miss the big son of a bitch.” They were the most sentimental words anybody had heard from Willis in years.
In a city where hundreds of homicides occurred every year, the violent death of Marcos Ortega faded quickly from memory.
Part II
6
She was picked up at Marshall Field’s for shoplifting and turned over to INS by the store security guards, who found the Colombian passport she had carelessly left in her purse. The visa in the passport showed that she had entered the country as a tourist for thirty days—but that was in 1987, and it was now the fall of 1990.