A Safe Place for Dying

by Jack Fredrickson

  Nine months ago, I’d finally come full circle. I was back in Rivertown.

  I was asleep in the shiny blue vinyl La-Z-Boy, twelve bucks truly used at the Salvation Army store, when Leo called at ten o’clock at night. He’d just gotten in and told me to come over. Ma answered the door, said with minty breath that Leo was in the basement, and sat carefully back in her chair. Naked people were getting acquainted on the television. I went through to the kitchen and down the stairs.

  Leo, still in his gray business suit and wearing white cotton gloves, was hunched over his light table, peering through a Luxo magnifier at the second note. His face was ghoulish in the green underglow. Astrud Gilberto sang about Corcovado from the cheap boom box on top of a file cabinet, but too softly to drown out the lustful things the man and woman were saying on the television upstairs. I knocked on the raw wood of his office doorjamb.

  “Same sender?”

  “Same old, same old,” he murmured, continuing to peer at the note. I leaned against the jamb and tried to shut out the drama going on above my head. The man and woman had stopped talking and were communicating now with squeaking bedsprings, as Astrud sang softly of love, oblivious to the lust going on just above her head. Mercifully, Leo finished his examination, switched off the magnifying light, and turned around.

  “When did this arrive?”

  “This morning.”

  He slipped the note and the envelope back into the freezer bag, brought it to his desk, and pulled off his cotton gloves like a doctor after surgery. He sat down and I dropped into the overstuffed chair.

  He held up the freezer bag by its top edge, pointed to the last two printed words on the note, and arched his eyebrows.

  “Same place,” I recited.

  The bag and his eyebrows stayed up.

  “They’ve dealt with him before,” I added.

  He waited, his face coaxing. I hadn’t yet said the magic words.

  “I’ve got a no-win choice: the cops or my career?”

  “Ah,” he said, as his face relaxed. But there was no humor in his eyes.

  I didn’t sleep.

  Leo and I had kicked around my options until the middle of the night, looking for good ones, but they kept boiling down to one of two bad alternatives: Tip the cops to what was happening, watch the news ruin the people at Gateville, and find another line of work. Or keep my mouth shut, like a good employee, and wait for people to die.

  I got home at three in the morning, no closer to knowing what I should do. I didn’t bother with my cot. I went straight to the blue vinyl of the La-Z-Boy, shifted into full recline, and watched the insides of my eyelids for a couple of hours. I nodded off a few times around four o’clock, but it was only to dream, in bursts, of big houses disintegrating into fireballs. And, strangely, of snakes—red, lavender, green, black, and white snakes—writhing on their tails, twisting together in the orange light of the burning houses. Over and over I dreamed of those snakes until, exhausted, I gave it up at five thirty. I made a pot of coffee, filled my double-sized travel cup, and took it and my cell phone up to the roof. I keep a folding lawn chair up there for nights when old times come to haunt and I go up to wait for the sun.

  I sipped coffee and thought about the snakes in my dreams. Endora, Leo’s girlfriend, says everyone knows dreams are the mind’s way of resolving the unresolved. Leo laughs and tells her that’s got to be true with me, because my daytime mind is too weak to power both motor and cognitive functions. Leo jokes that I should concentrate only on eating and walking when I’m awake and save my thinking for my dreams.

  Screw Leo. But he’s more right than I’ll tell him. During the weeks when my reputation was being trashed, my business was collapsing, and my marriage was destructing, I learned to trust my dreams to work through what I couldn’t make sense of during the days. Or didn’t dare.

  Up on the roof, though, I couldn’t figure the snakes.

  I drank coffee and listened to the night. A mile away, long-haul trucks on their way to Indiana and Wisconsin rumbled over the corrugated rub strips on the toll road. Closer, the bells at the railroad signal started clanging. Long-haul trucks and railroad trains made sense to me. Dreams of snakes did not.

  I picked up the cell phone and then set it down. It was only six o’clock, too early to call the Bohemian.

  To the east, the sky was getting lighter over Chicago. It seemed impossible that, just a couple of years before, when I lived downtown on Lake Shore Drive and was full of enthusiasm for such things, I’d get up early to watch the sun rise over Lake Michigan. August dawns were the best, because the moisture rising off the lake would sometimes combine with the early heat to create incredible colors.

  But now, drinking coffee on the roof of my grandfather’s aborted dream, the day’s first reds, oranges, and yellows licking at the blue-black of the night sky reminded me only of the snakes that had twisted and contorted through my dreams.

  At seven o’clock I called the Bohemian’s office number. He picked up the main line himself.

  “Vlodek. I was just going to call you,” he schmoozed. “The note is from the same sender?”

  “Surprise, surprise. How about I drop it at the cops—”

  “—Vlodek—”

  “—on my way to your office. We need to meet. You, Stanley, and I.”

  “About what?”

  “The first payoff. The one you haven’t told me about.”

  The oil went out of his voice. He told me he’d have Stanley Novak in his office at nine.

  I got in line inbound on the Eisenhower Expressway behind a grayprimered Chevy Caprice with a wired-up back bumper. At eight in the morning, the traffic crawling east into Chicago is thick with rattling old cars. More and more, the good stuff—the high-end imports, the sixty-grand S.U.V.’s—is across the elevated tracks, going the other way, aimed at suburban offices from the rehabbed Chicago lofts, renovated row houses, and brand-new city communities of red brick, black wrought iron, and green sod that have popped up, like God’s own blooms, over what used to be hardscrabble urban blight, glinting of ancient cinder and broken glass.

  The Bohemian’s office was just west of downtown, in one of the first rehab districts. His were the only offices listed for the top floor of a ten-story, yellow-brick former factory that towered over everything around it. I punched the button and was admiring my khakis, blue Oxford cloth shirt, and navy summer-weight blazer in the elevator mirror when I noticed the splotch of dried ketchup on the coat sleeve. I was still scratching at it when the elevator chimed at the top.

  The door opened right into the reception area of Chernek and Associates. The room was dark and discreet, lit softly by green glass-shaded lamps. The six high-back chairs and two Chesterfield sofas were upholstered in dark green leather that was lightly creased, like old money. I crossed the burgundy oriental rug to the black walnut desk. The receptionist was young and blond and upholstered in red silk. The only crease I could see on her was one perfect inch of tanned cleavage.

  “Dek Elstrom to see Anton Chernek.”

  “Of course.” She smiled and touched a button on her telephone console.

  A dark-haired older woman with a helmet haircut appeared almost instantly at a side door. She wore a blue suit with a white blouse buttoned to the neck and had the pinched-face demeanor of someone wearing tight underwear. Certainly her cleavage had never seen the sun. I recognized the British accent when she told me to follow her. She was the Bohemian’s secretary.

  We went through the door and down a row of cubicles, two of which had empty cartons set on their worktops. She stopped outside a small conference room with a single window, more dark green leather chairs, and a round walnut table. She told me Mr. Chernek would be with me shortly. I went in and sat down.

  A large oil painting of an English hunting scene hung on the beige-papered wall. I studied the dozen red-coated riders, tensed astride their burnished black horses, their faces all purpose and concentration as they followed the pack of h
ounds. I tried to fit myself into the scene. The Bohemian would be the lead horseman, of course, his whip raised, his face confident and sure. Just as the rider immediately behind him, dutifully sounding the hunt with a curved brass horn, would have to be Stanley Novak. But I couldn’t fit myself in with the rest of the riders; they looked too well born, too comfortable in their riding clothes, too obviously suited to the hunt. They could only be the Board members of Crystal Waters. I stared at the painting until I finally decided I was the only dog straggling behind the riders, his head canted to the side, distracted by something in the underbrush. Yellow, green, and red snakes, maybe.

  The Bohemian opened the conference room door and came in. For a big man, he moved softly, like a panther. He wore a charcoal chalk-striped suit, a soft blue shirt, and a muted burgundy tie. He had the same tanned skin and bright teeth I remembered from my divorce meeting. I got up, and we shook hands. His hand was big, the hand of a man who had done manual labor long ago. We sat down, and he folded his big hands on the table and waited for me to speak.

  “Stanley Novak will not be joining us?”

  “He’s been delayed but will be here shortly.” The Bohemian glanced at the table and then shifted to look at the floor by my chair. “You’ve not brought the envelope and the letter back?”

  “I thought it would be safer back at my place.”

  His face remained calm. “You’ve not given it to the police.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Not yet.”

  He leaned back in the chair and studied my face. “Vlodek, so little trust.”

  “Why go through the charade of bringing the second note to me?”

  “We have to make sure we’re paying the right man.”

  “You mean the same man—”

  The quick tap at the door cut me off, and Stanley came in. He didn’t look well. His uniform was neatly pressed and his comb-over was intact, but he had dark smudges under his eyes and his lips were shiny. He sat down like he’d been carrying cement.

  “How is your wife, Stanley?” the Bohemian asked.

  “She’ll be fine.” Stanley pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “What have I missed?”

  “Vlodek spotted the reference in the second letter.”

  Stanley nodded. “As you expected,” he said, looking at the Bohemian.

  The Bohemian turned to me. “In April of 1970, just a few weeks before the first Members were scheduled to move in, the developers received a note demanding ten thousand dollars. It did not make a specific threat and said nothing about where to drop the money. We took it to be a prank because it was so vague—some Maple Hills resident, perhaps, upset about the development.”

  “What did the letter look like?”

  The Bohemian glanced at Stanley. “From what I remember, exactly like the two we’ve received this summer: double-lined child’s paper, block printing, capital letters in pencil.”

  Stanley nodded in agreement.

  “And the envelope? Was it white like the ones you received this summer?”

  “Yes …” The Bohemiam hesitated, looked to Stanley.

  “Except it was addressed in pencil, block lettered like the note. Obviously not ink-jet computer printed, not back then,” Stanley said.

  The Bohemian went on. “A week later, there was an explosion at the back of the guardhouse. It wasn’t a big explosion, nothing like the Farraday house, but it did enough damage to require rebuilding the rear wall. We assumed it to have been set off by the person sending the letter.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “We did, Vlodek.”

  “Mr. Chernek came to me,” Stanley said. “I was a patrol officer on the Maple Hills force, moonlighting at night as security on the construction site, but my hat was in the ring for the security chief’s job at Crystal Waters. After the guard shack blew, Mr. Chernek called me in and showed me the note they received.”

  “And you did what?”

  “I told him hundreds of construction workers had access to the development, as did truckers delivering materials, utility company people, even Maple Hills cops, for that matter. Cops are like everybody else. Some of them get resentful at all the money in a place like Crystal Waters.”

  “So there were lots of potentials. What did you recommend?”

  “That he contact the sheriff’s police.”

  I looked at the Bohemian. “You didn’t do that.”

  The Bohemian met my gaze, said nothing.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “If word got out, nobody would move in, and the developers would be out millions.”

  “Tens of millions,” the Bohemian said.

  “So you did nothing until the bomber sent you another letter, telling you where to leave the ten thousand.”

  Stanley took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth again. “The second letter said, ‘Put the money in a plastic garbage bag. Drop it in the Dumpster behind Ann Sather’s restaurant after dark on Sunday night.’”

  “Where was that?”

  “On Belmont, in Chicago.”

  “Same pencil printing, same double-lined kid’s paper, same postmark as the first?”

  Stanley nodded. “Like the two we’ve received this summer.”

  “You delivered the ten thousand?”

  “That next Sunday night.”

  “And you never heard from him again?”

  The Bohemian spoke. “That ended it.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  The Bohemian tapped his forehead with his forefinger in a vague salute. “Until now.”

  “So you think that by paying him, you’ll get him to leave you alone for another few decades?”

  The Bohemian stood up and went to the window. The sun was getting higher, wiping away the morning shadows on the surrounding rooftops. “The objective was then, and is now, money, not murder,” he said, looking out. “Our bomber is a professional. He does his research. He knows when the houses will be empty. He knows the places outside the wall where no one will be standing. And, being a professional, he knows our resources are not limitless. He knows we can raise five hundred thousand; it’s less than twenty thousand dollars per house. He also must know he can’t keep coming back, that if he presses for more, we will be forced to consult the authorities. I think he’ll leave us alone when he gets his money.”

  “You speak of him respectfully,” I said to the Bohemian’s back. “You might be giving him credit he doesn’t deserve. The mailman and the paperboy could have known when the Farradays would be gone, too.”

  The Bohemian turned from the window, the trace of a smile on his face. “You’ve forgotten. No paperboys, no mailmen. Everything gets left at the guardhouse. I’ll say it again: This man is a businessman.”

  “Like most of the men who live in Crystal Waters,” I said.

  The half-smile on the Bohemian’s face didn’t flicker.

  I went on. “As I told you before, this could be an inside operation.”

  “I can’t see how any Member would benefit as much as he would lose. The current demand is for a half million. That’s onesixth of what the typical house in Crystal Waters is worth.”

  “Another insider, then: a contractor, a landscaper, a housepainter.” I looked at Stanley. “A guard.”

  “Vlodek, please—”

  “I don’t understand either of you.” I said to the Bohemian. “Why go through the charade of having me look at the second note? Obviously, it’s the same as the earlier one this summer.”

  Stanley answered. “We needed to be double sure it’s the same person. We knew you’d pick up on the reference to our 1970 payment, but we also knew we could trust you to keep this matter private. We have to be sure it’s the same man.”

  “The man who, if given what he wants, can be relied upon to stay away for years and years?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Elstrom.” Stanley looked at the Bohemian. “We will proceed with payment, Mr. Chernek?”

  The Bohemian turned to
me. “Will you allow us to continue without the authorities, Vlodek?”

  I didn’t need much convincing, which was the shame of it. Playing it out, seeing if the half million would be enough to make the guy go away again, got me off my little moral hook. I wouldn’t have to choose between what was left of my career and going to the cops, at least for a while.

  “Fair enough.” I stood up. Suddenly, I was anxious to get out of there, away from both of them. I wanted to think. I told them I’d call Monday morning to find out how the drop went and left.

  On the way back to Rivertown, I kept hearing the admiring tone in the Bohemian’s voice when he talked about the man targeting Gateville. Professional, he’d called him. A businessman. A careful man, who does his research.

  It sounded like he was describing himself.

  Seven

  Saturday morning, early, I drove to Ann Sather’s restaurant on the north side of Chicago. I wanted to check out the place where Stanley Novak was going to leave half a million dollars on Sunday night.

  Ann Sather’s neighborhood was in the first grunts of going upscale. At nine o’clock in the morning, the parking places along Belmont were already taken, the sidewalks already teeming with pairs of slim young men and clusters of black-haired teenaged girls wearing resale-shop clothes. They are the forward guard, the anointers who can declare an area worthy. They have no money; they come for weak tea and candles and used compact discs. But from their terra-cotta perches downtown, the big-money urban developers watch them, and when the anointers come in sufficient numbers, the developers strike with the sureness of hawks—optioning, demolishing, rehabbing, and sending the prices of real estate to the moon. The grungy, curtained incense shops and tiny, linoleum-floored groceries get pushed out by rents gone exponential, to make way for upscale boutiques and bakeries. And then the commodities traders, lawyer couples, and professional urban trendies come to smile and pirouette on the sidewalks, and there are lattes and grandes and little square dessert items for everyone.