The Fifth Floor

by Michael Harvey

  Woods looked at me. Then out the window. Then back at me.

  “You’re a real motherfucker, aren’t you? I mean, I heard about you but, hell, I’m just doing a job here.”

  “If it wasn’t a dirty job, you got no problems.”

  “Christ, Kelly, it’s politics. What the fuck do you expect?”

  “Tell me about it. If I can keep you out, I will.”

  Woods hesitated, but not too long. Sometimes when you look inside, it doesn’t take that long. I think this was one of those times.

  “Okay, I’ll give you some details, but not here. Not now.”

  “When?”

  “Give me a number. I’ll call you.”

  I scribbled down my cell number and shoved it across the desk. “Don’t wait too long, Johnny.”

  He nodded.

  “And make sure you have a story ready about why you met with me this morning. The mayor will want to know.”

  Another nod.

  “And make sure your girlfriend outside backs you up. They’re the ones who always get you.”

  This time Woods just looked at me. Moved his lips and nothing else. “Close the door behind you.”

  I did. The person with the curves was sitting at her desk, trying hard to pretend she wasn’t trying hard to listen through her boss’s door. It was a thick door. I figured she got every other sentence. Tops.

  “Your boss wants to see you,” I said.

  She got up, swift and stiff, head down, eyes averted, and slipped inside Johnny Woods’ inner sanctum. I was twenty feet down the hall and could still hear Johnny when he started to yell. Maybe the door wasn’t so thick after all.

  CHAPTER 25

  I was waiting for the elevator and thinking about lunch when the door with the word mayor on it swung open. Three men came out and checked the hallway. A moment later, the man himself walked out. Through a tangle of arms and legs I could see the lean frame, long arms, and pale, heavy-wristed hands. A body shifted and I caught the mayor’s face in profile. A dark brow crouched over darker eyes. Below that lay a blunt expanse of nose, long, pockmarked lines for cheeks, and thick lips the color of uncooked sausage. The mayor’s surname might be Irish, but his features carried more than a touch of Poland, from his mom’s side. The mix was not one to win any beauty contests. In Chicago circles, however, it was every bit the potent political offering.

  The mayor checked his watch as his minions circled in a tight orbit. Then Wilson’s eyes traveled down the hall, flicking over me like a cold shadow before returning with a bit of interest. The mayor leaned his head an inch or so to the left and whispered into the ear of the man next to him. It was his cousin Patrick Wilson, also known as the brains of the family. Not that the mayor was dumb. Just simple. Like a shark is simple. Single-minded. Relentless. Looking for an easy meal.

  “Michael Kelly.” The mayor’s cousin stepped forward and offered a hand. I took it.

  “Hi, Patrick.”

  Patrick Wilson was easy to like. He loved to smile, shake hands, and talk about “win-win situations.” I believe that was the phrase he used just before they flushed my career as a cop. In the parlance of the Fifth Floor, Patrick was known as the velvet glove. The hammer stood just behind him.

  “Nice to see you,” Patrick said.

  I heard a grumble. Or maybe it was a snort. Or maybe the mayor just scratched himself somewhere private and liked it. Whatever it was, the secret signal was given. Patrick Wilson immediately flared to the left. The mayor’s other two henchman spread out to the right. I stepped into the semicircle as the elevator behind me chimed. No one took any notice. I shook the mayor’s hand as his crew checked me out from a variety of angles. This was always how it was with the mayor. Sort of like an audience with a Mob boss, only we were standing in a corridor of City Hall.

  “Michael Kelly,” the mayor said. “What brings you up here?”

  “The view.”

  The mayor offered the bottom half of his upper teeth in what I guessed to be a smile and turned to his cousin.

  “He likes the view, Patrick. See, I told you this was a good thing.”

  The mayor turned back to me.

  “My cousin just came back from working in one of those big law firms. Forty-first floor of the Hancock. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Seven hundred fifty dollars for an hour of his time.”

  The mayor glanced back at Patrick, who looked appropriately chastened.

  “Now he’s back with us. Working for the people. Except this morning, I hear he complains about his office. Can’t see the lake from his window.”

  The mayor shrugged.

  “I brought him into my office. Let him look out the window for a while. No one can see the lake from City Hall. Just a lot of buildings.”

  “And the people,” I said.

  “Exactly. The people. That’s what we’re all about. The people. You get it, Patrick?”

  Little cousin nodded.

  The mayor grunted. “Come inside for a second, Kelly.”

  Mayor Wilson turned and went back into his office. I followed. Everyone else knew enough to stay outside. The door closed behind us. Wilson took a seat behind his desk.

  “Take a look at this.”

  On a low table beside his desk, the mayor had a small-scale model of a park set up, complete in all its details, right down to miniature lampposts, benches, and trees.

  “Is that a dog?” I said, and pointed to a miniature canine lingering suspiciously near a miniature fire hydrant.

  “Springer spaniel,” the mayor said. “Best kind of dog God ever made. Got three of them. You know what all this is?”

  I shook my head.

  “This is Anderson Links,” the mayor said, and smiled.

  Anderson Links was once Chicago’s most exclusive golf course, one hundred acres of soft-limbed trees and butterflies spread out along the lake and two minutes’ drive from the Loop. Anderson was old-school, one of those private clubs golfers lust after because they can’t buy their way in. To play at Anderson, you had to know somebody. Preferably somebody with old money, white skin, and the political compass of Nelson Rockefeller. The club itself had operated for the better part of a century under what was described in the press as a 999-year lease with the city. That is, until one night when the mayor decided he’d had enough of the North Shore bluebloods and fired up Chicago’s road graders. The next day the city awakened to pictures of well-tended fairways bulldozed into oblivion, and Anderson’s clubhouse padlocked shut. The mayor held a press conference. He was terminating the lease and taking the property back for the city. Now he was telling me why.

  “The birds have nowhere to go, Kelly. Geese alone fly from the upper reaches of Wisconsin all the way to Mexico, some of them. They need places to rest.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “This will be a stopover.” The mayor checked a memo on his desk. “An Audubon stopover. That means a bird resting place.”

  “Okay,” I said again, as it seemed to do the trick.

  “It will also be a park for the people. Here, take a look.”

  Now the mayor took off his coat and got down on his knees so he was level with the model park. I shrugged and squatted down beside him.

  “I’m planting seven different types of trees. This section right here will be the Japanese maples.”

  The mayor slipped the thin tip of a tongue between his lips and began to move trees and park benches hither and thither.

  “These benches will be made of red oak. I want them facing east so people can sit there in the morning. Watch the sun rise over the lake.”

  “So the people get a lake view,” I said.

  “Exactly. The average guy. No charge.”

  The mayor stopped moving benches and looked over at me. Our faces were close enough that I could feel the faint wheeze of mayoral exhaust.

  “What’re you doing up here, Kelly?”

  “Just visiting a friend.”

  “A friend, huh?”

  The m
ayor got up and returned to the soft chair behind his big desk. I found my way to a hard wooden seat.

  “You don’t have any friends up here, Kelly. You understand that?”

  “Business, then.”

  “Business. Okay.”

  The mayor hesitated, smooth eyelids closing to half mast, considering my fate. I didn’t say anything.

  “It’s not that I don’t like you,” the mayor said. “Not at all. In fact, I admire you. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Good question. ’Cause you got balls.”

  The mayor held his hands in front of his face, palms up, like he was holding a couple of casaba melons. At least that’s the way I saw it.

  “Big fucking balls. Sure, you got taken down off the force. No more needs to be said. But you didn’t whine and complain. Didn’t go to the press. Didn’t file another fucking lawsuit to make me puke. You took it like a man, understood it for what it was. And you came back. You’re a player again. Not with a badge, no. But you’re someone people talk about. Someone people fear, just a little fucking bit. So when I see you on my floor, I wonder. What is Kelly with the big balls doing here? Does he have a problem with me? Does he think I destroyed his career? Is there something here I need to attend to?”

  I smiled. Carefully.

  “Mr. Mayor, I’m not out for you. Or anyone else. Like you said, what’s done is done. I understand that. On the other hand, you’re right to be concerned. A guy like me has nothing to lose. Been ruined once. Won’t hurt so much the second time.”

  Wilson pointed a long finger my way. “Exactly. Which makes you a dangerous person. You hear about my Olympic bid?”

  I shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”

  “Got a conference room across the way. Have the entire village laid out in miniature. Next time you come back, I’ll show it to you.”

  The mayor made a move to get up but stayed put behind his desk. “You didn’t answer my question, Kelly.”

  “Sir?”

  “Am I having a problem with you?”

  Wilson tipped forward as he spoke, eyes slitted again, mouth slightly open, circling his object of interest, trying to decide if what he saw was a threat or just another meal. To be honest, I wasn’t sure myself.

  “All I can promise is, I’ll play it straight,” I said. “Right down the line.”

  “And let the chips fall where they may?”

  “Something like that, Mr. Mayor.”

  Wilson’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “Don’t suppose you’d come work for me?”

  “Don’t suppose I would.”

  The mayor offered a chuckle that dried up and died from a lack of enthusiasm. Then he got up from behind the desk.

  “My old man would have loved you. Don’t really give a damn who you tell to fuck off. And you’re even polite about it. I envy you.”

  The mayor moved to the door of his office. I was just on his shoulder when he turned.

  “I hear you know some Latin.”

  I nodded.

  “Took some myself,” the mayor said. “Even remember a phrase or three.”

  I waited. The black eyes were busy, crawling over me, taking stock.

  “Verbum sapienti satis est. You know what that means, Kelly?”

  “A word to the wise is sufficient,” I said.

  “That’s good. They told me you were a smart fuck. Guess they were right. I could find out why you were up here today. But I think I’ll let it lie. For now. A word to the wise, however. Stay the fuck out of my way. I might like you, but I’ll still cut off those big balls and broil ’em up for breakfast.”

  “A friend suggested that was a distinct possibility, sir.”

  Wilson jiggled a jowl at that one and seemed about to pursue the matter. Instead, he opened the door to his office and walked out. I followed. Two minutes later, I was on the elevator, a Wilson aide on either side, sinking fast toward the street.

  CHAPTER 26

  Janet Woods lived in a section of Chicago known as Sauganash. On the northwest edge of the city, Sauganash was more suburb than city, more Irish than WASP, and tight-knit to the point of incestuous.

  A lot of cops lived in Sauganash. A lot of firemen. A lot of people like Johnny Woods. People who worked for the city and had to live there in order to keep their job. Homes in Sauganash rarely went on the market. When they did, prices started at a half mil, which was okay since no one got to buy in the neighborhood unless they “knew” somebody. Like I said, a tight-knit group.

  Johnny and Janet lived at the squared-off end of a neat block of colonials. The lawns were green, the streets clean. Kids played basketball in the driveway and probably had nice teeth. All in all, the place was safe. Boring, yes. And everyone seemed to look alike. Still, it was Sauganash. A daily celebration of a certain kind of life, preserved under glass and, in the minds of its residents, the only state of mind in which to live. Unless, of course, you could afford Winnetka.

  I parked around the corner with a view of the front door. It was just past three on a Thursday afternoon, and I needed to have a word with my client about her daughter. The same daughter who wanted me to kill her step-dad. I had thought about calling ahead of time but decided against it. Sometimes, it was better to just show up.

  I was about to get out of the car when I saw a black Saab back out of the driveway. Janet was behind the wheel, wearing a scarf and sunglasses. I was going to flag her down. Instead, I turned the engine over and followed.

  A couple of minutes later, we were out of Sauganash and into the grit along Lincoln Avenue, past two blocks’ worth of Korean restaurants, a couple of motels that rent rooms by the hour, and an all-night bail bondsman. Ten minutes after that, Janet Woods pulled to the curb inside the 1800 block of West Winona. She got out, took a quick look behind her, and headed for a place called Big Bob’s Saloon. I didn’t know much about Big Bob’s except that it sponsored Chicago’s only live turtle races. They happened every Friday night. Six turtles with numbers on their shells, a man with a microphone, and a hundred or so screaming fans. You could bet on a turtle, win a pitcher of beer, and basically get hammered as the green guys crawled across the floor. I had gone once with a woman. Won seven of eight races and lost my date halfway through. All in all, not a bad night.

  I pulled up to the curb and watched the afternoon sun paint shadows across the tavern’s front windows. Janet walked in and took a seat at the end of the bar. A moment later, the man pouring booze shifted his bulk her way. He fixed her up some sort of drink and lingered. The two talked, heads together, like they’d done it before. The talk continued for the better part of ten minutes. Then the bartender moved away and my client sat alone, sipping her drink and looking straight ahead. I locked up the car and walked into the tavern.

  At four in the afternoon, the race track wasn’t quite what I remembered. Looked more like a dump, with a long narrow bar made of thin plywood, cracked Formica tables, and the faint smell of dead rodent wafting from somewhere near the bathrooms. Up close and personal, the bartender looked like an ex-jock from a very local high school, maybe six feet and long gone to fat. He was wearing a 1985 Bears Super Bowl sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves, and inhaling an order of Chinese takeout. The rest of the place was filled up with an old man at a dark corner table, nursing a bottle of Miller High Life as if it were the champagne of beers and staring at his life from the wrong side.

  Janet drank from a plastic cup and was almost done when I walked up. She still had her sunglasses on, and the scarf bunched around her neck and lower face. She watched me approach in the mirror behind the bar.

  “You come here a lot, Michael?”

  “Been here for the turtle races.”

  Janet sniffed at that and rattled the ice in her cup. The barkeep got up with a groan, dumped some ice in another cup, and filled it up with ginger ale. He slid the drink in front of Janet, took a look at me, and asked what I wanted. I ordered a Bud and sat down without being invited.

  “This g
uy know you?” I said.

  The bartender returned with my beer, grunted back to his stool, and exhaled into a another mouthful of soft noodles. The Cubs game came up on a TV in the corner. It was the bottom of the fourth and they were losing twelve to two.

  “I come here now and again,” she said.

  I took a sip of my beer and pretended to look around. “Yeah, you fit right in.”

  “They leave me alone. Give me some space to think.”

  “You come in here to do your thinking?”

  “Sometimes. If that’s okay with you.”

  Janet took off her glasses as she spoke. The eye had healed nicely, which was good because the scarf was covering a cheek and jaw that were ruined.

  “He hit you with a fist?” I said.

  Janet pushed the scarf up close to her skin. I pulled it back.

  “Started with an open hand, didn’t he?” My fingers traced the edge of her jaw and the soft bruises she called lips. “Lip’s cut on the inside. Teeth probably went right through when he caught you. Had to be with a fist. That’s why it’s all swollen.”

  The bartender was edging his eyes my way. I wondered how much he knew about my client’s bruises. I wondered why he cared.

  “Put some ice on it if you haven’t already,” I said. “It’ll help. Still, I wouldn’t get rid of the scarf.”

  “Thanks. Is that all you came in here for?”

  “Taylor came to see me the other day.” I dropped it in without missing a beat and looked straight ahead. I felt her head swivel, her focus tighten.

  “My Taylor?”

  I nodded.

  “What did she want?”

  “She wanted to talk about her step-daddy. About how we could maybe figure out a way to kill him.”

  I caught her eyes in the barroom mirror, then they swam away.

  “How do you feel about that?” I said.

  “How am I supposed to feel?”

  “I don’t know. Sick? Scared?”

  “Taylor’s a kid. She’s upset and angry.”

  “That it?”

  “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “You sure about that?”