Advantage Disadvantage

by Yale Jaffe

“Ok, I guess,” cautiously replied Frank.

  “Look, I’ll be brief. I am still investigating the gang activity on the west side. I know you run across several people in the gyms so I thought that maybe we could exchange information. I’ll tell you some stuff that you can use in your column, and then perhaps you can help me.”

  “Sounds alright. But I’m not sure I have anything to give you.”

  Detective Battle began, “There’s a kid on my NAU team who is attracting lots of attention. His father is shopping this boy to the highest bidder to land him in a suburban district. I am fucking appalled. The kid’s father is interviewing coaches who must know exactly what he is doing. They cannot be that naïve, but hell, the kid is a seventh grader. IIAA would not approve I am sure. The boy’s name is Gary J. Stevens. He’s a hooper, but this crap makes me sick.”

  “That’s pretty interesting. The family is willing to move to get him with the best coach?” Frank asked smelling a great expose.

  “I don’t even know if they are looking for the best coach, maybe they are shaking down coaches for money. What if the family is being paid to move somewhere by some crazy school booster? I’m thinking if you break the story maybe that will stop this whole situation in its tracks,” the detective pondered.

  “That’s good stuff that I can check out, T.J. I cannot believe some of these parents. I wish I could help you with something.”

  “Alright, I’ll tip my hand here. I am trying to track down that ghetto-bookie – you and I have talked about Bobby the Greek aka Bobby G. I know you met him years ago and you probably keep running into him around the high school gyms. Have you seen him lately?”

  Frank wiped the sweat off his forehead and switched the phone to his other ear. His tongue was sticking to the back of his teeth with terrible, nervous cottonmouth. “No, the last time I saw him was around halftime at the UC Super Sectional game ten days ago. What’s up with him?”

  “Rumors are flying on the street. I have heard that there are a couple open contracts sent out to gang hit men to take Bobby G. down. There is not a trace of him. His crib has been under our surveillance for a week. We have caught a few baby bangers ransacking his belongings, but he has not been seen anywhere. I am not sure if he is alive or dead as we speak. Do you have any idea why they are trying to kill this guy?”

  Frank was trying to figure out if the detective was testing him. Scrambling to think about what to say in the event that Bobby G. had secretly confessed about their betting scheme, Frank decided to tell half-truths to give him some wiggle room.

  “Well T.J., I heard that Bobby G. made a killing on the East End versus Carl Markon Super Sectional game. Not just homer money – he walloped the gangs’ big time. Maybe that is why he was not downstate at the finals. That’s all I know.” He was hoping that the detective could not sense the nervousness in his voice.

  “Oh. That helps add a piece to this puzzle. Our gang insiders will not give up anything about Bobby G. Now I understand why. I will tell you, they have a take-no-prisoner attitude about him; he is marked to die unless the department finds him first. If you hear anything about him or his whereabouts, call me at the seventh precinct, will ya?”

  “Sure will, and thanks for the info about Gary J. Stevens. I’ll check it out and write a column that might dissuade any financial offers for the seventh grader.”

  “Look, if you report about his situation you have to disguise your information. I don’t want the parents to know that I betrayed their trust, as disgusting as their high school search is turning out to be.”

  “I know how to protect sources. Done.”

  Frank was not sure what to make of the phone call. There certainly was no accusatory tone to the conversation, and he reasoned that if the police discovered his role in Advantage/Disadvantage, he did not lie to Detective T.J. He merely omitted some facts. More waiting to hear from the bookie was in store for Frank.

  Chapter Thirty-seven. The Gem of South Chicago

  Paranoia was an understatement to describe Bobby G.’s mood. He watched from across the street as the police staffed round-the-clock surveillance of his apartment and he witnessed their inaction while baby thugs were carting away his belongings. He knew he needed to blow out of town like a Midwest twister. He surmised that the gangs might be watching Midway and O’Hare, and probably the Greyhound Station as well. He waited until nightfall to walk several miles ultimately ending up at the South Shore Cultural Center. The Park District property was a beautiful expanse of golf course, lakefront beach and horse stable recreational area. The pavilion looked magnificent with its late-night minimalist electric lighting and overhead natural moonlight. The clear spring night was beautiful. It was crisp enough that Bobby G. could see his breath, but not too cold. Bobby G. began casing the perimeter to ensure he was alone. He was on the run for so many days; he trusted no one and left nothing to chance. The last thing he wanted to do was stumbling on a couple of innocent kids using the beautiful park as an improvised cheap motel.

  Bobby started at the base of the driveway to the property. It was the only street into the park. The lot was void of cars. He noticed the mounted dedication plaque on the walkway from the lot leading to the pavilion.

  “The South Shore Country Club is hereby dedicated by the founding fathers and their families. Captains of Chicago-based industries proudly cooperated to build this recreation center to encourage the athletic endeavors of golf, tennis, and sulky horse racing.” The names of the founders included famous local people such as Marshall Fields and A Montgomery Ward.

  Walking past the stables at the southern end of the properties, he saw signs of the modern transformation of the use of this facility. He heard the quiet whinny of the few horses quartered in a miniature barn. He saw the markings of the Chicago Mounted Police on the entrance wall. Protestors made history in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention. As the hippies rioted near the downtown hotels, the politicians selected Hubert Humphrey to run against Richard Nixon. Chicago Police dispatched mounted cops from here to help quash the anti-war protesters in Grant Park and at the Palmer House Hotel. He stopped at the water fountain to wet his parched lips. He was nervous that someone followed or tracked him onto this facility. His neck strained from the constant turning to check behind.

  The nine-hole golf course was modest by modern standards, but its pure beauty was unmatched in Chicago. Bobby G. paced the outer edges of the course, overwhelmed by the serenity of the syncopating waves on Lake Michigan. No one was on the property. He marched down the sandy beach from the north tip back towards the pavilion. The two-story building had served as an exclusive hotel in the heyday of the club. Various celebrities loved to stay and perform there. Preserved on the ground floor were pictures of some of the guests from the “good ole days”. Bobby G. never heard of some of them. He passed pictures in the showcase of Jean Harlow, Will Rogers, Cary Grant, and Adlai Stevenson. He could not help but confirm a fact that he suspected – no black people hung out in this place until the city acquired the property in 1973. Very ironic, he thought, for a place like this to end up hosting mostly African-American centric cultural events in the now mostly black south side neighborhood. He walked around the building, and saw no one. It was time to make the call.

  Chapter Thirty-eight. Where Have You Been?

  It was midnight; two weeks after the state championship had ended. Frank would have liked to forget about the whole ordeal. However, if Bobby G. would squawk to the police, or to the gangbangers for that matter, Frank would be in big trouble. The sportswriter was tossing and turning in bed when his cell phone rang. He checked the Caller ID but the ID and number were blocked.

  “Hello, this is Frank. How may I help you?”

  “Hey Red. ‘sup?”

  “Jack? Where are you? Are you ok?” Frank inquired.

  “I’m alright. I bet you didn’t think I’d call you.”

  “I’ve been worried about that … this probably isn’t a good idea, someone else may be li
stening.”

  “This is a pre-paid minute phone I bought for cash without giving my name,” Bobby G. said.

  “Speaking of cash, Jack, I think you owe me some money?” he demanded.

  “That’s why I’m calling, Holmes. I need to meet you to square up.”

  “What if someone is listening?” the nervous sportswriter responded.

  “Here’s what you do. Follow these instructions exactly. Leave your cell phone in your place. They can trace it even if it is turned-off. Do you remember the place we ate when we last discussed the plan – you know the restaurant with two buildings, don’t say the name but here’s another clue, you called it ‘Leonard’s Place’?”

  He could only be talking about “The Bridge”, Calumet Fisheries. Frank replied, “Sure, I remember.”

  “OK, Frank, listen carefully. Drive to that restaurant and go into the public phone booth on the corner. I have written my new phone number on the first page of the hanging phone book. Call me when you get there and I will tell you where to meet me. Hurry up. I won’t wait all night.”

  “You’re acting like you don’t trust me,” Frank whispered.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Bobby G. sadly concluded before he hung up on Frank.

  For the past two weeks, Frank had been thinking about what he would do under different scenarios. Could he trust the bookie to give him his share, or was Bobby G. setting up a trap for Frank? He had no choice but to quickly throw on his clothes on and begin the twenty-minute drive.

  ***

  Bobby G. walked over to the beach and sat in the nearby grass watching the waves lightly pound the shoreline. He had decided to go to Miami with his share of the money, about one million dollars. No more vice, no more work. He imagined living under the radar there for a couple years, undiscovered. He looked forward to the relaxed life away from the gangbangers that was so hard to escape. With Frank’s help he could make it happen.

  Frank arrived at the phone booth on the base of the bridge shortly before 1:00 a.m. He was out of breath and panting just after getting out of his car. He spanned the desolate surroundings, and seeing no one, he opened the phone book and dropped a couple coins in the archaic telephone machine. He ripped the page out of the book and dialed the number written on it. He was sweating like an altar boy at a John Gacy cookout.

  “Hi partner. Is that you?” Bobby G. asked the caller.

  “Yep, now what? You are not going to run me around the city are you? I just want my money, no bullshit.”

  “No man. I got yours and I got mine. Your cut is $450,000. But I need your help blowin out of’ Chi-town.”

  “Not until you pay me.”

  “Like I said, I got yours – cool down, man. I want to meet you and give you your cut … but I need you to help me leave. I know how these bangers work. They probably have young bloods watching O’Hare, Midway, and Amtrack. It’s too risky for me, man.”

  “That’s for sure. I heard that someone put on a contract to kill you,” Frank told him. “I wasn’t sure if you were dead or alive.”

  After a long pause, Bobby G. said, “Frank, I want to go to Miami. I have got over one-million dollars for myself, enough money to live the good life without workin’ a hustle down there. So, let us meet and I will get you your split, if and only if you drive me to Detroit. From there, I can get to Miami.”

  “If you give me the $450,000, I’ll drive you wherever you want to go tonight.” Frank agreed.

  “I will only give you the money if you promise to never bet another football game,” Bobby G. could not resist needling him one more time.

  “Fuck you, you bastard. After tonight, I am so done with you. Where are you? Let’s go – we have a long drive.”

  “Frank, have you ever been to the South Shore Cultural Center?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that where the South Shore Country Club used to be? 70th and Lake Shore Drive right?”

  “That’s it. I am waiting here with your money in my knapsack. You’re about three miles from here.”

  Bobby G. walked over past the front of the pavilion to position himself to watch for Frank’s car approaching down the driveway, the only way he could pull in. He took the knapsack full of money off his back and wore it sidesaddle over one shoulder. He sat down on the ground and leaned against the support column waiting for Frank.

  ***

  Frank knew the neighborhood well. When Frank’s family lived in nearby Pill Hill, they were aware of the South Shore Country Club, but like the other Jews living in South Shore Gardens or Jeffrey Manor, they were not welcome in this white, gentile-only exclusive club. How ironic that a Jew and an African-American were meeting here to conduct business - a place that either of them would not have been allowed before 1973. Not fully trusting Bobby G., Frank decided that he would park at 72nd and Coles to avoid driving through the vulnerable single-lane main entrance on the Cultural Center driveway. The two-block walk would let him sneak up and possibly see if anyone else was there beside Bobby G.

  Bobby G. clenched the knapsack straps around his arm – he was not going anywhere without this money. He had a clear view of the driveway and anxiously waited for Frank to pull in. In what seemed like an eternity, Bobby G. thought he heard feint footsteps off to the side. Out of the dark night, he saw a shadowy figure moving toward him. He could see the light traces of breath come out of the ski mask worn by the unknown stranger. Dark clothes, a ski mask and gloves hid the intruder’s identity except his mouth.

  “Frank is that you? I can’t see who you are.”

  The figure moved closer and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small handgun. Bobby G. recognized the gun as one of his old crew’s Cobalt pistols.

  “They really did put a contract out on me” Bobby G.’s mind raced as his heartbeat soared. And they sent one of his old cronies. Most of his old acquaintances were dead or doing time – who could it be? The names of the possibilities ticked through his mind.

  “Davis, did they put you up to this? Don’t do it Cuz … let’s talk about this … I can share this money with you” he said scrambling to his feet.

  The gunman pointed the Cobalt at Bobby G. in cold-blooded fashion and he fired a shot into Bobby G.’s chest. The bookie dropped to the ground and the bleeding started immediately. The gunman pulled his mask off and Bobby G. recognized him right away. Gasping to breathe and beginning to go into shock, Bobby G. cried out, “You mother fucker. Why did …”

  “Click, click, click, click” the Cobalt pistol rang out to interrupt the bookie’s protest. Bobby G. slumped over on the ground in a pool of blood. Steam was eerily rising from his exposed body fluids into the cool night. The shooter put his mask back on and yanked the knapsack free of the dying bookie’s grip. He dropped the Cobalt Baretta at the dying bookie’s feet. With one less major irritant, and a whole lot richer, Frank Worrell disappeared into the dark night.

  Chapter Thirty-nine. Information, Please

  About a week after Bobby G. died, Frank had stashed the money safely for a rainy day. He was daydreaming at his desk at the Windy City Daily when he answered the phone.

  “Frank, this is Detective Battle. How ya doing?” Frank sat straight up in his chair.

  “I’m alright. Whaddya think about Bobby G.’s death?” he asked, feeling that now familiar tightening in his chest.

  “We think one of the gangbangers from his past killed him to collect the contract fee,” replied Detective Battle.

  “How do you know that – our paper reported as late as yesterday that you had no clues or motivation for his killing,” Frank said to probe the officer.

  “Frank, you know that they had a contract out on him. However, what you don’t know is that we found the murder weapon – it was a Baretta 9mm. It had a dark blue inlay, which was the insignia of an old busted up gang. So, we are going through our list of known gang members that could have had one of these blue Barettas. We want your paper to leak the fact that we know he was shot and the shooter was from the original g
ang.”

  Frank put his hand over the phone mouthpiece and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  “There’s more information we want leaked. We led the media to believe that there were knife wounds. Really, there were five shots at close range. I want to reiterate to you Frank, if you are pressed to disclose your sources, the Chicago Police will first deny it and then we will come down on you like you can’t believe,” Detective Battle warned. “But everything I am telling you, we want published. We want you to repeat often, in the paper the words, ‘According to a secret informer to the Chicago Police’. That will make the gang members distrustful of each other, and one by one, they will seek a deal with us. We’re going to flush out those punks, and break up the gang that killed Bobby G.”

  Frank said, “I get it. I do not want to jeopardize our information sharing. T.J. don’t worry, our conversations are completely private and in confidence.”

  They talked for a half hour. The police had several important pieces of information that they discovered so far in this investigation. Frank was delighted that his plan to mislead the cops by dropping the Baretta at the crime scene was working well. When they hung up, Frank began knocking out a series of outlines for future articles about the bookie’s death with the “inside” information that he learned from Detective Battle.

  Chapter Forty. Presenting to the Board of Directors

  Frank knew when the regularly scheduled board of directors operations meeting was taking place. Attending this meeting were official members of the board (the owners of the paper), Nancy Kapist the chief editor of the paper, and each department head. These meetings were all business: sales, advertising, revenues, and costs. The boardroom was on the floor with executive offices.

  Based on the information that Detective Battle had provided, Frank charted out a series of seven potential articles. Each one had unique insights into the shooting death of Robert Jones, aka Bobby the Greek or Bobby G. He brought copies of the first outline and a summary to indicate the quality and insight that he had. Frank arrived uninvited to the executive floor and was intercepted by the Chairman’s secretary. He told her that Nancy inviting him to present to the board. Frank sat on a chair just outside the boardroom waiting for chance to go in. Nancy noticed him through the windowed wall. She wondered if he had gone over her head to attend to the meeting. She instantly copped an attitude, excused herself form the board meeting, and went out to talk to the sportswriter.