by Ritz, David
“Didn’t he come to Betty Ford during family day?”
“Yeah.”
“And didn’t your mom refuse?”
“She wouldn’t walk across the street to help me.”
“Well, doesn’t his flying out to Arizona count for anything?”
“He didn’t say much.”
“But he was there. Look, Judy, I’ve gotten to know this man. I know he cares. I know he loves you.”
“And killing Dwayne is his way of proving it.”
“He didn’t kill him.”
“You don’t know that.”
Before I could say anything, a man with a curly gray wig came to our table. It looked to me like he had on eye shadow. He was wearing a purple silk shirt.
“Uncle Marsh,” said Judy.
“How are you, my dear?”
“This is Power,” she said. “He works for Dad.”
“Power looks very powerful,” Marsh said, looking me over. “I trust you’re enjoying your dinner.”
“Better than the food at Betty Ford,” said Judy. “You do know that I was at Betty Ford last month?”
“Dear God, no,” said Marsh. “I hadn’t the slightest. How distressing.”
“It was actually good. I’m in touch with my feelings.”
“Well, I suppose that’s good.”
“Actually, I’m not sure, because right now I’m feeling you fucked my mother out of this restaurant. And when you fucked my mother, you fucked me.”
Marsh flushed. “I’m afraid that your sense of history is distorted, my dear. Your mother had no interest in this restaurant.”
“She used to run it,” said Judy. “Then you pushed her out. I should be running it.”
“Actually,” said Marsh, “I should be running along. Nice to meet you, Mr. Power. Enjoy your evening.”
When he was gone, Judy said, “Fuckin’ fruitcake. He came running out of the closet the minute after their dad died. He’s one of those evil fags.”
“He seems polite.”
“Because he thinks you’re cute. If my father cared two shits about me, he’d get back this restaurant for me.”
“You already have a beauty salon.”
“It’s running without me. I’m bored with the beauty salon. I like restaurants and by all rights this one should be mine. I’m gonna work on my father. For what he did to Dwayne, he owes me. Daddy owes me big-time. If he won’t do this for me, I’ll never forgive him.”
“Judy, you gotta stop manipulating your father.”
“My father’s the biggest manipulator there is. You know that. You’re manipulating him yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You got him to take you out of the beauty parlor and put you in the office so you can get closer to him. Everyone wants to get closer to him.”
“That was his idea, not mine.”
“You’re saying that you didn’t want out of Hair Is Where It’s At?”
“I’m saying that I do what I’m told.”
“Don’t give me that Southern gentleman act. I don’t buy that for a minute. You were told by my father never to fuck me again, weren’t you? That’s why you won’t have sex with me, isn’t it?”
“Me and your father never talked about that.”
“Please, Power. Spare me the bullshit. You and my father talk about everything. You’re the son he never had. You’re the fuckin’ golden boy. That’s why he’s got you sitting up in his office watching his every move. He’s never let anyone do that. You’re the only one he trusts. Well, trust me: If I don’t get this restaurant to run, my father’s got hell to pay. You tell him that.”
“You tell him yourself.”
“Fine. I’m also telling him that you can’t keep your hands off me. That not only are you begging me to fuck you, you want to watch me and one of your girlfriends from the beauty parlor. You want to turn me into a freak.”
“Tell him what you want, Judy.”
“I want to order a drink.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You drink and I’m out of here.”
“Drinking was never my problem. It was the drugs. Drinking never did anything for me.”
“So why order a drink?”
“Because I want to. Because this was my mother’s restaurant and it should have been my restaurant and I can do any goddamn thing I want to do.”
“Fine,” I said, conceding.
Judy waved over the waiter. “Bring me a double martini.”
“That’s not going to help anything,” I said.
“You gonna join me or make me drink alone?”
“Drink alone and eat alone. Later.”
I got up and left. By the time I put on my scarf, hat, and overcoat and walked out the door, the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. The snow was still howling and the wind whipped around the corner and hit me in the face like God was angry, like God was telling me to get the hell out of Chicago.
“My dad came to Chicago in the dead of winter,” said Irv Wasserman. “He came from Ukraine in Eastern Europe, where it was not safe for him and his family to live. Hatred was everywhere. My family was hunted like animals. My older sister was born in the old country and died a year after she arrived here. She could have been saved, but my parents didn’t have money for the right doctor. I was born three years later. My father said I was a mistake.”
It was early March and the weather had turned even colder. Irv and I were in the suite of Wasserman Enterprises on the seventy-first floor of the Hancock Building. Irv’s corner office had a commanding view of a city blanketed in snow. He had given me a desk and chair, a smaller office that I shared with John Mackey. Mackey didn’t seem to mind. He was a combination lawyer-accountant-secretary-manager-consigliere, a man of few words. He was pale, short, and addicted to skinny little cigars. He smoked them constantly. Irv told me that Mackey never stopped thinking.
“My mother said not to pay attention to my father,” Wasserman continued, telling me stories that by now he’d told me at least two other times. I didn’t mind, though. I liked listening to Irv. He talked in a singsong, hypnotic style.
“My mother said that I really wasn’t a mistake, but I knew I was. My father never lied. He was a lousy businessman. He tried scrap metal but failed. From scrap metal he went into shellac. He and a partner started manufacturing shellac records. This partner, a man named Bender whose parents came from Poland, was shrewd. He wanted to do more than make the records. He knew that if he found and controlled the artists to sing on the records, more money would be made. The big record labels were ignoring the blues singers who had come to Chicago from the South. Bender saw that black people working the mills and the slaughterhouses went to nightclubs to hear these singers. Bender also loved the music. He knew the music. He went to those clubs, gave the singers a few dollars to sing in a studio, made the records, and sold them from the back of his 1943 Packard. Bender was the front man. My father was the worker. By the early fifties, serious money was being made but my father saw that Bender was hiding most of it in a secret account. They had words. Bender was a big burly man and intimidated my father. My mother scolded my father for being intimidated. A week later, he suffered what they called a nervous breakdown. He was never the same. When he recovered, he was a frightened man who Bender put in charge of taking inventory in the warehouse. Bender made millions while we barely survived. This happened when I was a small boy. I watched it.”
“Didn’t you wind up buying Bender Records?” I asked, pretending like I didn’t know.
“There was nothing to buy. A year after my father passed—may he rest in peace—the warehouse burned down along with the manufacturing plant. Old man Bender had nothing but a roster of artists who hated him and were eager to record for someone willing to pay more. That someone was me.”
“How old were you when you started Wasserman Records?”
“A little older than you, Powe
r. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“I found partners. Enemies of Bender. Men he had been cheating.”
“And they trusted someone so young?”
“I knew how to sell. I knew how to put on a suit and make a nice presentation. I was sincere. I told my investors I’d be working for them and my motivation was to double their money in a year. I accomplished that. I accomplished it by trusting the black man. A black man went to the clubs and told me which singers were the best. That’s something I could never do for myself. Another black man wrote songs for these artists. And a very talented black man ran the recording studio. They were all well paid. To this day they will swear by me. They own their own homes. They have pension plans. They take their grandchildren on the Disney cruises. They go first-class.”
“And the nightclubs came after the record company?”
“The nightclubs I wasn’t all that personally involved in. They were investments. Good investments. You’re too young to remember the disco era, but discos made money. Johnnie Meadows came out of disco. He sang in one of my discos. Then he had all those hits on my label. Big moneymaker. But he could never leave the broads alone. Broads were his downfall. That’s why his goddamn wife was so angry—may she rot in jail.”
“And rap and hip-hop—how did all that start?” I asked.
“Wasserman Records was not a good name for the new music. It was Judy who told me to call it Complex Music. She said the kids would relate. They did. It was the son of my studio engineer Aaron Kendle—Aaron Jr.—who was our first rapper. Little Aaron they called him. I didn’t know what the fuck he was rapping about, but who cares when you get sales like Little Aaron got? Little Aaron also found the ChiBoyz. They had a run of hits when boy bands were big. Soon Little Aaron stopped rapping and became a full-time talent scout and producer. He discovered Hancock, the kid who named himself after this building, and last year he discovered Candy Girl. Candy Girl is the hottest thing going. I introduced you to Candy Girl, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“She’s a clever girl.”
“Very.”
“Sensational show-business talent.”
“She’s selling out the big arenas,” I said.
“Next year the ballparks. I’m booking her into Yankee Stadium.”
“Wow.”
“Some guy is writing a book about her. Imagine writing a biography of a girl who’s barely twenty-one. I don’t want him writing it, though.”
“How come?”
“Because Candy Girl is all about the mystery behind the crazy image. I don’t want her unwrapped. The more mystery, the bigger the sales.”
“Isn’t she just a white girl from the burbs?”
“A fuckin’ clever white girl who’s got more ambition than Napoleon. That’s why I love her. Before Judy went to Betty Ford, I was gonna have Judy work with her. But Judy was in no shape to work with anyone. Now when I mention it to Judy, Judy calls her a cheap whore. I think Judy’s jealous of her. Have you seen Judy recently?”
“We ate at Le Beef.”
“Why the hell did she pick that restaurant?”
“She wants you to buy it for her so she can run it.”
“My crazy goddamn daughter. It wasn’t enough to have a crazy wife. But to have a daughter who got all her mother’s craziness—it’s too much. I’m not doing it. I’m drawing the line.”
“She thinks—”
“I know what she thinks. She thinks it’s because of me that her meathead boyfriend got killed.”
Irv stopped talking. I waited for him to deny it. Until now, I was pretty sure, given what I had seen at the gym, that one of those shady steroid cats had murdered Dwayne. Now I wasn’t so sure. At the same time, I wasn’t about to ask. The silence hung over us. Irv took several sighs before he started talking again.
“Look, Power, your uncle—or whatever he is to you—sent you here to learn. You’ve been a good kid. I like you. You been good to me and you been good to my daughter. You listen and you know when to shut up. So I’m going to tell you everything I know. It ain’t that much. It couldn’t fill a book. It couldn’t even fill a chapter in a book. Here’s what it comes down to: They say family comes first, but family fucks you. I was a mistake to my family. My father didn’t want me, and I knew that every day of my life. My father fucked me up. Then, careful as I was before marrying, my wife fucked me up. Now you see my daughter is fucking me up. Families are supposed to be for comfort, but families are horror shows. Don’t marry, Power. Don’t ever get married. Don’t get involved with family. You stay clear of family and your mind stays clear. You need a clear mind if you’re going into Slim’s business. Slim has stores and car washes and other thriving businesses. Slim is local. I met Slim when I needed an Atlanta connection for some of my thriving businesses. Slim helped me, so I’m helping him by helping you. I’m telling you to stay local. I’m in Chicago, I’m in Cleveland, I’m in Detroit. With this hip-hop business, I’m all over the map. It’s too much. I have too many people I have to trust. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Stay local and keep it simple.”
“You put it beautifully. Local can be lucrative. Local can be more lucrative than national because national can drain you. I worry all the time because I got so much shit to worry about. Especially my daughter. I’ve tried to make her happy. You’ve seen that. No father has tried harder. But if you ask me, Power, how to get ahead in this business, I’m telling you find one, maybe two people you can trust and stop there. If you need more than two, your business is too big. Right now my business is too big. And what do I got to show for it? Fancy houses, fancy office, fancy car. But a crazy ex-wife and a crazy daughter. And aggravation.”
I wanted to say something to make Irv feel better, but I didn’t know what to say. The man always talked about aggravation. There was no talking him out of it. And I knew what he meant about his business. I saw all the different operations that spread in different directions. He had let me sit in on certain meetings where he faced the guys who ran his nightclubs, his management firm, his hip-hop label, and his booking agency. He kept me out of meetings where he talked about his “other” operations. I never asked him what they were.
I saw how Irv questioned all his lieutenants closely. I saw how he wrestled with the business of trust. He didn’t want to trust anyone, but he had no choice. Take the hip-hop label. He told me that he didn’t really trust the label president, a man he had personally hired, so he put in another guy under the president. The second guy was there as Irv’s watchdog, but after a couple of weeks, Irv began having doubts about the watchdog. What if the watchdog had been bought off by the president? What if the two of them were devising schemes to skim off the top? Of course John Mackey was there to oversee everything. Irv trusted John Mackey with his life. Mackey’s loyalty couldn’t be questioned. After all, Irv had made Mackey a millionaire many times over. When it came to numbers, Irv said that Mackey was a genius. Mackey was ten steps ahead of everyone.
But even Mackey made mistakes. Irv told me about how it was him, not Mackey, who figured out how their outside public relations firm had been billing them at twice their normal rates. Mackey didn’t know anything about public relations, but Irv did. Irv realized his profile in that city had to be positive—and that would take work. But he also knew that was no reason for a PR firm to jack up their rates. He found this out by comparing bills with his friend Cooper Newberry, president of Great Lakes Bank. Newberry, who had once been indicted by the Feds, used the same PR firm. When the charges didn’t stick, Newberry needed help to restore his image. “I wouldn’t give two shits about image,” Irv told me, “if a bad image didn’t hurt business.”
During these different business meetings with his underbosses, Irv didn’t talk much. He listened closely. He kept a yellow pad on his desk and took notes with a fancy Montblanc fountain pen. The notes were mainly questions. When the underboss was done reporting, the q
uestions came quickly.
“How did you get that figure?”
“How does this year’s gross compare to last year’s?”
“Why did you raise that rate?”
“Why did you lower that one?”
“What are the projected earnings?”
“What are the projected losses?”
“Where’s the fuckin’ backup data?”
“Why don’t you know how the competition’s numbers stack up against us?”
I watched as the men sitting across from Irv’s desk squirmed. The cross-examination was rough, and if the answers didn’t come in a timely fashion, or if the answers didn’t come at all, that underboss would be replaced within a few days. The revolving door never stopped revolving.
Spring
It was April of the following year when I thought I saw Beauty walking into an upscale mall on Michigan Avenue. She was walking through a revolving door. I was a half block away, and as soon as I saw her, I started to sprint. Even before I saw her, the day felt good. Winter was turning to spring and the sun was finally out in force. I was full of energy. As the weather got warmer, Irv got crazier—and so did Judy. But the more they talked about their problems and the louder they became, the more I learned to tune them out. Or at least separate myself from the drama.
In mid-March, for example, when Judy’s uncle Marsh was run over by a speeding pickup truck as he was walking across Rush Street, his restaurant business went into disarray and, at a rock-bottom price, Irv was able to buy the Le Beef location that Judy wanted. The driver and the pickup truck that killed her uncle were never found. Irv gave Le Beef to Judy but only on the condition that she enroll in a management school at a business college in downtown Chicago. She agreed. She hated the school and called it a waste of time until she a met a teacher, a California surfer-type guy in his thirties, and coaxed him into bed.
Meanwhile, during meetings with his underbosses Irv seemed on edge. He was more suspicious than usual. Once or twice, he lost his temper when the answers to his questions didn’t come quickly enough. Irv had always told me how important it was to contain your temper. A couple of times he called me at night just to retell all the stories about his mother, father, and former wife that he had told me before. When he took me to opening day at Wrigley Field, he hardly watched the game. That was unusual because Irv loved his Cubbies. He spent the whole time on his cell phone talking to John Mackey. When the food didn’t arrive at his private box behind home plate, he started yelling. I started wondering what was happening. I also wondered if at some point Irv would turn on me. After all, I didn’t do much real work. I sat in the office with Mackey and got a pretty good idea of how the operation worked but had no real duties. “That’s how it should be,” Irv said. “Your job is watch and learn. Not do.”