by Jim Stevens
“Oh, leave it, Mr. Sherlock. I hate that car.”
---
My car remains the only car at AAAAA Auto. The Yellow Pages just doesn’t get the results it used to. Blame the Internet.
“Three hundred eighty-six bucks.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Hey, shouda had this done before the warranty ran out,” Albert tells me, wiping his hands on the same greasy rag as before.
“The muffler wasn’t broken in 1993.”
“I know,” Albert says. “I was just funnin’ ya.”
“Seems like an awful lot of money for a muffler,” I tell him.
“Especially when you consider you’re spending over three hundred bucks on a car that’s worth maybe five hundred.”
Enough. I peel off a hundred dollar bill and hand it to him.
“Don’t you have anything smaller?”
I take the hundred back and hand him a fifty. “Take it or leave it.”
“The car or the money?”
Everybody’s a comedian.
---
Back home I call the girls. Care had an especially trying day at school attempting to explain to her friends why a boat the size of Panama is now parked in the driveway of the house I used to own. I can’t help her. Kelly tells me of yet another designer outfit “she just has to have” to keep up with her fellow middle school fashionistas. I also tell her I can’t help her.
“You figure out who tried to poison Tiffany, yet, Dad?” Kelly asks.
“I’m working on it.”
“Figure out who bombed the Zanadu?”
“I’m working on that too.”
“How about who killed the bartender?”
“Kelly …”
“Are you thinking outside the box, Dad?” she asks. “You should go back and, whatever you thought before, reverse it.”
“Is this something you learned from me?” I ask.
“No, I saw it on a TV show.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you coming with us to the game on Saturday?”
“Of course, Dad,” she says. “It will be the last time I get to witness total humiliation until my sister picks another sport to fail miserably at.”
“See you Saturday.” I end the conversation a bit differently than usual. “I sometimes wonder why, but I do love ya.”
“Love ya, too.”
I find an old heating pad, plug it in, and wrap it around my lumbar region. Only the right side of the pad heats up. I really wonder why I save items that only partially work. I lay down in front of The Original Carlo with my feet up on the coffee table, and contemplate. I can’t come up with anything new because my back is killing me, even the heated side. It takes about twenty minutes to feel somewhat painless there, then the phone rings. I have to get up and answer it. It’s one of those telemarketers trying to sell me a home improvement package. I hang up. Whatever happened to the No Call List? Now, I’m hurting on both sides again.
The only activity I can do to help make me feel better is to go into the kitchen, retrieve my recipe box, take out the cash, and count it. Thirty-five hundred bucks! I feel better already. Maybe I should put a down payment on a new car, or cut down my credit card debt, or take the girls someplace during my week at Christmas, or start an IRA? Or maybe pay for a back transplant, if such a procedure exists.
I return to the front room to stare again at the cards tacked up on the ugly painting. As soon as I get comfortable, the doorbell rings. Up again. I painfully hobble to the intercom box. If it’s that drunk who lives below me, his drunken friend, or a door-to-door salesman, I’m going to unlock my gun and start shooting. I push the button. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Tiffany. Hurry up and buzz me in. I hate where you live.”
By the time I get to my front door and unlock it, Tiffany has already walked up the three flights of stairs and is waiting impatiently to be admitted. “That is the ugliest belt I have ever seen,” she says as she stares at me in dismay.
“It’s not a belt. It’s a heating pad.”
She touches the back of the pad. “Shouldn’t it be hot?”
“It doesn’t work very well.”
“Neither do I because I hate work,” she admits as she comes in and sits on the couch. “Mr. Sherlock, I have a problem.”
“Join the club.” I lay back down on the floor.
“My new life coach is taking me in a direction I don’t want to go.”
“Which direction is that?”
“Her direction.”
“Not good.”
“She wants me to help spread her theory about her program to harness the power of your own smile.”
And this is surprising? “How exactly does she want you to spread her theory?”
“First, she wants to use my perfect teeth in her brochure. Second, she wants me to give her a list of all my friends. And third, she wants to use my place for something like a Life Coach Tupperware Party.” Tiffany hesitates. “Mr. Sherlock, it’s very difficult talking to you about my problem when you’re the one lying down,” she tells me.
“I’m in a lot of pain, Tiffany.”
“So am I. What should I do?”
“Smile.”
“I’m not kidding, Mr. Sherlock.”
“Whenever she asks you for something, just smile. You’ll kill her with kindness.”
“I’ve never been any good at kindness,” Tiffany admits. “This is the part of the new ‘Nice’ me that I’m having a problem with.”
“Just promise me one thing, Tiffany,” I plead. “If she asks you for money, just smile, and don’t give her a penny.”
“I would never give anyone a penny,” she says. “I hate pennies.”
The phone rings. “Would you get that for me, please?”
“Sure,” she says, getting up. “It’s not every day I get to talk on a landline.”
I listen to the one sided conversation.
“No, this is Tiffany.” Pause. “Have you asked Neula out yet?”
It has to be “Wait” Jack Wayt.
“I don’t care about your dumb diseases. Quit being such a jerk and ask her out.” Pause. “I’ll let you talk to him if you promise to take her someplace expensive.” Long pause. “And wear a suit with shoes without gummy bottoms.” Pause. “I know, so quit being a jerk and I won’t have to tell you again.”
Tiffany carries the phone over to me.
“Here. It’s Detective Wayt,” she says with a half-hearted smile.
“I would have never guessed.”
Jack doesn’t immediately complain about being sick. This must be important. I listen and hang up.
“Help me up,” I plead with Tiffany. “We have to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you if you’re going to wear that atrocious-looking belt.”
---
The place hadn’t changed much since my first visit. The only real difference being I’m arriving after the shooting instead of being there during one.
Jack is commanding a team of cops, CSI techs, and a clean-up crew.
“Wait.”
“What Jack?”
“I’m feeling a little lightheaded.”
I survey the scene and say, “I can see why.”
There’re pools of blood all over the place: On the pavement where the sliding chain-link gate is open, on one side of the dumpster where I previously hid, and by the doorway which leads into the small non-descript building. I look around for a fedora, but don’t see one.
“No-No,” who has come along for the ride, chats with Tiffany who hops around the red puddles like a frog going from lily pad to lily pad.
“What happened?” I ask Jack.
“Shootout.”
“Who won?”
“I don’t suspect there were too many winners in this contest.” Jack hands me a pair of plastic booties and a pair of latex gloves. “
You’re going to need these.”
Once I’m booted up and slip on the gloves, I follow him inside the building. “You had dinner?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
He opens the front door. “I doubt if you’re going to want any after this.”
In the front room, I count six victims, each lying in a pool of blood, some covered by plastic, and some not. There are hundreds of bullet holes in the walls. You’re bound to kill somebody if you just keep firing. The place reeks with a pungent mixture of dried blood and sulfur fumes. The table and chairs, which were here before have been blasted into the corners; automatic weapons destroy furniture as well as people. A few blood splatters still trickle down the walls. The scene is reminiscent of another day long ago in Chicago—February 14, 1929, St. Valentine’s Day.
“You know, Sherlock,” Jack says, “with all the megabucks generated by the drug trade in this town, you’d think there would be enough to go around for everybody.”
“It’s greed, Jack, helped along with a double dose of stupidity.”
We walk around the front room, and go into the back room where we find more of the same.
“You got any brand names to go along with the bodies?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure one side was the Latin Kings. I’m not sure about the other.”
“Find any drugs?”
“Whoever won took what was for sale, also the guns and any bling they could rip off a neck or pull off a finger,” Jack informs me.
“Souvenirs.”
“It’s always nice to take a memento with you to remember the fun times.” Jack stops at one of the victims, a woman. “I can’t wait to hear what the mayor has to say about this one.”
“Maybe you can make an argument about thinning the herd?” I ask, trying to come up with something positive in this disaster.
“Not when the herd keeps getting bigger and bigger.”
I stop.
Jack stops. “What?”
I lean over the body. Small, young, fragile. The cigarette she was smoking is burned down to the filter, but it remains between her fingers. That’s about the only part of her that isn’t red. She must have been shot ten times. She sure doesn’t look as good as she did the day I met her in D’Wayne DeWitt’s office.
CHAPTER 20
I’m exhausted by the time I return home. I grab the blanket off the bed and spread half of it on the floor then lie down, put my feet up on the couch, and wrap the other half of the blanket over me. I fall asleep immediately. Two hours later, I’m awake, after a full color version of the massacre I visited a few hours earlier came to me in a dream.
No matter what you read, see on TV, or what anyone tells you, each time you witness the aftermath of a murder, the horrible sight is indelibly implanted into your psyche. The latest incident is always worse than the previous one because you constantly try to convince yourself that people just can’t be that mercilessly brutal. No normal mind has the capability of fathoming the extent of devastation human beings can bestow upon one another. Each time you witness a scene of wanton killing, a little piece of your soul dies.
It’s a little past 2 a.m. I try to get back to sleep by counting sheep or by self-hypnosis. I imagine myself floating on a cloud, and moving to every possible position to ease my aching back, but nothing works. I’m as wide-awake as a rooster cock-a-doodle-dooing.
I rise and flip on the light on the side table. The Original Carlo stares down at me like Miss Tamblyn, my sixth grade teacher, did when she caught me passing love notes to Mary Ellen Webster. I sit for a while then stand up and move the cards around. I mix and match pairs of suspects like a Yenta arranging an odd assortment of marriages, but because there are so few females in the mix a lot of the relationships have to be same-sex. Monroe Chevelier and Oscar the Trainer go together, but how about Monroe and Bruno, Bruno and Oscar, or Bruno and Gibby Fearn? Wendell Bartlett has got to be hooked up with CEI, the Zanadu, or both. Does Mr. Ponytail work for Mr. D’Wayne DeWitt or Mr. Rogers? Does the Behemoth know the Thug; maybe they’re in the Brotherhood of Enforcers Union together? The only two which I’m positive are an inseparable pair are Arson and Sterno. I mix and match every possible combination, including Alix and Tiffany as co-conspirators. Talk about a match made in criminal heaven.
And I come up with a big fat zero.
It’s close to 5 a.m. and I’m still at it. I’ve gotten nowhere with the folks. I might as well consider the monetary aspect of the case. What else is there to do?
If everyone is getting a piece of the Zanadu action, how much can be left? The place obviously rakes in a ton of money via its high-priced drinks. But maybe the club takes a cut from guys like Bruno who deal drugs on the premises. Or maybe there are other illegal operations going on that I’ve been too busy (or not smart enough) to uncover. The question is: is all that cash flow large enough to pay the bills with a lot left over to allow all the principles to enjoy their lavish lifestyles?
I think back to the case of the infamous Studio 54 nightclub in New York City. In the late-70’s, the owners were raking in money hand over fist, none of which they had any intention of paying taxes on. But how do you to remove all of that moolah from the club without anybody noticing? They couldn’t just carry the stuff out in their pants pockets; after all pockets are only so big, even on rich guy’s pants. The solution: store the cash in the club’s basement—in garbage bags and carry it out like it was the trash. Who would question trash bags being carted away? But the IRS got wise. When they busted the place they found over two million disco dollars stuffed in ump-teen Hefty trash bags.
And all I have is a tiny recipe box in a kitchen cupboard for my stash.
Money is the key to this whole mess. I’m sure of it. I know from previous cases how clubs like this are structured. The owners form limited liability partnerships with as many as thirty-four partners in the mix. They pump a ton of money into decorating the place and get the best PR firm money can buy to promote the hell out it as the “newest, hip, happening place.” They pay some high-profile celebrities to party with the crowd, so that the place is packed night after night and watch the money roll in.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
After the newness and the thrill start to wear a bit thin, the partners realize another hot spot is bound to come in soon and knock them off their throne. So, they cut back on the PR, can the celebs, water down the drinks, and milk every dime out of the place. The cash from the till becomes dividends and they chalk up hefty tax write-offs to use against previous profits—thus making profits from their losses. Soon the place is in arrears. They end up selling the building for almost as much as they put into it, start searching for another location, and create another “hip, happening place.”
And I can’t get to first base uncovering who owns, or who runs, or who controls the Zanadu. I’ve tried Google, business records, city licenses, everything except the IRS because I’m scared of asking Lloyd Holler for another favor.
The only persons I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting are the guys who count the money. The guys, or maybe there’re girls or maybe there’re a mixture of both, who sit in the basement, count the cash from the pneumatic tube, and disperse it to whomever or wherever. I’ve asked around, but learned zilch. Are they trolls who live under the Kinzie Street Bridge and only come out at night to perform acts of accounting chicanery? Who do they work for? How much do they make? Do they get vacation benefits? Do they have to contribute to their own health insurance? Most importantly, how do they keep the operation secret from the rest of Chicago? Loose lips sink ships. I have to find these guys and see who’s willing to talk.
I’m still sitting at 7 a.m., staring up at the cards on the Carlo. I hear the neighborhood coming alive outside. Cars leaving parking spots, kids on their way to school, the street sweeper sweeping away, and neighbors walking their dogs to their neighbor’s lawns.
And it hits me like a cream pie right in the face.
How could I have missed this? How could I have been so stupid? It’s all there, right in front of me. Why didn’t I see it before? If I could move my feet like a normal person, I’d kick myself in the butt. I sit in awe of my own stupidity. It’s all so simple, so clear, and so logical.
They’re not carting money out of the Zanadu; they’re carting it in!
Excited, I put in a call to “Wait” Jack Wayt. He doesn’t pick up. I call “No-No”. She doesn’t pick up. I wonder if they aren’t picking up together? I call Tiffany. Of course I don’t expect her to pick up. She’s got to be sound asleep.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”
“You’re awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“I had a dream about the dream I had when I got roofied at the Zanadu.”
“Were you wearing red?”
“No, thank God.”
“What happened in the dream?” I ask.
“I was sitting there seeing myself see myself, but I couldn’t see what it was all about.”
“What was what all about?” I ask for an explanation, but I suspect her answer will be more confusing than her previous statement.
“What me was all about,” she answers, as if this is a perfectly logical conversation.
I contemplate that for a moment then ask, “So, you couldn’t sleep because what you are all about is what’s bothering you?”
“Exactly.”
I’m certainly glad that’s all squared away.
“Tiffany, I need to use your big TV set.”
“You want me to DVR a show for you?”
“No, I need to go over the DVDs from the Zanadu again.”
“I can’t watch that stuff ever again, Mr. Sherlock. It’s too devastating. That’s what started this whole mess.”
“I know, but there’s something I have to see. Please?” I plead nicely.
“Sure”, she says with a sigh, “come on over. But take a cab. Just knowing that car of yours is parked in my building makes my stomach spaz out.”
---
The ‘L’ ride downtown is hardly good therapy for a bad back, especially when you have to stand, sharing a pole grip with eight or nine other riders during rush hour. The pain subsides a bit because my mind is racing. I discover two other aspects I’ve missed, and how to quickly alleviate both missteps.