Rough Trade

by Hartzmark, Gini

  Just as Jeff had said, the box contained documents. Manila envelopes, neatly labeled, contained the contracts of key personnel. I noted there was one for Darius Fredericks, the one that was as infamous for its lack of a morals clause as it was for its dollar amount, another example of Harald Feiss’s incompetence. Jake Palmer’s was there, too, along with Coach Bennato’s and, interestingly enough, one for Jeff. I looked them through briefly and was forced to conclude that I’d chosen the wrong line of work. Football paid better than anything else I could think of, including robbing banks. Indeed, a quick scan of Darius Fredericks’s contract revealed that if the wounded wide receiver ended up dying, the organization would find itself considerably richer.

  There was only one envelope that was unmarked, and I pulled it from the bottom of the pile. It was also sealed, and after a moment’s hesitation I loosened the flap and emptied out the contents on the table.

  It has been a long time since I have been really, truly shocked. I stared and gaped, pushing my chair back instinctively from the table to gain some distance. They were a series of photographs, professional quality, of my friend Chrissy Rendell engaged in what could only be described as an astonishing variety of sex acts with a generously endowed black man who I did not recognize.

  My stomach turned and yet I forced myself to take a closer look. In the pictures her hair was cut in the shaggy style she’d favored in her last year of college. A close examination of her face revealed that the pictures were, I guessed, at least a half a dozen years old. I wondered why Jeff had chosen to keep them in the team’s safe deposit box and could only conclude that the decision had not been his own, but Beau’s. If it was Beau who had been originally approached with the photos I would not have put it past him to use them as a tool for keeping Jeff in line.

  No wonder Jeff had been desperate for the cops to not see these, I thought to myself quickly, sliding them back into their envelope and locking them back up in the box. He’d said Chrissy didn’t even know what was there. No doubt someone had tried a spot of blackmail. I wondered who.

  There was no pretense in Gus Wallenberg’s office that morning, no bonhomie. Just the banker behind the bunker of his desk, a small smile of self-satisfaction on his face.

  “I assume you have come to deliver a cashier’s check for $18 million,” he said, leaning back in his chair, enjoying himself.

  “I had hoped to bring it with me today,” I answered easily, “but you can understand that Jeffrey Rendell’s murder has interfered with the family’s ability to transact business.”

  “Unfortunately these personal issues are no concern of the bank,” pointed out Wallenberg. “I’m sure you understand that, barring full payment of the default amount, First Milwaukee has no choice but to put the Milwaukee Monarchs Corporation into receivership.”

  “I’m not sure that would be in the bank’s best interest,” I suggested.

  “If you can’t make good on the default, I’m afraid that our business is concluded.”

  I looked at my watch. “I believe your secretary should be receiving a fax copy of a commitment letter for the funds from the newest shareholder of the Monarchs organization. A hard copy will be arriving via Federal Express later this morning.”

  He picked up his phone and punched the number for an internal line. “Stella?” he barked into the receiver. “Is there a fax coming through for me?” He nodded and released the switch. A few seconds later a primly dressed woman delivered the faxes.

  “Paul Riskoff the real estate developer?” demanded Wallenberg, scanning the top sheet.

  “Yes. As you can see, Mr. Riskoff is prepared to pay $50 million for an as yet unspecified number of shares. That’s enough to cover the default, current payables, and a hefty contribution to renovating their existing stadium.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Millholland,” declared Wallenberg, not looking sorry at all, “but you and I both know that this piece of paper is worthless and your client is still in default.”

  “Jeffrey Rendell died last night,” I pointed out.

  “And in the wake of her husband’s death, Mrs. Rendell assumes the obligations of her husband’s estate. The identity of the noteholder in no way changes the contractual obligations of this bank.”

  “I think it drastically affects your exposure,” I pointed out.

  “According to which accounting principle?” demanded Wallenberg.

  “Oh, I’m not talking about anything you can put down in black and white on your balance sheet, but I guarantee you that if you call the Monarchs’ loan, this bank will take a hit on the bottom line so big that it will take you six months to stop gushing red ink.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. I’m merely pointing out what will happen should you elect to remain inflexible in this matter. First of all, I am prepared to see to it that Mrs. Rendell signs an agreement today with the Greater Los Angeles Stadium Commission, who will see to it that you receive your $18 million via wire transfer by the close of business today.”

  “Then the bank will be satisfied.”

  “Good. Because after that I’m getting on the phone to the producer of every single tabloid news show and I’m going to make sure that my attractive and highly sympathetic client not only parades her widowhood on television, but tells everyone who will listen to her that it was the actions of First Milwaukee that forced her to move the team. People will be standing in line to pull their money from the bank. When I’m done with them, they’ll see it as their civic duty. You’ll be lucky if you have six Christmas Club accounts by the end of the year.”

  “This is blackmail,” sputtered Wallenberg.

  “This is business,” I replied coldly. “Don’t you start turning all pathetic on me now. After all, you’re the one who decided that we were going to be ruthless.”

  “Just tell me how I’m supposed to know that this Riskoff guy is for real? What guarantee are you willing to give me that he is going to make good on this letter?”

  “How about a million dollars?” I suggested, pulling the number out of the air. I figured that at the end of the day the only thing that bankers understand is money. “I’ll write you a personal check for $1 million right now as a good-faith payment against the team’s obligation.” I pulled my checkbook out of my briefcase. “Not only that, but should the team not make good on its obligation after ten days, I’m prepared to default the million. You give us ten days and if we don’t come through, you get to keep the million. I’ll even make it out to you personally if you’d like.”

  “The bank will be fine,” replied Wallenberg, too stunned to be insulted by the implication.

  I handed Wallenberg the check and got to my feet, offering up my winningest smile, and was out the door before I had the chance to even absorb the full impact of what I’d done. While it had been at least a couple of months since I’d had time to sit down and balance my checkbook, I could say one thing with certainty. There was nothing even close to a million dollars in that account.

  CHAPTER 26

  Mader’s is a Milwaukee institution, a downtown German restaurant that looks like it was airlifted out of Bavaria. The main dining room is enormous and paneled in carved wood depicting alpine scenes. There is lots of stained glass, and wooden trolls peer down from every available vantage point. Before I went off in search of Jake Palmer, I stopped at the pay phone by the coatroom and, to the astonishment of the coat-check girl, made arrangements to have my check covered.

  That done, I called Chrissy’s house to tell her the good news. I was alarmed when no one answered until I remembered that we’d deliberately turned all the ringers off. I left her a message saying that I hoped to be back inside of an hour and went off in search of my personal Goliath.

  Even though the place was still crammed with the lunchtime crowd, Jake was easy enough to pick out. Not only did he not blend in with the suits, but also there was a line of fans stretching respectfully for his autograph.

  “Hey there,” he s
aid, rising to his feet and explaining with a big grin to his fans that his lawyer had arrived. He hopped over to the other side of the table and chivalrously pulled out my chair.

  “What a great place,” I declared, breathing in the sauerkraut-scented air. “I confess I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be a big fan of German food.” At this a buxom, dirndl-skirted waitress appeared bearing a stein of beer at least a foot high. He licked his lips. “I take it back.”

  “May I take your order?” inquired the waitress reverentially.

  “Two sampler platters,” announced Jake.

  “Oh, good,” I remarked, handing back the menu unread. “I’m starved.”

  “Then you’d better make that three sampler platters,” Jake grinned.

  The waitress disappeared, and a busboy took her place, materializing with a basket of hot rolls. Jake tore one in half like it was some hapless running back and popped it in his mouth like a doughnut hole.

  “I’m so glad you called me,” I said. “But I hope you aren’t missing practice on my account.” I remembered vaguely something I’d read somewhere about there being fines for missed practices.

  “Nah, Coach let me out so I could speak at some booster luncheon across the street. I do about a dozen of them a season. I’m the Monarchs’ dancing bear. The suits are always so-o-o impressed by how articulate I am. You want to know why?”

  “Because you’re black and they’re racists?” I offered.

  “Racists? Those motherfuckers expect that when I open my mouth, I’m going to grunt like a fucking chimpanzee.”

  “Are you telling me you already had lunch?” I asked, feeling a bit slow on the uptake.

  “Yeah, sure, if you can call it lunch—a circle of weird fish and two grains of rice. Now this place here, they serve up some real food. A big man’s got to eat big to play in the NFL.”

  As if to illustrate his point the waitress appeared with our sampler platters. She had to move the bread basket and shift the water glasses around to make room. I couldn’t believe it. It was like six meals crammed onto one plate. There was pork loin, schnitzel, goulash, beef roulade, an enormous potato dumpling, and two kinds of kraut.

  Jake the Giant dug in with relish. I took a tentative bite of the potato dumpling and felt it instantly expanding in my stomach.

  “So tell me about Darius Fredericks,” I said. “My secretary said you had things to tell me about him that I should know.”

  “For one thing, he’s not a killer.”

  “What makes you say that? He almost killed that Amber Cunningham. They pled it down to agg battery, but the original indictment came down as attempted murder.”

  “Batting some chick around and shooting somebody are two different animals,” replied Jake.

  “Violence is violence,” I replied. “I don’t want to get into a discussion of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”

  “I’m with you on that.”

  “So then you tell me what he was doing at Beau Rendell’s house on Sunday?”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you about. I was in the locker room after the game yesterday and Hale Millon, another guy who plays on the offensive line with me, says he’s heard rumors that Fredericks is coming back to play for the Monarchs.”

  “Rumors? What kind of rumors?”

  “Millon and Fredericks, they use the same agent, a guy named Gorman out of New York. I guess Hale heard it from him.”

  “Do you know how I can reach this guy? The agent?”

  “I got his number right here.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to me. In his palm it looked like a postage stamp.

  I punched in the numbers scribbled on the sheet of paper while Jake attacked his lunch. Gorman’s office picked up and immediately put me on hold. I listened to the insipid music while Jake cleaned his plate. As soon as he was done the waitress appeared with another.

  “Got to keep up my strength,” he whispered confidentially. “The team nutritionist has me on a ten-thousand-calorie-a-day diet.”

  The secretary came back on the line and told me that regrettably Mr. Gorman was in a meeting. I told her that it was an emergency and left the number at Chrissy’s house as well as Jake’s cell phone number.

  “You know you’re wrong,” said Jake, judiciously cleaning the gravy from his plate with a piece of rye bread. “Wrong about what?”

  “Violence.”

  “In what way?” I asked, curious to see what a man who makes millions of dollars trying to knock his opponents unconscious had to say on the subject.

  “Violence is not all the same.”

  “I agree. What I said was a generalization. Sometimes violence is necessary—in war, for example, or self-defense.”

  “It’s more than that,” he declared. “There’s a place for violence. It’s okay when it’s in its place.”

  “You mean the football field.”

  “That’s one place.”

  “What about what Fredericks did to that girl?”

  “As far as I’m concerned he got what he deserved. Same thing with Coach when he choked that kid. That wasn’t part of the game and he got called on it.”

  “Who did Coach choke?” I demanded, feeling the stirrings of something very much like fear in the pit of my stomach.

  “Some kid back when he coached in Texas. A player. They fired him for it and he was banned from college ball for life. When Beau Rendell hired him I think he was working selling Chryslers.”

  “Tell me,” I said, rising quickly to my feet and throwing down a couple of bills to cover my lunch, “do you remember what Coach Bennato’s wife’s name is?”

  “Marie. Why do you ask?”

  “And what about his daughter?”

  “His daughter? I don’t know. She’s got some plain-assed name, I can’t remember. Bonnie, or Debbie or something boring like that.”

  “Listen,” I said urgently. “I have to go. But I also have to talk to this agent Gorman. If he calls you, I want you to try to reach me.” I grabbed a pen that had been left behind by some autograph hunter and scribbled down the number.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, surprised at my abrupt departure.

  “I’ve got to get to Chrissy Rendell’s house. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  I couldn’t believe I had been that stupid. It wasn’t Feiss who was behind Debmar, it was Bennato. It was Bennato who owned the land. It was Bennato who’d waited patiently for Beau Rendell to make good on his promise to make him rich. Bennato who’d lost his temper and confronted Beau. Bennato who’d reached up in a fit of temper and choked the object of his displeasure just as he had on the sidelines so many years ago.

  Bennato hadn’t meant to kill Beau, but once he had, he’d done everything within his power to throw suspicion on Jeff. The sleeping pills, the whispered hints about dark secrets at the wake, the assurances that the police would get nothing out of him—all the while fitting Jeff for the noose.

  Jeff had signed his own death warrant when he’d angrily told Feiss that all the obligations that his father had made were canceled. He was a dead man just as soon as he’d announced he was moving the team.

  Bennato was in a position to set the fire that brought Jack back to Milwaukee. He’d probably been whispering his suspicions about Jack and Chrissy in Jeff’s ear from the minute he killed Jeff’s father. It has been said that football was nothing if not a violent game of chess. Bennato had spent his entire career planning strategy and coolly moving men across the playing field. A master of a violent game, he’d been playing Jeff, Chrissy, and the police from the first move.

  As I pulled into the driveway I felt the first wave of misgiving when I realized that there was no security guard on the street. I told myself that he might be making a tour of the property or taking a bathroom break. Otherwise, everything looked exactly as I’d left it that morning, a peaceful house on a quiet suburban street.

  I parked the Jaguar behind the Volvo in fro
nt of the house and walked around to the side door under the porte cochere because I knew that’s where Chrissy kept the key hidden. I lifted the mat, unlocked the door and returned the key to its place, and let myself in. The house not only seemed quiet but felt empty. I felt a shiver of dread and told myself that I was imagining things.

  I went off in search of Chrissy. Finding the first floor deserted, I made my way upstairs, expecting to find her still asleep. Her bedroom door was ajar, but when I stuck my head in, I found it empty. The bed was still unmade and there were clothes on the floor. I noticed that the light was on in her bathroom and the door was open.

  “Chrissy?” I called out. “I’m back.” There was no answer.

  I looked inside the bathroom. The floor was wet and the air was still humid from the shower. Makeup was spread out all over the counter, scattered not just next to the sink but in it. Several compacts had apparently been knocked on the floor, and I noticed that the rug was askew. But what really made my mouth go dry was the Milwaukee Monarchs’ envelope that lay open on the counter. I quickly took a look inside. Where it had once contained dozens of pills it was now empty.

  I ran through the house, calling her name, desperate to find her. Terrified, I told myself to get a grip. I was not just letting my imagination run away from me, but hypothesizing ahead of the facts. I hadn’t even looked to see whether the car was still in the garage. For all I knew, she’d poured the pills down the sink and run out to get a cup of coffee while I was charging around getting ready to dial the suicide hot line.

  I walked through the kitchen and opened the door that led from the house into the garage. I immediately knew that there was something wrong. The overhead garage door was closed, but the engine of Jeff’s Lexus was running and the air was thick with exhaust. I fumbled in the dark for the switch to open the garage door, feeling the door to the house snap closed behind me as I worked my way along the wall, groping for the switch. I found it and immediately heard the garage door spring to life and begin to lift.