Chapter Thirty
Kevin
IN DES PLAINES, a crazed biker mowed down a man. At a south suburban bank, a group of masked robbers shot a teller and made off with the money. With each new crime, others followed. After five months, Kevin’s actions had faded into insignificance and his face was no longer on the news. Even without his disguise, he didn’t warrant a second glance from the average citizen.
But what about the ex-cons? Were they still on the lookout? He wished he knew.
Nicky Montgomery, a short, black bum in a dirty tank top, stumbled up to Kevin one afternoon, invading his bridge territory. The mini-twerp with huge, gutsy balls delved into Kevin’s cup, withdrawing half the coins.
“Hey, prick what’re you doing?” Kevin yelled.
In a deceptively soft voice, Little Nicky said, “Kevin, my man, if I were you, I wouldn’t draw attention. You’re doing damn good. Don’t blow your gig.”
Kevin stared. “What did you call me?”
“Kevin. Kevin Green. That’s your name, isn’t it?”
Shit. They were wise. He glanced down the street. Where were they?
“They’re not here yet. Listen, they won’t be, if you play your cards right. All I’m asking for is a small piece of the action, that’s all. My lips are sealed.”
Sure, until Kevin felt the cold metal piercing his heart. He was doomed. He couldn’t trust anyone, especially this little creep.
“I know what you’re thinking, but listen, it works both ways. We can be friends. I could come in handy.”
“How?”
“Oh, say, by throwing in a little info now and then, some juicy, little tidbits.”
Did he have a choice? The weasel could turn Kevin in whenever he wanted, to the cops or the cons, with no skin off his back. Wishing he could pummel him, Kevin stared at the skinny bastard. He couldn’t take the chance. It was no use. He sighed. “Okay, Little Nicky, I’m in.”
That day he joined the legions of others who paid for Nicky’s services. The guy worked both sides, storing tons of information in his pint-sized brain, dancing a dangerous tightrope. Power made him tick.
“Remember, Roscoe the Poacher?” Nicky asked him on one occasion.
Kevin shook his head.
“Well, old Roscoe was a dumb bunny who tried to make a go of it on his own, thinking he didn’t need Little Nicky.”
With fascinated loathing, Kevin listened.
“Well, Roscoe got what he deserved. The cops just happened to find an empty beer can with Roscoe’s fingerprints after the heist at the Glencoe mansion. I myself offered that beer to Roscoe before the job. Like a poor slob, he guzzled it down. I then conveniently planted it and dropped a hint to the pigs. Now dumb Roscoe’s in the slammer. It serves him right.”
“What about when he gets out?”
“Hell, I’ve got friends. One wrong move and Roscoe’s dead meat.”
That story was Little Nicky’s warning to Kevin not to get smart. It worked. Kevin had enough problems without borrowing more. Anyway, Nicky proved useful, keeping him informed of the whereabouts of the “Heartland Grads.”
That’s how Kevin learned they’d hit on a new scheme that had become more lucrative than the security scam. They’d gone technical and latched onto Internet gambling. The gang was making killings and its members were sitting pretty. Kevin had to be far from their minds. In fact, they should be grateful. If it weren’t for him, they never would have ridden the wave of the future.
Even Dick George, the personnel manager from Alert Advantage, had escaped conviction. The investigation of the Callaway bombing had come to a halt. Without Kevin, there was no case. The cops couldn’t prove a thing.
That was useful to know. He was sick of being a bum. He’d look around, get the lay of the land, then make his move.
Before Kevin could make up his mind what to do, basketball season started. Against his will, he was drawn to his tiny television set to watch the opener. The spotlight shone brightly on Callaway’s familiar figure as he strutted onto the court. The gullible crowd stood up and awarded him a standing ovation.
Fuming, Kevin paced the confines of his dinky apartment. A normal person would still be wasted in a drunk tank or at least drugged up, but not the unsinkable Danny Callaway. No, there was the hero, larger than life, prancing around the court and slam-dunking basketballs for all the world to see. Was he invincible?
Kevin cringed as Callaway’s three-pointer clinched a hard-won victory. Gritting his teeth, he threw the remote control against the wall. It should have been him bathing in glory. He had the height. He had the talent. Instead, he struggled to make ends meet, even begged off the streets, while Callaway, acting high and mighty, graced the world with his presence. Something had to be done, this time for good.
It got worse. Newspaper articles again appeared and not just in the sports section. They touted Callaway as a generous superhero.
The Mr. I’m-So-Perfect-I-Even-Visit-Hospitals Callaway was spreading goodwill everywhere, smiling from atop bus posters where he balanced sick kids on his knees and pleaded for donations. Nowhere in the world was safe from the prick’s presence. Each sighting tied a fresh knot in Kevin’s stomach. He chugged antacids to no avail. Callaway was destroying him.
Just as he’d sunken to his lowest level, it happened. Kevin opened the Chicago Tribune to a full-page, color ad of Callaway hyping evening appearances at Marshall Field and Company’s® Walnut Room.
For fifty dollars apiece, loyal fans could reserve numbers in line to get their pictures taken beside the great MVP Callaway, under the famed Christmas tree in the Walnut Room between eight and ten-thirty p.m. the week of December 16. During those hours, the rest of Marshall Field’s would be closed, except for the candy concession where customers could purchase the ever popular Frango® mints. All proceeds from the pictures and candy were targeted for Children’s Memorial Hospital.
He had to hand it to Callaway. With the big tree being so popular at Christmas, the lines for the Walnut Room were humongous. Now the select would be guaranteed entry to see their idol, view the tree, and feel saintly to boot.
As if by fate, another ad directly underneath caught his eye. To gear up for the holiday rush, Marshall Field’s was offering full and part-time temporary jobs. Kevin’s heart raced. Could he get in? He’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity.
The next morning he approached Nicky, who, for a price, obliged him with a new ID. After dyeing his hair and adding a few touches, Kevin glanced at the results, almost not recognizing himself as the reserved dude with the clipped chestnut locks and thin mustache.
Then he was off. Dressed in his one good suit, he stepped into the elevator on the ground floor of Marshall Field’s and alighted on the ninth floor. He opened the door marked Human Resources Department. There he was directed to a wooden desk where the personnel manager, Gertrude Collingsworth, a graying, homely creature, presided.
Could she resist him? Of course not. With no hesitation, she handed Kevin an application.
He filled it out as Godfrey Gordon, a poor bloke who’d worked ten years at a now-defunct grocery store in the small town of Irma, Wisconsin. Assuming a groveling eager-to-please expression, Kevin handed the form back to the woman.
“Mr. Gordon, do you have any references?” she asked.
That was the tricky part. In a soft respectful voice, Kevin regretfully informed her that his past employer had expired.
“My, that’s a shame.” She pursed her lips, then brightened. “I know, what about personal references?”
This time Nicky proved of help. The little twerp had a special cell phone number for just such contingencies. Let’s see, what was his alias? Oh, yeah, Nicholas Richardson.
“Well, there is someone I’ve known for years who’d give me a good recommendation. I’d be glad to give you his name and number.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Gordon. I’ll get back to you.”
BY THE END of the week, Kevin a/
k/a Godfrey received his work summons. On the following Monday he reported to Ms. Collingsworth.
“Congratulations, Mr. Gordon. We’re most happy to utilize your services.”
She pointed to a bald, butler-type guy. “This is Morris Bentley. I’ll leave you in his capable hands.”
Bentley promptly whisked Kevin away to an elevator. As it descended, the orientation began. “Mr. Gordon, let’s go over the fundamentals.”
Though he groaned inside, Kevin tried to look respectful. Normally he’d steer clear of a stuffed shirt like Bentley, but for now he’d put up with anyone, even this blue-blooded schmuck.
“Do you hear me, Mr. Gordon?”
For a moment Kevin had forgotten his new identity. He politely nodded, doing his best to imitate Bentley’s mannerisms.
“I cannot stress nearly enough that, at Marshall Field and Company®, the customer is always right. We treat our clientele with the utmost dignity, from the down-and-out spinster to the most influential man-about-town. Nothing is too good for them. Also, they never make mistakes. If there is anyone at fault, you must assume the blame, even if it’s uncalled for.”
Kevin tried not to look skeptical. He hated being taken advantage of, but he’d comply. He’d hold onto this job if it killed him. “I understand, Mr. Bentley. You can be assured I will perform no action that will blemish the store’s reputation.”
As they alighted, a thin smile tugged at Bentley’s lips. Kevin knew he had uttered the magic words. Hell, he was turning into an Academy Award actor.
Bentley led him to a small area at the back of the store, far from the customers, where Kevin was to receive instructions on running the cash register. At first he was confused, but soon learned there were no secrets. Even a kid could understand that the lighted display indicated how much change a customer got.
After another day of training, Bentley pronounced, “I believe you’re ready. Let’s see, your application indicates you’d prefer the candy department. Is that right? Wouldn’t you rather sell wallets or ties? Those positions pay more.”
A surge of alarm hit Kevin, making his ears burn. He had to work in candy.
“I’d feel more comfortable with the candy,” he said. “In fact I’m willing to put in overtime. I hear you’ve got a promotion coming up with the basketball player, Danny Callaway. I’d be glad to stay late and work that as well.”
“Well, Mr. Gordon, I appreciate your enthusiasm. For now, I’ll assign you to the candy station, and we’ll see how it works out. If you do well, you’ll be awarded the shift during the promotion.”
This guy was a pushover. Kevin hid a smirk.
He quickened his steps to catch up with Bentley, who was already marching across the marble floor.
At the center of the cosmetics department, Bentley abruptly halted. Kevin almost knocked into him.
“Look up, Mr. Gordon. Here you see the six thousand-square foot Tiffany Dome, designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany himself. This mosaic masterpiece was crafted from one point six million pieces of Favrile glass.”
Kevin tried to look impressed, though he held little appreciation for the iridescent blue and gold glass. What hogwash. Sure it was pretty, but not real. The treasures here were part of a fantasy world people wished existed. Outside, in the real world, people smoked dope, coped to make ends meet, and stabbed each other. Their houses were cramped and dirty, far from pretty.
As they approached the atrium area, Bentley insisted on throwing out more data about how the space was originally an alley called Holden Court before the renovation in 1992 joined the two Marshall Field’s buildings together.
“One more item I’m sure you’d be most interested in,” Bentley interjected.
Oh, brother, not more, thought Kevin.
“This marvelous Victorian fountain was originally designed by the famous architect, Daniel Burnhan, the gentleman responsible for the original layout of the city of Chicago.”
Kevin didn’t give a damn. The dripping water only made him want to pee.
They descended the escalator. He finally was allowed to enter the candy alcove, where Bentley introduced him to an African American named Randall Danders, who was a seasoned employee.
“Carry on, Danders,” Bentley said, before exiting.
Determined to make a good impression, Kevin listened intently to his instructor, who filled him in on the intricacies of working the scale, as well as the prices and sizes of the Frango® offerings.
Kevin was exactly where he wanted to be, right near the escalators and elevators. He’d make friends with the guards and get a look at the security system.
It worked out well. He even had some free time. On some of his breaks, he took the escalator to the first floor where he sat and gazed at the flowing water of the fountain. It had a mesmerizing effect. The shoppers also seemed drawn to the famous fountain and stopped to rest alongside it. Some threw in coins and made wishes. He wondered what they wished for, especially those who looked too rich to need anything.
After a week of dispensing candy to pleased customers, who walked away smiling and carrying their trademarked, multi-striped green bags, Kevin considered himself a pro.
Another customer approached the candy counter. Smiling, he snapped to attention, while inside, he snarled. He must come off as a model employee, although his previously unused facial muscles hurt from so much smiling.
By the end of Kevin’s second week, Bentley stopped with a progress report. “Mr. Gordon, I hear you’re doing extremely well. Mr. Danders has received nothing but compliments on your behavior. Everyone agrees you’re most charming and helpful. One dear lady remarked how you went out of your way to ensure additional containers were delivered to her. Now that’s the kind of service we’re noted for.
“You’re doing so well, I think it’s time for you to be on your own. You should be very proud of yourself. We just might be able to use you after the Christmas rush, if you so desire.”
Over my dead body, Kevin thought. This little venture was wearing mighty thin. He was tired of being ultra pleasant to little, old ladies who dickered over the kind of itty bitty candies they wanted to buy.
“Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” Kevin murmured. “You’ve been most kind. I strive to do my best.”
He had another ace in his hole, a way to pour it on thick. He’d overheard one of his co-workers talking about the candy. Now he could display his knowledge. “I must say, Mr. Bentley, these Frango® mints intrigue me. The candies are out of this world. No wonder over a million pounds are sold each year to six continents.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “Splendid, Mr. Gordon. I applaud your interest and diligence. You’ll make a fine addition to our permanent staff.”
It didn’t take much to make this dolt happy. Would Bentley be as thrilled if he learned what Godfrey Gordon really had up his sleeves?
The time was drawing near for Callaway’s appearance. Soon the masquerade would end. Before that, there was still a small matter to arrange.
“By the way, Mr. Bentley, I was thinking about that promotion. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful gesture if Fields provided, gratis to Danny Callaway, the MVP, his choice of candy the last night? I’d be most delighted to be of service to him.”
“My, my, Mr. Gordon, I must say you do come up with some splendid suggestions. That would be a fine touch indeed, a marvelous parting surprise for our guest.”
A surprise indeed, Kevin thought.
“Sir, could you please get me three pounds of original Frango® mints?” a wavering voice piped in. “I mustn’t forget my Bingo friends. This will make a lovely gift, don’t you think?”
Kevin gritted his teeth and hastened to follow the biddy’s bidding. It wouldn’t be long. He could do it. He’d smile and act polite, though he’d like nothing more than to grab her by the ears, drag her up the escalator and smash her skull against the cast iron fountain.
Two Wrongs Page 32