Advantage Disadvantage (24 page)

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 listening.”

“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? 70
^th
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
72
^nd
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 gang.”

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.