Ultimately it boiled down to the question I asked: “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
We obviously weren't safe. We certainly needed to come to some kind of terms with those after us, but we had no idea what those terms were or whether they could even be met. Glen Proctor had involved us deeply in his illegal schemes, and I couldn't see any way out. My irritation with Scott for getting us into this seeped back into my consciousness.
“You need to understand,” Quinn said. “Your story sounds strange, but we've found some stuff that bears out the theory that you're in danger, but we don't see any solution soon. The little scene outside this place gives a lot of credence to your story, but we eliminate no possibility until this is completely cleared up.”
This set off another drop in my confidence in the cops' competence. “We need some assurance of our own safety,” I said.
“Maybe you should try and hire more guards,” Quinn suggested.
“That really worked last time,” I said.
“Also, the Mexican authorities want to talk to you,” Bolewski said.
Scott exploded. He jumped to his feet and flung his arms out. “We! Don't! Know! Anything!” He paced to the left a few steps then to the right, coming back to stand in front of the cops. “We are innocent! We haven't done anything!”
“They aren't going to accuse you or try to extradite you,” Quinn said. “They just want information.”
“We've told you everything! If we knew any more, don't you think we'd have given it to you already?” Scott asked. He walked to the window and pounded his fist against it hard enough to make it shake. We watched him in silence.
“This is total bullshit!” he said to the expanse of buildings and sky outside.
The intercom phone rang from downstairs. It was a cop asking for Quinn.
“Be careful,” Scott said.
Quinn frowned at him. He listened to the receiver for a minute, hung it up and looked at us. “It's your lawyer.”
A minute later Todd Bristol, in his usual go-to-court lawyer's drag, swept into the apartment.
“It's on the radio,” he said. “That you were attacked. That the guards were captured. There is an army of reporters downstairs.
What
is going on?”
We told him.
When we finished, he said, “This is not credible.”
I said, “Believe it. We were there.”
“We're supposed to go meet the Mexican authorities,” Scott said.
“I'll go with you,” Todd said. “It actually might be good to go talk to them. They might have some insight into who and what is going on.”
“Can we do this nowâtodayâand get it over with?” I asked.
Todd consulted with the cops, and phone calls were made. Minutes later, we had an appointment to see a delegation
at the Mexican consulate in the Prudential Building in a couple hours. Bolewski and Quinn said they'd talked twice today with the same Mexican authorities. We would go without them.
After they questioned Todd thoroughly about the guards, the firm they worked for, and Todd's connection with them, the cops got ready to leave.
“We're leaving with you,” I said.
“I've arranged for more security guards,” Todd said.
“That didn't work last time, although I think we should try it again,” I said. To the police I said, “If you could come down to the parking garage with us, we'll get my truck. You can at least see us out of here safely.” I realized that Lester's car was still parked near the Hotel Chicago. Todd said he'd take care of it later. I gave him the keys.
“Can we drive directly to the security people?” Scott asked.
“Let me make a call,” Todd said.
“I don't want just two guys again,” I said. “We need an army.”
The cops agreed to wait while Todd called. He came back and said, “It's all set. We can meet them at the office.”
“Why not wait for them here?” Scott asked.
“We're vulnerable here if the cops leave,” I said. We took the elevator to the garage.
I had the driver's side door open before Scott said, “Shouldn't we have it checked for bombs?”
I dropped my hand from the door and left it open.
“How paranoid are we supposed to be?” I asked.
“We can't hang around here forever,” Quinn said.
“Call the bomb squad,” Todd ordered.
Bolewski didn't look happy at the sound of his command, but Quinn shrugged his shoulders. He used his radio to call in the request. Bolewski and Quinn agreed to wait until they arrived.
The cops stood off to the side. Todd regaled us with thoughts on how to handle the press, who was after us,
and what we could do. His suggestions on the last were not the most helpful. He just kept saying, “Don't trust anyone. Don't leave the protection of the guards.”
Bolewski and Quinn left when the bomb squad showed.
You could see your face in the gleaming black side of my truck. With its oversized tires, it towered over much of the rest of traffic. It was probably the butchest thing I ever bought, not counting the complete leather outfit I gave Scott as a gift last Christmas. Watch the most beautiful blond star pitcher in baseball put that on for the first time and turn to you and gaze at you from under the brim of his leather cap, and you've got one turned-on hot puppy.
The back of the pickup had served as one of our hottest ever lovemaking sessions when we pulled off the road on a trip through North Dakota. We were near Sykeston on an unlit dirt road, under a full moon, the entire Milky Way as our only witness. We lay in the back on top of our tents, sleeping bags, and mounds of camping gear. We made mad passionate love. It was the first and only camping trip we ever took. This sleeping on the ground or on cots can be mildly romantic, but I'd done my stint as a kid and in the marines. Scott was cured of his desire to inflict us on nature when he found a live rattlesnake that had crawled into his sleeping bag to cool off. That particular dash to the hospital had been the immediate cause for our giving all our gear to a gay thrift shop.
I thought the set of tools stored between the seat and rear of the truck's cab added a nice macho touch. Scott knew how to use all of them. I barely recognized one or two.
A few minutes later the bomb squad reported all clear on my truck and Scott's Porsche.
Todd, Scott, and I clambered into the cab of the truck.
I zigged and zagged through the early Monday evening traffic of Streeterville. As far as I could tell, nobody followed us.
“I'm hungry,” Scott said.
We were heading west on Ontario Street. Without a word, I swung into the Rock-and-Roll McDonald's, claimed to be the busiest one in the world. There were only two cars in front of us in line. I pulled to the drive up and looked at my passengers. Todd sniffed. I thought that if we were back in the Victorian era at this moment, he'd have put his handkerchief to his mouth and had a spell. Scott and I ordered a lean burger each and some diet soda. Scott also got a vanilla milk shake. I controlled myself from such excess. I knew he probably wouldn't finish it all, and I'd get a lot of it. We ate as I drove, Todd and the dashboard holding the excess provender. I wound up draining the last third of the shake. I knew it would probably make me head for the john fairly soon, but I couldn't resist the vanilla treat.
As we drove down Orleans Street, Todd asked the question. “How did you guys get into this anyway?”
I blurted it out before I could stop myself. “Scott didn't listen to me. Proctor took advantage of him. I warned him.”
“You aren't my parents,” Scott said. “I wanted to be kind to somebody. That's not a bad thing.”
“He wouldn't have been able to turn to us if you'd listened to what I said the first time you brought him home.”
This hadn't been the first time Glen Proctor stayed at our place.
“So you're psychic. You know the future. You always knew this was going to happen?”
“I know you shouldn't have had anything to do with him. Your judgment wasn't so good in this case.”
“Like there have been other cases?”
“I'm not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying? That it's my fault that we're in this? I feel like shit about everything that's happened to us, but you don't have to rub it in. That's what you always try to do, rub it in.”
“I was just pointing outâ”
“That's what you always try to do; just point out, and what you mean is that I've screwed up again. I don't want to be just pointed out anymore. I don't need ⦔
“You're not being fair ⦔
“You didn't let me finish ⦔
“If you'd just listen ⦔
Since we were shouting at the same time, we couldn't hear what the other was saying anyway. At the corner of Orleans and Chicago, I almost bashed the truck into the back of a bus. The screeching tires and motion that flung us forward silenced our argument. Wrappers and cartons got flung around the cab.
Todd spoke into the silence. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I've been friends with you both a long time. Why don't we let it rest until the danger is past?”
I wanted to tell him to shut up, but then I'd feel even more like a petulant schoolboy. I felt awful for yelling at Scott, but I was too angry to take it back. The fury and the frustration of the past few days had just boiled over.
We both grumbled agreement to Todd's suggestion. We proceeded in silence.
I was also embarrassed about fighting in front of someone. I used to always be angry at my parents for their
insistence that you keep your mouth shut in front of guests. They could have been arguing furiously a minute before guests began to arrive for a party; but when people showed up, they were perfect host and hostess. I always thought it was blatant hypocrisy until I got older and far too many of my coupled friends used the occasion of someone's visit to needle, nag, or tear into their mates. Now I felt awful for fighting in front of Todd.
I took Chicago Avenue over to Halsted and up to Goose Island. The security firm had headquarters in one of the plethora of converted warehouses that teemed in this neighborhood. I parked the car on Bliss Street in a no-parking zone exactly in front of the entrance. I didn't want to be on the street for one second longer than necessary. At least the lack of traffic in the area was a minor assurance that we hadn't been followed.
The front desk had one clerk monitoring a switchboard alive with blinking lights. We waited patiently for a break. When we finally had his attention, Todd told him he needed to speak to Anton Frobisher.
“Mr. Frobisher is in a meeting and can't be disturbed,” the functionary said.
“Tell him it's Todd Bristol,” Todd commanded. He used a lawyerly voice that got through to the clerk.
The connection was made, words were spoken, and a minute later we were ushered into a room with nine people in it. A few sat at a large conference table. One talked on a phone in a corner. Most stood in clumps talking earnestly. They wore the kind of clothes you wear on a quiet evening at home. A few wore security-guard uniforms.
One man separated himself from the group and came over. Introductions over Frobisher said, “We're here because of the failure of Bernie and Angelo. Nothing like that has ever happened to the firm. They are good men. Mostly we've got contracts with businesses, banks, factories, like that. A few years ago, one of our bank guards was
wounded. That's the worst that's ever happened. That you got kidnapped is awful. Everybody is really upset.”
Todd told them we needed more guards. I thought this would be a simple request, but Anton brought this news to a group to our right, and soon the entire assemblage faced us in a semicircle. Debate raged among them over whether or not they should supply more guards to us. The crux of the problem was the obvious and immediate danger.
“You can't refuse us,” Todd said at one point. “These men need protection, and that's what you do.”
This brought outrage and anger from some of them. Finally Anton said, “Todd, you've been a friend for a long time, and we'd like to help; but even if we said yes, I'm not sure any of our operatives would agree to the job.”
“They're your employees,” Todd said. “They have to do what you say.”
“Within reason,” Anton said.
“Isn't danger supposed to be an assumed part of their job?” Todd asked. “After all, they do carry guns. They're supposed to protect people.”
Anton admitted this was so.
“Maybe if you told them they'd be guarding Scott Carpenter, the baseball player,” Todd said. “That should convince some of them.”
Fortunately, no fuss had been made about Scott's fame so far. These people were too upset by events to go into a fan mode.
Anton said, “We can try, but we won't force anyone to take on this job. It would be bad for the company. What if you guys decided to sue?”
“We don't want to file a lawsuit,” I said. “We just want protection.”
“Is there another company?” Scott asked.
“Not that I've dealt with,” Todd said.
Within an hour, three guards showed up, pulled in perhaps
by the lure of Scott's name or the hint of danger, or simply because they needed the overtime.
We formed a caravan of three vehicles. Two men, Frank and Jack, rode in an Oldsmobile in front of us, and Bruno, who looked like a former linebacker, rode in his fifteen-year-old Chevy pickup behind us.
We took Chicago Avenue all the way east to Michigan Avenue and then south to the Prudential Building, where the Mexican consulate was housed. On the way, Todd informed us that many countries located their consulates in various business skyscrapers, concentrated on the east side of the Loop. Scott and I did not exchange a word.
The parking garage was quiet. We were the only ones on the elevator. We were forced to stop on the first floor and sign in and, after a call to the consular offices, we resumed our ride up the elevator.
On the twentieth floor, we emerged into a foyer with gray carpeting and white walls. To the right were the offices of a law firm. To the left was a hall, down which we saw the lights coming from only one room.
The offices consisted of a large reception area, a conference room, and three private offices. Travel posters promoting the joys of vacationing in Mexico filled the walls.
Four people met us. A man and a woman, both in their early forties, were introduced as Mexican police officers. Another woman was from the Mexican Fine Arts Museum. The fourth was a man from the consular office.
Before the meeting started, I called Bill Proctor's car phone and told him we now had guards and could meet him at our place.
We sat in the conference room, which had a view of Grant Park, the Art Institute a block or two away, and the traffic on Michigan Avenue. Our guards sat in the outer office.
Introductions over, I explained what had been happening to us. I finished with: “We understand the Frederico
Torres connection from all that's been told to us. Can you help us out of this mess?”
The woman cop, who seemed to be the spokesperson for the group, said, “We'll help all we can, but unfortunately it may not be much. We are also very much in the dark. We have three possible problems: drugs, jewels, and relics.”
Her name was Rosarita Montez. She wore a gray skirt, white blouse, and a thin gold chain around her neck. Her lustrous black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She continued. “Because of Glen Proctor, your lives are now entwined with the drug cartels. You had a firsthand experience with how dangerous that is. What you don't know is that we became suspicious of Glen Proctor some time ago.”
“He was a problem before?” I asked.
“His father and mother have many business dealings in Mexico that are honorable and are a great help to our country,” said the consular official.
Rosarita didn't ignore him or seem angry, but she dug in her heels. “We came here with the knowledge that Glen appeared in the presence of both Pedro and Frederico Torres, who are now archrivals. We are reasonably certain Glen was using the name Scott Carpenter.”
“So he'd planned this for some time,” I said. “If he had a fake passport and everything.”
“We don't have all those proofs,” Rosarita said. “What we do know is that he hung around each of them for several days. Your information tells us what he found. We have no evidence that his father or mother had or have dealings with the drug lords.”
“But you have suspicions,” Scott said.
“We check out every possible lead,” she said.
I wished we could talk to her without the consular official present. Maybe it would be possible later.
“Pedro and his brother broke about two years ago.
Pedro is the head of a paramilitary group consisting mostly of people who have grievances against Frederico, probably over the spoils of the drug trade.”
The male cop, Hidalgo Lopez, said, “The rivalry is bitter. Anyone getting mixed up in their fight could be killed by either side. We don't know what kind of deal he was trying to make.”
“There are huge rewards on both Pedro's and Frederico's heads,” Rosarita said.
“How much is huge?” I asked.
“Over seven million on Frederico, around a million on Pedro. The international community wants these guys.”
“Glen would be tempted by either reward,” I said.
The cops glanced at each other.
“Glen had lots of plans and schemes,” I said. “Each was more ludicrous than the next. He could have got himself into anything to make some money.” Remembering the talk with his brother Bill, I said, “Glen desperately wanted to prove himself to his father and mother by making a success of himself. He knew his baseball career was dead. He wanted to try and make a quick killing in Mexico and come back and show them how well he could do.”
“So,” Todd said, “he could have been dealing drugs or dealing in drug lords. My clients know nothing of all this.”
“But they must think you do,” Rosarita said. “By using the name of Scott Carpenter, he involved you deeply.”
“We know,” I said.
“They came to my place to kill me,” Scott said. “Whoever it was thought it was me because he used my name. We looked enough alike so that someone could easily have mistaken us.”
“I don't mean to sound ignorant,” Hildalgo said, “but to many of my people all North Americans look alike.”
“So if he found something out, where is the proof?” I asked. “Where is the threat to these people? What did Glen do with it? We don't have it. In this case, they killed the right personâby accident.” How close Scott came to being
murdered because of Glen's stupid schemes I didn't like to think. “They are still after us; therefore something remains a threat. Stawalski said Glen was sending his information north, not taking it with him. Where is it? They must not have it.”
“The assumption must be that you were working together with him. Where did he go the first night he came back to this country? To your place. Somehow they think you know.”
“And there's no way to meet with them?” Scott said. “To try to reason?”