Authors: Gini Hartzmark
“What happened?”
“Well, first this guy Jack McWhorter gets an emergency phone call. Apparently there was some kind of fire at Monarchs Stadium where they cook the food, and he excuses himself, he has to fly back and take care of business right away.”
“Is that it?”
“No. Then about an hour later the concierge received a fax for Jeffrey Rendell and delivered it to the table.”
“I know. The cops showed it to us at the hospital. He had it in his pocket when he was shot. It said, ‘If you want to catch them at it, try your father’s house tomorrow at two.’ The message was printed by hand in block letters.”
“Well, according to our waiter snitch, the fax really upset Jeff, who immediately excused himself saying that he wasn’t feeling well and headed back to his room.”
“Let me guess. He wasn’t really sick.”
“He immediately made a string of phone calls, one to the airlines, one to his house in Milwaukee, and one to a taxi company. He left L. A. an hour later on America West flight 252 to Chicago. Apparently he stayed overnight somewhere near O’Hare, rented a car, and then headed up to Milwaukee.”
“Okay. I’ll bite,” I said. “So who sent the fax?”
“I don’t know who. All they could tell me is that it was transmitted from the Milwaukee Monarchs’ offices at the stadium.”
There is a kind of theater to safe depositories, an inherent drama in the locks and keys, the heavy vault door that swings so silently on its hinges, the solemn banking acolyte who ushers you into the softly lit private room and closes the door upon you. For me the mystery was heightened by the fact that I not only had no idea what I was going to find, but that I’d made the journey from thinking that whatever it was, was critical to irrelevant and back to critical again.
The fact that the fax had come from the stadium did not in and of itself blow my theory about Harald Feiss out of the water. After all, you’d hardly expect him to send something so potentially incriminating from his own office. However, it messed up my tidy theories, and I desperately wanted things to finally turn out neat. Indeed, I was starting to feel as though I deserved it.
I laid the box upon the table and pulled the key out of my bag, inserted it in the lock, and turned it. With a sense of anticipation that surprised me, I lifted the long flat lid.
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 said, 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.