Windy City Blues (14 page)

The Blue Line let me off near Madison and LaSalle, close to the sacred temple that housed the Department of Revenue. I acknowledged the Walmart greeter and walked through the hallway metal detector. Like the previous day, lines of gloomy-faced citizens waited to exchange cash for having the scofflaw curse lifted from their lives.

Along the margin of the crowd, I shuffled toward the back. Beyond the row of tellers and revenue-agent desks, a woman sat at a reception station answering phones. I presumed Elon and his deputies conducted business from the offices behind her. A steady stream of suits approached the counter before heading into one of the offices. A lull in the action beckoned my entrance.

“I’d like to see Mr. Elon.”

The woman’s eyeballs plotted GPS coordinates over my face until she blinked a few times and said, “Do you have an appointment?”

I pointed to my purple welt. “I was involved in a car accident with his wife, and he said I should come by and discuss things.”

She plotted more coordinates. “I think he would’ve told us if someone like you would be stopping by.”

Someone like you
. That hurt. “How can someone like me see someone like him?” I inquired, trying to be polite despite the scary face.

“You make an appointment.” She looked at her computer and typed something. “And what is this appointment concerning?”

“I have questions about how the system works. How the money flows.”

She dropped her hands to her lap. “What happened to the accident with his wife?” She looked flustered. “We have a public affairs office that can answer all your questions.”

“Why can’t I talk to Elon about it?”

“It’s not Mr. Elon’s job to explain how the Department of Revenue operates. That’s the job of the public affairs office.”

Her posture told me the conversation had ended. The security guard standing stage left reinforced her statement. I retraced my route back to the front of the room just in time to see four Bankroll Warranty guards march through the metal detector.

From across the street, I watched the armored truck idle in a loading zone. Half an hour later, the Bankroll Warranty men exited the building escorting bags of money piled on a flatbed dolly. I crossed back and leaned against a square concrete pillar about ten yards behind the truck. Nothing really to see, just three beer-bellied guards handing off bags of loot into the truck while one kept watch. A package neatly wrapped in gray paper positioned next to a rear tire seemed out of place and caught my eye. Probably contained paperwork. Another Chicagoan in an ill-fitting suit and smoking a cigarette loitered about ten feet from the passenger door. The cuffs of his pants stopped short of his ankles. A full head of silver hair combed neatly across from a well-defined part gave him a stately handsomeness. But his wrinkled smoker’s complexion and deep lines at the sides of his mouth aged him past his forty-something years. He appeared mildly interested in the process but also distracted by the surroundings. I took pictures of him with my phone. When the guards slammed the rear door shut, the man flicked away his cigarette and double-timed it to the package, reaching for it just as the truck pulled out; a perfectly executed maneuver.

I followed the man and his briefcase across the street into a mid-rise called the Wolfe Professional Building, where he waited for the elevator while humming and drumming his fingers against the package. When the elevator arrived, I slipped in as he pushed the tenth floor button.

Halfway up, he pointed to his eye and said, “You thought he said
stand up,
when he really said
shut up
?” and followed his quip with unrestrained laughter.

I smiled politely and suffered his giggling to the tenth floor, where the door opened to Vector Solutions, Inc. The common area of the office was wide open, just a big room with doors along the back wall. Nowhere to hide, not even a partition. The man breezed past the woman at the reception station while lifting the package up near his head and pointing at it. She glanced at him and then at me as I followed in his wake down an adjacent hallway where two well-filled, size-54-long suits stood outside an office. One stepped aside to allow the man to enter, the other walked directly up to me and stopped.

From behind came a woman’s voice. “Sir, it’s not like you can just hang around if you don’t have an appointment.” I turned and saw the receptionist staring at me.

“How about I hang around the waiting area?”

“We don’t have a waiting area.”

Outside the office, I leaned against the wall next to the men’s room. Occasionally, the receptionist frowned at me. From the elevator emerged a chubby future business leader—young, well dressed, bored to death. The knot of his tie needed tightening.

I said, “Wake up, young man. He who labors diligently need never despair.”

The kid stopped in his tracks and looked at me.

“I’m just messing with you,” I said.

He smiled and gestured with his middle finger.

The receptionist smiled warmly as he approached. She started to say something but stopped when he strolled past. She and I watched him turn down the hallway. The elevator dinged and out walked a security guard. Miss Receptionist had me in her sights.

“Can I help you with something, sir?” he asked me.

“I was just leaving.”

At the newsstand opposite the bank of elevators, I ate a giant soft pretzel, unsure what I waited for. Perhaps Package Man had useful information. Young Businessman, too, might have something to share. The smart-ass little bastard reminded me of myself. The name “Vector Solutions, Inc.” reeked like bullshit. Solutions for the trajectory of money. The direction cash traveled from one pocket to another.

As the lunch hour approached, elevator activity increased, and the hallway became a frenetic flow of hungry professionals. Standing on the bank of this human river, the chances of seeing either of my new acquaintances seemed unlikely. Two more pretzels and
Catnip
magazine helped me kill another hour while sitting on a marble bench in the lobby near the newsstand. The thought of squandered time weighed on me. Day seven of my investigation and too many unanswered questions. Would finding Jack’s killer offer comfort to Tamar?

Maybe Elon’s family had an ancient hatred of Georgians and had settled an old score. Maybe Konigson used the emasculated article to blackmail Elon. So much yellow space between squares, so many idiotic scenarios to consider. Then I saw Young Businessman nearby paging through the magazine
Capital Growth
. Opportunity was knocking.

“You always give the finger to strangers?” I said.

He glanced at me and then back to the magazine. “You in the habit of giving strangers unsolicited advice on their mental state?”

“I wanted to cheer you up.”

“Who decided I needed cheering up? I’m not surprised by that welt, dude. Hang around men’s bathrooms enough and that’s bound to happen. In fact, if you’re looking to pick up a young piece of ass, I suggest you piss off now because I won’t hesitate to smash your other eye.”

I stepped back. “All right, already. I was trying to talk to someone and the receptionist had just tossed me out—”

“And you thought I could get you back in?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What’d you think of the receptionist?”

“Think? As in—”

“You think she’s hot?” He tucked the magazine under his arm and waited for my response.

“A little old for me and not my type.”

“I banged her. Many times. In the ass. She loves it.”

I remembered how she smiled at him. The image sickened me. I said, “That’s nice, kid.”

“At what age are you allowed to call someone else ‘kid’? I’m twenty-three and you don’t look a hell of a lot older than me,
pops
.”

“Dude, you, like, so busted me! Do you, like, work for those Vector guys?”

“You sound like an idiot. And I’m an unpaid intern. MBA requirement. Like doing things for free will help you make money later on. I suppose it does.”

“University of Chicago?”

“Northwest
ern.”

“Top of your class?”

“Not even close.”

“What kind of work they have you doing?”

“I’m an errand boy—”

“Sent by grocery clerks to collect the bill. Yeah, I saw the movie.” He had the arrogant odor of a future billionaire. “I’m looking for Elon.”

“Try looking across the street in Revenue.”

“Of course! Hey, what does Vector Solutions do?”

“Consult on transportation issues.”

“That would include parking?”

“Oh, yeah!” The kid’s knowing smile provoked an unexpected laugh.

“Hey, whose office has the two bodyguards?”

“There’s another bodyguard inside the office. They belong to Konigson.”

This time my surprised expression evoked laughter from Young Businessman, which then inspired a loud display of mirth from both of us.

“You got a laptop in that bag?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you let me use it.”

“Are you stupid? You can go to the library and use one for free.”

“I’m not at the library and I’d rather pay an unpaid intern.”

Young Businessman stared at me a moment and then took out his computer. I placed it on the counter of the newsstand, typed “Illinois Secretary of State,” and searched the corporatio
n/LLC database while he watched.

“Decatur-Staley,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Vector Solutions is a subsidiary of Decatur-Staley. That’s what you’re looking for, right?”

I jammed a fifty into the kid’s jacket pocket and said, “Do you even know who Konigson is?”

“A billionaire.”

“He runs a media empire that includes the
Republic
newspaper.”

“He’s rich as hell. That’s all that matters. And I have no use for newspapers. Their days are numbered anyway. As a business model, I mean. They’re finished. A niche market at best.”

“How do you stay informed?”

He looked as if I’d spoken Hindi. “Informed about what?”

“About what’s going on in the world.”

“What do I care? I’ll get my MBA, maybe work for someone else awhile, and then I’ll make my own fortune. What happens in the world is out of my control.”

I waited for more. He took out a smartphone and started reading something. I said, “A guy with a package entered that office a few minutes before you arrived. What do you think was in the package?”

“Ask the guy when he gets here.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Something he read angered him. He swore and then said, “What do you think was in the package?”

“Department of Revenue cash.”

He nodded while keeping his nose in his phone. “Sounds like a good guess.”

“Learning a lot from this internship? Besides sending American jobs to countries that pay a slave wage?”

“Dude, I know you’re a Fed. There’s no law says you can’t carry a pile of cash across the street in a package.”

“How do you get an internship like this?”

“You know somebody—
duh
!”

“I bet you rank number one in your class for cockiest little shit.”

Young Businessman shoved the phone in his pocket and faced me. His eyes then focused over my shoulder. I turned and saw Package Courier standing with Rich Jones, of all people.

“I’ll say hi to my mom for you,” Young Businessman said as he walked away. A second later he turned and yelled, “The receptionist. That’s my mom. I was just kidding about bangin’ her.”

What a cretin. I positioned myself near the exit and snapped a picture of Jones and friends. When Jones caught my eye, I waved and yelled his name. His look of terror was something out of a campy horror flick. He pushed his way through the crowded lobby and out the revolving door, disappearing down the street.

As I took the staircase up to my office, I saw the black wingtips first, then the tapered cuffs, and finally Palmer seated on a torn vinyl stair cover under the sickly glow of a ceiling fixture full of dead moths.

“My god, what happened to your eye?”

“Had you called, I would’ve suggested meeting somewhere.”

Palmer looked around and said, “This is fine. It’s actually quite peaceful sitting up here by myself.” I think he meant it.

“Are you still taking the El train around town?” I said while searching for the key.

“Yes! It’s opened up a whole new world for me.”

“The world of the hoi polloi.”

Palmer laughed. “You often see the same faces on the same trains, depending on the time of day. I imagine many relationships are cultivated while riding the subway.” I had just put the key in the lock when he added, “Good thing I’m not paranoid, otherwise I might think someone was following me.”

I turned around. “You think someone’s following you?”

“No, no, no,” he said then laughed again and gestured for me to carry on opening the door. Inside my office Palmer took the club chair opposite my desk. “It’s been two days, Jules. Judging by your eye, I would guess much needs to be discussed.”

“Wil, I’m going to act a little corny and tell you I don’t want to discuss my eye. Let’s change the subject. It seems that Windy City Meters LLC is run on the franchise business model. As if each district were a separate entity.”

“That makes sense from a tax standpoint.”

“Konigson has an office across the street from the Department of Revenue called Vector Solutions, Inc.” Palmer laughed at the name. I described the delivery of the Bankroll Warranty cash to the office and told him Vector Solutions, Inc., was a subsidiary of the investment house Decatur-Staley. “The same company that bought Windy City Meters from Konigson.”

Palmer nodded but appeared unimpressed with my findings. “Yes, last time we spoke you were curious why someone who needed cash flow would sell a profitable company.”

I stopped him. “Keep it simple, Wil, or you’ll lose me.”

“I shall endeavor. Konigson and his unknown backers borrowed an enormous sum to buy Windy City. In these scenarios, one typically assigns the debt to the company just acquired, makes the necessary cuts to capital and labor, and then sells the leaner company for enough to cover the rest of his debt and make a tidy profit.”

“But Windy City’s debt was too large,” I said.

“Or its value had been grossly overestima
ted.”

“So Konigson is bleeding red ink out the ass and then Decatur-Staley, that venerable institution where Elon and Konigson forged their friendship, comes to the rescue.”

Palmer smiled. “Where they forged their friendship
and
where Elon still sits on the board.”

On my flow chart, I drew a line from Konigson to Elon and marveled at how quickly I had covered the four inches of yellow space. I said, “I couldn’t find much on the net about these guys. It was like their lives had been expunged.”

“People like Konigson know how to manipulate media. You show enough money, the masters of the Internet will get you erased off the Web. There’s a good chance someone looking for you won’t bother to do the necessary legwork, like in the old days.”

Utilizing the
Republic
archives, Palmer had discovered how Elon and Konigson worked closely together at Decatur-Staley selling financial products to high-net-worth investors and learning the art of raising capital to acquire companies.

“Ultimately,” Palmer said, “they’re both great salesmen. They know how to gain an individual’s trust. And once you do that, they gladly hand over money—even if they don’t understand what you’re doing with it.”

“Wil, you gave me some great info.”

Palmer smiled and jumped back into the story of how Elon and Konigson started many types of businesses and investment schemes until they parted ways and continued creating wealth separately. At some point, Elon became interested in city politics while Konigson built a media empire.

“Most people don’t fully understand the influence of men like Konigson,” he said. “Supposedly, it was Konigson’s money directed at a few senators that finally got a certain piece of FCC deregulation passed. Now one company can own as many radio stations as it wants.”

A direct human link from Konigson to a murdered parking officer obscured the significance of FCC deregulation.

“It’s a shame,” Palmer said. “The more concentrated the media ownership, the less free is our society. But tell me what you have discovered.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Wil, but it’s probably best that you don’t know all the details.”

He looked at my eye. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Silence, until I said, “But the information you’re providing is invaluable. I mean, to Konigson and Elon, money circulates as their lifeblood. So if they’re involved in murder, the motive most likely was money.”

“Konigson’s money, I’ll wager. If we put the financial puzzle together, the motivations will be obvious.”

“Elon and Konigson cut a deal.”

“Precisely.”

“So in exchange for arranging a bailout of his debt-ridden pal Konigson, Elon gets kickbacks, not to mention a chunk of the eleven-billion-dollar profit D-S made when they sold their interest in Windy City Meters LLC. But what could the cash in the package represent? Seems like that money is moving in the wrong direction.”

Palmer thought about it. “My guess would be money for an operating account.”

“A slush fund! To pass cash to lazy cops about to retire. The cash that greases the wheels that make Chicago ‘The City That Works.’ ”

In a city famous for its machine politics, the analogy of money and grease had no equal, but we laughed at the timeworn reference as if hearing it for the first time.