Read The Significant Seven Online
Authors: John McEvoy
The Significant Seven (22 page)
August 15, 2009
“Did Arnie Rison call you?”
Moe said, “Last night. After I guess you talked to him, Jack.”
Doyle said, “Can you help him out?”
“No problem. I’ve lined up a couple of Pete Dunleavy’s ex-cop buddies, plus some talent from the other side of the law. You remember Fifi Bonadio’s bodyguards? They’ll be splitting shifts, too. Should ease Arnie and Renee’s minds.”
“Arnie said he thought he was okay with some ex-SEAL his son knew.”
“He told me,” Kellman said, “that he wanted extra protection for him and Renee. So be it.”
Doyle stopped pacing his condo living room. He put down his coffee cup. It was just after seven and he had caught Kellman in his car on the way to Fit City. “You got a couple of minutes?” he said.
Kellman laughed. “For you, Jack? Naturally.”
“You know about a Tontine? It’s something I never heard of. What happens is, as I understand, the contributors’ money builds up and last guy standing gets it.”
“This is the Italian thing, right? Yeah, I know about that kind of deal. Far as I know, some of those old dagoes on the west side where I grew up are keeping those things going even now. Not many, though. It’s an old-time, old-country thing.”
Doyle started pacing again. “It’s amazing to me sometimes, what I don’t know,” he said disgustedly. He could hear Kellman ask driver Dunleavy to pull over in front of the Hancock Building, site of the little furrier’s business suite.
Moe said, “Jack, knowing a lot is great, though not that many people do. Knowing
how
to know a lot is for the rest of us who are not geniuses, but not
schlubs
either. If you learn how to find what you don’t know, kid, it’s a trampoline-life moment.” There was a pause. Doyle heard Kellman say, “I’ve got to take a quick call here from a guy I know at City Hall. Hold on.”
Not a minute had elapsed before Kellman said to Doyle, “Let me tell you a story.”
Doyle stopped pacing and sat down, smiling, knowing that Kellman could usually be relied upon for instructive episodes from his past.
“When I was a kid and got back from Korea, I lived in a cheap apartment—you could do that back then—just off Rush Street. I hung around a bar called The Interlude a lot of that summer. I was going to start college on the GI Bill at Illinois in the fall. I had a little money saved up, and a lot of free time. The Interlude was a lively place, with sports fans, a bookie in residence, good-looking waitresses dropping in from the great jazz places downtown Chicago had then. I’m talking about Mr. Kelly’s. The Blue Note, the London House, the Back Room. The Gate of Horn was a block or two over. I heard Odetta sing there. I saw Lennie Bruce arrested by Chicago cops who hauled him off the stage, after laughing at his routine, which was hilarious. But they were under orders from the top.
“The owner of The Interlude was a very funny, hip Irish Catholic guy named George Sheehan, who had been in the bar business all his life. Big, round-faced, bald-headed guy, strong as an ox. George ran tabs for a lot of his customers, many of whom came from the Loyola night law school down the block. George’s famous pronouncement was, ‘If I’m ever arrested, I’d rather have a Jewish bail bondsman rep me than a Loyola lawyer. What have the Jesuits done to produce so many deadbeats like you?’
“He’d holler this out, usually late on a Saturday night, and the people at the packed bar would howl with laughter, and George’d say, ‘The next round’s on me, you lousy bums.’
“Funny thing, George made a lot of money when they were putting up the Hancock Building, which is close to the old Interlude. He’d open up at six in the morning for the iron workers going up on the girders at seven. He served hard-boiled eggs and shots of whiskey to these guys, many of them Mohawks from upstate New York. Fearless when it came to heights. That’s not an urban legend, that’s a fact. Well, that’s neither here nor there, although it’s some kind of coincidence that my business is located in the tall building built by not drunken Indians, just Indians who drank a couple of ounces of cheap bar whiskey before working their way up a hundred stories.
“Anyway, Jack, what I’m getting at is that there were many arguments in the Interlude, especially late at night, especially between two guys, one named Fischer, the other named Jansen.” There was a pause. “Paul Fischer, Jimmy Jansen. I’m sure that’s right, although this took place back there in the so-called mists of time.
“These two would argue trivia about politics and sports and movies, so on, so on, and bet each other who was right. Before I got to know them, one would go to the Newberry Library the next day to find the answer to their dispute.
“One night, the subject is how many times did Willy Pepp fight Sandy Saddler. Who won the most of those fights? Fischer said Pepp, Jansen insisted it was Saddler. The argument was on. After observing these two for a week or so, I would listen to them, quietly get off my bar stool, head for the men’s washroom down a dark hallway, get on the pay phone there, and call my Uncle Bernie. Bernie Glockner. Brilliant man. He was known as the ‘Wizard of Odds’ because he set the betting lines for the Vegas casinos run by the Chicago wise guys. He had sports record books at hand, a set of encyclopedias, the almanacs and atlases, plus a memory like a herd of elephants. The man was a human Google.
“There wasn’t a time I called Bernie that he didn’t immediately give me the right answer. Fischer would bet that he knew the 1946 Kentucky Derby winner, which he did. But Jansen would say ‘I bet you a double sawbuck you can’t say who rode that horse.’ On and on. What was President Garfield’s middle name? What was the name of the Indian woman who helped out Lewis and Clark? This was long before they put her on the dollar coin. Etc., etc.
“So, after calling Uncle Bernie, I’d go back to the bar and tell Fischer and Jansen who was right.
If
either one of them was. And actually, most of the time, one of them
was
right. These two should have been on
Jeopardy.
They would have hauled down the green. But I don’t think
Jeopardy
was on then. Also, these two were kind of battered-up veteran drinkers, not exactly TV types. At least in those days. Now, who knows? Both divorced, with alimony, child support they struggled to make. Not really what you would call likeable people, but they weren’t bad guys. They both worked and they paid their bills. You could probably make a reality TV show about them today.
“At first, Jansen and Fischer would check out my answer the next day before they learned to trust me. Once they did, the winner always bought me a couple of nightcaps when I came back with what they were convinced was the right answer.
“One late night,” Kellman continued, “Jansen says, Moe, how do you do it? You listen to us, you go to the bathroom, you come back, and you come up with the right answer. It’s amazing for a young fellow like you, even bright as you are.’”
“I played it very cool. I told Fischer and Jansen, ‘I can’t explain it but, for some reason, pissing seems to jog my memory.’”
Doyle was laughing now. “You rascal, you,” he said. “Thanks, Moe.”
August 16, 2009
Teresa Chandler tapped on her friend and employer’s office door. As always, she entered without waiting for a reply from Renee. Having been in business together in this boutique Chicago travel agency for almost six years, their routine of familiarity was a given. But when Teresa noticed the expression on Renee’s face, she paused. “What’s wrong?”
Renee leaned back in her desk chair. “I just had a call from my Dad. Kind of shook me up.”
Teresa reached across the desk to pat her friend’s hand. “Has he suddenly gotten worse?”
Distracted, Renee did not answer immediately. Then she looked up at Teresa. “Let’s have an early lunch. I could use a super double margarita over at Lupita’s.”
“Sounds good to me,” Teresa said.
Renee said, “But I have to make one phone call first. I’ll be out in front in a few minutes.”
Teresa shut the door behind her. Renee’s voice shook slightly as she began her long-distance conversation.
***
The disturbing phone call from her father had come thirty minutes earlier. “Renee, I just want to bring you up to date on some syndicate matters.”
“What, Dad?”
A coughing spasm preceded Arnie’s reply. “My partners’ wives, widows I should say about five of the poor women, have been talking to each other about these deaths. Certainly understandable. Peggy Barnhill, I guess she’s their appointed spokesperson, called me this morning. She said they wanted to have a meeting to review the original Significant Seven contract agreement. I told her, ‘Fine. Let me talk to Frank Cohan. He’s the attorney who drew it up. He’s got the original in his office. I was the only one of us to take a copy. Remember, Renee, when I showed it to you last year?”
“Yes.”
“Turns out Cohan is in Scotland on a golfing vacation. Doesn’t get back until next week. I asked Peggy to tell the other women we could have a meeting then. Here at my house, if they’d agree. Because I’m really not up to traveling into downtown Chicago. Peggy said okay, she understood.
“Anyway, I just wanted you to know about this. I want you to be at the meeting. You can host it better than I can,” he laughed. Then his coughing resumed.
Renee said, “Dad, what would it take to amend the contract?”
“Why would we want to amend it?”
“Well, why do these widows want to examine it?”
Arnie said, “It’s their right. But as I remember the terms, it would take a majority of the partnership to make any change in the agreement.” He paused. “There’s only two of us now. Isn’t that a goddam shame?”
August 17, 2009
The phone button was blinking when Orth returned to his cabin.
“Bro, we got to talk. Tried your cell. See you at the same place on the big river, two afternoons from today. Any problem with that, get back to me quick.” Sanderson hung up.
Orth had been out on the lake, trolling for bass, without his latest cellphone, the most recent in a series of such instruments he bought and used for one week each before discarding. He’d caught and released eight bass, one them about three pounds he thought, a real battler. He kept the one walleye he’d snagged. It wasn’t legal size, but big enough for his dinner, fuck the DNR.
He drove to Boulder Junction’s Qwik Stop to use its outdoor phone. Called the airline. Called Sanderson to say, “Confirmed.” Went back to his cabin and made his dinner, some fingerling potatoes to go with his pan fried walleye. One of his favorite meals. After eating and washing his plate and utensils, he knocked back a couple of Leinies and turned on the radio repeat of his favorite political commentator, a man regarded by many citizens as the most vicious right-wing bloviator in the business. Orth got out his rifle and two pistols and cleaned and oiled them as he did every week, smiling as he listened to the strident radio voice raging about “this once great country’s continuing decline.”
***
Sanderson opened his St. Louis motel room door right after Orth’s one tap. They were in a Holiday Inn Express. “Hey, man,” the Sanderson said, slapping his hand onto Orth’s. “You made good time from the airport. Let me turn the TV up so we can talk. I guess nobody knows you’re here?”
“Nobody but that nerd at the front desk who checked me in.”
“What name did you use?”
“I went with Eddie Mathews. My old man’s favorite Milwaukee Brave. How about you?”
Sanderson said, “I’m here as Don Moore. About as forgettable as I could come up with.”
“How about some food?” Orth said. “All they had on the damn plane were five buck junky looking sandwiches in plastic. I need something.”
Sanderson swung open the door of the mini-bar. He took out two beers and a can of mixed nuts. “Make do with this for now,” he said. “We’ll order from room service later. Gotta talk first.”
“Shit,” Orth said as he twisted the cap off his beer. “This must be serious, you putting business before food. What’s up? Anything wrong with our contract?”
“No, no. The deal is still on. The money keeps coming in. I came up here to talk to you about slightly alterering our schedule. Not a major change, but a change. I figured it was best for us to go over this in person.”
Orth frowned. “Go on,” he said.
“The original number of targets,” Sanderson continued, “was six. Now it’s seven. The change is that the seventh target is not from the group we’ve been, well, dealing with. And we’ve got to move fast in taking out the last one of the original six. That’s vital.”
“Why?”
Sanderson said, “We don’t have to get into the reason for that. The less you know, the better.”
Orth, who had been lying on one of the beds, stretched out and relaxed, sprang up and moved over to the window. He reached down to the air conditioner controls and dropped the temp to sixty-five, fan whirring. He said, “Who’s the new number seven?”
“Guy named Doyle, Jack Doyle. A little older than us, a former amateur boxer, no military. Worked in advertising or some kind of white-collar shit, then at a little racetrack south of Chicago. I found him on Google. A few years back he was in the newspapers when he helped the feds convict a ring of rich guys killing their horses for insurance money in order to get richer.”
Orth said, “Tell me how and where and why this Doyle comes into it? Is he hooked to this Significant Seven bunch?”
“No, no, no. But our client is concerned that if Doyle sniffs around too long trying to figure this all out, he’s liable to get lucky. He’s close to the situation. He’s evidentally a sharp guy. The client thinks Doyle may figure out something the client doesn’t want him figuring. Doyle is just a concern that the client doesn’t want to deal with, okay?”
Orth kept looking out the window. “I hate changes like this, Scott. You know that. We had a schedule, targets, boom boom, it’s fuckin’ over.”
“Hey, bro, it’s no big deal. We had to change course way more than our underwear back in the hell hole of Iraq, right? We did it and survived. Hell, thrived. Doyle works for some horse trainer at a track near Chicago. So he was a fucking AAU boxer, big deal. There’s no way he’s like us. Just eliminate the man, okay?” Sanderson finished his beer and tossed the can halfway across the room directly into a waste basket.
Orth turned from the window and lay down on the carpet on his back. “I got to do some sets, man. Just like in the old days. Helps me think.”
“Go to it,” Sanderson said. He sat back in the chair closest to the TV, which was turned to a dance contest program featuring a very aged actress trying to spin and vamp her way back into her past. He had to laugh; she was pretty good.
Sanderson counted silently as Orth did two-hundred crunches, two-hundred pushups, another hundred crunches. This took slightly less than nine minutes. When Orth finished, there was not a hint of perspiration on his tanned, taut face. He sat up on the floor, not even breathing hard.
“You bastard, you’re still in unbelievable shape. Not like this married father,” Sanderson smiled, patting his belly. He waited.
Orth said, “Okay. I’ll go along. What’s the schedule?”
Sanderson let out a whoop and jumped up from his chair and gave the still sitting Orth a series of low fives. “My man,” he said. “I got some recon to do. I’ll let you know real quick. Number six from the original group has to come first and quick. I’m talking this week. Doyle comes after that. Then we’re done.”