Billy Rae Bob sings in black-and-white…
Marina Towers wasn't far away, on State Street where it crosses the Chicago River. They were two round, contemporary residential towers that stood on the riverbank. They call them “salt and pepper,” and they were trendy and expensive. The lower floors were a circular parking garage and I remembered an action flick where a car flew out of one of the towers and took a nosedive into the Chicago River. Her aunt's apartment was on the 10th floor. It was small, but nicely furnished and it had a great view. From the balcony, you could look out across downtown, the lakefront, and half the city.
“I take it your aunt isn't a Kasmarek.”
“Oh, God, no, she's my aunt, a DePiero.”
“Is she coming back soon?” I asked.
“She's in Spain for another month. She's single and I'm her favorite niece, so she lets me use it anytime I want. After the business with Eddie, I really needed to get away. This is where I came to hide.”
Her aunt's PC was on a computer stand set against the wall. I went to check it out while Sandy opened the sliding glass door and stepped out on the balcony. She immediately took out her camera, raised it to her eye, and scanned the city. I had quick fingers on a computer keyboard, but hers looked to be just as talented and fast as she worked the lens and light stops, the camera clicking away. Her expression was intense and I felt like I was intruding on something very private and very personal.
While the computer booted up, I looked around. Hanging on the walls were eight large, framed, black-and-white photographs. Each was more interesting and visually stunning than the one before. Their focus was crisp. The lines and contrasts were sharp, some with soft shadows and hazy fade-outs. One was all composition — an eerily empty downtown street with a long pan down a line of storefronts. Another was the front steps of the Art Institute I passed in the truck, its lions standing tall and wet beneath a hazy rain. There was a shot of an empty Lake Michigan beach in the winter, close up, ice piled up, steam rising off the water, with the city's tall buildings in the distance. There was a shot at the zoo, with a line of animal cages, empty, their doors hanging open. Finally, an empty tropical beach with tall overhanging palms, spectacular clouds, and a mirror-smooth ocean. It too was done in black-and-white, not the familiar bright pastels.
Sandy stepped back in the room and saw me as I examined the photos. “You took these, didn't you?” I asked.
“My aunt is my biggest fan. She blew them up and had them framed.”
“And I can see why. Nice contrasts. Powerful, very emotional, even moody, but just beneath the surface. Interesting stuff, vivid, and haunting.”
“Wow! Think you can analyze me just like that, Talbott? Which is your favorite?”
“The beach.”
“I'll get you a copy… if I ever see my darkroom again.”
“I'd love one. I have a big airline poster hanging in my office right across from my desk. It's the beach at San Jose down near Cabo on the Baja. But it's in color.”
“An airline poster? In color. I bet you got yourself stuffed in a lot of trashcans in high school, didn't you?
“Baja's where Terri and I were going to go last spring.”
“Jeez, I'm sorry. I did it again, didn't I?” She scrunched up her face. “I'm famous for my total lack of sensitivity.”
“Maybe you put it all in your photos. You ever think of that?”
She gave me that curious look again and then smiled. “Thank you, that was nice.”
I pulled a chair over and sat behind the computer. She came over and stood behind me, watching. That was as close as she had gotten since I walked into her store. Maybe I broke the ice. Maybe it gave her a better shot with the letter opener.
“You said you know some accounting,” I asked.
“Well, I keep the books for Old Man Fantozzi — all three sets.” Puzzled, I looked up at her and she added, “The ones for the IRS, the ones for his ex-wife, and the real ones. That's the other reason the old bastard won't fire me.”
“You'll do fine,” I laughed. “Why don't you make us some coffee while I print out some of this stuff. Maybe you can make sense out of the accounting.”
As I was working, Sandy came back with two cups of coffee and picked up the first stack of paper off the printer. The makeup was gone and she had changed into a baggy sweat suit. She knew I was watching her as she flopped in a big leather chair, slung her leg over the armrest, and pulled a red felt tip pen from behind her ear.
“Something wrong?” she asked without looking up.
“No, no, you just surprised me, that's all.”
“I'm full of surprises, Talbott.”
I went back to the computer and the next thing I knew, shadows were cutting across the floor from the patio window. My watch showed it was 4:30 PM and Sandy was lying on the floor. There was a thick pile of printouts next to her and she was doing some very painful looking stretches, watching me intently the entire time.
“You're not going to break something doing that, are you?” I asked.
“You've been at that for five hours. You really get zoned-out on a computer, don't you?”
“Pretty much. You have a total lack of sensitivity and I have a total lack of awareness.” I looked at her but she kept staring up at me, stretching, and staring. “What?” I asked, knowing I was being studied. “Am I that interesting?”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” she quickly answered.
I looked down at the stack of papers. “Find anything interesting in the printouts?”
She picked up the top sheets. “Talk about your creative accounting. They own half of New Jersey — trash hauling, restaurants, car dealers, construction, and all the politicians. They got mega-bucks squirreled away in those foreign bank accounts and in some very complicated real estate deals. It would take years to unravel it all.”
On the wall hung a flat-screen TV. She picked up the remote control and turned it on. “The local news should be on. I want to show you something.” She flicked through the stations until she came to what looked like highlights from a congressional hearing in Washington. The hearing room was jammed with reporters and cameras, all focused on the tall, curved, elevated dais and on the witness table in the middle, covered with microphones. “That's the Hardin Commission,” she said. “He's the good-looking guy in the middle and our Senator from Illinois, “Tough Tim” they call him now. Great hair, capped teeth, and a tanning bed. Film at 6:00 — the locals are eating it up.”
“What are they talking about?” I asked.
She gave me that look again. “Organized Crime, you dolt. The mob.”
“I thought that was last year.”
“It was, but Hardin reconvened them last Monday,” she told me. Why bother to read the “book” here, when we can watch the movie.”
“His hearings last year got the ball rolling against the Santorini family in New Jersey. Those are his spreadsheets you're looking at.” He was theatrically aggressive as he leaned forward and wagged an accusing finger at his witness. The object of his attack was a distinguished, bald-headed man in an expensive suit sitting at the witness table. Other than a thin, condescending smile, he appeared completely unfazed by Hardin's ranting.
“Who's that guy?” I asked.
“I think his name's Billingham. He's a mob lawyer from New York.”
“Give him a lollipop; he could pass for Kojak, in the old TV series.”
“Hardin's been after him since last year.”
“Well, we better keep reading the book, because he hasn't laid a glove on him yet.”
She stood up and scratch her head with both hands, violently, shaking it, letting her hair fly around in frustration.
“I was wondering where you had it done,” I dared to quip.
She glared at me. “I'll let that one pass, since it was your first, albeit very lame attempt at humor. And I'm hungry.”
“We can order in. Maybe a pizza?”
“No. I've got to get out of here. There's a little Korean take out place down the street, I need some air. I'll get us some stuff and a couple of six packs, okay?”
“You think that's a good idea?” I asked, concerned.
“The beer? After all you've been through, I thought you might want to relax.”
“No, I mean you going out.”
“Don't worry, I can do enough ‘girl magic’ on myself that my mother wouldn't recognize me. Want to come with?”
“No. Right now, you'd be a lot safer out there without me.”
She disappeared into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, she came out wearing a peach, summer-weight suit, pastel makeup, and a very real looking shoulder-length blond wig that completely covered her short raven hair. She topped it off with a white beret.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My aunt,” she said.
“She's a very attractive woman,” I smiled.
She cocked her head and gave me that pleasantly puzzled expression again.
“Seriously, it looks really good on you, all of it.”
“Thank you, Peter Talbott.” She made a small pirouette and opened the front door, then paused and looked back at me. “You really trust me to go out there by myself? You don't think I'll call the FBI on you?”
“Sandy, I'm not holding you here. I think you'll do whatever you want to do. Besides,” I pointed to her camera lying on the floor. “I have the Pentax as hostage.”
“Sneaky.” She stared at me again, debating. “You know, I do a lot better with jerks and assholes. Them, I can figure out.”
“Be careful out there, okay?”
“You sound like my older brother, and what I don't need right now is another older brother. See ya,” she said as she closed the door behind her.
I shook my head and went back to work on the spreadsheets. I finished looking through the last of them and I had to agree with her. Louie Panozzo might have been a fat slob, but this was a masterpiece of creative accounting. By then, I was brain dead, so I stretched out on my back on the floor. The next thing I knew, the front door was opening and the light from the hallway spilling across the living room floor where I lay. The door quickly closed with a soft “Click” and the room was cast in long, dark shadows again. I snapped wide-awake as someone tiptoed into the room and stepped over me, carrying an armful of bags into the kitchen.
“You shouldn't do that in a skirt.” I told her.
“Pervert. You couldn't see a thing.”
“Black underwear?”
“Liar. We both know it's too dark in here for you to see much of anything. And you forgot I changed clothes… all of them.”
She turned on the lights in the kitchen and I lay there watching her unpack the bags. She reached over and turned on the radio. It was country music.
“What a horrible way to wake up.”
“Say, what?” She glared over at me, hands on hips.
“No, not you. Billy Ray Bob on the radio.”
“You just dodged a nasty bruise,” she said as she opened two beers and brought one over to me without waiting for an answer, taking a long pull on hers.
“What time is it, anyway?” I asked.
“Almost 7:00.”
“Korean took that long?”
She ignored the question and turned on the living room lights. “Here,” she beamed. “Look what I got you.” She looked like a little kid at Christmas as she dumped a big bag of clothes on the floor next to me. She picked up a short-sleeved blue-striped dress shirt, a pair of dark gray Dockers slacks, some socks, underwear, a belt, and a stylish light-gray herringbone sports coat. “Usually I know a guy a whole lot better before I go buying him clothes, but that plaid had to go. I guessed at your sizes, so try them on.”
I took one of the shirts and a pair of slacks and rose slowly to my feet. I unbuttoned my shirt, and pulled it off. The next thing I knew, she was standing next to me looking intently at the big bruises on my back and ribs.
“Man, I thought you were bull-shitting me,” she whistled. “You really are all black and blue back there. They did that?” She walked around me for the full view, running her fingers lightly over the bruises.
“Hey,” I winced. They looked worse and hurt a whole lot more than they had in Uncle Ike's and in the nearly twenty-four hours since I acquired them.
“Sorry. The doctor is just checking.” Then she grabbed my hands and looked at the bruises around my wrists. “What's with these? They look kinky.”
“Kinky?”
“Well, you know…” she tried to feign demure.
“Leather straps.“
“Don't you just hate that?” She saw the wad of paper towels stuck to my lower abdomen and her mouth fell open “What the hell is that?” she asked as she took another drink from the beer can, gently pulled the paper towels forward, trying to look underneath.
“Hey!” I pushed her hand aside. “Tinkerton did that with a scalpel. I was strapped naked to an embalming table at the time…”
“Yeah, kinky. Your sex life is your business, but it looks to me that somebody got a little carried away with the moment, didn't he?”
It was my turn to give her a look.
“Okay, I won't go there. But that needs looked at. My aunt's got some first aid things in the cabinet,” she said as she turned and walked away. “So down on the floor, I'll be back.”
“Sandy… “I tried to argue, but she wouldn't hear about it.
She came back with some alcohol, bandages, and a towel to put under me, and handed me the beer. “Drink and scootch your pants down a little.” I looked up at her. “Don't be a child. I'm trying to clean this thing out, not get personal.”
I lay back and did what she said. The alcohol stung but I was surprised at how gentle her fingers were as she worked. Finally, she taped some gauze pads over the cut and stood up. “See all the things I can do?” she said. “Now get up and look at the new clothes.”
“Thank you,” I said sheepishly as I stood up and started to unzip my jeans. She just stood there, so I motioned for her to turn around.
“I have three brothers, you know.”
“Yeah, but I'm not one of them. Now turn around.”
She turned her back to me and looked out the balcony door to the dark city below while I changed behind her.
“Where'd you get all this stuff, I asked.”
“Some men's stores over on Michigan Avenue. Don't worry, I moved fast.”
“You paid cash, didn't you?”
“Cash? Oops. I used plastic. I never thought.”
“My fault. I should have warned you. When they look at the charge slip and see what you bought, it won't be hard for them to figure out I'm with you, not after you left work and didn't go back home.”
“But they don't know where we are,” she said.
“True, but Tinkerton will flood the streets with people. You sure there's no way they can trace you here through your aunt?”
“No. She's one of my mother's half-sisters. If you think the Kasmareks are fun, they won't get squat out of the Chickarellis or the DePieros.”
“Okay, you can turn back around now,” I told her as I slipped on the jacket.
“No need, I've been watching you in the reflection on the sliding glass door,” she laughed as she turned around and looked me up and down proudly. “ Voila! One of my finest creations, the new Peter Talbott.”
I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. “You did good, you really did.”
She stepped closer, smiling happily for the first time that day. “It was fun buying things for someone who at least half-way appreciates it,” she said as she looked up at me. I could tell from her nervous energy that she wanted to touch me or hug me or kiss me if I gave her even the slightest opening, and I couldn't let that happen.
“I appreciate it, really.” I turned away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room.
“Great,” she said awkwardly. “Look, I have another idea.” I turned and looked back at her, questioning. “Every now and then, I do get one, you know.”
“Did I say anything?”
“You don't have to. I know you think I'm a ditz.” I started to argue, but she waved me off. “I'm a sucker for nice guys with puppy-dog eyes, so don't ruin this for me,” she warned. “Remember that hearing on TV earlier? Senator Hardin's? Why don't we send him some of the spreadsheets with a note about the funeral home and the bodies in that cemetery back in Columbus. I'll bet “Tough Tim” will know what to do with them. Then we can give him a call and get some real help.”
I stopped and looked at her in a new light. “Hardin?” I thought it over. “You know, that's not a bad idea. In fact, it's a very good idea.”
She seemed to glow. “I thought so too. There's a Fed Ex service center over on Wabash. If we get it over there first thing, he can have it the next day. Now let's eat before the dumplings and pork get cold and the beer gets warm.”
We went into the tiny kitchen and started opening the food containers. “I guess we should spend the night here,” she ventured, her eyes on the food.
“That would be great, because I'm exhausted and I really need some sleep. You take your aunt's room and I'll crash out there on the couch.”
“She has a king-sized bed,” she said quietly. She looked up at me. Our eyes met. She looked scared, but she knew exactly what she was saying.
“I don't think that's a good idea, Sandy,” I answered.
“I only meant to sleep, Talbott,” she said angrily. “It wasn't an invitation.”
“It's still not a good idea.”
“When it's an invitation, you'll know it. But Jeez, you really did live under a rock, out there, didn't you?” She picked up the six-pack, stormed into the bedroom, and slammed the door.
We were up early and out the door before 9:00. I was wearing a pair of the new slacks, one of the shirts she bought, and the blazer. Sandy came out in another of her aunt's outfits — designer jeans with a deep green top, her aunt's white beret covering most of her black hair, a pair of clean, white Reeboks, and a bad hangover. She shuffled over to the medicine cabinet, looking half-dead, and swallowed a handful of aspirin. She continued to stare into the mirror, waiting for them to work, while I went around the rooms throwing out trash and straightening things up.
“How many of those beers did you have?”
“Not enough,” I heard her mumble.
Obviously, something was bothering her more than just the hangover, but this wasn't the time for me to find out what it was. She stuffed the blond wig in her shoulder bag, laid the camera in on top of it, and headed for the door. “Let's go,” she said. “The sooner we get this done, the happier I'll be.”
There was an Irish pub on the corner with an all-you-can-eat egg and corned beef hash breakfast buffet. I had all the above and she had two beers and half of a dry English muffin. By the time we finished, it looked like she might live.
“Your usual breakfast?” I asked. I knew I had to say something. I couldn't leave things like this. “You're pissed at me, aren't you?” I asked.
She looked away and I could see she was close to tears. “Look, this past year hasn't been a lot of fun for me, Talbott, and I did something really stupid last night, something I've never done before. I'm not some bimbo or tramp, and I'm not a one-night stand, but you were there. You seem like a nice guy and I figured I'd never see you again, so I made a big mistake. I reached out for a little warmth and affection…”
“I'm really sorry, Sandy.
“Do you know how much you hurt me last night? How humiliated I felt?
“I didn't want to get you in this thing any deeper.”
“It was only sex, Peter.”
“It's never only sex, Sandy. You might be over Eddie, and maybe that was what you needed last night, but I haven't even begun to be over Terri. It has nothing to do with you. I swear. It's about me. God knows I'd love to. You're beautiful, and smart, and a lot of fun to be with, but I can't.”
She glared at me for a moment, then burst into tears. “Damn you, Peter Talbott! Now look what you've done. I can't even get mad at you.”
I put both of my hand on hers. ”I'm sorry. I'm really sorry,” I told her.
“Just when I'm convinced you're the biggest jerk I ever met and I'm ready to throw you out the door, you have to go say something like that. Let's get out of here before I really do kill you.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the street.
We were in and out of the FedEx service center by 10:00. It took thirty-eight dollars from the Sheriff's coffee fund to buy a padded mailer and send a sample of printouts and a letter to Washington, DC for delivery the next morning, but it was worth it.
“I have another idea.” Sandy pointed to a payphone inside the door and said, “Let's give Hardin's office a call and tell him it's on the way.” She looked at me, again. “It's not like I have a daily quota, you know.”
I called Washington DC information and they connected me to the Senate Office Building's main number. I asked for Hardin's office and then handed the phone to Sandy as they connected us. “Your idea. Go for it.”
“Hi,” she started in on the receptionist with a warm, bubbly voice. “I know the Senator's probably not in, but I'm calling for Peter Talbott, and… No, the Senator doesn't know him… Could you tell him that Peter Talbott overnighted a FedEx package to him… Yes, Peter Talbott. It's some spreadsheets on the Santorini mob in New Jersey… Yes, Santorini. They are Louie Panozzo's books… Yeah, I'm sure he will. Look, tell him to be looking for that package and we'll call him tomorrow.”
Sandy hung up and we went outside and quickly walked away from the FedEx office. “By the way, did I tell you I worked in Hardin's campaign?” she said. I looked at her, knowing a story was coming. “Well, not really “worked.” I stuffed envelopes for two weekends in his office downtown. He has a cute smile and a nice set of buns, but without a nametag, he wouldn't know me from the water cooler. They threw a pretty good party every Saturday night for the volunteers, so I thought it might be fun. He showed up the second weekend. Things got a little drunk and he gave me a ride home.”
“The water cooler wasn't available?”
“Nothing happened. It was a month after Eddie walked out on me, and I wouldn't have minded a little hot, sweaty groping to get even. But not from him. He's married and at heart I'm really not a bimbo.”
“Not at heart?”
“Thanks!” She glared up at me. “You know, this isn't a particularly good morning for you to give me shit, Talbott. I don't have to be here.”
“You're right, I'm sorry, it's none of my business, but you're always joking…”
“Oh, never mind.” She walked on, fuming.
“So, you blew off a U. S. senator and nothing happened,” I asked as I caught up.
“Not exactly. I think I threw up on his shoes in the foyer of my building.”
“He wouldn't have gotten that from the water cooler.”
“Hey, after all this time, he won't remember me. And even if he is a complete letch, he was the one who organized all those hearings on the Mafia in Washington, so he's not a complete waste. And neither am