Gold Coast Blues (15 page)

“Yeah, I agree. Kalijero and his like are out of touch. Old school. I’m gonna try to grab a flight tonight. Give me something to jam into Kalijero’s snout.”

Cooper gulped the last of his scotch. “We don’t fight crime, we manage crime.”

“That doesn’t sound simple.”

“There are innocents and there are criminals. You’re one or the other. The precinct’s job is to keep innocents from becoming victims of criminals.”

I waited for the gag line. “And you do this by
managing
the criminals?”

“Correct. Guys like Kalijero will sit back, look at statistics, talk about how frustrated they are that murder and robbery rarely decrease, or if they do, only temporarily. In Irvington, we’re asking the question:
who
is getting murdered and robbed?”

“Innocents or criminals?”

Cooper nodded. “I realize that’s shocking to hear—at first.”

“I expect Kalijero would love to know your criminal management technique.”

“When you hear that a drug deal went south and some people selling or buying got killed—how bad do you really feel? Sure, you know the person was somebody’s son or brother or sister, or mom or dad, but somewhere along the line a choice was made. Ultimately, you’ve got to take responsibility for your choices. But if an honor student happens to be walking by when the deal goes bad, and she takes a bullet to the head—well, that’s unacceptable.”

“And how do you prevent the unacceptable?”

“That’s where management comes in. Irvington is what it is. Accept the fact we can’t change it. The whole country would have to change for Irvington to change. The war on drugs, the war on poverty, the war on terror, they’re all
rhetorical
wars, not meant to be answered with a victory or a defeat—”

“But meant to be managed.”

“Exactly! And through proper management, society can benefit, even prosper.”

“Sorry, but when I look around, I don’t see much prosperity.”

“That’s because your view is skewed. Mobsters kill other mobsters, gangbangers kill other gangbangers, drug dealers kill other drug dealers or addicts. If they’re all properly managed, an equilibrium is created.”

We sat in silence. Cooper tried to gauge my reaction. I said, “It seems that the cornerstone of your management strategy would be keeping all parties happy—to maintain an equilibrium.”

“Correct.”

“And total cooperation requires total
participation
.”

Cooper grinned. “And what are you suggesting, Detective Landau?”

I looked around the room. “Is this the Fraternal Order of Police lodge? Paid for with union dues?”

Cooper didn’t like my question. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a good cop to stay here on what they make? No, of course you don’t. Sergeant Blake, upstairs? I found him as a high school dropout. Helped him get his GED. Now he’s working on a master’s in criminology from Rutgers. He’d give his life to protect you, Landau. Because you’re an innocent. He wants nothing more than to help those who
want
help. And most of those who want help around here are his black brothers and sisters. But they’re stuck in this pit at the mercy of gangbangers and drug dealers.”

“And the extra income for Sergeant Blake keeps him fighting the good fight.”

“It’s not just the money. They see the prosperity—”

“There you go again with the prosperity. Where’s the prosperity?”

Cooper rolled his eyes, groaned. “It’s relative to the environment! The expectations of Irvington’s innocents aren’t the same as what you’re used to. They got a roof over their heads, heat in the winter, money for food, and we make sure their kids can walk to school unmolested. That’s prosperity. What the gangbangers and dope peddlers do with their money we can’t control.”

“The white boys who come here to buy drugs—”

“They’re criminals. If a white boy chooses to play in the ghetto culture and ends up dead in the gutter, it was his choice.”

“Alive or dead, you still get your money.”

My comment tested Cooper’s patience. “It’s not a perfect system, Landau, but that money keeps cops happy and on the job, it allows resources to be diverted elsewhere in the city, it funds scholarships for high school kids. The killing is a byproduct of the culture we manage. And I’ll stake our statistics against any Chicago neighborhood any day—especially in the murdered-children category.”

His last statement sobered me. Maybe he had a point. “But how do you get away with it? And why do you trust me with this information?”

Cooper laughed loud enough to startle me. “Who’s hiding anything? The world is filled with open secrets. As long as statistics move in the right direction, nobody asks questions, everyone is happy—and the mayor takes all the credit and gets reelected.”

My host took another squint-eyed look at his watch then woefully described the forthcoming meeting-filled day—a necessary evil associated with managing crime. We shook hands. He wished me a pleasant flight back to Chicago.

Chapter 24

Before getting into my car, I stood on the sidewalk scanning the neighborhood in search of prosperity. A woman carrying a bag of groceries approached from down the block. First one man, then another, begged from her with an outstretched hand. She acknowledged neither, then sidestepped several more people sitting up on the sidewalk, leaning against buildings. When she arrived at the entrance of a three-story walk-up, a teenage boy departing the building held open the door. A couple of kids on skateboards raced down the sidewalk, skillfully maneuvering around the same panhandlers and transients. Just part of the scenery.

Cooper convincingly defended his crime management philosophy, despite the undercurrent of corruption running through every word. If Eddie wasn’t working in his family’s organization or Cooper’s graft machine, what was he doing in Irvington? If he was involved in either enterprise, Tanya’s decision to put this world behind her made perfect sense. But Eddie’s lifestyle could not have been a secret. I still didn’t know what had prompted Tanya to finally blow town.

—

As I drove my Ford Focus in the muted Irvington sunshine, Springfield Avenue’s distressed storefronts and apartment façades reeked of Depression-era realism. Streams of people moved stoically down the sidewalks, walking into and out of various pocket eateries, thrift shops, convenience stores, and hair salons. Among the abandoned buildings, storefront specialty trades were surprisingly well accounted for with variations of tailor, butcher, seamstress, confectioner, and stationer. All had makeshift qualities—especially their cardboard signage—although they appeared to be going concerns. But it was a hardware store that really grabbed my attention. Something about its homespun appearance attracted me, charmed me, evoked a sense of permanence and reliability. An independent hardware store existing in the age of mega-houseware-homebuilding centers seemed quaint and defiantly utilitarian in the face of urban Main Street atrophy. I pulled over.

Above the store, a white rectangle framed “Hank’s Hardware” in large block lettering. In the display window, an eclectic assortment of building- and paint-related items lay scattered. The front door of solid wood and thick beveled glass eased open with barely a touch then slammed shut on its own. Long and narrow like a shotgun shack, the store held rows of standard carpentry tools hanging in straight lines the length of the walls. All the tools had wooden grips, some with grooves worn in the shape of clutched hands. Paint-streaked cans and buckets of nails bordered the floor along the baseboards. Two long tables covered with every variety of nut, bolt, and screw split the room in half.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” said a serious African American man approaching from the back, walking with a slight limp. He was large, but not fat, wearing brown slacks and matching vest over a white dress shirt. A sprinkling of gray in a full head of closely cropped hair complemented his neatly trimmed white beard.

“I was just driving by. I don’t see many small hardware stores anymore. Are you Hank?”

His expression personified disdain and suspicion.

“What are you, some kind of sociologist? Slumming it today?”

“I’m a private investigator researching a case.” I handed him one of my cards. “Have you lived here a long time?”

He stared at the card a moment then gave me a long, hard look. “You can call me Henry, and I don’t remember you asking if it was all right to walk into my place and start asking me personal questions.”

I shrunk back. “You’re right. I’m sorry. My client grew up in this town and hired me to find his missing girlfriend. A white kid. Something about your store drew me. I’m gambling that the owner might have lived in the area a long time. So far, the only people I’ve spoken to have been kids or cops. I need to talk to a regular guy.”

“I see,” Henry scoffed. “You’re looking for the nigger elder-statesman.”

“I’ve never used that word in my entire life.”

Henry looked at my card again, then back at me. Whether he thought about my words or thought about throwing me into the street, I couldn’t be sure. Finally, he turned as if to walk away then motioned with his head for me to follow. At the back of the store, the room took an L-shape with the addition of a small nook just big enough to serve as an office. Several stackable chairs surrounded three sides of a card table. Henry sat in the maroon overstuffed chair that occupied the fourth side. An offer to sit did not appear forthcoming, so I took the initiative.

Henry surprised me by speaking first. “I’ve lived here my whole life—except two years in the army. You’re looking for a white woman?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get the crazy-ass idea I could help?”

“I’m taking a peripheral approach to investigating. Instead of going directly—”

“I know what ‘peripheral’ means, Landau.”

“Sorry. I’m thinking the more I learn about my client’s surroundings, the better my chances of figuring out what happened to his girl—”

“Why don’t you ask your damn client about his life?”

“He’s reluctant to talk about himself.”

“He must be paying you well. Do you know what ‘puerile’ means, Landau?”

“I’m not sure.”

“When an adult acts childishly, he’s a fool, and only a fool would keep a client like that.”

“Well, like you said, he’s paying me well.”

An African American man about Henry’s age walked in. Without a word, Henry stood and met the man on the floor. Loud greetings prompted me to take up a position at the edge of the nook, where I peered around the corner to see the two fused in a manly embrace, laughing. They exchanged small talk for a while before the man got down to business.

“Okay, Hank, I need your help. I’m pouring concrete for my floor safe…”

As the man described his project, Henry picked through the innumerable fasteners strewn over the tables, holding each one close to his face before placing it in his free hand or returning it to the table. By the time the friend stopped talking, Henry had the hardware ready.

“Push the anchor bolt into the concrete. Make sure to leave two to three inches of thread above the surface….”

The man answered a couple of questions regarding support and stability, before the tone of the conversation lowered. I heard enough to guess that somebody was ill. With their farewell hug, I moved back to my chair.

“Good luck, my brother,” Henry said loudly as his friend walked out.

Henry plopped into his chair, rested his elbows on the table, then buried his face in his hands. He didn’t make a sound other than the air rushing in and out of his nostrils. Just as I was about to suggest I come back later, he lifted his head and said, “Is the white boy paying you cash?”

“He swears it’s not drug money.”

Henry leaned back and sighed. “So you want me to tell you something that will help Eddie Byrne find his girlfriend.”

In retrospect, I should not have been that shocked. Where I grew up, I could’ve named all five people of color. “How well do you know Eddie?”

“I knew his father. A stubborn goddamn cracker. My family moved here from Newark after we lost our house in the riots. A couple years later, Burt and I both got drafted at the same time. Did our basic together. A lot of us came back messed up. Burt, more than most. We’d run into each other at the VFW. Didn’t talk much, usually a nod and then mumble something.”

I threw out an understatement. “I hear Irvington’s changed a lot since the sixties.”

A burst of deep, throaty laughter. “I bet you weren’t even
conceived
in the sixties, Landau.”

“I bet you’re right.”

Henry shook his head. “When I moved here, I was the minority. As the blacks moved in, the whites moved out—”

“I know about white flight. Same thing in Chicago.”

Henry smiled. “All right, then. Twenty years later, Burt is the minority. By the time Eddie’s a teenager, his family is damn near a minority of three in their own neighborhood.”

“Did you actually know Eddie? Did you talk to him?”

“No, I just saw him around. Watched him grow up as the white boy in the ’hood. I couldn’t help but respect him from afar. I think a lot of the kids—even the gangbangers—left him alone after a while, just out of respect. Burt became known as the crazy white man in that house.”

“You know where that house is?”

“Of course!”

I took out a photo of Tanya. “Did you ever see Eddie with this woman?”

He studied the picture. “Yeah, that’s probably her. I never got a good look at her, just saw them walking past or something.” Henry pushed his chair back and leaned over to open a small refrigerator sitting on the floor. I thought he was handing me a bottle of beer, but it turned out to be mineral water.

“Calcium,” Henry said after taking a swig. “Mineral water is a good source of calcium. I bet you didn’t know that.”

“No, I didn’t. What would cause Eddie’s girlfriend to up and leave her hometown?”

“I didn’t know her, Landau—”

“Humor me—please. Let’s say she was an intelligent, introspective woman.”

Henry took another swig. “Well, you’ve got to remember something. She wouldn’t be just dating Eddie, she’d be dating his whole damn family. They’re all associated, if you know what I mean. Connected to organized crime.
Peripherally
mobbed up, I would say.” Henry laughed then drained his bottle.