work to do. I told Michelle once she was like a big sister to me, trying to tell her I loved her the only way I could. All she heard was 'big.' Like she was older than me. She told me I was a pig and a guttersnipe, ground her spike heel into the toe of my shoe and stalked out of Mama's restaurant. Didn't speak to me for weeks. Until I got in trouble and she came running.
She'd been threatening to have the operation for years. 'I'm going to lose these spare parts one day, baby. Stop being trapped. Be myself.' We never took it seriously until she left. I missed her. Terry was patient. The Mole was breaking up inside. 'My biological family' was the only reference Michelle made to her parents. She was the one who told me what 'family of choice' meant. The Prof knew. 'She don't just know how to say it, bro', she knows how to play it.'
A transsexual who could never have a child. And a solitary genius who never would. Terry was their child. Snatched from the night. Blooming in a junkyard.
The Mole drove me over to a gypsy cab joint where I could catch a ride to the airport. He didn't wave goodbye. If it wasn't Nazi-hunting, it wasn't on his list.
20
I FLEW IN TO MIDWAY on a Thursday night, traveling light. Adjusted my watch to Central Time. A city snake shedding its skin, coming into a new season.
The countergirl confirmed my reservation, asked me if I was interested in an upgrade. She made the word sound so orgasmic I went for the optional car phone.
She didn't blink twice at Mitchell Sloane's American Express gold. It wouldn't bounce. I'd had it for years. Charged something every couple of months, paid the bills by check. Sloane was a solid citizen. Had the passport to prove it.
I would rather have paid cash, not left so much paper behind me. But the drug dealers ruined that: paying cash is a red flag to the DEA, and everyone has a phone. I was lousy with cash. New York cash. Enough to live on for years if I went back to my underground ways. After Belle went down, I went crazy. Off the track. I had the bounty money the pimps had paid me to take the Ghost Van off the streets. All the money Belle had been saving for her wedding day. But I went after more. Not for the money— just to be doing something. Cigarettes by the truckload from North Carolina. Cartons of food stamps, sold to bodegas with nothing on their shelves— you can buy TV sets with them in Puerto Rico. Extortion. Rough stuff. Scoring like a madman. Never getting square.
Until a dead man pulled me out of the pit. Wesley.
21
I KNEW WHERE to go. The Lincoln Town Car had a full tank of gas. Clean inside, but not fresh. Like a motel room where they put a sanitation band across the toilet seat.
The road to Indiana smelled like steel and salt. Near the water it smelled like sewage. Near the mills, like rust.
The motel was outside Merrillville, where Virgil had his house. One story, X-shaped. Mid-range: not classy enough for the desk clerk to tell me about their fine restaurant, not raunchy enough to ask me if I wanted anything sent to my room.
I set the door chain, unpacked, clicked on the TV set. I balanced a couple of quarters on the metal doorknob, positioned a glass ashtray
on the napless carpet underneath it. Closed my eyes and drifted away.
When I woke up, the Cubs were in the mid-innings of a night game. I went back to sleep.
22
THE NEXT MORNING, I took a long shower. Shaved carefully. Put on the dove-gray summer-weight silk- and-worsted suit Michelle made me buy when we'd both been way ahead after a nice score. White silk shirt, plain dark tie. Black Bally slip-ons, thin gray Concord watch with tiny gold dots on the band, black star sapphire ring. Black aluminum attache case filled with charts, projections, blueprints, maps. Ready to go.
The freestanding building had space for a dozen cars. Only two slots occupied as I pulled the Lincoln into the lot. Evergreen Real Estate.
Pleasant-faced middle-aged woman at the front desk. 'Good morning, sir. Can I help you?'
'Yes, please. I wonder if I could see the manager.'
'Certainly, sir. Your name, please?'
'Sloane.'
She tapped one of the buttons on her console. 'John, a Mr. Sloane to see you.' A pause. 'Well, I don't
The manager was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, open-necked white shirt underneath. He was a tall man with a dark crewcut just past military length. He extended his hand. 'I'm John Humboldt, Mr. Sloane. You wanted to speak with me.'
I shook his hand. 'Yes, sir, I did. It's about some investments. I wonder if we could talk in…'
'Right this way.'
He led me back to his office, stepped aside to usher me in first. 'Have a seat.'
The office walls were paneled in knotty pine, covered with laminated certificates and engraved plaques. Apparently, John Humboldt was a whale of a salesman.
I handed him the Mitchell Sloane business card. 'I'm in the area to check out some potential sites. I have a number of clients…a consortium of investors with cash…who want to get in on the ground floor.'
He scratched his head, doing the country boy act for the city slicker. 'Well, that's mighty interesting, Mr. Sloane. But the ground floor of what? I guess you must know heavy industry isn't exactly working overtime lately in these parts.'
I lit a cigarette, my face telegraphing the struggle. Should I trust this man?
Hell, yes.
'Mr. Humboldt, we both know the legislature has just given approval for pari-mutuel racing in this state. For the first time.'
'That bill hasn't passed. It was just introduced.'
'It'll pass this time,' I assured him. 'And once it does, they'll need racetracks.'
'And you think Lake County…?'
'No doubt in my mind.'
'I see.'
'Sure you do. I'm going to be looking around for appropriate sites. Spend a couple of weeks. When I locate something I believe might be appropriate, would you be in a position to make the approach? We don't want anyone knowing about this…once they think there's outside money available, you and I both know what'll happen to the price.'
'You can rely on me,' Humboldt said, extending his hand again.
'I'm sure. Now, I'll be staying at different places. Low profile, you know? But my office will always know where to reach me. And I'll write the number of the car phone on the back of this business card for you, okay? I'm looking forward to us doing business.'
'Me too.' As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.
'I'll be in touch, Mr. Humboldt.'
'Call me John,' he said.
23
I SPENT THE REST of the day driving around. Stopping occasionally, making little squibbles in a notebook. Not for me— my eyes photographed what I needed to know. In case somebody decided to take a look inside the real
