but the central column and a bit of flooring and then bare girders meeting at the extremities. And still men walked up there as casually as if stepping out for a smoke. Granted, they had harnesses, but you had the sense they'd walk up there just as easily without them.
I watched a tower crane lift a girder high into the sky and ease it alongside the frame. Workmen hundreds of feet in the air guided it into position, silhouetted by the sun as they hammered rivets into place with heavy mauls. Through my binoculars, I could see hard hats covered in decals-American flags and union symbols-dusty clothes and tool belts hung on hips like gunfighters' holsters. About half the men looked Mohawk. They were legends in the business, had been since tall buildings and bridges first started to rise out of the North American landscape: men from Six Nations, Kahnawake and other reserves who were said to have no fear of heights, who could walk the high iron as if strolling down a garden path. One man, his long black hair in a braid halfway down his back, shimmied down a vertical girder, gripping it with his gloved hands and pressing his workboots against it to control his descent.
Give me terra firma any day.
One route up the east side of the building had not been glassed in but was covered in plywood. A crane was bolted to the bare concrete of every floor and on it ran the workmen's elevator-more of a hoist really, sliding patiently down the side of the building while a counterweight went up the other side. When it came to rest on the ground, a dozen or so ironworkers exited, then the weight began to descend and the hoist started its slow return run up.
As the men walked through the gate in the hurricane fence that surrounded the site, heading toward a canteen truck parked at the curb, I asked one of them who the site manager was. He shaded his eyes, scanning the site, then pointed at a burly man who wore a shirt and tie under a windbreaker, a canary-yellow hard hat barely covering his skull, talking on a cellphone as he scanned a set of plans spread over a sheet of plywood that was balanced on two sawhorses. When he closed the phone, I slipped through a gap in the fence and approached him with a notebook and pen in hand.
Time to throw the first stick at the tiger.
'Got a minute?' I asked.
He looked like he could play centre for the Bears in nothing more than his street clothes. 'Who are you?' he asked, looking at my bare head and then down at my feet. 'And where's your hard hat and safety boots?'
'My name's Jonah Geller.'
'Good for you. Now get off this site.'
I showed him my ID. 'I'm a licensed investigator and-'
'I don't care if you're a registered nurse. No one gets on this site without a proper lid and boots.'
'I'm already on the site,' I said.
'Then get off. Now.'
'Just answer a couple of questions about Simon Birk.' It didn't really matter whether he answered them. I just wanted Birk to hear that I'd been asking.
'Call his publicist. I'm sure he has one.' He thrust his chin out at me. It was a hell of a chin. Hit it with a crowbar and call it a draw.
'He's in a world of trouble,' I said.
'What are you talking about?'
'Simon Birk. His Canadian project? It's all based on a fraud.'
'What are you, nuts? He's one of the richest guys in town. In the goddamn country, for Chrissakes.'
'Cops there are looking at him for three counts of murder.'
'Bullshit,' he said. 'It woulda been in the Sun-Times if that was true.'
'It hasn't made the news yet.'
''Cause it's all in your head, whackjob.' He moved in on me until I could smell his sour breath. 'Simon Birk might be a rich bastard but right now he is our rich bastard. He's putting up this building and paying our wages, which means nobody fucks with him till the job is done. So get off the site before you get curb-stomped.' He stepped on my right foot, his steel-toed boot trying to mash my running shoe flat and not doing a bad job of it.
'See what happens when you come in here without boots? Without a hard hat, bud, plenty worse can happen.' He pointed up to the top of the unfinished steel tower. 'Someone drops a penny from that height, it would put a hole in your head. They drop something bigger, like a bolt, your head splits like a melon.'
I could have argued the point-could have stuck stiff fingers up under his ribs and rearranged his organs-but I had done what I'd set out to do. I was pretty sure he'd be on the phone as soon as I was gone, my name burning up a line that would lead to Birk's ears. And if this little action didn't do it, the next one would. Or the one after that.
I said, 'I think I'll be going now.'
'Fuckin' A,' he said.
I've never been sure of the origin of that expression. I didn't think it was time to ask.
CHAPTER 28
If you didn't know who the mayor of Chicago was before arriving at City Hall, you certainly knew it after. The name seemed to be on every door, sign and plaque in the place. Everything down to the elevator buttons brought to you by Hizzoner. And what a place: a huge neoclassical structure that takes up an entire city block, its top half dominated by fluted columns. A symbol of the power handed down from the former boss to his son, more in the tradition of Pakistani democracy than the Midwestern American brand. I walked through the building, trying not to look like a gaper and failing miserably. The lobby of Toronto's city hall feels like a giant library; Chicago's is more like a train station or cathedral with its vaulted ceilings and dim brass lamps, the gleaming filigreed brass around its elevators.
The Department of Buildings is on the ninth floor. This is where you come to get zoning permits, arrange inspections, obtain forms, fill out forms, hand in forms. Apply for licences to work as plumbers, electricians, masons and crane operators. To comply, voluntarily or otherwise, with the city's codes regarding repairs and maintenance.
I guessed I was the only one coming here to raise hell about Simon Birk.
The elevator opened onto a long, bright hallway that echoed with every footstep. There was a counter with computer monitors where visitors could look up city maps, real estate lots, city regulations or their horoscope. Beyond that was the entrance to the Department of Zoning and Licensing. On my left when I walked in was a reception area where dozens of people sat in various stages of impatience, boredom and resignation, four rows of them in the mayor's chairs. I took a seat, anticipating a long wait.
'Six fucking inches,' said the man next to me, a stocky middle-aged fellow in a Cubs jacket. 'That's what I'm here for-six fucking inches.'
'I think Urology's down the hall.'
He laughed and clapped my shoulder. 'My deck, I'm talking about. Back of my house. Building inspector comes around, tells me it has to be torn down and rebuilt because it's five and a half feet away from the interior lot line, and the minimum distance is six feet. I say to him, 'Fella, we're talking six inches, gimme a break here.' You know what he says? He says, 'Measure twice, build once,' the little prick. 'You don't like it,' he says, 'you can always appeal.' So that's what I'm doing here, wasting my time, wasting their time, over six fucking inches. I mean, it's not some landmark building or heritage property, it's my goddamn house. My next-door neighbour doesn't give a shit. Nobody gives a shit. I probably should have offered the guy something, huh? What do you think? A hundred bucks? Five hundred? Gonna cost me five grand to tear it down and rebuild-if I can reuse all the wood-and that's not even counting my goddamn time.' He looked at his watch, at the number of people around us waiting, and sighed deeply.
'Enough of my bullshit,' he said. 'So what are you here for?'
'High-rise demolition,' I said.
'I think you're in the wrong line for that,' he said. 'You want to be down the other end of the hall where the project managers are.'
