sweep to the man’s weighted leg to deposit him on his ass with a thud next to his friend, who was curled up and drooling. Silence had fallen, besides the music, which Behr recognized as the old Pearl Jam song “Even Flow.” All activity in the bar had ceased, as attention was directed toward the altercation.
“Are we done here?” Behr asked the pair on the ground.
Then there was a crashing noise behind him, and Behr whipped his head around to see a third big guy rolling around on the ground holding his throat, a pool cue loose on the floor behind him. Decker was just stepping back from the man, melting into the crowd of onlookers. Behr straightened. It was clear enough what had happened: Behr was about to get cold blasted, and then he didn’t. A moment ago, on his way into the fray, he’d seen what looked like the remainder of the offensive line at a standee table, but stupidly hadn’t clocked them as friends of the pair that was giving Chad the bum’s rush. A pool cue shot to the back of his head could’ve really ruined his evening. Behr looked to Decker, who just shrugged.
Behr turned to Chad, who was wide-eyed and shrinking back against the bar. “Maybe you should call it a night.”
Chad just nodded.
They stood in the dark, in the cool evening air, and were about ready to head for their cars. Decker had badged the lone happy hour bouncer, who had finally trundled up to the fracas, and the guy was plenty happy to let the three of them leave. Chad had at last gone on his way after an uncomfortable profusion of thanks. His mien- equal parts rattled, humiliated, and beholden-was almost more off-putting than his usual self-satisfied buoyancy.
“Well, that was interesting,” Behr said, feeling like a high schooler on a date, when he and Decker were finally standing there alone.
“At least the music picked up there at the end,” Decker added. Only the sound of passing cars filled the silence.
“Look, I don’t know if I accomplished what I was supposed to here, so if you’re up for it, and want to do it again …”
“Yeah, sure,” Decker said, “you’re lots of fun.”
They went their separate ways, and Behr returned home to find Susan on the living room floor, organizing little blankets and clothing and other baby gear.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Fine. That Decker’s a real handy guy,” Behr said.
“Thanks for doing it, Frank. I know it was a big favor.”
“Favors are my business,” he said, heading off to take a shower.
21
Behr walked into the Caro offices at 8:25 to find a problem waiting for him, and it was one he recognized from the Payroll Place Web site. Karl Potempa was in the coffee area, pouring for a tall, gray-haired man Behr knew was John Lutz, the company president and client he was supposed to have met. Cups filled, they turned and saw him crossing to his desk.
“Mr. Behr,” Potempa called out, warm yet stentorian, using a thumb to invite him toward a conference room. The “Mr.” was something that was attached when clients were around, to impress them with the professional and civilized nature of the Caro Group. Behr grabbed his laptop and headed for the impromptu meeting, wishing he had more work product to show.
“Uh-huh, I see, uh-huh, hmm,” Lutz said, his eyes raking back and forth over the lines of printed text that held the personal and financial information of his employees.
“We look for obvious flags-large deposits or purchases. Tax trouble or debt that could drive someone to cross the line. But as of yet, we don’t see any of that here.”
Behr had managed to get through most of the conference without looking like a complete fraud to the client. Lutz was merely a conscientious business owner eager to stop the thefts affecting his company, and it wasn’t a problem for Behr to pepper him with preliminary factoids and generalized scenarios of worker malfeasance. To any casual observer it would seem that Behr had done much more on the case than he actually had. Potempa had sat in for the first ten minutes and his eyes, flat and knowing, made it clear
Then Potempa left and it got easier. Behr spent another forty minutes creating a blizzard of bullshit to distract Lutz. The nature of it brought a slightly sick feeling to his gut. There was no time over the past ten years when Behr would have bothered with a meeting like this, and if he lost business, so be it. But over the past months he’d led or at least been a part of several similar sits. File them under “client relations.” In his past, as a solo operator, he’d probably spent 10 percent of his time on it, versus 90 percent on the work. Moving into the corporate world, he figured it would shift to a 25 to 75 percent ratio. He was wrong. Big-time wrong. Shortly after his arrival, he quickly deduced he’d be better off flipping things altogether, and making it 90 percent client relations, 10 percent work. He hadn’t been able to make the final leap yet, to a complete goldbricking bill padder, but he’d probably get there soon enough. Finally, Lutz was satisfied and Behr got him out the door.
Behr went to his desk, where the smart move would’ve been to bust ass on the case in order to be prepared for when Potempa would have him in to rip him a new one. Instead he dove into the state business permit and licensing database. That’s where he saw that, indeed, Kolodnik’s company had pulled the construction permits on the Indy Flats racetrack project but was not listed on the state gaming license. That important piece was held by an LLC called L.G. Entertainment, the president of that entity being Lowell Gantcher. Behr remembered Gantcher from various articles that came up in his background check of Kolodnik, and it sent him on a new search into the man’s personal history.
Lowell Gantcher had gone to college at the Kelley School at the University of Indiana, where he claimed a bachelor’s of business administration. He worked for a large property management company and eventually did two developments: a standalone supermarket and a small eight-unit condo building. For some reason he hadn’t been able to continue on that track, and began buying distressed loans. Then Gantcher and Kolodnik met at some point, because about three and a half years back they had partnered on Indy Flats.
In the more recent past, there were some interesting filings to the tax board, a petition to reduce estimated taxes based on a projected loss. That jibed with the news coverage on the racinos that he’d read of late, where video slot and poker machines that had been projected to take $350 per day during flush times were lately taking under $250. Some quick math told Behr that with between eighteen hundred and twenty-two hundred machines in play, that would account for around a $200,000 loss. Per day. Over the course of a year, the numbers would be staggering. And, finally, ten months back, the petition was denied, as was the request for a special assembly to convene on the matter. Behr made a note to swing by and pay a visit to Indy Flats to see for himself what was going on there.
It was close to 5:00, and an orange ball of afternoon sun was shooting through the office windows when Potempa’s secretary showed up at his desk.
“He’d like to see you,” Ms. Swanton said. Behr nodded, stood, picked up his paperwork, and followed her.
“Behr, sit,” Potempa said. The client was long gone and so was the “Mr.” right along with him. Behr took a seat across the desk from his boss. He saw that Potempa had a few fingers of amber liquor in a cut crystal glass near his elbow. Potempa saw him notice. “You want one?”
Behr shrugged, more out of surprise at the offer than a desire for the drink, and Potempa spun in his chair and poured a lean one from a decanter. He slid the glass across to Behr, who nodded his thanks and took a sip. It was a silk rocket of single malt that had to be eighteen years old.
