has a condo over at Marina Towers. She's out of town, I have a key, and she has a computer. So, I'll take you over there for a while. You can take a look at the disks, then you're going to teach me that computer stuff.”
“That computer stuff? I don't know how much time you've got, but it's a deal.”
“One thing, though,” she looked me over again. “That cowboy costume has got to go. Me and plaid do
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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
“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
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.”
