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 estate speculator's fancy car.
I used a pay phone just off Sixty–first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.
"Mitchell Sloane Enterprises."
"It's me, Glenda. Any calls?"
"Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number."
"Probably wasn't." Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"Bye–bye."
24
E ARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay–splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.
The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly—found a booth near the back.
The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off–the–rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.
"Hi! You need a menu?"
"Please."
"Be right back."
I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium–height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.
She was back in a minute, a one–page
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 estate speculator's fancy car.
I used a pay phone just off Sixty–first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.
"Mitchell Sloane Enterprises."
"It's me, Glenda. Any calls?"
"Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number."
"Probably wasn't." Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"Bye–bye."
24
E ARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay–splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.
The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly—found a booth near the back.
The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off–the–rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.
"Hi! You need a menu?"
"Please."
"Be right back."
I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium–height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.
She was back in a minute, a one–page
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