problem,” I said. “If you think of her name, give me a call.” I could feel Tate’s relief. Even the lights brightened. I thanked the chancellor for his time and made a move toward the door and stopped. “You know anything about real estate?” I said. “I was thinking about investment property—no pensions in my business.”
“Well, I have a mortgage,” he said and laughed. “Honestly, Mr. Landau, my experience is higher education. The university offers adult education courses on real estate.”
I thanked him again, and as I walked out, I also thanked Ms. Flame for her time.
13
At the lobby’s Starbucks, I grabbed a Tribune and ordered a tall iced mocha. The girl behind the counter kept staring at my eye. “Covering a nasty bruise,” I said. “You shouldsee what the other guy looks like.” She smiled quickly and looked away.
Iced coffee in hand, I stepped into the midday heat and was sweating by the time I had crossed the street to my car. The construction worker hadn’t moved. I waved, and he saluted. Capitalist pig. My gut told me that about now Tate’s mind was racing, and the worst-case scenarios were winning the day. Tate knew a dead man had been funneling him laundered money. Tate lied about knowing this dead man. He would need a shoulder to cry on.
I was either lucky or good because less than an hour later the chancellor walked out of the building. I turned the key and my Civic jumped right in as expected. I loved my little machine. Despite the domination of fuel injection, a clean carburetor and unsullied oil still gave you a devoted friend. I turned on my hazards and pretended to peer for an address as I followed Tate for two blocks, pissing off anyone behind me. When he walked into the office of a garage, I drove around the block and saw the garage’s exit located on a less busy one-way street, which made it easier for me to pull over and wait with the newspaper partially obscuring my face. Moments later Tate emerged driving a Cadillac de Ville convertible, license plate LJI1158. I repeated, “Leslie-Jane-Irving 1158,” until the plate was in the vault.
I knew the chancellor wasn’t driving to a restaurant since the neighborhood had every type of food within walking distance, and when you’re freaking out, appetite is often the first casualty. He struck me as a snobby North Side type, and I expected him to head back that way, which he did when he turned on Halsted. But then he surprised the hell out of me and turned onto the Eisenhower Expressway. West Side?
Traffic was fairly light, and we were soon outside the city limits. Ten minutes later, he exited onto Ridgeland Avenue, which took us into the suburb of Oak Park. I followed from a safe distance as he led me through a neighborhood of magnificent old mansions on quiet, shady streets lined with enormous trees. He slowed to a stop in front of a white Victorian with a wraparound porch. I parked a block behind him.
Tate held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while gesticulating wildly with the other. From the house, a bearded man in his sixties appeared. He wore a yellow polo shirt with tan slacks. He walked casually, as if it was a routine meeting. As the man reached for the car door, I focused my SLR Ultra Zoom through the windshield and squeezed off a ten-frame burst as he entered the vehicle. Tate put the phone down. If the two were talking, they were doing it while looking straight ahead. The bearded man’s head fell back, as if trying to catch a few Zs. A few minutes later a black Escalade turned onto the street from the opposite direction and parked across from them. A fat, smartly dressed man with a butterball face emerged from the car and walked quickly to the powwow. Isqueezed off another ten frames, including the Escalade’s license plate. As soon as the man climbed into the backseat, Tate started giving him an earful. For fun I triggered ten more frames to see if I could catch a maniacal expression to add to my
“Well, I have a mortgage,” he said and laughed. “Honestly, Mr. Landau, my experience is higher education. The university offers adult education courses on real estate.”
I thanked him again, and as I walked out, I also thanked Ms. Flame for her time.
13
At the lobby’s Starbucks, I grabbed a Tribune and ordered a tall iced mocha. The girl behind the counter kept staring at my eye. “Covering a nasty bruise,” I said. “You shouldsee what the other guy looks like.” She smiled quickly and looked away.
Iced coffee in hand, I stepped into the midday heat and was sweating by the time I had crossed the street to my car. The construction worker hadn’t moved. I waved, and he saluted. Capitalist pig. My gut told me that about now Tate’s mind was racing, and the worst-case scenarios were winning the day. Tate knew a dead man had been funneling him laundered money. Tate lied about knowing this dead man. He would need a shoulder to cry on.
I was either lucky or good because less than an hour later the chancellor walked out of the building. I turned the key and my Civic jumped right in as expected. I loved my little machine. Despite the domination of fuel injection, a clean carburetor and unsullied oil still gave you a devoted friend. I turned on my hazards and pretended to peer for an address as I followed Tate for two blocks, pissing off anyone behind me. When he walked into the office of a garage, I drove around the block and saw the garage’s exit located on a less busy one-way street, which made it easier for me to pull over and wait with the newspaper partially obscuring my face. Moments later Tate emerged driving a Cadillac de Ville convertible, license plate LJI1158. I repeated, “Leslie-Jane-Irving 1158,” until the plate was in the vault.
I knew the chancellor wasn’t driving to a restaurant since the neighborhood had every type of food within walking distance, and when you’re freaking out, appetite is often the first casualty. He struck me as a snobby North Side type, and I expected him to head back that way, which he did when he turned on Halsted. But then he surprised the hell out of me and turned onto the Eisenhower Expressway. West Side?
Traffic was fairly light, and we were soon outside the city limits. Ten minutes later, he exited onto Ridgeland Avenue, which took us into the suburb of Oak Park. I followed from a safe distance as he led me through a neighborhood of magnificent old mansions on quiet, shady streets lined with enormous trees. He slowed to a stop in front of a white Victorian with a wraparound porch. I parked a block behind him.
Tate held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while gesticulating wildly with the other. From the house, a bearded man in his sixties appeared. He wore a yellow polo shirt with tan slacks. He walked casually, as if it was a routine meeting. As the man reached for the car door, I focused my SLR Ultra Zoom through the windshield and squeezed off a ten-frame burst as he entered the vehicle. Tate put the phone down. If the two were talking, they were doing it while looking straight ahead. The bearded man’s head fell back, as if trying to catch a few Zs. A few minutes later a black Escalade turned onto the street from the opposite direction and parked across from them. A fat, smartly dressed man with a butterball face emerged from the car and walked quickly to the powwow. Isqueezed off another ten frames, including the Escalade’s license plate. As soon as the man climbed into the backseat, Tate started giving him an earful. For fun I triggered ten more frames to see if I could catch a maniacal expression to add to my
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