Trophy Widow by Michael A. Kahn Page A

imposing desk.
    Nate smiled at us. “Sheila, always a pleasure and a privilege to see you, my dear. Rachel Gold, you are looking fine today, girl, yes you are. Gonna make me have to take some of my blood pressure medication.”
    Typical meaningless jabber from Nate the Great. We’d been tangling over the fate of the Oasis Shelter for more than half a year now, and during that period he’d called me everything from a “stone-cold fox” to a “demon spawn,” from “sexy mama” to “goddamn ball-breaking bitch”—and sometimes all four during the same meeting. He had what charitably could be described as a volatile personality.
    The walls of his office were festooned with even more framed photographs than the reception area, along with various proclamations, letters of commendations, and the like. The enormous picture window behind his desk displayed the Arch in the distance and the Civil Courts Building up close—two impressive edifices unique to St. Louis, although the Civil Courts Building was easily the more intriguing of the two. Hailed in 1930 as the Skyscraper Temple of Law, it’s an otherwise undistinguished fourteen-story limestone structure until you get to the “roof,” which consists of an Ionic Greek temple crowned by an Egyptian pyramid crowned by two enormous griffins, those half-eagle, half-lion creatures of myth. This curiosity is actually a replica of the Tomb of Halicarnassus, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Why it sits atop the Civil Courts Building is anyone’s guess, but the way it dominated the view from the window added an oddly sinister aura to Nate’s office.
    â€œSo, my lovely ladies,” Nate said, “what’s on your mind today?”
    â€œSame as last time,” I told him.
    He chuckled and glanced playfully at Borghoff, who stared back without expression.
    Although Nate sometimes assumed the manner of a jester, he was as innocent and harmless as a king cobra—and at least as lethal. After all, his mother was Lucille Turner, which meant that his uncle was the Reverend Orion Sampson, an old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone preacher who’d given up the pulpit thirty years ago to run for Congress. St. Louis had never seen a black politician of his ilk. While others kowtowed to the city’s white power elite, Orion Sampson spent thirty years in Congress thumbing his nose at the white boys while his constituents kept reelecting him with increasingly lopsided votes. The Republicans hadn’t even bothered putting up a candidate the last four elections. The reverend apparently was as pure and principled as he was self-righteous and arrogant. Three scandal-free decades on Capitol Hill translated into sufficient seniority to chair the types of committees and subcommittees that forced white boys to kowtow to him if they wanted that tax break or federal subsidy or government contract for their Fortune 500 company.
    Orion Sampson dearly loved his older sister Lucille, and Lucille dearly loved her precious son Nathaniel. All of which meant that Nate was not only dangerous but untouchable. He was also the city official in charge of Renewal 2004, the ambitious plan to transform a large section of north St. Louis into an urban environment that would attract middle-class whites back to the city. As redevelopment commissioner, he helped administer the special government-guaranteed mortgages that were the city’s principal tool for implementing the massive redevelopment plan—tens of millions of dollars in redevelopment funds, much of it from the federal government, thanks to Uncle Orion. The properties intended for redevelopment were principally two- and three-flat apartment buildings acquired by the city over the years through tax delinquency seizures, abandonment, or eminent domain proceedings. Indeed, Nate the Great, through his office as redevelopment commissioner, was now the single largest