Trophy Widow by Michael A. Kahn Page B

property owner in north St. Louis.
    The target year for completion was 2004, which was the one hundredth anniversary of the St. Louis World’s Fair, which in turn was the one hundredth anniversary of the start of the Lewis and Clark expedition at St. Louis. As part of the redevelopment plan, Nate’s office was attempting to condemn various properties within the area that were deemed to be “inharmonious” with the redevelopment plan. The Oasis Shelter was one such allegedly inharmonious property, which made Nate the Great my principal adversary in the Oasis Shelter condemnation dispute. And now that he’d moved to phase two of Renewal 2004, the battle was heating up.
    â€œLadies,” he told us, “I understand your devotion to that shelter, but we’re talking about the future.” He slid into the singsong manner of a preacher. “As we move further into the new millennium we need to expand our perspectives. We have made a commitment to revive a dying portion of this fine city. The sobering reality is that the march of progress often demands the sacrifice of a few to make life better for the many. I am afraid that is the case here.”
    â€œCome on, Nate,” I said, “you’re not building Disney World out there. You’re talking about revitalizing a real city. Any real city has all types—blacks and whites, Asians and Hispanics, rich and poor, good guys and bad guys, and, unfortunately, some innocent women who are victims of abusive husbands and boyfriends.”
    Nate placed his hands palm-down on the desk and nodded. “I hear you, Rachel. I admire your compassion. But you’re refusing to look at the big picture. We got all types living in this city but one. The one type we don’t have is the white professional class.” He was standing now, turning to gaze out the window at the skyline. “We got to find a way to lure all those white doctors and lawyers and accountants and businessmen back into our fine city.” He turned back to face us. “Let me tell you something, ladies, you don’t bait that hook with a depressing shelter for abused women. Isn’t that the truth, Herman?”
    Borghoff slowly looked up from his notes, his expression impassive, his gaze remote.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” I said, pressing on. “We’re not running a crack house, Commissioner. Those are well-maintained apartment buildings, and the cause is a good one.”
    â€œYou’re missing the point, Rachel. I don’t care whether you got the Virgin Mary herself running that operation. My job is to convince Ward and June Cleaver to sell their home out there in the white-bread suburbs, pack up their honky belongings, put Wally and the Beaver in the minivan, and move into the city. I’m never going to close that deal when they find out they’re going to be living next door to a bunch of skanky women hiding out from psycho boyfriends. That just ain’t gonna fly.”
    The meeting went downhill quickly from there and broke up ten minutes later with my assurance to Nate that the shelter’s supporters would be stocking the war chest to fight any condemnation proceeding.
    That just made him chuckle. “You may think you’re messing with City Hall,” he told me, “but you’re forgetting something important, counselor. When it comes to messing, City Hall got a whole lot more ways of messing with your client than you got messing with City Hall. Your client may have enough money to hire a lawyer, but we already got lawyers, girl, and we got a whole arsenal besides, and it’s called ‘city government.’ Before you declare war, counselor, you better first remind yourself that we got lots of different weapons in that arsenal. Isn’t that so, Herman?”
    I was glad to get out of Nate’s office. Everything about him infuriated me—from his indifference to the plight of the women served by