The Fifth Floor (2 page)

Jacobs took a bite of his burger and stirred a swizzle stick through his Horny Goat. One exercise of his Adam’s apple and the drink was half gone. Jacobs wiped his lips with a napkin, finished off the rest of one burger, and pulled the second in front of him.

“Johnny Woods, huh?”

The reporter dug one paw into a sack of chips, filled his mouth, and began to crunch.

“He works for the mayor. Fifth Floor.”

“I know that, Fred. What’s he do there?”

“What the fuck do any of them do? Why you so interested?”

“It’s a case, Fred. No news value. At least not yet.”

I didn’t see how this case could ever make it into the news, but keeping Fred Jacobs on a string was probably a good idea. Besides, I was paying for the Billy Goat feast so why not push it.

“And if it becomes a story?” Fred said.

“You’re my first phone call. Now, what does Woods do on the fifth?”

Jacobs nodded, bit into his second burger, and talked with his mouth full.

“If you looked him up on the payroll, he’d be some PR flack. Probably pulling a hundred K a year. Wilson’s got half a dozen of ’em stashed there.”

“And what does Johnny really do?”

The reporter spread a smile across his face. “He’s what we call a fixer.”

“A fixer?”

“Yeah, a guy who fixes problems for the Fifth Floor. Makes things go away. And greases the machinery. All at the same time.”

Jacobs’ cell phone chirped. He held up a hand and flipped the phone open. “Yeah.” He listened, grunted a few times, and began to scribble furiously on a napkin.

When he finished with one napkin, Jacobs gestured to me. I pushed a pile more over to his side of the table; the reporter continued to write. I finished my burger, then my beer. Jacobs snapped the cell shut and stood up.

“You want to know what Woods does?”

I nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Jacobs headed to the door. I followed. A primer, apparently, was in the offing. On how problems got fixed in Chicago.

We got in my car, drove back around the block, and stopped short of the Tribune building. Jacobs went inside and came back out with a black duffel bag. Then we drove south on Michigan.

“Head down to the Loop,” the reporter said.

I cruised up and over the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Jacobs picked at his teeth with a toothpick and talked.

“That was one of Woods’ buddies on the phone.”

“Another fixer?”

“This guy actually works for Woods, but it’s all the same thing. He dropped me a bit of information only a guy like him would have. Could be good.”

We were into the Loop now, heading south on Wells Street. Taxis cruised by on our left and right. An El train clattered overhead, throwing a shower of sparks down onto the street.

“Pull up to the corner of LaSalle and Washington,” Jacobs said. “Then we wait.”

I pulled the car over and wondered what it was exactly we were waiting for. My passenger filled in the blanks.

“Like I told you, these guys get their orders from the mayor. Do all his dirty work. Sometimes it’s a private thing. Sometimes, however, they use the media.”

“The machinery?”

“Exactly. Reporters like me who need a story. Someone like Woods puts out a call. We get our headline, and a problem gets fixed. Very efficient, very convenient. Keep your eyes peeled for a guy in a light blue Crown Vic. He’ll be driving on municipal plates.”

Jacobs checked the napkins he had brought with him from the Billy Goat.

“Tag number M 3457.”

“Who’s this guy?” I said.

“The guy in the Vic?”

I nodded. Jacobs’ smile conjured up the ghosts of Chicago muckrakers past.

“Name’s David Meyers. Vice chairman for the mayor’s Department of Aviation.”

“Never heard of him.”

“That’s because he doesn’t do a fucking thing. Patronage job: pull down a hundred and a half a year and take lunch at the Union League Club every day, buy a summerhouse down in Grand Beach, and kiss the mayor’s ring whenever summoned.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. But David’s got what we call an issue. Actually two issues.”

Jacobs raised two lengths of bone he probably called fingers.

“First goes by the name of booze. Guy likes to drink his breakfast.”

“And?”

“Second involves a young lady named Margaret Hurley. Graduated last year from DePaul. Masters’ in public service. Not particularly smart. Not particularly charming. She is, however, the mayor’s niece.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Pretty simple. The mayor wants to give her a job, David Meyers’ job. Thing is, he can’t just fire Meyers. Piss off too many people. To be specific, one of the VPs at Boeing. Got Meyers his gig in the first place. Contributes some heavy cake to the Wilson war machine.”

“So?”

“So one of the mayor’s fixers steps in. Calls a guy like me. I get a story. They get an excuse to can the guy without pissing off the folks with the checkbooks.”

Jacobs pointed as a car exited from an underground garage onto LaSalle. “Here’s our boy.”

The Crown Vic with city plates pulled out and headed north.

“Stay a couple car lengths back,” Jacobs said.

“I know how to do this, Fred. Where’s he headed?”

“According to my source, the boozer. ’Course, I’ve heard that before.”

“You tailed this guy before?”

“Three times.”

“Nothing?”

“Not yet. He drives around a lot. Likes to follow fire engines. Sits at the fire and watches them work.”

“Must have a scanner in his car.”

“Yeah, well, I told my guy on the phone. This is it. If Meyers doesn’t get drunk today, I’m taking a pass.”

“What did your source say?”

“He said today’s the day. Damn sure. So I go.”

We followed the Crown Vic west on Randolph, south on Halsted, and then onto Taylor Street.

“Looks like it’s Little Italy,” I said.

Jacobs nodded. We cruised past the University of Illinois at Chicago and into a block full of pasta, spiced with espresso and smoke shops, over-the-counter delis, and stands selling Italian ice. Just past the corner of Taylor and Racine, the Crown Vic pulled into a pay lot, and a middle-aged man in a suit got out. He gave his keys to an attendant and walked down the street to a tavern called Hawkeye’s.

“He’s going in.” Jacobs said it like tumblers rolling, gears shifting, and the fate of one David Meyers falling into its predestined slot. From his duffel, the reporter pulled out a camera and snapped off a couple of quick shots as his man walked into the bar. Then he put the camera down and sat back in his seat.

“Now we wait.”

“How long?”

“Long as it takes. You okay with that?”

“Sure,” I said. “You going to ruin this guy’s life?”

Jacobs lit up another Camel and looked at me across the cut of smoke. “You think this is dirty?”

I shrugged.

“Let me ask you something,” Jacobs said. “You pay taxes. You like the fact this guy is going to sit in that bar all afternoon and drink the day away? On the city dime?”

“I hear you.”

“Sure you do. Let me tell you something else. Those guys downtown, they play rough. But hell, this is a big town and if you don’t know that, then get the fuck back to Iowa or wherever it is you come from. Fact is, David Meyers opened himself up to this.”

Jacobs held up his camera, two fingers pinching the cigarette as it burned down.

“If he didn’t have his nose in the booze bag all day, the Fifth Floor wouldn’t be able to put out the call to guys like me.”

“Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t take him out. Somehow.”

“Maybe,” Jacobs said. “But they wouldn’t be able to use me. Or any other journalist worth his salt. If the guy’s clean…” Jacobs shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a big town. Tough town. And the Fifth Floor plays it that way.”

I knew that from hard experience and decided to let the whole thing lie. So we watched the front door of Hawkeye’s and waited. Two hours later, Meyers was still inside. Jacobs had gone in to check on things. Now he slid back into the car.

“Nice pub. Flat-screen TVs, good jukebox, great-looking waitress.”

I had been sitting in my car for the better part of the afternoon and was getting sick of the coffee, not to mention the company.

“What’s he doing?” I said.

“I talked to the bartender on the side.” Jacobs rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign of currency changing hands. “He let me get a look at the tab. So far, it’s a baker’s dozen. Heinekens.”

I whistled. “In two hours?”

“Yeah, bartender says he’s going to cut him off soon. Good for my story. So get ready.”

It was another hour before the bartender rang last call on David Meyers. Jacobs snapped away with his Nikon as our boy lurched into the hard sunlight and stumbled on a curb cut. I heard a snicker from behind the camera.

“This guy is pissed,” Jacobs said.

We watched as Meyers made his way to his car. The lot attendant was just a kid. He took the car check but didn’t go back into his shed for the keys. Instead, the kid tried to talk to Meyers. The man in the suit cocked his head and listened, almost as if the kid were speaking something other than English. Then, our city exec exploded. First, he kicked his tires. After that, he slammed both hands on the roof of his car. The kid backed off, scurried over to his shed, and closed the door after him. Meyers followed, Jacobs snapping away, catching every movement for tomorrow’s front page. Meyers raged at the little wooden shed, tugged at the door, pounded on the glass. Finally, the kid opened a small window. The two exchanged more pleasantries, then the kid picked up a telephone and began to dial. At that point, Meyers stuck his hand through the window and grabbed a set of keys off the counter. The kid dropped the phone and watched as David Meyers ran back to his car, got in, and started it up.

Meyers almost hit four kids in a Honda as he pulled out of the lot. But pull out he did, into a stream of busy traffic, weaving his way, presumably home. I looked over at Jacobs, who took the camera off his eye and shrugged.

“Follow him.”

I pulled into traffic about five car lengths behind. Jacobs sat back and continued to snap pictures.

“Give me your phone,” I said.

Jacobs looked at me and handed over the cell. I dumped in a number and waited. At the other end was Dispatch for the nearest cop shop. Jacobs watched as I read off Meyers’ tag number and gave them his location. Then I flipped the phone shut and tossed it back to the reporter.

“What the fuck you do that for?” Jacobs said.

“You’ll get your story. This way it’s not a homicide as well.”

The reporter shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

Meyers hopped onto the Kennedy heading north. The expressway seemed to sober him up. He stayed in the right-hand lane and clocked a steady sixty. We both exited at Armitage. Meyers drove another block or two and pulled into a parking garage just south of Fullerton. I didn’t see a cruiser the entire time.

“His condo’s a block away,” Jacobs said.

“Guess he made it,” I said.

“Safe and sound.” Jacobs held up his camera. “Until tomorrow’s edition, that is. Then his world is over.”

“Yeah.”

“So now you know what guys like Johnny Woods do,” Jacobs said. “Does it help you at all?”

I didn’t have any answers for the reporter. As I’d find out soon enough, I didn’t even have the right questions.

T he next morning, I got up and ran out along the lake. It was still dark. The city lay before me, edged in light. To my left, I could feel the water, hear it rustle against the rocks. A thin line of pink was rising from a distant shore called Michigan, offering the first hint of dawn.

I was halfway home when I saw her. She was about a hundred yards ahead of me, wearing a black Gore-Tex shell over a long-sleeve yellow sweatshirt, black runner’s gloves, and cap. Her stride was smooth and nice. I ran behind her for a minute or so, then pulled alongside.

“Hey.”

Rachel Swenson’s eyes widened a bit. She stopped and turned down the volume on an iPod Shuffle clipped to her upper arm.

“Michael Kelly.”

Her cheeks were red with the cold. Underneath her hat, she looked like she might be a law student at Northwestern, getting in her miles before an early morning class in contracts. In reality, Rachel Swenson was a sitting judge for the Northern District of Illinois and a woman I had been meaning to call for at least a year. She leaned close and gave me a hug. I got my arms up, almost too late, and then hung on too long.

“How are you?” she said.

“Pretty good. You run out here often?”

“Not as much as I should. How about you?”

“I try. Gets harder when it’s cold.”

“Tell me about it.”

On cue, a volley of wind punched in off the lake. Rachel shivered and stamped her feet. I shook out my arms and tried to think of something to say. We stepped into a pause that seemed to last an hour and a half. Rachel got us out the other side with a thud.

“I saw you the other day.”

“Where?”

“I was at Graceland,” she said. “Thursday morning.”

Graceland was a cemetery in Chicago. Nicole Andrews was buried there. She had been a friend to both of us. Now she was dead. Murdered, actually. By a third friend.

“I sat in my car and waited for you to leave,” Rachel said.

“You should have come over.” A second burst of wind pulled the words from my mouth and scattered them across the lakefront. Rachel, however, caught my meaning.

“Seemed like you wanted to be alone,” she said.

I shrugged.

“I waited there almost an hour, Michael. Then I left.”

“Sorry,” I said.