Woods looked at me. Then out the window. Then back at me.
“You’re a real motherfucker, aren’t you? I mean, I heard about you but, hell, I’m just doing a job here.”
“If it wasn’t a dirty job, you got no problems.”
“Christ, Kelly, it’s politics. What the fuck do you expect?”
“Tell me about it. If I can keep you out, I will.”
Woods hesitated, but not too long. Sometimes when you look inside, it doesn’t take that long. I think this was one of those times.
“Okay, I’ll give you some details, but not here. Not now.”
“When?”
“Give me a number. I’ll call you.”
I scribbled down my cell number and shoved it across the desk. “Don’t wait too long, Johnny.”
He nodded.
“And make sure you have a story ready about why you met with me this morning. The mayor will want to know.”
Another nod.
“And make sure your girlfriend outside backs you up. They’re the ones who always get you.”
This time Woods just looked at me. Moved his lips and nothing else. “Close the door behind you.”
I did. The person with the curves was sitting at her desk, trying hard to pretend she wasn’t trying hard to listen through her boss’s door. It was a thick door. I figured she got every other sentence. Tops.
“Your boss wants to see you,” I said.
She got up, swift and stiff, head down, eyes averted, and slipped inside Johnny Woods’ inner sanctum. I was twenty feet down the hall and could still hear Johnny when he started to yell. Maybe the door wasn’t so thick after all.
CHAPTER 25
I was waiting for the elevator and thinking about lunch when the door with the word mayor on it swung open. Three men came out and checked the hallway. A moment later, the man himself walked out. Through a tangle of arms and legs I could see the lean frame, long arms, and pale, heavy-wristed hands. A body shifted and I caught the mayor’s face in profile. A dark brow crouched over darker eyes. Below that lay a blunt expanse of nose, long, pockmarked lines for cheeks, and thick lips the color of uncooked sausage. The mayor’s surname might be Irish, but his features carried more than a touch of Poland, from his mom’s side. The mix was not one to win any beauty contests. In Chicago circles, however, it was every bit the potent political offering.
The mayor checked his watch as his minions circled in a tight orbit. Then Wilson’s eyes traveled down the hall, flicking over me like a cold shadow before returning with a bit of interest. The mayor leaned his head an inch or so to the left and whispered into the ear of the man next to him. It was his cousin Patrick Wilson, also known as the brains of the family. Not that the mayor was dumb. Just simple. Like a shark is simple. Single-minded. Relentless. Looking for an easy meal.
“Michael Kelly.” The mayor’s cousin stepped forward and offered a hand. I took it.
“Hi, Patrick.”
Patrick Wilson was easy to like. He loved to smile, shake hands, and talk about “win-win situations.” I believe that was the phrase he used just before they flushed my career as a cop. In the parlance of the Fifth Floor, Patrick was known as the velvet glove. The hammer stood just behind him.
“Nice to see you,” Patrick said.
I heard a grumble. Or maybe it was a snort. Or maybe the mayor just scratched himself somewhere private and liked it. Whatever it was, the secret signal was given. Patrick Wilson immediately flared to the left. The mayor’s other two henchman spread out to the right. I stepped into the semicircle as the elevator behind me chimed. No one took any notice. I shook the mayor’s hand as his crew checked me out from a variety of angles. This was always how it was with the mayor. Sort of like an audience with a Mob boss, only we were standing in a corridor of City Hall.
“Michael Kelly,” the mayor said. “What brings you up here?”
“The view.”
The mayor offered the bottom half of his upper teeth in what I guessed to be a smile and turned to his cousin.
“He likes the view, Patrick. See, I told you this was a good thing.”
The mayor turned back to me.
“My cousin just came back from working in one of those big law firms. Forty-first floor of the Hancock. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Seven hundred fifty dollars for an hour of his time.”
The mayor glanced back at Patrick, who looked appropriately chastened.
“Now he’s back with us. Working for the people. Except this morning, I hear he complains about his office. Can’t see the lake from his window.”
The mayor shrugged.
“I brought him into my office. Let him look out the window for a while. No one can see the lake from City Hall. Just a lot of buildings.”
“And the people,” I said.
“Exactly. The people. That’s what we’re all about. The people. You get it, Patrick?”
Little cousin nodded.
The mayor grunted. “Come inside for a second, Kelly.”
Mayor Wilson turned and went back into his office. I followed. Everyone else knew enough to stay outside. The door closed behind us. Wilson took a seat behind his desk.
“Take a look at this.”
On a low table beside his desk, the mayor had a small-scale model of a park set up, complete in all its details, right down to miniature lampposts, benches, and trees.
“Is that a dog?” I said, and pointed to a miniature canine lingering suspiciously near a miniature fire hydrant.
“Springer spaniel,” the mayor said. “Best kind of dog God ever made. Got three of them. You know what all this is?”
I shook my head.
“This is Anderson Links,” the mayor said, and smiled.
Anderson Links was once Chicago’s most exclusive golf course, one hundred acres of soft-limbed trees and butterflies spread out along the lake and two minutes’ drive from the Loop. Anderson was old-school, one of those private clubs golfers lust after because they can’t buy their way in. To play at Anderson, you had to know somebody. Preferably somebody with old money, white skin, and the political compass of Nelson Rockefeller. The club itself had operated for the better part of a century under what was described in the press as a 999-year lease with the city. That is, until one night when the mayor decided he’d had enough of the North Shore bluebloods and fired up Chicago’s road graders. The next day the city awakened to pictures of well-tended fairways bulldozed into oblivion, and Anderson’s clubhouse padlocked shut. The mayor held a press conference. He was terminating the lease and taking the property back for the city. Now he was telling me why.
“The birds have nowhere to go, Kelly. Geese alone fly from the upper reaches of Wisconsin all the way to Mexico, some of them. They need places to rest.”
“Okay,” I said.
“This will be a stopover.” The mayor checked a memo on his desk. “An Audubon stopover. That means a bird resting place.”
“Okay,” I said again, as it seemed to do the trick.
“It will also be a park for the people. Here, take a look.”
Now the mayor took off his coat and got down on his knees so he was level with the model park. I shrugged and squatted down beside him.
“I’m planting seven different types of trees. This section right here will be the Japanese maples.”
The mayor slipped the thin tip of a tongue between his lips and began to move trees and park benches hither and thither.
“These benches will be made of red oak. I want them facing east so people can sit there in the morning. Watch the sun rise over the lake.”
“So the people get a lake view,” I said.
“Exactly. The average guy. No charge.”
The mayor stopped moving benches and looked over at me. Our faces were close enough that I could feel the faint wheeze of mayoral exhaust.