* * *
When Cole got to his room there was a note on the door. “Brennan. Please call.”
Great, he thought. “When are you coming back? I got a paper to run here. How much longer you gonna be?” Cole could hear it now. He stuck the note in his pocket and unlocked the door.
As he entered the room, he caught an ever so slight whiff of an unfamiliar smell. Was it cologne, air freshener? Whatever it was, he hadn’t smelled it before. Cole took the phone book from the drawer in the desk and opened to United States Government. It was then that something caught his eye.
Cole had a habit of keeping his clothes pushed to the left side of the closet. A jacket, three shirts, and a pair of slacks were all pushed slightly to the center. Someone had moved them. The bed was still unmade. He stood and walked to his suitcase that was sitting on a folding rack near the closet. The suitcase was closed. He knew he had left it open because he had accidentally grabbed an extra sock. He had tossed the sock back into the suitcase as he had gone to brush his teeth.
He returned to the phone and rang the front desk. “This is Mr. Sage in 218.”
“I’m so sorry your room has not been made up, sir. Our maid had to go home sick. You see, her daughter is a maid, too, and had to drive her. It should be done this afternoon. I am very, very sorry.” The soft Indian accent of the manager only added to Cole’s concern.
“Has anyone been in my room?”
“Oh no, sir. I am the only one here and I have been in the office, except of course to bring you your message. Did you find it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“The maid should be back by four o’clock. Again, my apologies.”
“No problem.” Cole hung up.
He turned again to the phone book. After identifying himself to three different people and partially telling his story three times, he was transferred one last time.
“Fergusson.”
“Can you take a report?”
“Depends.”
“Look, you’re the third person I’ve talked to. You people make it hard to turn in the bad guys. My name is Sage. I’m with The Chicago Sentinel. If you want to check me out, call Tom Harris, Precinct 51, Chicago. I’ve uncovered some things I thought you guys might be interested in. I was diggin’ around for a friend of mine and uncovered a scheme that involved interstate mail fraud, bribery of an elected official with stolen property, and probably a bunch of other things you’ll find if you start poking’ around.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who’re we talkin’ about here?”
“Allen Christopher. He’s a realtor. It seems he defrauded a wholesale diamond broker in Washington. He ordered several hundred thousand dollars worth of stones and doesn’t have two nickels to pay the bill. Then there’s Sven Elias, the County Zoning Commissioner here. Christopher offered him diamonds in exchange for Elias’ changing the zoning for a project Christopher was trying to put together with an outfit back east called Malcor Manufacturing.”
“Bingo!”
“Excuse me?”
“Bingo, Eureka, whatever. The duck just came down. You said the secret word.”
“I don’t follow.” Cole was a bit surprised by Fergusson’s excitement.
“Malcor. It’s a front for the mob. Castigleone Family from Detriot. This guy, Christopher, you think he knows they’re organized crime?”
Cole couldn’t help grinning. “Well, you’d know better about the mob than I would, but from the way he’s connected with the small time hoods around here, I wouldn’t doubt it.” Cole covered his mouth for fear he would laugh, then coughed. “Sorry, think I’m catching a cold. This whole diamond thing seems too well conceived for some small town realtor—who, by the way, sells very little real estate. He’s got street punks buying cars with the diamonds, then turning them for cash. Pretty smart, huh?”
“Evidently not smart enough. Let me get some people on this. Is Elias willing to help us?”
“Yep, a real Boy Scout,” Cole replied. “He’s been contacted twice by Christopher, and the last time, he got real pushy.”
“Got any other names?”
“A local smalltime hustler who was swapping the diamonds for cars, goes by Tree Top, last name Jefferson. When I talked to him, he tried to give me the name of an ex-con named Anderson as the top dog. I think this is a cover that Jefferson and Christopher cooked up. Probably not much to it. Anderson is small potatoes and doesn’t have the brains or money for a scheme like this. Jefferson’s real jumpy and will probably turn on Christopher with a little coaxing. Oh yeah, and a guy named Brazil, John Brazil. He is Christopher’s broker at the real estate office. Christopher got money from him and didn’t pay it back. He’ll be happy to talk. That’s kind of how I got involved in all this. An old friend of mine is Christopher’s wife. “
“Aha.”
“Not what you think. She’s dying, called me for help. Christopher was trying to cheat her daughter, his stepdaughter, out of an inheritance. I was trying to see what I could do. Just so you know where I fit in.”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Sounds like you’ve been a busy boy. We’re really low on manpower right now. Man, if I could tie this Christopher guy to the Castigleones— Okay, where can I reach you?”
“Palmwood Motel, Room 218. My cell is 773-677-8120.”
“I’ll be in touch. And Sage, don’t get too nosy. The Castigleones have a nasty habit of finding construction projects to bury people in, get me? And, for God sakes, don’t print anything about these Detroit guys for a while. Please, we need to nail this guy. You go to print and they’ll scatter like roaches in the light.”
“I hear you. I’m about done here, so I won’t be in town much longer.”
Cole hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. As he raised the toilet seat, he saw the words “Leave or Die” written on the mirror in something white. He looked around the tiny bathroom and saw his deodorant in the sink with the cap off. He knew it couldn’t be the mob guys, at least not yet. Christopher would never think of something like this. It had to be Tree Top’s muscle.
Cole had been threatened before. He didn’t like it, but it came with the job sometimes. Over the years, people angry about something he’d written would call the paper or send unsigned hate mail. Once, he’d gotten a dead rat with a little sign around its neck with his name on it. Tom Harris told him long ago that people who send or call in threats are not likely to follow through. He said the time to start worrying is when they send a letter to the paper after you’re dead, claiming responsibility. Harris had a strange sense of humor. All the same, the message on the mirror gave Cole a knot in his stomach that he never got used to.
The next call was a courtesy. It was a kind of journalistic tradition to tip off the local paper to a story you uncover in their town. That is, if it isn’t a scoop you intend to use yourself. He punched in the number for The Daily Record and asked for the editor. The editor was out at a luncheon and wouldn’t be back until about three. The city editor would have to do.
“Hi, my name is Cole Sage. I’m with The Chicago Sentinel.”
It didn’t take much to get the city editor excited. It took even less for Cole to accept a free lunch. Cole never understood the meaning of “no such thing as a free lunch.” He had eaten plenty of them. He always knew going in that it was quid pro quo. The thing that made the meal free was Cole’s willingness to give away whatever he had. He didn’t see it as giving anything away because if it were truly of value, he would keep it and buy his own lunch. Most of the time it was a way to have a nice meal, meet somebody new, and have an interesting chat. Even if the chat was boring, two out of three wasn’t bad.
As far as the meal was concerned, he had an uncle that shared a philosophy which he had never forgotten. Cole’s Uncle George was a multimillionaire. He had started out as a door-to-door salesman, an education he said that was far more valuable than any he’d learned in school. “People,” he would say, “are all the same, only different.”
Uncle George had received a PhD in Education from the University of Oklahoma. He later became the head of Ford Motors in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, a dean at O.S.U., and Secretary of Education for the State of Oklahoma. This provided him the greatest opportunity to play golf with a Who’s Who list of state and federal movers and shakers.
While playing golf with the Secretary of Health Education and Welfare, the Secretary bemoaned the fact that Congress was about to pass a bill requiring asbestos to be removed from all public buildings because of its link to cancer. The fact that the cancer developed after a lifetime of working, mining and processing the stuff had little bearing on Congress’s decision. It was all going to have to be removed.
Bright and early the next morning, George contacted the Yellow Pages sales offices for every county in five states, placing an advertisement for All State Asbestos Removal. It was like a broken record. “I’ve never heard of that before. What do you do?” George gave a simple, nondescript answer. When January 1 of the next year rolled around, All State Asbestos Removal was flooded with calls. It was bumpy at first, but he sold the company—orders and all—in June of that year for a cool $16 million.
George devoted the rest of his life, which sadly was only another six months, to fine food and golf. He died of a heart attack on the golf course one day shortly after lunch. George told Cole when he was a boy that “we eat three meals a day, 365 days a year, so make each meal an adventure.” On the rare occasion that Cole had a meal with his favorite uncle that wasn’t good, George would stand up from the table, pat his rather large stomach and say, “Well, that was an adventure!” Cole had used his uncle’s expression ever since.
Lunch with the city editor of the The Daily Record was at one o’clock downtown at the Thailand Caf￩. Cole arrived a few minutes early and had a cup of tea while he weighed just how much to tell the local paper. He sat in a booth tucked back in a corner facing the door. The Caf￩ was bright and cheerful. Everywhere he looked, there were splashes of red and gold. Above the front door was a portrait of the King of Thailand in full military uniform with a very dignified scowl on his face. The waitress was a teenager who probably should have been at school. Nearly every table was full of people who looked like they worked at City Hall. Cole realized, as he watched a man about his age loosen his tie, that it had been nearly a week since he had worn one. He also realized that he had forgotten to call Brennan.
Jerry White was a tall man with a dark crew cut heavily waxed in front. He wore a plaid shirt and a woven tie that had gone out of style with disco. His pocket bulged with the micro recorder that was a dead giveaway he was a newspaperman of the post-1980 variety. Cole was taught to take notes and commit to memory. Memory was his greatest gift and worst enemy.
“Jerry!” Cole waved his arm as he called out.
“Hello.” The tall man offered his hand to Cole, who took it.
“Have a seat.” Cole indicated the chair across the table from him.
“So, all the way from Chicago.” White said, sitting. “How are we so honored?” He took out the mini-recorder from his pocket and clicked “Record.”
Cole reached across the table and clicked the recorder off.
“Want some tea?” Cole had grown tired of having to tell about Ellie to people who really could care less.
“Yeah, thanks. So what can you tell—”
“Look, here’s the thing. I have made a complete report to the FBI. Since we talked, I’m not quite sure how much I should tell you, mostly because I fear for your safety. So, here’s a start. An FBI agent named Fergusson will be in town soon to investigate several leads I gave him. They include attempted bribery of a city official. That, you cannot print. Here’s what you can, and it’s the tip of the iceberg. Put somebody good on this and who knows what may turn up.
“There’s a local street punk called Tree Top Jefferson who’s been trading diamonds for cars, boats, motorcycles, and who knows what. He then turns around and sells them.”
“What’s the point of that?” White replied.
“There’s a huge markup in bulk diamonds—five, maybe six hundred percent. So, a $1,000 stone wholesale is worth $6,000 retail. They trade three or four stones for a $16,000 to $20,000 car, costs them four grand. They turn around and sell it for $11,000 to $16,000 and pocket the difference. Slick, huh?”
“So what’s illegal? I don’t get it.”
“You have to pay for the stones. Tree Top’s guy didn’t, hasn’t, can’t, whatever—thus, the Feds. Interstate mail fraud.”
“Yikes.”
“It’s like pebbles in a pond from there. Call Fergusson. Let him know you’ve been tipped off to the diamond scam. He seems like a fair guy. He’ll probably give you first shot at the story.”
“I really appreciate you giving us the scoop. How in the world did you stumble on this diamond thing?”
“When you turn over rocks, you’re gonna find bugs, Jerry. Hungry?”
“I could eat a horse.”
“I don’t think they serve that here,” Cole said dryly.
“What?”
“Never mind. You buying?”
“Of course.”
Cole smiled and gently waved at the young waitress.
“Ready to order?” she smiled brightly, pad in hand.
“I’d like the fried rice,” Jerry began.
“What! No, no, no. You can’t come in a fine place like this and order fried rice. Come on, Jerry, get with the spirit of things.” Cole winked at the waitress. “Cancel the fried rice. We’ll have Tom Yum Goong, not too hot. Pra Ram Long Song and Tom Yum Talay Haeng. Diet Coke for me. How ‘bout you, Jer?”
“I don’t see any of that stuff on the menu,” Jerry said frowning at Cole.
“He’ll have a 7-Up.”
“How’d you know...” Jerry trailed off.
“Sit back and relax Jerry, this is going to be an adventure.”
SIXTEEN