Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
An Echo of Death (7 page)
Lester said, “I have some connection with Mr. Proctor from my work at the bank. We aren't best friends, but we play a round of golf once in a while. I had a hand in a few of his deals. I may be able to get you in to talk to him.”
“You golf and you're gay,” I said. “You must be the only gay person on the planet who plays golf.”
“I forced myself to learn,” Lester said. “My straight clients get so impressed if I can golf.”
“What kind of guy is Mr. Proctor?” Scott asked.
“Fiercely aggressive,” Lester said. “Hates to lose at golf or anything else. Big in real estate in this city. If he's not the biggest, he's pretty damn close to the top. Buys and sells huge or expensive or both pieces of property. Makes enormous profits. Lots of battles over the years. Can't stand to lose.”
“How can you deal with that kind of person?” Scott asked.
“Business,” Lester answered. “You want to do deals in this town, you'll bump up against old man Proctor at some point. I'm surprised you'd be bothered by fierce competition. I've seen you pitch. It's a battle, and the most warlike wins.”
“Not like that,” Scott said. “We're paid to entertain and supposedly win. The owners may be rapacious monsters, but for most players it's a job.”
“That's what this is for Proctorâhis jobâand he's very good at it.”
As we finished the meal, Lester promised to do what he could to get us in to see Jason Proctor.
I prodded Lester to tell us more about the Proctor family finances.
“Wealth, wealth, and more wealth. Orrin Proctor, the grandfather of young Glen, owned several railroads. He invested in Canadian municipal bonds and gold just before the stock market crash in 1929, so he was spared its horrors. He managed to hold onto and eventually increase his wealth. Jason Proctor, immediate sire of Glen, could have lived a life of luxury simply on what Daddy had, but Jason had ambitions. He began to branch out and dabble in many fields. Always seemed to make a go of them. He invested in two movies, and they became blockbusters. Threw money into Texas oil in the early eighties, and then ran just before the crash came in the mid-eighties. He's had a lot of luck.”
“Where does most of his money come from now?” I asked.
“Investments in just about anything,” Lester said. “A guy with that much wealth has his finger in a zillion pies. Shopping centers in Singapore, an office building in Zurich, an auto-parts monopoly in Santiago, Chile, and hundreds of things in between.”
“Is he a billionaire?” I asked.
“Not quite that much, but enough so he could retire today and live for the rest of his life in luxury unknown to most of the inhabitants of the globe.”
“Do you know anything about Glen's mother?” I asked.
“I have never met Mrs. Proctor. She is in real estate also. Rumored and real marital problems have plagued them both for years. She is supposedly at least as rich as he in her own right. They'd break any law to get back at each other. When you're that rich, you can ignore most codes of
conduct. You become a law unto yourself. I've dealt with him, but not her. If you'd like, I can try and get more information about both of them for you.”
conduct. You become a law unto yourself. I've dealt with him, but not her. If you'd like, I can try and get more information about both of them for you.”
I told him I'd appreciate it if he would.
A few minutes later, we thanked Lester for breakfast and left. We trudged in silence back up the Inner Drive. I found I was exhausted. It was after nine in the morning. At this hour on Sunday, the Inner Drive was crowded with shoppers heading for breakfast, brunch, or the stores on North Michigan Avenue. On the Inner Drive, which passed immediately in front of our building, a line of honking cars crept around a stopped carriage. Chicago has those ubiquitous carriage rides that clop people around the streets at a pace guaranteed to blow at least a few drivers' tempers, although the time Scott and I took one in San Francisco, it had been reasonably pleasant and romantic.
This one was stopped because the driver was arguing with the passengers. They wanted to get out now. I couldn't help hearing the shouted arguments.
As we neared our door, I began to wonder about our safety. If they'd attacked once, why not again? I didn't think we were in the clear yet. We'd have to find a place to take refuge.
Across the way, the couple in the carriage were now arguing with each other. In voices that could be heard at least a block away, each was accusing the other of making a public spectacle. The gist of the whole thing seemed to be that the man wanted a full refund and the woman wanted to go home. So much for romance. The driver intermittently added an antiphon to their duet. Mostly he wanted his money.
Finally the woman leaped from the carriage and began stalking away. Her date climbed down but seemed torn between following her and getting his money. He and the driver continued a discussion in a more modulated range.
Scott pointed to the carriage and said, “The whole world has gone crazy.”
“I wanted to lose my temper with those cops,” I said.
“I was close a couple times, but it's probably better we didn't. Quinn sort of sounded like he was willing to listen.”
“I hated Bolewski,” I said.
We were talking outside our building. Scott rubbed his arms. We hadn't worn our jackets, and it was cool.
“What happened to Glen and why?” I asked. “How can we prove it? How can we get something the cops will believe?”
“They'll track the team down in Mexico,” Scott said. “They can try to confirm whether he was there or not.”
“But it won't prove he had two bullet holes in him on our living-room floor.”
“It's a start.”
I turned toward the door. Two men in gray suits emerged from around a dark corner on the north side of the building. I grabbed Scott.
“What?” he said. He turned to look.
I swiveled my head around. Two more men, both with guns out, were approaching from the south end of the building. I twisted my head back. The first two now flashed some lethal-looking artillery. All four seemed to be in decent-enough shape to give us a good chase if we tried to run, although they had us boxed fairly well right and left and flight in those directions was cut off.
In seconds, I was pulling Scott after me to the only alternative.
We dashed toward Lake Shore Drive. I was willing to cause a multi-car pile-up if it would draw attention to our plight. First we dove out onto the Inner Drive. To the left I saw a row of southbound cars rushing toward us. They had just been released from the stoplight at La Salle Drive. We made it across ahead of them. Our pursuers were stuck behind this vehicular barrier.
Two shots rang out as I eased around one of the cars maneuvering slowly past the carriage. The passenger was
just handing the driver some money. They both gaped at us.
just handing the driver some money. They both gaped at us.
I crouched behind the carriage. Scott joined me as several more shots rang out. The passenger took off running. The driver looked from us to the guys attempting to dodge the traffic. Another shot rang out, striking the pavement inches from my left hand. The driver chose discretion and bolted. The horse whinnied, flicked its ears, and tried to pull the carriage with it. For the moment the animal's being used to the noise and chaos of the city and the brake being in place, kept the horse from going berserk.
I didn't want to leave the temporary safety of the carriage. I was still willing to try a dash across the Drive, but their shooting added a dangerous dimension.
I wondered why hadn't they shot at us immediately, earlier, when it had been much less public?
Scott said, “Follow me.”
He leaped into the carriage and grabbed the reins. I tumbled in after him. He ducked down as well as he could, released the brake and flicked the whip at the old nag. The carriage lurched forward as more shots rang out.
For a minute, we trotted down the road. I kept my head down. Scott knelt on the carriage floor with legs spraddled, urging the horse to greater swiftness. Balancing myself with both hands I eased my head up so that my eyes peeked over the bunting around the backseat. A stream of cars followed us, the ones on the left passing, with the occupants staring at us.
Two guys, waving their guns and running furiously, chased us on foot. I saw a car start up on the side street next to our building. The car's tires screeched and the vehicle headed north into the temporarily vacant southbound lanes and came barreling after us. I looked forward. Another set of cars, released from La Salle Drive, approached rapidly.
We were about two hundred yards from the corner ourselves when I glanced behind. One of the gunmen stopped
running and aimed carefully. With the rapidly expanding distance and the violent shaking of the carriage, I doubted whether he could hit us, but I grabbed Scott and made him duck. I heard several shots but didn't notice that anything hit us. When I looked again, one hood had resumed the chase and was falling farther behind. The other was reloading.
running and aimed carefully. With the rapidly expanding distance and the violent shaking of the carriage, I doubted whether he could hit us, but I grabbed Scott and made him duck. I heard several shots but didn't notice that anything hit us. When I looked again, one hood had resumed the chase and was falling farther behind. The other was reloading.
The poor old mare had long since passed from a trot to a dead run. By this time the carriage was careening nearly out of control.
Brakes squealed behind us as our pursuers met the oncoming traffic. My head bobbed with the motion of the carriage as I watched the pursuing car face the onslaught. Horns blared as the driver wrenched the vehicle into the northbound lanes.
I looked ahead. Scott now stood up with his legs spread wide, hips against the rim of the carriage, balancing himself against the wild swaying of our escape vehicle. With the reins gathered in one hand, and the whip flicking out over the back of the horse in the other, he looked just like a Roman charioteer. I'd have loved to be in a chariot race if this is what it would have been like, but more practical considerations quickly overcame the thrill of a dash reminiscent of ages past.
“Get down!” I shouted.
I swear to God, he actually yelled, “Yee-ha!” and then cracked the whip over the horse's back. His only response to my warning was to bend his knees slightly. He glanced back, flicked the reins, employed the whip, turned forward again, and gave another yell. We rushed on.
I examined the activity at the intersection ahead. Cars streamed by on La Salle Drive moving to or from Lake Shore Drive. Traffic continued to flow heavily. La Salle Drive was one of the major entrances to the Drive for people who'd spent some time on the Near North Side of Chicago enjoying the plethora of shops and restaurants available.
As we neared the light, it changed to red in our direction. Scott swung out into the emptying southbound lanes and maneuvered into the intersection. The cars starting up from our left and right stopped abruptly. Horns blared, but we raced across La Salle. Once again, our pursuers jumped into the southbound lane, but they were too far behind and, after we passed, the traffic flowed forward from both directions. Our attackers ran up against a wall of moving protective autos. I heard the crunch of metal on metal.
I looked back. They'd tried to force themselves through the traffic. I hoped they'd had a multi-vehicle, traffic-snarling accident.
Scott didn't spend much time on La Salle Drive. Within seconds, we were on the grassy area of Lincoln Park, moving rapidly north and west toward the zoo.
I stood up facing backward and felt the racing wind on my back. I could see brake lights still jammed together at the intersection, but we were too far away for me to pick out the car that had been chasing us.
I turned back to Scott.
“This horse isn't going to be able to keep this up much longer,” he said. “She's old, and I'm sure she hasn't gone this fast in a long time.”
“We've got to find someplace to hide and call the cops. They have to believe us now.”
“They'll believe the gunshots,” Scott said. The horse had slowed to a trot. “Into the zoo?”
“No. I don't know my way around.”
Lincoln Park Zoo was the most-often-visited zoo in the country and one of the few that was still free. I hadn't been since my parents took me when I was five. I barely remembered it. I didn't want to be driving a horse and carriage around aimlessly in an unfamiliar environment.
“We'll leave the horse and carriage in the park. If they find it, they'll have to guess whether we're in the zoo or back into the neighborhoods.”
Scott drove about half a block past the exit to Dickens
Street. He tied the horse to a tree on the east side of the road. Ducking behind cars and keeping to shadows, we raced back.
Street. He tied the horse to a tree on the east side of the road. Ducking behind cars and keeping to shadows, we raced back.
Seeing no traffic on Dickens or Marine Drive we ran west. At Clark Street we stood in a shadow until all traffic had passed. Of course, we didn't see a cop car. We burst across the street and tore down the block toward Lincoln Avenue.
A car turned from Hudson Street onto Dickens and began to cruise slowly toward us. I shoved Scott into a shadowed doorway. We froze while the car passed. It turned out to be a Toyota Tercel with two women in the front seat. So far I hadn't noted any of our nemeses being women.
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