Close Call (7 page)
Illinois House Representative Lew Langmeyer (D-Palatine) closed up his cell phone when his breakfast order arrived—toasted onion bagel, cream cheese, black coffee, the same trio every time he visited Cozy Corner, the restaurant near his Main Street office. Across the table, his legislative assistant Randi Rickert picked up a spoon and began idly stirring her bowl of plain yogurt. She was very thin and intended to stay that way. “Any progress with Wilgis?” she asked, referring to Langmeyer’s fellow representative, William “Willy” Wilgis (D-Kankakee).
“Hard to tell,” Langmeyer replied. “He’s a crafty old son of a gun. Nearly thirty years in the Illinois House, and still nobody can ever confidently predict which way he’ll go on any given bill. He’s been anti-abortion, but pro gun control. For an increase in taxes for schools, against teacher evaluation. You just never know with Wilgis. But I need him to be with me on the video slots bill. He is a powerful force, particulary with his downstate colleagues. They call him Wily Willy.
“You’ll meet Wilgis later this morning,” Langmeyer added. “He’s agreed to see me at his hotel downtown. He’s in Chicago for his annual physical at University of Chicago Hospital. Wilgis is seventy-eight years old and apparently indestructible. He’s a widower and also a terrible old lecher, so keep your distance. Your dad wouldn’t even want you to be in the same building with Wilgis.”
“My guard will be up,” Randi said.
Langmeyer, a fifty-seven year old attorney, had been representing his district for sixteen years. It included several new business parks, a growing bedroom community of white collar workers who commuted to Chicago, and giant Heartland Downs Racetrack. Owners of the latter were among his major financial supporters. They were solidly behind his proposed bill to permit the installation of video slot machines at all the state’s racetracks. Horse racing in Illinois had been hard hit by competition from the state lottery and the nine privately owned riverboat casinos. This billion dollar agribusiness was under financial siege. Langmeyer’s bill was intended to help save it, not only the thousands of racetrack workers, but the many other thousands engaged in horse breeding, feeding, and housing at farms all over the Prairie State.
A first year law student at Northwestern University, Randi Rickert was interning with Rep. Langmeyer for the summer. Her father Harold and Langmeyer were partners in a small but politically connected law firm. Randi had worked for the firm in its Palatine office the three previous summers. She had decided to devote this one to learning first hand about state politics from her father’s partner and friend. Young enough to be Langmeyer’s daughter, she was smart, pretty, and ultra ambitious. As Langmeyer had confided to Harold Rickert, “Randi’s the best intern I’ve ever had. But don’t tell her that. It might give her ideas about running against me some day. I wouldn’t look forward to facing her in an election,” he said, only half-jokingly.
Randi took a sip of water before asking Langmeyer, “Tell me more about Wilgis. I know he’s a downstate farmer. About every time I’ve ever seen him on television, he starts out saying, ‘I’m just a country boy, but….’”
Langmeyer said, “He’s from the country, all right, but don’t fall for that American Gothic guise he affects. He’s played that role to perfection for years. When he first ran for office and won, he attacked the whole Springfield establishment. Voters ate it up.
“Willy’s father owned miles of good farm land near Kankakee,” Langmeyer continued. “Right after Willy got out of the Army after World War II, his father died. Willy inherited everything and proceeded to build it up further. Way up. He’s a major factor in growing Illinois corn for ethanol production.
“And,” Langmeyer said, “he’s a notorious lady’s man. His wife died many years ago. He’s never remarried, but he’s had a longtime association with his secretary. That hasn’t stopped him from sticking his snoot under many a marital tent, both in Springfield and back in Kankakee County.”
“Wasn’t he under investigation a few years back? Allegedly for taking bribes to influence legislation?”
“Yes. Both by a committee of his fellow legislators, believe it or not, and by the feds. But nothing ever came of it. Nobody had a provable case. I think it all started with a disgruntled staffer Wilgis dismissed, a guy with a grudge but nothing else. Wilgis just made fun of the whole thing. ‘You think I’m another Paul Powell?’ he’d say. He was talking about a one-time Illinois secretary of state who kept shoe boxes full of cash in his closet, discovered after his death. Powell was the guy who used to say, when he was on the verge of something beneficial to him, ‘I can smell the meat a cookin’.’ Wilgis said one time that Powell was a ‘poor boy possibly gone wrong. On the other hand, I’m a lucky boy who grew up to do good.’ That’s been his mantra over the years. It works. Like I said, he’s been indestructible, both physically and politically.
“And,” Langmeyer said with a laugh, “he’s famous for his cornball sayings.”
Randi looked puzzled. Langmeyer said, “You know, so-called down home expressions. When he first ran for office, Willy’s campaign slogan was Run the Squirrels Out of Office—Keep the State Safe for Nuts. People down in his district loved it.”
Langmeyer reached into his briefcase and extracted an old sheet of paper that had small newspaper clippings pasted to it. He laughed as he looked at it before handing it to Randi. “Here,” he said, “these are some examples of the wit and wisdom of Willy Wilgis that I’ve collected over the years. I can’t help it, the old rascal just makes me laugh. There’s nobody like him that I know.”
Randi began reading the clips. Langmeyer had hand written above each of the quotations from Wilgis a description of their origin.
—From a campaign speech in his initial run for the State House:
They’ve been sweeping so much dirt under the rug in Springfield it’d take a Swiss mountain climber to get across the room.
—On his memory not being as sharp as it had been:
Your cheek is right up
on the firebox door; mine has cooled off.
Even the cool, hip Randi was grinning when she came to Wilgis’ description of a triumphant foe who had managed to kill a favorite Wilgis bill:
He looked as pleased as a
possum sittin’ in a pan of pork chops
.
Randi did have to ask Langmeyer the meaning of the word firebox.
***
Twenty-seven miles away, on the ninth floor of Chicago’s Bolden Hotel, Representative Willy Wilgis also was breakfasting. Two room service carts had been pulled up to the arm chair in which he sat, eating with methodical ferocity, while also glancing out the window at the nearby Water Tower, listening to the “Today” show on television, and admiring the impressive bust line of his longtime secretary and paramour, a fifty-two year old divorcee named Evelyn Stortz. She was examining herself in the full length mirror on the back of their suite’s walk-in closet doors.
“You get any better looking than you are,” Wilgis said, “and I won’t be able to turn my back for fear they’ll steal you away from me.” She glanced over at him, smiling. He sat with a forkful of blueberry pancake in one hand, a glass of buttermilk in the other, round shouldered, his sizeable paunch expanding his blue dress shirt under a gray wool vest, grinning back. Wilgis had a full head of white hair, a pug nose, and an undershot jaw. His stubby legs pressed against the sides of the food table as he leaned forward to fill another plate. Evelyn had long believed him to be the most attractive man she’d ever known.
“Not to worry, Willy,” she replied. “I’m your gal. Or,” she murmured to herself, “at least one of them.” Over the course of nearly a decade together, Evelyn had come to accept Willy’s roving eye and other bodily parts. She was grateful for the Springfield condo he’d bought her, the numerous gifts he’d given her, for their extensive travels together. She was philosophical about his infidelities. “Willy strays,” she told her best girlfriend, “but he always comes back bearing gifts, looking sheepish, looking lovable. There’s only one Willy Wilgis and, for the most part, he’s mine.”
Wilgis finished off his eggs Benedict, then a stack of pecan waffles. As Evelyn nibbling on a croissant, said, “What time is Representative Langeyer coming up?”
“About ten.”
“What does he want to see you about?”
Wilgis said, “That pending bill he’s so hot about. The one that’d put video slot machines at the racetracks plus a casino here in Chicago. He introduced it in the last session, but it didn’t get too far. I figured he’d introduce it again.
“He’s got some fire power this time,” Wilgis continued. “R. L. Duncan, the man who owns Heartland Downs, is strongly behind it. And he’s strongly behind Lew. The other state tracks also say they need those machines in order to compete with the casinos on what they call ‘a level playing field.’”
“What do you think?”
“You know, I voted against the casinos before they got in nine years ago. My constituents aren’t much for gambling. Hell, even our Catholic churches don’t have bingo. But,” Wilgis added, pushing the table away and standing up to his full five-foot four, “I’ll listen to Lew anyway. There’s a connection between these horse tracks and some of the breeding farms down my way. I know some of the horse people pretty good. But the bill has got too much in it as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to tell Lew there’s too many peas on that knife.
“Besides,” Wilgis grinned, “you know I like to surprise people. Keep ’em on their toes. I’m not going to commit to anything today.”
***
It was nearly noon when Langmeyer rose from his chair in Wilgis’ suite and prepared to leave. Randi got up, too, listening as her boss said, “Thanks for your time, Willy. I’m glad you heard me out about the benefits to everybody of this bill.”
Wilgis shook Langmeyer’s hand. “I’ll give it my most serious consideration,” he said, his face crinkling into the jovial politico’s mask he had perfected over the years.
The phone rang. After Evelyn answered it, she said to Wilgis, “It’s that Reverend Simpkins. The anti-gambling man.” Langmeyer’s face reddened when he heard the name. He was somewhat mollified when he heard Wilgis respond, “Evelyn, put that four flusher on hold.” Wilgis opened the door for Langmeyer and Randi, patting her fondly on the back as he did so.
In the elevator Randi said, “Well, how did you think that went?”
“As expected,” Langmeyer said. “Wilgis isn’t tipping his hand at this point. But I’m not discouraged. Non-committal is better than an outright rejection. I can understand his reservations about selling this thing to the conservative Christians down in his bailiwick. But he has on occasion gone against their grain and gotten away with it. He carries his district by a huge majority every time.”
At his suite window, Wilgis looked out appreciatively at Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile. Evelyn came to stand next to him, linking her arm in his. He said, “What a great city this is.” She nodded in agreement.
“Tell you what,” Wilgis said, “it looks like a beautiful summer day out there. How about you and I sashay down a few blocks to see an old friend of mine?”
“Who would that be?” Evelyn asked.
“Moe Kellman.”
“The furrier? Oh, I’ve heard you talk about him.”
“That’s the fellow, honey,” Wilgis said, giving her a squeeze. “Winter will be here before we know it. Let’s go see about a new fur coat for you.”
It took them less than nineteen hours to lose nearly all their racetrack haul.
Bursting with the feeling of power their heist gave them, Lucarelli and Shannon had driven into the Loop to a Wabash Avenue steak house and proceeded to feast: jumbo shrimp cocktails, New York strips, baked potatoes, creamed spinach, two baskets of rolls, all washed down with three bottles of expensive Cristal champagne. “Just like those NBA guys,” Shannon gloated, “and those rap assholes. This is what they drink. It’s all right with me, man.”
They finished their desserts just before midnight. Lucarelli said, “Whadda you say we hit the boats?”
Shannon leaned back in his chair and burped loudly. He’d just paid the largest restaurant bill he’d ever seen, adding a huge tip that had their astounded waitress suddenly beaming after two hours of semi-sullen serving. He said, “Sure. Let’s do it.”
At the intersection of State and Congress, Lucarelli waited impatiently at a red light. He opened his window and unleashed a huge gob of spit that splattered off the passenger side window of the black Lexus next to him. The driver of the Lexus looked at the trickling liquid, then at Lucarelli, with disbelief. He started to roll down the marred window but thought better of it after Lucarelli shot him a menacing look. The light changed and Lucarelli hit the accelerator. Shannon gleefully pounded the dash board as they sped away.
Less than twenty-five minutes later, first driving on the Dan Ryan Expressway, then the Skyway, they reached the massive Horseshoe Casino right across the state line in Hammond, Indiana. The two men had made this trip many times in the past, almost invariably leaving behind most of the money they’d brought, just as they did on their annual January trips to Las Vegas, visits marked by multi-day debauchery involving booze, grass, and hookers, with numerous hours of gambling interspersed. Aiden’s mother Bridgett, well aware of her son’s earmarking “three grand for Vegas,” which he usually came home without, once said to him, “You work hard on construction for your money, when you’re working. Why don’t you just mail the cash out to Nevada and save your air fare?”
“You don’t get it, Ma,” Aiden had replied, relishing the thought of Vegas’ well advertised promise, “What happens here, stays here.”
After lighting up jumbo cigars, Shannon and Lucarelli elbowed their way to one of the Horseshoe’s blackjack tables with a $10 minimum. In the car, on the way there, Shannon had said, “Let me do the blackjack. That’s my game. Whatever we win over here, we’ll split.”
“Since when do you know so much about blackjack?” Lucarelli said.
“I been reading some books about it. Playing it on the internet at my cousin’s house. No shit, man, I’ve got some good angles to play. Let me handle it.”
The first dealer they faced was a young Asian woman, Korean maybe, perhaps Vietnamese, who zipped the cards in a brown handed blur across the green baize. Shannon took a half step back from the table before again leaning his hands on its rim. He shook his head, as if he’d just taken a good punch. Concentrated.
Shannon was to the dealer’s immediate left, the “first base” position, and had to lead the betting. The dealer prodded him into action, forcing him to play much faster than he wanted. Uncomfortable, struggling to keep up, Shannon hit seventeen one time, eighteen another, stayed on fourteen twice, double downed on sixes, playing $40, then $50 and $100 a hand, all the while working his way through a succession of Courvosiers and a huge chunk of his bankroll.
He
keeps smiling that stupid smile, like he knows what he’s doing
, Lucarelli thought, frowning at his buddy through a haze of cigar smoke. Lucarelli stood back occasionally, walking over to observe the action at other tables, then returning to find Shannon’s initial buy-in mounds of chips almost all gone. Then Shannon shoved another wad of their cash forward, buying replacements. After nearly three hours of this, the Asian woman having been succeeded by a young black man, then a middle aged white woman dealer, “every goddam one of them throwing me shit cards,” according to Shannon, the bankroll had dwindled by nearly $27,000.
There was a commotion at one of the crowded wheels in the nearby roulette area. Several young men were whooping and high fiving each other, evidently having hit a number or numbers in a big way. “About fucking time,” one of them shouted. Another, a tall guy in a Yale sweatshirt who looked like he’d been drinking heavily for hours, dropped his empty beer bottle on the carpet and lurched toward the tray of a passing waitress. He bumped her arm hard. The tray and its glasses went airborne. More laughter from his group. Furious, the waitress turned on the tall man, but a casino manager grabbed her elbow and led her away, talking earnestly. The waitress listened, then hurried to the bar, got a Beck’s, and brought it back to the lout who’d caused the accident. He grinned as he grabbed the bottle out of her hand.
A casually dressed, white-haired gambler standing next to Lucarelli said, “Those punks are having somebody’s bachelor party here. Ever since last night they’ve been throwing money around like they were printing it. I guess management is going to keep them going in that direction as long as possible.” He shook his head, smiling. “What a racket this is,” he said. “Unfortunately, I love it.” He turned back to the $5 slot machine he’d been playing with limited success for the last five hours.
Shannon was semi-drunk by now, not giving a damn about his losing streak, when Lucarelli tugged him off his stool and walked him away from the blackjack table. “Hey, it’s only money, man,” Danny said, words slurred. “We got plenty of that.”
“Shut up,” Lucarelli snarled. He walked Shannon into the casino’s Village Square Buffet, advertised as “All you can eat…food stations that take you around the globe…China Town, Little Italy, Home Cooking.” Lucarelli ate voraciously. Shannon said he wasn’t hungry. Later, they walked outside the casino and sat on a bench overlooking a parking lot that, at almost 4:30 a.m., contained more than a thousand cars, their hopeful owners inside butting their heads and their bankrolls against an opponent that kicked ninety percent of them in the pocketbook each night. A cool breeze drifted over the marina. Lucarelli checked to see if the Saturn was where he’d parked it, with nearly $100,000 still in the trunk.
Lucarelli reached into his jacket for another of the $25 cigars they’d purchased from the sexy coat check girl at the steak house in Chicago. He said, “This ain’t the place for us right now. Plus, I’m beat.”
Shannon reared up. “I’m not going fucking home,” he said. “Not with all the money we got. Not tonight. No way.”
The statement seemed to exhaust him and he slumped back down onto the bench. Lucarelli said, “We’ll get a room over in the hotel. We’ll get some sleep. Have another crack at ’em later today.”
Lucarelli watched a pay-per-view pro wrestling program in their hotel room, “$59 per night.” Shannon slept on one of the double beds, his snores nearly rattling the frames of the generic prints on the walls. Finally, Lucarelli did a hundred push ups and sit ups and lay down on top of the coverlet of the other bed. He was antsy and had a hard time drifting off, which was very unusual for him. He thought about going down to the Taurus and bringing the satchel up to the room. He’d meant to do that, but forgot. He fell asleep instead.
***
Sunlight slapped them square in the face when they walked out of the hotel just after noon. Lucarelli opened the trunk. The money was all there. “Okay,” he said, “now we can go back and get some breakfast. Or lunch.” He stretched, feeling good, and gave Shannon a playful punch on the shoulder. Shannon, still bleary eyed, appeared not to notice.
They switched to the slots when they went back into the Horseshoe, both playing now, starting with the $25 machines. “I got a system for this, too,” Shannon had announced, and early in the afternoon he hit two $500 jackpots within minutes of each other. They high fived each other and a couple of cocktail waitresses. Lucarelli, not drinking but taking several crystal meth hits as the day wore on, left to shoot craps.
He blew more than $28,000 in ninety minutes. That called for another trip to the Taurus trunk. Aiden took out a bundle of bills for Shannon, too, who was now playing the two-coin $25 slot, making plays every five seconds. At 1:47 p.m., a woman next to Shannon hit a five grand jackpot. Shannon cursed her, his bad luck, and resumed his frantic play. When he staggered from his seat at a quarter to four, he’d dropped another $45,000. Denny found Aiden at a nearby bar, drinking rum and Coke. The pile of swizzle sticks in front of him indicated he’d been knocking them back at a good pace. Shannon said, “The hell with this dump. Let’s go over to Trump’s.”
Four hours in Trump’s Lake Michigan Casino, interrupted only by a hurried lunch in the Top Deck Deli, served to empty out the satchel that had once sat, full, in the Taurus’ trunk. Near the end, down to their last few thousand, both Shannon and Lucarelli attacked the $100 slots, then, finally, the $500 machine, assuring each other, “We’re bound to hit one soon.”
“This place sucks,” Lucarelli said, thumb pointed back over his shoulder at the giant river boat in the Taurus’ rear view mirror. The late afternoon sun was in his eyes as he drove back to Chicago. He reached for his sun glasses before remembering he’d put them down on a shelf in the men’s room when he’d snuck in for his last meth hit. “They can sink fucking Trump and his fucking boat, too, far as I’m concerned.”
Looking as depressed as he felt, Shannon slumped in his seat, head back, eyes closed. “I was figuring we wouldn’t have to work for at least a year. I was going to call Boots (Robert “Boots” Lee, the foreman of their Bonadio Construction Company crew) and tell him to shove the fucking job. Good thing I didn’t,” he sighed.
Lucarelli reached into the glove compartment for the only cigar left. He gave Shannon a withering look. “You and your fuckin’ gambling systems.”
Shannon, eyes closed, muttered, “What a couple of losers we are.”
Lucarelli swung his fist against Shannon’s left arm. His eyes were wild. He nearly sideswiped a dilapidated looking landscaper’s truck, its back filled with tired looking Latino laborers. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ say that,” he screamed at Shannon. “Not fuckin’ ever. We’re not fuckin’ losers.”
Shannon sat up in his seat, eyes wide open, startled by his friend’s fury. “Yeah, okay, Aiden,” he said. “I got it.”
The two sat silently until, back in the neighborhood, Lucarelli pulled into the parking lot of Haller’s Pub. “We’ve got enough drinking money left for a week,” he said. “Let’s get to using it. I’ll call Riley tomorrow. Maybe he’s got something else for us.”