Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 28

Chapa spotted Sean Moriarity first. When Moriarity saw him, the rival reporter’s facial expression turned from one of recognition, to disgust, to dismissal, before disgust came back around for seconds. Chapa didn’t care. He figured Moriarity would know a whole lot more about the goings-on than he did.

“That seat is taken,” Moriarity said as Chapa sat down next to him.

“It is now.”

Moriarity shuffled some notes and leaned away from Chapa, damned near turning his back to him. Chapa scanned the meeting room, he’d never been there before. There was a conference table, big enough for the twelve highback leather executive chairs that ringed it. The rest of the room was filled by rows of far less comfortable plastic chairs. All but six were empty.

“Do they draw much of a crowd, Sean?”

After the twenty seconds or so that it apparently took him to conjure a comeback, Moriarity said, “Today it seems like there’s one too many.”

“Look, Sean, I’m sorry about yesterday. I talked to Nikki about it, but she was just trying to have some fun. She didn’t understand.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Chapa’s apology seemed to break the ice a little.

A few minutes later Moriarity was telling him about the various issues that the Business Council dealt with, including zoning recommendations, business contracts, and deals to bring new commerce into town. He explained that each council member had been nominated by the mayor or some other official, and approved by the City Council, which, according to Moriarity, “rubberstamps everything.”

As each member of the council wandered in and took a seat at the table, Moriarity would give Chapa the skinny on who was who.

“The tall guy with the horn-rimmed glasses is Dex Ferguson, a former alderman.”

“I remember, he resigned after they caught him in his car at the Sunset Drive-in with an ounce of coke on the dash and a nude college girl on his lap.”

“Yeah, but then he went on to make a couple mil and all was forgiven. The guy next to him is Charles Stoop, owner of the Chicago area’s largest landscaping firm. He does all of that sort of work around here.”

Stoop had a flat, pasty complexion, which Chapa thought seemed odd for a man in the landscaping business. Apparently having noticed the two reporters talking about him, Stoop walked over and handed Chapa his business card.

“I’ve already got a few, thanks,” Moriarity said as Stoop fumbled for another card.

Stoops nodded, then returned to his chair.

“The chubby guy is Tony Villanueva,” Moriarity said, continuing his roll call.

“Oh, I know Tony. Used to be a hack writer for the Oakton Observer. I heard they rewarded his bad work by kicking him upstairs.”

“That’s right. He’s head of some department there now and sits on boards like this one.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because it keeps someone from your paper or mine from sitting there.”

That made sense. As far back as Chapa could remember the Observer had been as passive about reporting the news as its name suggested. Though it had a decent circulation, especially by present-day standards, it was more of an extension of the city’s public relations department than a real newspaper.

“Who’s the old guy from soap opera central casting?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Of course he is.”

“That’s Dr. Walter Bendix, a former surgeon who made a lot of money buying and developing land.”

“He looks important.”

“Oh, Dr. Bendix is. And he works with all sorts of charities, even volunteers his time.”

A middle-aged woman of Amazonian proportions walked in, and appeared to disrupt Moriarity’s train of thought.

“That’s Vanny Mars,” he said, lowering his voice. “She’s one of the Clinton Avenue Cougars.”

“The Clinton Avenue what?”

Vanny Mars was as tall as any man in the room. Her hair looked like it had been dyed so many times it was no longer a clearly defined color, but instead something between dark beige and burgundy.

When she sat down Chapa noticed that her shoulders were wider than the chair’s broad backrest. Moriarity explained that Vanny was the city’s numbers cruncher, the person who made sure the deals worked on paper. A former CPA with dreams of grandeur. But her true claim to fame came a year ago when she thought up the slogan Oakton—It Sizzles!

“That slogan is on signs all over town.”

“Maybe I should go ask her for an autograph,” Chapa whispered to Moriarity.

“I’m sure she’d give it to you without batting one of those ridiculous false eyelashes.”

They kept making their way in, and Moriarity continued to play the role of the know-it-all at the ballpark who’s committed every player’s batting average to memory. There was Greg Vinsky, a man Chapa guessed to be in his late thirties or early to mid forties, with light features and thick dark hair. According to Moriarity, Vinsky owned a consulting business, and had helped broker a number of deals for the city. And Franklin Gemmer, who’d moved there just a few years back and started a successful security alarm company.

“Clay Hunter runs an insurance firm, Harvey Nestor owns a chain of drugstores, Mario Melendez is a consultant, Ted Bruce is a PR guy, and Dick Wick provides legal counsel for the city.”

Chapa was still listening, but he’d been distracted by a new member of the gallery.

“You may not realize this, Alex, but more than half of these people moved here in the past few years, after the new mayor was elected and reached out to businessmen beyond Oakton’s borders.”

“Um hmm.” Chapa was staring at the man sitting alone in the back row. He was wearing a slate gray suit that reminded Chapa of the one Cary Grant wore in North by Northwest. The suit fit him so well that it almost seemed organic, a part of his body like a second skin or outer shell. He had deep set eyes that were fixed on Chapa. Just as they had been the first time Chapa noticed him.

“But what this council actually does,” Moriarity, still in a zone of his own, whispered, “is make sure no competition moves in and hurts their businesses.”

“Sean—” Chapa blurted, stopping Moriarity in midsentence. “The guy in the expensive suit, back row, far right, who is he?”

Chapa hoped Moriarity would be cool, assumed he wouldn’t have to tell him to be. He was wrong.

“Him I don’t know,” Moriarity said after pivoting all the way around and looking straight back. “Nice suit, though.”

“But he’s looking right at me.”

“No, not really. He appears to be reading the newspaper on his lap.”

“Yours or mine?”

Moriarity squinted, then the expression on his face withdrew into disappointment.

“Can’t tell.”

Chapa figured he would have the entire length of the hour-long meeting to decide whether or not to confront the guy in the suit. But Mr. Brooks Brothers in the back row became a secondary concern after Chapa recognized the last council member to arrive.

“I’ve seen him before. He was knocking around the crime scene.”

“Sure he was,” Moriarity whispered. “That’s George Forsythe, he’s the area’s leading electrical contractor. The city’s safety and standards division, and the police always call him in when there’s a problem or an incident.”

Chapa spent the next several minutes fixed on George Forsythe, almost forgetting about the curious man in the back row. He would approach Forsythe when the meeting was over, and this time there would be no police to stop him from asking his questions and getting some answers.

As the meeting was drawing to a close, Chapa checked the batteries on his tape recorder, and turned to a fresh page on his notepad. Vanny Mars was bellowing about a zoning issue when she was interrupted by the sound of even louder voices in the hall outside the room.

Chapa looked back in the direction of the noise, purposely avoiding eye contact with the man in the gray suit, and assumed that the next gaggle of white-shirted warriors had started their meeting a bit early. But when Warren Chakowski burst into the room clutching a hunting rifle, Chapa knew he was wrong about the noise, and any conversation with George Forsythe would have to wait.