Windy City Blues (12 page)

Driving back toward the city, I pondered why I had not already jumped into investigating Windy City Meters LLC. My conversation with Jones about that was only yesterday, I reasoned—and then Baxter showing up dead had begged my immediate attention. How much crucial information could I check out in a forty-eight-hour period? Frownie would say “at least all of it.”

I parked in a three-hour pay zone near my apartment and walked a half block to the pay station. Typically, I didn’t mind parking a few blocks away to avoid paying, but I thought it was time to see how the other half lived. I swiped my credit card, hit the three-hour button, printed out a receipt, and walked the half block back to my car where I put the receipt on the dash. Then I re-walked the same half block back to my apartment. What a pain-in-the-ass system.

From the sidewalk, I saw black fur smashed flat against the window where Punim lay passed out in the hammock. She showed no sign of life when I opened the door. I envied the sleep of cats. All sixteen hours a day of it. I bit into a crisp Empire apple, fired up the laptop, and found the friendliest website on earth introducing the great city of Chicago via Windy City Meters LLC. A sun-drenched skyline along a sparkling expanse of Lake Michigan provided the backdrop for a list of diversions that awaited world-class shoppers, art gallery enthusiasts, architectural aficionados, museum lovers, and theater devotees. With the help of Windy City Meters LLC, your parking experience would be but a footnote in your subconscious. And let’s not forget that Windy City Meters LLC sees compassionate corporate citizenship as a fundamental feature of their mission. A headline announced a ten-grand gift to a children’s hospital. How could Chicago have survived this long without Windy City Meters LLC?

I checked the links to
Cost and Hours
,
How to Find Parking, How to Work My Meter, Request a Refund,
but could not find a physical address or a name associated with Windy City Meters LLC.
Contact Us
offered a toll-free number and an email address. I thought of tailing a WCM officer on foot, although the image somehow hit me as embarrassing.

The discomfort followed me back to the sidewalk, where after a short wait, I spotted a skinny boy across the street peering through windshields and wearing a navy blue Windbreaker with the letters “WCM PEA.”

The officer had dark skin and Caucasian features. Pakistani perhaps. He looked no older than sixteen. A silver headset sat atop his black hair. The cord disappeared under the Windbreaker that covered him like a tent. I thought of Izzy appearing five days ago in his father’s suit. I gave the kid a fifty-yard head start before crossing the street to begin my walking surveillance. Nice weather and freely moving pedestrian traffic allowed for easy shadowing, but after heading northbound for thirty minutes, I wished I had eaten something more substantial than an apple.

When we reached Irving Park Road, the kid turned west and after a few blocks stopped in front of a two-story red-brick office building. He took off the headset and stuffed it into his pocket. I saw the security system outside the door and dashed toward the boy hoping to see which button he pressed on the panel. Second button from the top, I thought, then waited to catch my breath before pushing the buzzer. A surveillance camera stared at me through the glass from inside the lobby.

A female voice over the intercom. “Can I help you?”

“I have a question about a parking ticket.”

Dead air, then, “You need to speak with someone at the Department of Revenue.”

“What’s this office?”

“We’re a private company, sir.”

“I saw a parking officer buzz in.”

“They’re allowed to use the building’s facilities. Please direct all parking questions to the Department of Revenue.”

“Is this Windy City Meters?”

Another round of dead air, then a male voice. “This is Daniel of BK Corporate Systems. Can I help you?”

“I’m curious about your company, that’s all. I’m looking for a software design firm for parking technology. You guys do that?”

“Sir, we’re a private company with no obligation to explain ourselves to those unfamiliar with our services. Please move away from the door or I will call security.”

I did as told but ambled around the area keeping an eye on the doorway. What could something called BK Corporate Systems have to do with Windy City Meters LLC? The kid emerged twenty minutes later holding what looked like part of a sandwich that he shoved into his mouth. Halfway down the block, he put the headset back on and crossed back over to Halsted Street, this time heading south.

I closed the distance each time he stopped to write a ticket. Three tickets later I had caught up, but he seemed not to notice me as he grooved to his music and checked dashboards. Finally, I waved at him like a fool and we both stopped. He slid the headset around his neck and smiled as if he knew me.

“Yes, sir?”

His grin took a few more years off his age. “Was that a Windy City Meters office where you just had lunch?”

The kid thought about it. “It’s just a small kitchen and bathroom we use when working this area. And at the end of the day, we download our computers there and recharge the batteries.” He showed me his handheld ticket-writing device.

“But you’re a parking officer for Windy City Meters, right?”

Again, the kid had to think about it. “I’m a parking enforcement aide. And my paycheck always has a different company name on it. Windy City is the company we actually work for—I think.” He giggled.

“Have you seen a company called BK something on a paycheck?”

The kid stared at me a moment and then dug several crumpled pieces of paper out of his pocket. He examined them closely until he stuck one in my face and said, “Is this what you mean?”

I thought it odd how readily he would hand over his pay stub to a complete stranger. “BK Corporate Systems” was printed with the Irving Park address. The pathetic hourly rate pissed me off. What cheap bastards.

“Do you mind if I walk with you a bit?” The kid smiled again, shrugged, and off we went. “What’s the minimum age requirement for this job?”

“You have to be sixteen to work in Illinois.”

“A sixteen-year-old can become a sworn officer with a badge?”

“Nope. We’re parking enforcement aides. That’s what P-E-A on our back means. We’re not allowed to be called officers. If someone calls me an officer, I have to tell them I’m a P-E-A.” The kid noticed an expired receipt, wrote the ticket, then wrote another for an expired license plate, and another for a missing front plate. “Hat trick!” he said.

“Is Daniel your supervisor?”

“One of them. Each district has an office like this one where we start and end our days. Every month the PEAs are given a schedule telling them where and what time to report. We never really know who our supervisor will be that day.”

He seemed to enjoy my company. He told me his name was Ryan, short for his Nepali name, Narayan, and that he was eighteen. I asked how he got the job, and he mentioned a poster on a bulletin board at an ESL class where his mother taught at night. He liked the idea of walking around without a boss looking over his shoulder, although he admitted working outside in the winter “will suck.” He hoped to one day study mechanical engineering. His personality had that amiable, polite quality I supposed most parents dreamed of having in their kid. With each block, he impressed me more. When a younger kid passed us on a bike and called him a “pea brain,” Ryan just laughed.

Unlike most of the teenagers with whom I’d had previous conversations, Ryan showed a natural curiosity in me and thought I was joking about working as a private investigator. I could tell his thoughts conjured up images from TV dramas, most of which I said were exaggerated, although when investigating a murder or other serious crime, it wasn’t difficult to accurately portray the bad guys. “It’s really not that imaginative being a crook, killer, drug dealer, or corrupt politician,” I told him.

At the next block, Ryan stopped. “I gotta go this way now,” he said. I got the feeling he wanted to put on his headset and be left alone. I thanked him for his time, and we parted ways. I hadn’t realized we had reached Armitage Avenue. How many miles did they expect that kid to walk in a day?

Instead of going home, I continued on Armitage to Cleveland where I turned south, hoping to see another WCM PEA. A few blocks later, I saw a city officer standing in front of St. Michael’s church, the defining landmark of Old Town. He was a tall string bean of a guy with a military style high-and-tight haircut. I asked what his territory was for the day.

“What difference does it make to you?” he said.

Ryan’s pleasant demeanor had spoiled me. I had forgotten stereotypes often had basis in reality.

“I’m trying to find a Windy City officer.”

“What for?”

I didn’t like his tone and it seemed inappropriate to speak that way in front of a Catholic church that had survived the Chicago Fire of 1871. “That’s really none of your damn business.”

I enjoyed acting like a prick once in a while, although some parishioners exiting the church gave me a dirty look.

“Why you giving me a hard time? Just ’cause I work for the city, you treat me like shit?”

That I could so easily hurt the man’s feelings surprised me. Had I overreacted?

“Look, I just asked a simple question, and you threw it back in my face. So I reacted. Could you please just tell me where your district ends and a Windy City district begins? I’m sorry for speaking to you so harshly.”

The man frowned, clearly thinking I was full of crap. “The other side of Larrabee Street,” he said and walked away, shaking his head like I was the biggest asshole on the planet.

I hung out around the quaint side streets between Willow and North Avenue where rehabbed clapboard houses sat alongside modern glass structures. A breeze off the lake took me by surprise and once again reminded me how vulnerable one could feel in summer clothing on an autumn afternoon. The chill inspired thoughts of Jack Gelashvili. I tried to picture him starting over as an immigrant, his advanced degrees meaningless, his priorities reduced to taking any job available. And his thanks for doing everything required of an immigrant? Having his head beaten to a bloody pulp.

Down the block a figure in a navy blue Windbreaker searched windshields for the required residential permits. He walked quickly to each car and then peered through reading glasses. His elderly appearance surprised me. I followed him farther south across North Avenue and over to Mohawk Street, where he approached a tall, sad-looking powder blue wood-framed house set back about thirty yards between an office building and the elevated tracks. Chipped and peeling paint covered every square inch.

He rang the doorbell, saluted the security camera, and walked in. Minutes later, I pushed the button fully anticipating the same reception I got at the address on Irving Park. To my utter surprise, a loud buzz released the door’s latch-bolt and in I walked. Despite the dilapidated exterior, the interior looked worthy of a historic preservation catalogue. Shiny wood floors, Art Nouveau furniture, classic brick fireplace, all hidden behind a ramshackle façade.

Voices drifted from a short hallway that led to the kitchen where the old man sat at a table casually talking with two middle-aged women also wearing blue Windbreakers. They appeared to be talking shop—how many tickets, who bore the worst insults. My choices seemed limited to sneaking around like a burglar or making up a reason for being there. The idea of casually mingling with the folks in the kitchen seemed appealing, but then a voice beckoned me. “Hey, over this way.”

I turned and saw a husky man in slacks and a blue dress shirt opened to the third button. “Bathroom’s this way—where’re your tools?” A deer in the headlights never felt so speechless. Then the man said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Avon calling?”

“How did you get in?”

“I’m sorry. I was just curious about the house—I study architecture. And I’d never seen such a nice example of an early twentieth century bevel-sided house.”

“This is private property. You’re trespassing.”

“Somebody inside the private property buzzed the door open.”

The man unhooked his cell phone. “We’re expecting a plumber. Now get the fuck out or I’ll call a cop. Or maybe I’ll throw your ass out.”

“Are you running a business out of this house?”

When the man stepped toward me, Frownie’s reprimand about forgetting my gun echoed through my brain. I retreated out the door. At the sidewalk, I saw a plumbing van idling under the train tracks. The driver held a map close to his face. I offered assistance, and he said he was looking for a number on Mohawk Street with the name “KB Enterprises.” I pointed out the powder blue house with the derelict paint job.

I still had a couple of hours before my date with Tamar, plenty of time for a nap and a shower. The thought of discussing the day’s events with Tamar felt good, if not appropriate. The air had turned noticeably cooler. I jammed my hands in my pockets and headed home. Shortly after crossing North Avenue, I caught a police cruiser in my peripheral vision but didn’t think much of it until I hit Lincoln Avenue where I turned to angle back to Halsted. The cop did the same.

Messing with cops was a bad idea, but passive aggression in an automobile pissed me off. I cut over to a quiet side street. When the cop turned, he saw an idiot standing in the middle of the street with both middle fingers extended.

I blew him some kisses and said, “You lookin’ for some action, honey? Ten bucks for a blow job.”

“I hear you been ringing doorbells.” He was a little guy with a handlebar mustache. I was going to ask if he was sitting on a couple of phonebooks.

“Yeah? That against the law?”

“If you’re harassing people, it is.”

“And if I ring a doorbell and they let me in, is that harassment, too?”

“The guy asked you to leave and you didn’t.”

“Really? So I’m not standing here talking to a bored cop?”

“You know what I mean, asshole. Quit harassing people just doing their jobs and quit ringing doorbells. Get it?”