Windy City Blues (25 page)

Southbound on the Chicago Skyway, I exited at 95th Street, then parked on Avenue M, a quiet block of small ranch-style cottages and frame houses. From there, I walked to an industrial canal known as the Calumet River; it wound its way through a post-apocalyptic landscape of abandoned steel mills, oil refineries, and dark mounds of their toxic by-products.

From the way Kalijero had described the port, I expected a logjam of vessels moving through a gauntlet of longshoremen operating enormous cranes, forklifts, and grain sifters. But apart from a single freighter being nudged along by a tug, the only other reminders of nautical activity were a mostly submerged sailboat and a rusted ship lying on its side near an abandoned silo.

I was hoping to simply ask someone where pier twenty-four was located, but not much in the way of sentient life could be observed on this sad October landscape. Walking east a block, Lake Michigan’s sparkly beauty held my gaze long enough for me to notice two men fishing from a jetty. A little local flavor seemed in order.

It only took a few minutes to reach the lakeshore. The fishermen looked to be in their seventies. They used live bait from a white bucket and had their poles lying on the concrete while they relaxed, resting their arms on generous bellies rounding nicely from their arrangement in folding chairs. The men were engaged in animated conversation but quickly stopped talking when I came within about ten feet of them.

“Hello,” I said then sat down dangling my feet over the edge, quite aware of my presumptuous behavior. “Largemouth bass?”

“That’s the idea,” one of them said with the slightest Hispanic accent.

“Probably too sunny, though,” the other said in blue-collar South Side. He wore a baseball cap that said “U.S. Merchant Marine.” “Them bass don’t like sunny. They hang out in da’ shady parts.”

I nodded as if I knew well this very dilemma. “Yeah, but what’s the difference?” I said. “It’s still a beautiful day, right?” Both men smiled politely and grunted. “You guys lived around here a long time?”

Neither made a sound, just nodded with a kind of pained expression while continuing to stare out over the lake. As I formulated my next question, the Hispanic man said, “Almost sixty years now.”

“I was born here,” the seaman said.

“A lot’s changed in that time, I bet,” I said. They grunted in the affirmative. “This port must’ve been a lot busier, right?”

Both men laughed. “Used to see barges all day long,” the Hispanic man said.

“Lot of them freighters, too,” the seaman said.

“I’ve seen a few tugboats,” I said.

“It ain’t safe to navigate the channel without tugs.”

“Do you know where pier twenty-four is by any chance?”

I wasn’t sure the seaman heard me, but then he nodded his head. “Yeah. It ain’t really a pier, though. Just a dock in the turning basin near the 95th Street bridge, next to that boat storage joint.” He shrugged then spit into the lake. “I don’t know anymore what the hell they’re doin’.”

The Hispanic man sighed loudly. The ambience had shifted. I sensed the freshness of my presence had worn off. I bid the gentlemen farewell and wished them luck on catching bass. They both nodded and waved the way people do when they’re glad you’re leaving.

I followed 95th Street back to the canal then cut through the lot of the boat storage place and immediately saw the masts of three tugboats moored to a small dock in a wider part of the river. A sign on a modular office trailer about thirty yards in front of the dock said “Pier 24.” It seemed too easy. Everything Elon needed to quickly conduct business was right there. The white van could drive right up to the edge of the water, pick up its cargo, then disappear onto busy 95th Street.

I called Kalijero from my car on Avenue M. He answered saying, “Illinois International Port District.”

“What are you talking about?”

“IIPD. Illinois International Port District.”

Mystery solved. “Thanks. Did you get the pictures I sent?”

“What pictures?”

“On your phone! I found pier twenty-four. Perfect for off-loading the women. Easy in, easy out. Just north of the 95th Street bridge, next to a boating storage place. The highway runs right behind it.”

“Hang on.” I waited for Kalijero to check his phone. “Yeah, I got ’em.”

I sensed residual ambivalence and it was getting on my nerves. The ensuing silence only added to my irritation.

“What!?” I said, probably louder than I should have.

“I’m looking at the pictures, Landau!” A minute later, Kalijero said, “How much time have you really spent checking that whole place out?”

“When’s the last time you were down here?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Let’s just say things have changed. There are only a few businesses and the occasional barge. Meet me there tonight, say, nine o’clock. You’ll see for yourself. I’ll be near the office trailer.”

I had been gambling that Kalijero would get excited when he saw the perfect setup, but I had to accept that even if he did come down and take a look, he could still call the whole thing off for any goddamn reason he wanted. I let out a string of obscenities under my breath, directly into the phone.

“Fine,” Kalijero said. “Nine o’clock. I know that boat storage place you’re talking about. Maybe I can get an unmarked car to hang around, but don’t count on it. Just assume we’ll be on our own until I know I have something that’s absolutely clear with no question that the law is being broken.”

Assume we’ll be on our own.
I stuffed the urge to laugh. If there was one single thing I knew for sure, it was that I was on my own.

Being home at three o’clock gave me plenty of time to relax, but also plenty of time to think about Palmer, which is what I started doing as soon as my ass hit the recliner. Exhaustion also demanded my attention. My eyelids became manhole covers. Maybe just a short nap, I thought as I watched Palmer sip wine and describe Elon’s arrogance, how the ease in which we figured out Elon’s flesh-peddling venue was the height of pomposity.

I awoke when Punim touched down on my lap. My neck ached from ninety minutes of unnatural angles. After preparing Punim’s bowl of viscera, I ordered the usual from downstairs. A minute later, Tamar called.

“Where are you?” she said.

“I got home about three. I found a spot where I’m convinced the girls come in on a tugboat. I’m meeting Kalijero at nine.”

“What if nothing illegal happens tonight?”

“Then we wait for the next delivery. I’m not a cop, Tamar. I can’t arrest people.”

“Where is this spot? In the middle of a hornets’ nest?”

“No, it’s pier twenty-four, like it says in Gigi’s datebook.”

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Who knows what Kalijero is going to do?” I waited for some kind of acknowledgment that Tamar understood the situation. “You still there?” I said.

“I’m here. Just be careful. Call me when it’s over.”

Most of the streetlamps on Avenue M were broken and the ones that worked already had cars parked under them. But I wasn’t worried. Driving a nondescript 1983 Honda Civic had its advantages. Apart from a yellow taxi that passed me as I got out of my car, the street was quiet.

Any remaining warmth from a sunny day had been sucked into the clear night sky. I wore a wool sweater under my jacket and a navy blue watch cap that seemed somehow appropriate. The lighting along the river’s asphalt corridor consisted only of whatever incidental glow from a neighboring business provided, which left large areas of blackness. The trailer’s windows were dark and both floodlights on the roof were off, leaving the dock only dimly lit from the security lights in the boat storage lot. From the back of the trailer, darkness extended a good forty yards, almost to the highway. Hanging out in the shadows behind the trailer felt like standing in the wings of a theater, waiting for the lights to come up on stage.

Nine o’clock, and no Kalijero. I moved farther back, staying in the darkness all the way to a small patch of dirt. From this vantage point, I glimpsed other figures, dodging in and out of the shadows. These impoverished local residents didn’t move quickly, as if afraid of being seen, but more like wandering souls not sure what to do with themselves. Had I been a poet, the flash of lighters and the glow of long drags on cigarettes would’ve been East Side’s fireflies.

Nine-thirty. Still no Kalijero. I swore, then called him a Greek bastard. Then I called him a lazy fucking piece-of-shit cop. As I thought of more flattering adjectives, a lumbering figure trotted across a break in the traffic on 95th Street. Kalijero was now the greatest of men. As he made it to the asphalt and slowed to a walk, a low rumbling from the north caught my ear. I anticipated the sight of a moving light, but heard only the rumbling as it became louder. A business on the opposite bank gave off just enough light to shimmer off the water. The tug glided lazily through the illumination like a phantom.

I hurried to the back of the trailer and waited for Kalijero, who was now about twenty yards away. I gave off a loud “
Pssssst
.”

“Relax,” Kalijero said. “I see you.”

“Hear that rumble?” I said. “The boat’s coming in. It came down the channel with no lights on.”

Kalijero walked to the edge of the trailer to have a look. I got on my knees behind Kalijero to peek around the same corner. As we watched, the tug appeared from the darkness, floating up to the dock between two moorings. About ten young women huddled close together on the main deck. They looked around eighteen or nineteen, tops. Their frumpy clothes indicated that selling their bodies had not been anyone’s intended career goal. With the engine still idling, from the wheelhouse a well-built man appeared, dressed in black and wearing what looked like a child’s ship-captain’s hat. He rushed down the ladder, tossed rope from the bow to the dock, ran to the stern to do the same, then jumped onto the dock and tied the ropes around the two moorings. With the boat secure, the captain returned to the wheelhouse to shut off the engine. After returning to the dock, he leaned against a wood piling and lit a well-deserved cigarette. A few puffs later, he took out his phone and began texting. One of the women stepped toward the dock and said something in Russian. The captain barked back in Russian. She shrunk back to the others.

Kalijero looked down at me and said, “Where’s Elon and the baker?”

“I think the tug’s early. It’s not ten yet.”

Kalijero took out his radio and said, “Goods arrival.”

“Backup?”

“I decided to call in some favors.”

I stood up and looked toward 95th, where I spotted a Crown Vic across the street. At the same time, a van pulled onto the shoulder of our side of the road, switched off its lights, then angled to the asphalt. I nudged Kalijero. “That’s the van that takes the girls away.”

We watched the van creep toward the dock. The same heavyset Hispanic man I had seen at the bakery got out. He walked to the captain, who made it clear he was not in the mood for small talk. Still desiring human interaction, the driver strolled over to the girls and stood facing them. I imagined he had a stupid grin on his face. Then he said something in Spanish and began gyrating his pelvis while positioning his hands as if standing between a woman’s parted thighs. The girls turned away and moved as close to the other end of the deck as possible. The wind blew our way, and I heard the captain say as he threw down his cigarette, “Be a good boy. Sit in van.”

The driver did not appreciate the comment. As the two men sized each other up, headlights flashed from the north end of the asphalt. The driver ran to his vehicle and started the engine. The captain waited. Slowly, a black SUV made its way forward until it parked in the darkness just beyond the dock area. Gigi stepped out from the driver’s seat wearing the white apron he wore in the bakery. Boris and Vlad emerged from the backseat. From the passenger side, a well-groomed businessman with a wool overcoat draped across his shoulders stepped out.

Kalijero whispered something into the radio. The Crown Vic across the street came to life then sped away. Other noises from behind us momentarily caught my attention. Boris and Vlad stayed near the car while the captain, Gigi, and Elon congregated on the dock. After exchanging pleasantries, the captain beckoned the women to join them. They did so cautiously, obeying the captain’s order to form a line.

“Now, listen,” Kalijero said. “Stay here, pay attention, and keep down. There are three officers behind us waiting for my signal, and more support on 95th with vehicles. They know this is where you will be.”

Elon started his grotesque inspection by passing slowly down the front of the line, giving each young woman the once-over, like an officer on a parade ground.

I whispered, “This is human
trafficking,
which is worse than human
smuggling
because—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kalijero said.

Coming to the end, Elon wheeled around to stand behind the last woman in line. Despite the faint light, it wasn’t difficult to get a sense of what he was up to. First, his hands appeared on her thighs before sliding slowly up, stopping a few moments on her groin then moving to her belly and then to her breasts, where they remained for his groping pleasure. By now, some of the women were openly crying. Others stood frozen in shock. Even with shadows distorting the already dull light on their faces, one couldn’t miss their expressions of horror.

Elon repeated the routine with each one of them, acting as if he had all night to make a decision. Gigi became downright fidgety. Finally, he summoned the captain and whispered into his ear.

“Stand by,” Kalijero said on his radio.

Boris and Vlad stepped onto the dock. Their smug looks told me they also anticipated sampling the goods. The captain took the hand of one of the girls and led her to Elon’s side. Elon took his coat and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. Meanwhile, the captain led the rest of the girls to the van and waited with the driver next to the open cargo door. Elon put an arm around his new girlfriend. With a gangster flanked on each side of the couple, he began walking her toward the SUV. Gigi followed close behind.

Just as Kalijero brought the radio to his mouth, the sound of feet advancing quickly from behind blew past us and the back of a small figure entered the stage. In an instant, my brain processed a subtle mannerism in the figure’s movement that registered as familiar. A lock of hair flopping into the dusky light was enough to bring the posture together in the shape of Tamar. I jumped up.

The choreography had played perfectly into Tamar’s strategy and execution. By the time I reached the dock, she stood facing Elon, Gigi, Boris, and Vlad, covering them with a .22-caliber Ruger target pistol—a lightweight peashooter, really, but, at close range with a ten-round magazine, deadly just the same. Tamar said something in Russian to Elon’s chosen, who then ran toward 95th Street, where the other women were now being herded away by a fast-moving female Chicago PD officer. The boat captain and the van driver were already sitting inside a patrol car in the boat storage lot. Kalijero had done a stellar job planning.

“Listen up, people!” his voice boomed. “I am a Chicago police officer. Other officers are present. Our weapons are drawn. We have all of you covered. So unless you want to take a swim in the channel, nobody is going anywhere.”

“My god, Tamar! My god!” Gigi said, the tips of his fingers pushed against both temples. “Have you gone crazy?”

Despite Tamar’s leverage, Boris and Vlad concerned me most. Apart from knowing they both carried guns, they looked bored, exactly as you’d expect psychopathic killers to look. I took out my revolver, pointed it at them and said, “Get your hands up. If I only
think
you’re going for a gun, I’m shooting first.” They humored me with a half-assed attempt to hold up their arms.

Tamar held the pistol with both hands while shifting her aim back and forth along the length of the line. “Put it down, Tamar,” I said. “The police are here. Let them do their job.”

Elon’s expression now resembled how the girls had looked as he groped them.

“Landau!” Kalijero shouted. “Tell your girlfriend to trade places with me.”

“I got at least two bullets for each of you,” Tamar said. “Recognize this gun, Gigi? I found it in the van. Let me guess, you used it to terrorize Russian girls, the ones you were helping to find jobs as whores?”

“You don’t know what you’re saying!” Gigi said.

“It’s not what you think, kid,” Elon said.

Tamar ignored Elon. “Gigi!” she said. “Did you have these bald-headed dirtbags kill Jack?”

“I—I didn’t kill anyone,” the baker said.

“That’s not what I asked!” Tamar screamed, startling me. “Did you have your gangster pals do the dirty work?
Russkaya mafiya,
Gigi. Or are you calling it
Bratva
or
krasnaya mafiya
? Take your pick.”

Boris and Vlad started shouting at Tamar, spitting out words with laughter and exaggerated facial expressions, like little kids emphasizing disgusting details for shock value. Gigi turned to them. “No! No! Please,” he said, sounding pathetically feeble. “Don’t listen, Tamar.”

“Tamar!” I said. “We’ve caught them in the act.
Human trafficking,
Tamar. The police saw everything. Let them take it from here.”

“You wanna know what the gangsters just said to me?” Tamar said, tears falling off her face. “They were describing how easily Jack’s head broke open. How it fell apart like an egg.”

The urge to empty my revolver into these men was strong enough to provoke my index finger to test the trigger’s resistance. I knew if I fired once, I wouldn’t be able to stop. “I know it’s hard,” I said, my words sounding ridiculously inadequate. “But don’t throw your life away. Killing is killing, even if you kill scumbags.”