“Can I buy you a chicken dinner?”
I was on the phone with Brynn and bribing her with a free meal if she’d accompany me to The Chicken Shack this evening. If Sebastian was right, the gang would be at the restaurant tonight, and their after-hours events had me curious. If Morales was taking payola from Gaetano, perhaps Morales had other restaurants on his short list with favored-client status.
Minor details were floating loosely through my mind, competing for attention as I spoke to her. Morales and his personal connection to Gaetano. Judge Reynolds was in debt for half a million dollars to a construction company, and some social media creep called Zipsdefender was coming after Cai.
We firmed up the details for the evening and ended the call.
I had parked myself at a cafe table inside Intelligentsia after my meeting so I could capture my notes on the meeting with Sebastian while they were still fresh in my mind and plan where I was going with this story. Sipping my Earl Grey, I considered the new information as the chatter of patrons around me melded into white noise broken by the occasional hiss of the steamer on the cappuccino machine.
Borkowski would probably be pressuring me for some new content first thing in the morning, but I didn’t see a clear enough story path on either Gaetano’s bribes or the judge’s murder to move beyond my long list of questions and speculation, none of which I had answers to. And Cai’s creep was front and center in my mind.
Tapping into Twitter, I typed in Zipsdefender and scrolled his posts. His avatar was innocuous, just a red circle with the word Defender in bold Times New Roman font. Over the past few months, his meager posts were random personal opinions, seemingly without context. Alderman Farnsworth is demented. Only vile and compromised agents wield power. The guilty fabricate their truth. Random drivel by all appearances, fueled by some internal grievances that weren’t clear. In other words, just another day on Twitter. Farnsworth likely meant Reggie Farnsworth, commonly called Striker, of the 36th Ward.
Another Elmwood Park reference.
Un saccente. What did that mean? It was the Italian word for opinionated, or a know-it-all. That certainly matched the attitude of the posts.
I tapped and ran through the accounts he was following. Attorneys, local government, TV news stations, a handful of bars, and what looked to be a social club, also in Elmwood Park. It seemed like a good bet that this was his home base.
Abbiocco, Panici, and now Zipsdefender, all with connections to Elmwood Park. It didn’t feel like a coincidence, but what was the connection to Judge Reynolds? Or Cai, for that matter?
An incoming text popped up on my screen. “U got something new on that judge story or is your love life interfering in your job again?” Borkowski. I’d underestimated him by at least sixteen hours. Did he have to be such an ass? I cringed, wondering if this was some blanket dig or if he knew something about Michael and me. Brynn, of course, knew about our relationship, but as far as the rest of my coworkers were concerned, it was only an unconfirmed rumor. However, the comment was a fresh reminder of every reason Michael and I should not be dating, even if our hearts and bodies said differently.
I popped the lid back on my cup of tea, tossed my phone in my bag, and headed toward the door. Like it or not, Borkowski was right. I needed something more on the judge.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled my Audi into a strip mall parking lot on West Diversey Avenue. The low-slung brick building was a shabby, we’ll-take-anybody-willing-to-sign-a-lease-and-fork-up-a-deposit six-unit affair. A bodega with hand-painted paper signs, advertising a sale on avocados and yucca, filled three spaces on the north end. A takeout-only pizza place was next door, along with a scary-looking nail salon with dust-caked signage, and a cell phone joint on the end. What was I missing? This didn’t feel like any construction company site I’d ever come across.
Reynolds’s debtor, Selciatto Holdings, LLC, listed a suite at this address in their Articles of Organization, but I hadn’t been able to find a website associated with the business or any further description of the type of construction work they performed. Leaving my car, I opened my phone, double-checked the suite number, and began my walk down the row of businesses. The nail salon was even scarier once I could see the pedicure stations inside. Visions of fungus-riddled toenails sitting in an un-sanitized soak tub flashed in my mind. But there was still no suite 701 as I reached the end of the row.
I glanced back toward the bodega in case I’d missed something and then pulled open the glass door to the cell phone shop. A loud ding announced me to the lone employee crouched at a pegboard display of phone accessories. He seemed to be inventorying shelf stock when he heard the bell. Pulling himself up to his feet, he smiled and came toward me.
“Welcome. What are you in the market for today? We’ve got some great deals on the latest Samsung Galaxy, if you’re ready for an upgrade,” he said, working the salesman schtick with ease.
“Sorry, I’m just looking for directions. I can’t find suite 701, Selciatto Holdings. Do you know where it is?”
His smile dimmed, realizing I wasn’t a live lead, but he didn’t let it hamper his cheery customer service sales voice.
“Oh, yeah, they’re upstairs. It’s hard to find. We get their mail by mistake all the time. Just go around the corner of the building, between the buildings, actually, and you’ll see a red metal door. Kinda rusty. The stairs are behind that door. But I doubt anyone is there. I can usually hear people walking around when they’re in. Sounds like they wear combat boots, given all the clomping around.” He chuckled.
The heavy feet of upstairs neighbors would not have been amusing to me.
“And is that often? Seems like a lot of work if you want your customers to find you up there.” I was having a hard time picturing a business with any kind of forward-facing customer base choosing an office location that took a roadmap to reach and required a creepy access point wedged between buildings. Perhaps they only used it for back-office functions.
“Don’t I know it! The first rule of retail is location, location, location.” He laughed again. “Nah, I don’t think this is a walk-in traffic kind of place. Must be more of an office for them. You’re the first person I’ve had looking for them in months.”
“Do you know what kind of work they do? My boss just said it was construction.” The guy seemed willing to talk and wasn’t exactly overrun with customers himself, so I dug, hoping I sounded vaguely like I’d been sent on a task I didn’t understand.
“I think it’s a bunch of businesses. Like they all use the space but don’t work there every day. What do they call them when you just rent the desk for a few hours? Co-working spaces. But not the cool, hip kind with a coffee bar and networking parties, like they have downtown. These are blue-collar guys. The last person who came in looking for them was this big guy in a sweaty T-shirt trying to find a paving company.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help. I would have been wandering for hours.”
“You bet. And come on back when you’re ready to upgrade that phone.”
I left the store, walked to the end of the concrete, and peered around the corner. It was even worse than my new friend had described. It was nothing more than a dark, trash-laden dirt path wedged between two concrete buildings. About thirty inches wide, the meager space was strewn with used Styrofoam cups, empty chip bags, and assorted sale flyers and ran the depth of the building. About forty feet back, the walkway opened to an alley, where I could make out the edges of a blue dumpster.
I kicked aside a pile of paper jammed against the only door, hoping I wasn’t disturbing a rat family napping underneath, then stepped into a tiny landing. No signage. Cracked linoleum, dust bunnies, and dirty footprints led me up a narrow staircase lit by two wobbly fluorescent fixtures.
At the top, another landing, another door, and a simple paper sign printed on card stock taped up with black electrical tape.
Selciatto Holdings, LLC
Smooth Top Paving
Rastello-Marcetti
I noted the business names, then tested the knob. Locked. So I raised my hand and knocked loudly. Nothing. I rapped again, the thud hollow, listening for signs of life, but it remained quiet. After a moment, I trudged back down the stairs to my car. Settling into the seat, I pulled out my phone and typed Rastello-Marcetti into the search bar. Also a paving company. Was Selciatto simply the corporate structure for these two paving companies? If so, why would Judge Reynolds owe them half a million dollars?
As I contemplated the possibilities, a black pickup with oversized tires and dirt-caked mud flaps slid into the last parking slot. The driver, a bulky man in a T-shirt and jeans, exited and lumbered toward the walkway at the end of the building. He looked like the construction type. I tossed my phone in my pocket and stepped out of my car, fumbling in my bag and pretending I was on my way to a nail appointment.
He stopped on the sidewalk as a burgundy Cadillac pulled up to the curb beside him and turned his square head toward the vehicle. Hooking his thumbs into a belt hidden somewhere under his beast of a belly, he waited for the driver, his face scrunched in annoyance.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he screamed as the man exited his car. “When are you gonna learn to keep your goddamn trap shut? You’ve got a problem! And you better take care of it before she becomes a problem someone else needs to handle.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it handled,” the man said, shrugging and leaning an arm on the top of the open car door. His voice had an edge of overconfidence, but it wasn’t clear if he was trying to convince his friend or himself. “Let’s just sign these docs and you let me worry about her. She may run her mouth from time to time, but she don’t know shit.”
The driver of the truck shot an icy scowl toward the new arrival but said nothing as the Cadillac man shut the door of the car.
Squat body. Big belly. Gray wavy hair. I was looking at Felix Panici.