The Twenty-Seventh City

  Because it was abstract, Probst found himself engaged by the question. He shifted his legs. “Well, to those limits I might add that the market is finite as well as uncertain, and that unlimited growth is of far less importance to me than quality work, a fair situation for my employees, and in particular a sane workload for my executives.”

  Wesley nodded through this. “Right. Absolutely. The market is finite. But so is the universe! It’s still very large, right? Let me give you a present-day scenario. Say suddenly a whole lot of new office buildings are going up, and to build one you’ve got to have a big crane. I wouldn’t know for sure how many big cranes you have, but let’s say two.”

  “One, actually. If you’re talking about the derrick we—”

  “One. Fine. Even better. So even if six big projects are going up simultaneously, you can still only bid on one of them. You could bid on more, but you’d have to figure in the cost of renting or financing more cranes, which could make you uncompetitive. Am I right?”

  “You’re not altogether wrong.”

  “But now let’s say that tomorrow something happens that will make it a whole lot easier to finance a crane. Something—whatever, all right? And let’s also say that because you’re hoping to do a number of very similar projects, all in the same area, not miles apart but blocks apart, five hundred feet, you’ll be able to work more efficiently, and you’ll be able to knock enough off your bids so that even with extra financing costs you’re still competitive. Isn’t it possible that you could land all six contracts and quintuple the revenues you’d otherwise expect?”

  “That would depend entirely on the terms of the financing,” Probst said calmly. In the simplicity of Wesley’s scenario, the feigned naïveté, he sensed the imminent proffering of an illegality, and he had always been skillful at leading men on into self-incrimination.

  “Say the terms were good,” Wesley replied. “Say it was in the best interests of certain extremely influential citizens to involve you, with your stature, your leadership, your whole history, to involve you in the rejuvenation of the city, in a set of projects that no matter how you look at it is in the best interests of the people of St. Louis, all of the people, all of the city. Your city.”

  “You’re referring to the North Side.”

  “North Side, South Side, West End, whatever. I ask hypothetically.”

  “I don’t care for hypotheses,” Probst said with an air of cool criminality. “I like facts.”

  “OK. The fact is, I do know of a group of men, good men, men you’ve known all your life, who do match up with the picture I’ve drawn for you.”

  “Why aren’t they speaking to me themselves?”

  “In a sense, they are. Call me a representative.”

  So: an admission. “Is Rolf Ripley another representative?” Probst asked. “Because if he is, then I’m quite sure you’re mistaken about their interest in involving me.”

  “Martin. Have you ever stopped to think what life might be like in other businesses besides contracting? In businesses that are more speculative? If you have, then I’m sure you can imagine how loath we are to widen our circle prematurely.”

  Circle. Ring. Clique. Something clicked in Probst and pulled him to his feet. “I have no more questions,” he said.

  Wesley stared as if he hardly dared to hope he’d convinced Probst without a struggle. “Surely you’d like some details.”

  Probst put on his coat, and now that he was standing he observed that the spools in Mayor Wesley’s Dictaphone were turning. “No thanks.” He looped his scarf around his neck and tugged it to a choke. “I’ve no use for cliques.”

  “Sit down, Martin.” Wesley’s tone was kindly. “Please. Sit down. I’ve obviously given you the wrong impression. This isn’t a clique—God knows, I hate the very idea. This is something for everyone.”

  Probst checked to see that he had his glove. Yes. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll wait until I hear about it like everyone else.”

  Wesley shook his head at Probst’s failure to grasp. “People aren’t going to be interested if men like you aren’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find plenty who are interested. Takes all kinds. Because, Pete, if what you’re saying is true, then all you have to do is bring it up at Municipal Growth. Thursday night, seven o’clock.”

  “I’m ex officio.”

  “Hammaker then. Or Ripley.”

  “Martin, you know damn well you’re the one they’ll listen to. Some of these men aren’t even going to Municipal Growth anymore.”

  “I’ve noticed. I’ve spoken with them.”

  “Well, you should know they’re not above resigning if the group doesn’t start showing a little more relevance to their concerns.”

  “If they miss a third meeting they’re out anyway,” Probst said. “Now, I’m going to leave, Mayor, but first, if you’re so inclined, you might answer me one question: Why try to bargain? Either you need me or you don’t.”

  “Well. I like you, Martin. There’s nobody who doesn’t—”

  “Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Now wait a second. I’m telling you this for your own good. I’m doing you a favor. Do you understand? Sometimes I wonder if you’re not just a little bit of a snob. The redevelopment is going through no matter what, with you or without you. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. But we’re your friends. We want you aboard. We want you on the team. You’re a team player, and we’d miss you. The business community has stuck together under the same leadership for more than twenty years—”

  “The white business community.” Probst wondered where this line had come from.

  “The community that counts, the people who have a real stake in St. Louis. We’ve stuck together, taken care of our own, and we’re going to keep on doing just that. So let’s not have any ugliness.”

  Probst strolled to the windows. The white Chevy was gone. The Arch was black. “And my bargaining power?”

  “Very simple. You don’t have any if you won’t play ball. But if you do play, you can have just about anything you want. You’d automatically be chairman, you’d—”

  “Chairman of what?”

  “Whatever. You’d have constant access to the big picture. You’d have more work, and could do it more efficiently, than you ever could before.”

  “And if I won’t play ball?”

  “Don’t expect many offers.”

  “Some friends.”

  Wesley stuttered. “I didn’t—”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” Probst spun around. “Make no mistake about it, Mayor. I don’t believe ten percent of what you’ve told me. But even hypothetically, what you’re talking about is unfair advantage. I imagine you’ll tell me it’s legal, and I’ve heard that kind of crap all my life. Legal. But no matter how you paint it over, you’re still talking about an unfair advantage for someone, either for me or for someone else. That’s not my idea of good business, that’s not my idea of right living. Now, Mayor,” Probst realized he was close to tears, “I still have a little bit of say in how this city is run, and I can assure you right now I’m going to do everything in my power to see that this community doesn’t fall into the hands of any syndicate, no matter how nice the people running it are, no matter what good friends of mine they are. As for the rest, we will discuss it later, seven p.m., Thursday, and if you’re not there, you’re gone, you’re kicked out, you’re through—I’ve got the votes, Pete—and we can talk about this in the presence of more than just your Dictaphone.”

  “Oh, for shit.” Jammu peeled off her headphones and threw them on her desk. “What’s he doing running the Dictaphone?”

  Singh removed the other set of headphones and placed them on the desk next to hers. “He knows we’re listening?”

  “No.” She fell heavily against the back of her chair, working herself into a brand of snit Singh recognized but hadn’t seen for quite some time. “But he knows I don’t need a transcript. A summary would do.”

/>   “He’s dabbling in conspiracy,” Singh said. “It’s catching.”

  She stamped on the floor, slammed a drawer, stamped again.

  “The Dictaphone had nothing to do with it,” Singh continued in tones well crafted and soothing. “Probst was already quite ‘exercised’ enough—”

  “Asshole. Self-righteous asshole.”

  “Calm down, hey? Why not. You must be hungry.” He nudged a half-eaten blueberry muffin, the second of the two he’d brought her, into greater prominence on her desk.

  She flattened it with her fist and knocked the pieces to the floor. “Get out of here, Singh. You’re on my nerves. The phone’s going to ring—”

  “Any minute,” said Singh. “And you will rush off and we will not have had our ‘conference.’ I’ll be at a loss. Won’t know what to do. Valuable hours will go wasted.” He moved to the eastern windows with steps that softly stroked the carpeting. “Calm down. Why not. So Wesley misplayed him. So what. I’m not surprised.”

  “Wesley did fine,” Jammu hissed. “It was your Probst—”

  “Mm, quite. As I said. It wasn’t the Dictaphone. It was my Probst. And if we’d had just a very few minutes before my Probst arrived next door, I would have told you why this was no surprise.”

  “Because you’ve wasted three entire months.”

  Singh gazed out the window at the silhouetted Arch. The sun was gone but the day was bright. “Could be,” he said. “Although you know I’ve done as well as anyone could. The same goes for Wesley. My compliments. Especially his avoidance of any mention of your name. Shows dedication. A true political trooper. Now me, for example, I would have blamed you for everything at the first sign of resistance in Probst.”

  “I can’t stand that bastard.”

  “Sure, Chief. That’s natural.”

  “He’s a disaster.”

  “Oh, hardly.” Singh prepared a clove smoke, lit it, drew, and heard his powerful exhalation. “The informational aspect is not at all dire. I had more than enough time to silence his house. He did, I admit, surprise me when he found the mike in Meisner’s study. But this is not unhelpful. Now he’s convinced that his devices work. I’ll rewire both devices in the next few days, and we’ll be in business again. ‘Green lights’ only. You’ve said it yourself: all leaks here are self-containing. And the loss of data has been minimal. The only substantive exchange I missed was an hour he spent with Wismer. Small price to pay. And where else was he today? I sense you are about to ask me this question.”

  Below on Tucker, Martin Probst was unlocking his car, wrenching open the door, looking as angry as he’d sounded. Should be more careful with those doors, Singh thought. “He saw Duane Thompson’s father, a short meaningless conversation, then Wismer, then Hutchinson. When I could, I took the liberty of eavesdropping with a directional mike. The sound left much to be desired, but I got the gist. You might tell Gopal, incidentally, that Bunny Hutchinson has been detected in her adultery.”

  “He knows,” Jammu said. “He arranged the detection. Would you—”

  “Of course. Busy man. How unsophisticated of me. But would I—? Yes. I will. It can now be safely said that Probst is no longer in a state of suspended animation.”

  “In the State, you mean. You said that was the State, you said he was in it three weeks ago. Now he isn’t.”

  “On the contrary. He is. A textbook dialectic, really. Absolute freedom, absolute terror, the French Revolution à la Hegel. It’s the proof, not the refutation.”

  “Would you get to the point? I have two minutes at most.”

  “And you’ll be busy all night.”

  “This is a major object lesson.”

  “Fine,” said Singh. “I believe that nothing has changed. We expected Probst to awaken at some point, and he has, by way of Norris. But to be awake is hardly the same as to be aware. Have you read my abstract of his meeting with Norris yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “I urge you to. It’s one of my best. Norris—and now Probst—knows more about the stadium incident than I ever did. But even Norris, who thinks about it constantly, cannot see the point of the warning the Warriors gave.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “He can’t, and won’t, though it was implicit in the entire conversation. Likewise Hutchinson. He seems to know quite a bit about Asha—”

  “I helped him with his research,” Jammu said. “I wanted him to know exactly when she and Hammaker met.”

  “He does. And I don’t guess he’ll figure out how—”

  “Of course he won’t. Nobody knows but Asha.”

  “Although if you have a moment—”

  “I don’t,” Jammu said. “But what?”

  “Norris’s private eye?”

  “The man’s name is Pokorny. Bhise stung him on a whiskey violation, put him in the holding pen for sex criminals. Three days, and when the consul got him out, Birjinder set up an auto accident.”

  “Fatal?”

  “No, but he took a taxi from the hospital to the airport.”

  “Pokorny. What is that—Hungarian?”

  “The point, Singh. I have five seconds.”

  “Four, three, two, one. I’m waiting. Well. Yes, the point. No one, not even I, can judge what effect these revelations will have on Probst. But he has the facts. Hutchinson told him about Harvey Ardmore and Westhaven. When he cools down, he may reconsider much of what he’s said today.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “No harm in waiting until Thursday. Municipal Growth.”

  “No harm, but it’s four days. What if the girl comes home?”

  “Won’t happen. In any case, I need the time.”

  “For.”

  “Getting Barbara.”

  “Set it in motion tomorrow, Singh. You can always back out.”

  “Is what I’d planned to do. But I have your leave?”

  “To get Barbara?”

  Singh nodded.

  “Yes, if you keep it simple. Yes, if you think it will help.”

  “I will, it will.”

  The phone rang. Singh leaned and looked down on Tucker. Probst’s car was gone. It left an empty slot at the curb, the vivid absence that remains when an object has vanished between glances, blinked away: living history, the departure that precedes the connection.

  The phone rang a second time. Singh turned. Jammu was already gone, the door of her outer office falling shut. Her chair was empty.

  A white sedan appeared in Probst’s mirror when he crossed the railyards on 18th Street. It followed him lazily, hugging the snowpiles in the gutters, low to the ground. Was it the same car he’d been seeing all day? Whose hoodlums would these be? Wesley’s? Norris’s? He eased up on the gas, hoping the green light ahead would turn yellow. He wanted the Chevy to stop right behind him. Visibility was good now. But the light didn’t change. He floated on through the intersection, hardly glancing at the empty street in front of him. The Chevy was weaving from one side of its lane to the other. A week ago, two days ago, Probst would not have believed it was actually tailing him, but his credulity had stretched. They were following him, somebody interested in his movements. They thought they could do whatever they pleased. They’d spread while he slumbered, people plotting, not working, sneaking to avoid the real work, the real tests of merit, seeking to circle in together to protect their stupidity and nourish their stinking lazy greed…

  At Chouteau Avenue a light changed for him. He stopped dead, well in advance of the stop line, surprising the Chevy, which surged and filled the mirror. Its tires screeched. He popped open the door and leaped out, and immediately he knew he’d made a mistake.

  There were five youths in the car, two up front, three in back. All four doors opened. The youths had high cheeks that seemed to force their eyes half closed, red complexions and yellow crewcuts, huge arms. They held Hammaker cans.

  “Hey, motherfucker,” the driver said, slamming his door and advancing on Probst.

  Probst bac
ked away a step. The fifth youth, a skinny guy with thick glasses, climbed from the Chevy. Probst looked from face to face. No one said a word. No cars passed. Sunday late in a non-neighborhood, upwind from I-44: it was pretty desolate.

  “Dick-in-mouth,” the driver said. The other four grouped at his shoulders. They wore jean jackets, army jackets. Probst saw a tattooed Stars and Stripes. The driver hawked and spat on the Lincoln. No one knew who Probst was. Never had, never could.

  The driver hit him in the ear.

  He staggered into the Lincoln. “Watch that,” he said huskily.

  “Watch that!” Falsetto.

  “Dickface.”

  “Fairy.”

  “Watch that!”

  The skinny guy began to urinate on the trunk. The others whooped. The driver grabbed Probst and spun him around, and Probst, lucid at last, said:

  “Here come the cops.”

  While everyone turned, he jerked free and jumped back in the Lincoln, locking the door. The youths began to pound on the roof and windows. Gobs of spit hit the windshield, and Probst accelerated through a red light. There was a thud on the roof and a Hammaker can skittered off to his left. Behind him the last of the four doors closed. The Chevy’s windows sprouted arms, four arms, all of them giving Probst the finger.

  Soon he was in the innermost lane of I-44, and the Chevy was tailgating. He could imagine them plowing right into him. His wipers smeared the spit into opaque arcs. He was doing 85. At this rate he’d be home in ten minutes. But so would they. His ear rang. He couldn’t lead them home. They’d stone his house. Where were the police? For once he wished they were out prowling with their radar guns. He thought of his office, his citadel, and the precinct house across the street.

  Quickly he exited. He ran a yellow but didn’t shake the Chevy. Right on his tail, it barreled back up the opposite entrance ramp onto the expressway. Four hands continued to give him the finger. This was terrible. Where were the police?

  The punks followed him through the 12th Street interchange and down I-55. In the gloom around him, in the gray constricted streets, blue lights darted like passenger-train windows, and there was a great silence, as of a city gone dead, as if Probst too were dying and sight and balance were the only senses he could still command. Here was the hulking smoking brewery, in the shadow of which he’d misplayed Helen Scott, here the red gleams on its smokestacks, here Broadway, all the side streets which were already dying when he’d left them thirty years ago, here Chippewa, here Gravois, funeral homes and Boatmen’s Bank, here the lot where Katie Flynn’s dry-goods store had stood until her retarded son played with matches, here a gypsy gambling den in what used to be a Polish grocery—