By eight-thirty we’d completed a sketchy analysis of Grafalk’s finances. His ships cost about two thousand dollars a day to operate when they weren’t sailing, about ten thousand dollars a day when they were. So the total expense to Grafalk each season for running the steamship company was about a hundred twenty million dollars a year. And the total value of the cargoes he was carrying came out to only a hundred million in 1977. Things were a little bit better in ’78 and ’79 but hadn’t improved much the past two years.
“That answers your question all right,” Ferrant said. “The lad is definitely losing money.” He lined up his stacks of notes. “Odd how much cargo he’s been carrying for Eudora Grain the last five years. Almost twenty percent of his total volume.”
“Odd indeed,” I said. “Of course, Eudora’s a big concern … Where’s Grafalk been coming up with the money to cover these losses? They’re pretty staggering.”
“The steamship company isn’t the only thing he owns.” Ferrant was sweeping the policies back into their jackets. “There’s a profitable railway that connects the Port of Buffalo with Baltimore—he can unload there and ship by rail to oceangoing vessels in Baltimore. That does very well for him. His family owns a big block of stock in Hansen Electronic, the computer firm. You’d have to see if you could get his broker to tell you whether he’s been selling off the stock to pay for this. He’s into a number of other things. I think his wife has some money, too. But the steamship company has always been his first love.”
We piled the policies back into the cart and left it in the hallway for someone to take care of in the morning. I yawned and stretched and offered to buy Ferrant a drink.
25
The Old Girl Network
He walked with me to the Golden Glow on Jackson and Federal. It’s a place for serious drinkers—no quiche and celery sticks to entice imbibers of white wine on their way to the commuter trains. Sal, the magnificent black woman who owns the place, has a mahogany horseshoe-shaped bar, relic of an old Cyrus McCormick mansion, and seven tiny booths crammed into a space wedged out between a bank and an insurance company.
I hadn’t been in for several weeks and she came over to our booth herself for our order. I asked for my usual, a Johnnie Walker Black up, and Ferrant had a gin martini. I asked Sal for the use of a phone and she brought one over to the table for me.
My answering service told me Adrienne Gallagher, the woman I know at the Fort Dearborn Trust, had called. She’d left her home number and a message that I could call before ten.
A little girl answered the phone and called her mommy in a shrill voice.
“Hello, Vic. I got the information you wanted.”
“I hope they’re not trying to fire you or disbar you.”
She gave a little laugh. “No—but you owe me some free detective work. Anyway, the condominium is owned by a Niels Grafalk—Vic? Are you there? Hello?”
“Thank, Adrienne,” I said mechanically. “Let me know when you need the detective work.”
I hung up and dialed the Windy City Balletworks to see if they were performing tonight. A recorded voice told me that performances were held Wednesday through Saturday at eight; Sundays at three. Today was Tuesday; Paige might be home.
Ferrant looked at me courteously. “Something wrong?”
I made a gesture of distaste. “Nothing I hadn’t suspected since this morning. But it’s upsetting anyway—Grafalk owns real estate along with everything else.”
“You know, Miss War—Do you have a first name? I just can’t keep my tongue around your last one—Vic, you’re being terribly mysterious. I take it you think Grafalk may be behind the damage to the Poe Lock, since we just spent most of the afternoon proving that he was losing money. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Some other time. There’s someone I need to talk to tonight. I’m sorry, I know it’s rude to run out on you like this, but I must see her.”
“Where are you going?” Ferrant asked.
“To the Gold Coast.”
He announced that he was coming with me. I shrugged and headed for the door. Ferrant tried putting some money on the table, but Sal gave it back to him. “Vic’ll pay me when she’s got the money,” she said.
I flagged a taxi on Dearborn. Ferrant got in beside me, again demanding to know what was going on.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “It’s too long a story to start during a short cab ride.”
We pulled up in front of a massive pale pink brick building with white concrete corners and white-enameled shutters. It was dark now, but black wrought-iron street lamps illuminated the building’s facade.
Ferrant offered to accompany me inside, but I told him this was a job I had to handle alone. He watched me as I rang the bell, set in a lighted brass box outside the front door. A house phone was nestled inside the box for communicating with the inmates. When Paige’s voice came tinnily through the receiver, I pitched my voice high and told her it was Jeannine. She buzzed me in.