The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [20]
“Arty! Come down here!” she shouted.
Art sheepishly made his way downstairs, knowing full well what was coming. The officers arrested him and drove him to the district house, where the elderly woman identified him. A juvenile court judge later sentenced him to three months in a youth detention facility. But a little over a month later, just as he had calculated, he was free.
Pete and Malinda were waiting for him at the release center. It was a happy occasion, but Pete was somber and preoccupied. They took Art out to a celebratory lunch at Ed’s, and when Malinda excused herself to go to the bathroom, Pete looked him directly in the eye.
“I’m not here to lecture you,” he said evenly, “but if you keep up with the stealing, your baby’s going to have a crummy life.”
It certainly sounded like the beginning of a lecture to Art.
“I understand that you’re under a lot of pressure,” Pete continued. “You’re still a kid, but you’re also a father. Did you know that kids whose fathers abandoned them are much more likely to abandon their own children?”
“Really?” Art said snidely. He was thinking that Pete didn’t know anything about him.
“I know you’re a smart kid. I know all about your achievements in school, and I know that the last few years haven’t been easy on you. I know you don’t want your own son growing up in these projects, and if you give me a chance, I’d like to help you get out.”
Art was now intrigued, but Malinda returned from the restroom before Pete could continue. “We’ll talk more later,” he said before she sat down.
Later that night as Art lay in bed, he heard the muffled tones of an argument taking place across the hall. He couldn’t make out the words, but he had the distinct feeling that they were arguing about him, and that Pete was trying to convince his mother to allow him to do something. Later on, he realized that Pete had probably been asking her for permission. The argument cooled down and Art drifted off to sleep, assuming that it was a typical spat between a mom and a boyfriend giving her unsolicited advice on how to raise her son. But when Art awoke the next morning, Malinda was nowhere to be seen. Pete was downstairs sipping a cup of coffee.
“Remember what we talked about yesterday?” he said. “If you’re up to it, there’s something I’d like to show you. So get dressed. We’re going for a ride.”
Based on the look in Pete’s eye, Art knew that they were not headed off to a construction site.
THEY DROVE SOUTH, which in that part of Chicago is back in time. They passed the eastern railroad approaches to the Union Stockyards, where generations of Irish, Italian, Lithuanian, Polish, and Slavic immigrants once labored in the largest concentration of slaughter-houses in the world—an industry immortalized in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. Later on the area became a haven for bootleggers, who could mingle in with the packing and storage facilities without drawing much attention. How many criminal operations had set up shop in Packingtown since then was anyone’s guess, but its industrial anonymity was daunting. As da Vinci wheeled the Cadillac deeper into blocks of buildings bracketed by vacant lots and truck parks, neither of them spoke.
Pete finally parked next to an old stone quarry. For the briefest of moments Art wondered if maybe he was legitimate after all. “I try not to park right in front of my business,” the older man explained. “A block away is fine.”
They continued on foot to a three-story, nineteenth-century brick building with a loading dock in front. Once inside, they made their way down a long hallway to the back of the building. There, Pete plugged a key