Page 51 of The Lie Maker

Gartner collected so-called Detroit muscle cars from the late sixties and early seventies. A 1979 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454, a 1969 Dodge Charger SE, a 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 302. Michael didn’t care all that much about cars, but he knew these were classics for their time and highly desirable automobiles. Once Michael learned where these vehicles were stored, he could arrange to have one or all of them stolen or set ablaze.

Too bad Gartner didn’t have a prizewinning racehorse whose head could be chopped off and slipped into his bed, Michael mused. Perhaps a totaled muscle car would do just as well.

But he had something else in mind. Something that was, at least for the Frohm organization, a departure. Not a threat, but an inducement. Something money couldn’t buy.

The man had a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, both in their late teens. And from what Michael knew, they’d soon be applying to various Ivy League colleges. There was no guarantee that they would get in. Their grades were good, but were they good enough? All Michael would have to do was pick up the phone, and those kids would be able to get into the school of their father’s choice.

Don’t threaten. Entice. What father wouldn’t want his children to have the best opportunities possible?

Gartner Linens was housed in an aging two-story brick building on Chicago’s South Side. Built, Michael estimated, in the early twentieth century, 1920 or so. Thinking back to a previous meeting with Abel Gartner, Michael recalled the man telling him that the building had housed, over the years, a dog biscuit factory and a toy company before he converted it in the 1990s to a linen-supply business.

Michael was waiting in the parking lot when Gartner walked out of the building at four in the afternoon. The man wasn’t more than five-six, but packed a good two hundred pounds on that short frame, giving him the look of a fire hydrant. His daily drive was a bland, brown, twenty-year-old Ford LTD, and Michael was leaning against the front fender, having a smoke, when Gartner spotted him.

“God, no,” Gartner said. “Not you. Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”

Michael tossed the cigarette, took his weight off the car, smiled warmly, and extended a hand. “Mr.Gartner, I come in peace.” Gartner looked at the hand but did not take it.

“Say what?”

“Mr.Frohm has sent me to patch things up, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you. Who are you again?”

“Michael. Michael Donohue.” Even though there wasn’t so much as a library card on him that carried that name.

“Frohm’s errand boy,” Gartner said.

Michael maintained the smile. “That’s not an unfair characterization, Mr.Gartner, but I do more than run errands. I deliver opportunities. All I am asking from you today is to let me make my pitch, and if you don’t like what I’m selling, then I’ll be on my way back to Boston. But I think you’ll like what I have to say.”

“Come to threaten me?”

Michael shook his head. “No, sir. I have not.”

Gartner eyed him suspiciously. “I have things to do.”

“Wherever you’re going, I could ride with you and make my case.”

“I’m going to my stable.”

Stable? Did the man have racehorses after all?

“I didn’t know you kept horses.”

“Not horses, but plenty of horsepower,” he said. “I have some cars.”

“I’ve heard. Some American classics.”

“You a gearhead?” Gartner asked.

“Indeed,” he lied. “And one of Detroit’s grandest periods was the late sixties and early seventies.”

Gartner appeared to be considering. “Okay,” he said. “Get in.”

Michael accepted the invitation, walked around to the passenger side, and got in. Soon they were heading through a different industrial area of low-rise buildings.

“I rent a garage where I keep them,” he said. “Just had my guy tune up the Charger, and I want to see how it’s running. It was stalling on me. You tromp on it and there was a hesitation. About a second, which, when you’re taking off from a standing start, is an eternity.”

“Of course.”