Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

21

Behr walked into the Caro offices at 8:25 to find a problem waiting for him, and it was one he recognized from the Payroll Place Web site. Karl Potempa was in the coffee area, pouring for a tall, gray-haired man Behr knew was John Lutz, the company president and client he was supposed to have met. Cups filled, they turned and saw him crossing to his desk.

“Mr. Behr,” Potempa called out, warm yet stentorian, using a thumb to invite him toward a conference room. The “Mr.” was something that was attached when clients were around, to impress them with the professional and civilized nature of the Caro Group. Behr grabbed his laptop and headed for the impromptu meeting, wishing he had more work product to show.

“Uh-huh, I see, uh-huh, hmm,” Lutz said, his eyes raking back and forth over the lines of printed text that held the personal and financial information of his employees.

“We look for obvious flags-large deposits or purchases. Tax trouble or debt that could drive someone to cross the line. But as of yet, we don’t see any of that here.”

Behr had managed to get through most of the conference without looking like a complete fraud to the client. Lutz was merely a conscientious business owner eager to stop the thefts affecting his company, and it wasn’t a problem for Behr to pepper him with preliminary factoids and generalized scenarios of worker malfeasance. To any casual observer it would seem that Behr had done much more on the case than he actually had. Potempa had sat in for the first ten minutes and his eyes, flat and knowing, made it clear he wasn’t buying. What Behr saw there wasn’t anger over a failure, however. It more closely resembled annoyance at the fact that Behr hadn’t coddled the customer well enough on his own, he supposed, and that the complaint had climbed the ladder to the boss.

Then Potempa left and it got easier. Behr spent another forty minutes creating a blizzard of bullshit to distract Lutz. The nature of it brought a slightly sick feeling to his gut. There was no time over the past ten years when Behr would have bothered with a meeting like this, and if he lost business, so be it. But over the past months he’d led or at least been a part of several similar sits. File them under “client relations.” In his past, as a solo operator, he’d probably spent 10 percent of his time on it, versus 90 percent on the work. Moving into the corporate world, he figured it would shift to a 25 to 75 percent ratio. He was wrong. Big-time wrong. Shortly after his arrival, he quickly deduced he’d be better off flipping things altogether, and making it 90 percent client relations, 10 percent work. He hadn’t been able to make the final leap yet, to a complete goldbricking bill padder, but he’d probably get there soon enough. Finally, Lutz was satisfied and Behr got him out the door.

Behr went to his desk, where the smart move would’ve been to bust ass on the case in order to be prepared for when Potempa would have him in to rip him a new one. Instead he dove into the state business permit and licensing database. That’s where he saw that, indeed, Kolodnik’s company had pulled the construction permits on the Indy Flats racetrack project but was not listed on the state gaming license. That important piece was held by an LLC called L.G. Entertainment, the president of that entity being Lowell Gantcher. Behr remembered Gantcher from various articles that came up in his background check of Kolodnik, and it sent him on a new search into the man’s personal history.

Lowell Gantcher had gone to college at the Kelley School at the University of Indiana, where he claimed a bachelor’s of business administration. He worked for a large property management company and eventually did two developments: a standalone supermarket and a small eight-unit condo building. For some reason he hadn’t been able to continue on that track, and began buying distressed loans. Then Gantcher and Kolodnik met at some point, because about three and a half years back they had partnered on Indy Flats.

In the more recent past, there were some interesting filings to the tax board, a petition to reduce estimated taxes based on a projected loss. That jibed with the news coverage on the racinos that he’d read of late, where video slot and poker machines that had been projected to take $350 per day during flush times were lately taking under $250. Some quick math told Behr that with between eighteen hundred and twenty-two hundred machines in play, that would account for around a $200,000 loss. Per day. Over the course of a year, the numbers would be staggering. And, finally, ten months back, the petition was denied, as was the request for a special assembly to convene on the matter. Behr made a note to swing by and pay a visit to Indy Flats to see for himself what was going on there.

It was close to 5:00, and an orange ball of afternoon sun was shooting through the office windows when Potempa’s secretary showed up at his desk.

“He’d like to see you,” Ms. Swanton said. Behr nodded, stood, picked up his paperwork, and followed her.

“Behr, sit,” Potempa said. The client was long gone and so was the “Mr.” right along with him. Behr took a seat across the desk from his boss. He saw that Potempa had a few fingers of amber liquor in a cut crystal glass near his elbow. Potempa saw him notice. “You want one?”

Behr shrugged, more out of surprise at the offer than a desire for the drink, and Potempa spun in his chair and poured a lean one from a decanter. He slid the glass across to Behr, who nodded his thanks and took a sip. It was a silk rocket of single malt that had to be eighteen years old.

“I get it,” Potempa said. “You don’t like the Payroll Place case. It’s a hump job, a grinder. I’ll put you on something else …”

Now Behr’s surprise grew. “No, no,” he began.

“Didn’t expect it out of you is all,” Potempa said. “You’re not like most of those leather asses out there looking to do the minimum.”

“Well, I’m not,” Behr said.

“What is it, then?”

Behr took a moment, and then decided to speak to it.

“It’s not about a different case, Karl, it’s about the night in the garage.”

“Still that …” Potempa started, suddenly looking weary. “I heard you called Breslau and that you visited Kolodnik,” he said.

“Yes,” Behr answered. If Potempa wanted more by way of explanation, he was going to remain unsatisfied.

“All right, look, there’s shit about this you don’t know,” the older man finally said.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Shit you don’t need to know. Can’t.”

“Still, I’d like to,” Behr said, forcing himself not to lean forward in his seat.

Potempa paused and scratched his chin. “Well, one bit I can tell you is: we weren’t hired for security. It was just meant to be risk assessment, and an … advisory role.”

“The political thing.”

“That’s right. We’re not just steaming envelopes and running drivers’ licenses here.”

“I know that,” Behr said.

“That exec protection bullshit was just something we threw in for … it was loss leader for-” Potempa stopped himself.

Behr suddenly understood. “For when he goes to Washington. So he’d be happy with you when he became important.”

“And he is. He’s happy. Thanks to you.” Potempa smiled and put his hands out in a you-see gesture.

“Uh-huh,” Behr breathed. “But he went with another company as soon as he announced.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate, but I’ve seen it before. They’re looking for a little distance. We’re hoping it’s temporary. Look, Frank, this is a complicated situation. Caro is a sophisticated organization. Protecting people, property, that’s just the surface. There’s another layer-risk assessment, assets, digital proprietary-we’re like … Do you play the piano?”

“The piano? No.”

“Me neither. Well, I play a little. Not well. My daughter, now she …” There was a slight hitch in Potempa’s voice, then he gathered himself and continued. “She was a hell of a little player. I could’ve had a ski condo in Vail for what I paid in lessons for her.”

Potempa looked to Behr for the sympathetic laugh between well-to-do fathers. There was nothing there for him. “I picked up a few things coming in and out during her lessons, her practice.” Behr’s eyes went to the photos behind Potempa, to the pretty, dark-haired girl in them, who became a woman in the shots, and then went absent.

“Anyway, this place”-Potempa waved his hands toward the outer office and beyond-“is a grand piano. It runs on a complex set of levers and wires, various offices and pieces, all interconnected. And the personnel, we’re all the keys. We each have our role, our note to play. Without any one of us, things aren’t complete. But the A sharp doesn’t necessarily know what the D flat is doing, when it’s going to sound. And it doesn’t need to. The keys all just need to be ready when they’re called on to do their part. Like you were the other night. You performed, no question. And Kolodnik was goddamned lucky it was you there. But now it’s time to stop the inquiries and go back to position until you’re pressed into service again. The rest will work itself out. You know what I’m saying?”

Behr let the aria settle. “Maybe,” he finally said, standing.

“Maybe,” Potempa said, laughing to himself and pointing at Behr, who headed for the door and paused before leaving.

“What does she do with it now?” he asked.

“What’s that?” Potempa wondered.

“Your daughter. The piano. Does she still play?”

“No,” Potempa said, a new gravity joining the worn aspect. “She doesn’t do that anymore.”

Potempa turned his chair, picking his glass off the desk as he went, and faced the window. The room descended into a stony silence. Behr lingered for another moment and then left.