THE PRIZE
Nothing is sadder than October snow. Winfield stood at his office window, watching the flakes sweep past C262, each one an omen of a long and bitter winter. It would take another two decades for global warming to tame the subzero winds that would soon whip off Lake Michigan. Win glanced across the snow-swept street at the college’s main building. Unlike the palatial “Old Main’s” that grace liberal arts colleges from Vermont to California, MITI’s main building was a monument to WPA practicality. Filling an entire city block, the six-story bulwark was grimmer than KGB headquarters. Dark, soot-grimed, sullen, depressing, it dominated State Street like a fortress.
Yet this besmudged Bastille housed the board room, the president’s suite, and the deans’ offices—those soft lit, plush carpeted, wood-paneled rooms decorated with flags, dried flowers, Erte prints, and gold-framed portraits of long-dead Germanic mayors. From these offices flowed jobs, consulting contracts, per diem research assignments, paychecks, benefits, and pensions. As an instructor, Winfield regarded this dark structure with favor, gazing on its dirty bricks like a nineteenth-century mogul contemplating a steel mill.
And today was pay day.
His check would include 27.5 hours of professional assignment pay for writing a grant proposal. An extra seventeen hundred dollars. Even after deductions, there would be almost another thousand in the net pay box. An extra thousand. Money for another block of stock or a nice addition to his down payment fund. After five years in Downer Estates, Winfield was ready to leave a singles’ complex for a real home, a condo in Brewer’s Court.
The snow had stopped when Win left his last class, his briefcase stuffed with creative writing exercises. Laboring under the influence of alcohol, methadone, Valium, and Prozac, his students produced aphasic paragraphs that were almost legible. Inspired by Bud Light commercials, more than one student posed the existential question Why Ask Why?
Crossing the faculty parking lot, Win noticed the sun breaking over the rooftops and decided to take a spin up the street to Brewer’s Court.
The massive iron gates were wide open. Win’s Mustang bowled smoothly over the cobbled courtyard. Constructed of closely-set cream bricks, the towering malt house was fringed with pearl gray scrollwork and Viking gargoyles. Rows of stern, helmeted faces glared fiercely at the blue-overalled construction workers erecting scaffolding against their battlements. Win parked and searched for an entry. A side door was open. Win slipped in and nodded at a contractor, who shifted his cigar and raised a thermos in greeting.
A short flight of stone steps led to the high-ceilinged lobby. The first floor had been leased to a nightclub that promised to be a magnet for upscale female professionals who would be just an elevator ride away. An inhouse disco would spare Winfield the need to brave inclement weather, risking icy roads, and potential frostbite. Above all, an elevator eliminated the often tortured “whose car should we take?” debate that ended many a romance in the parking lot.
The second and third levels would house law offices, insurance agencies, investment firms, and brokers. Upper floors that once stored tons of malt were being divided into tri-level condos. Win’s unit was on the northeast corner. A rough outline had been spray-painted on the bricked floor. Remembering the designer’s blueprints, he took a walking tour through his future home. Chalked lines indicated bath-rooms and closets. Other marks represented the Jacuzzi, wet bar, entertainment center, and living room with its sweeping view of Lake Michigan. Upstairs, the loft would contain his study and the master bedroom, both to be equipped with skylights. Win imagined himself cuddling beside a blonde on a waterbed while pondering the night sky. Hooks added to the beamed ceiling would definitely appeal to Barbie.
He took the spiral staircase to the roof. When completed, each unit would have a private roof garden. Walking along the castle-like parapets, Win felt like a prince surveying his realm. No doubt he would have no difficulty coaxing a boozy arbitrageur or two up from the bar on warm summer nights for nude star gazing.
Only one thing tainted his view. Just beyond the brewery gates, stood a squat building of peeling cinder block. Rusted dumpsters, wobbly columns of bald tires, and a dented Volkswagen hood cluttered its small weedy yard. A faded logo was barely visible over dust-streaked windows. KWIK KLEEN.
Win frowned. What an eyesore! The Kwik Kleen chain hadn’t operated an outlet in Milwaukee since 1995 when the owner was found in the trunk of his El Dorado in long term parking at O’Hare. He made a mental note to check his plans to see if this parcel of land was slated for renovation.
A few days later at the weekly finance meeting, Win asked one of the contractors if there were any plans to demolish the abandoned cleaners.
“Can’t. Don’t own the land. See the chart.” He tapped a computer generated blueprint with the chewed end of a Churchill reject. A neat semi-circle was cut from the edge of the property line. “Brewery never owned that site. Not in my plans. Check with Jack Lane. He’s got all the titles and property records.”
Joining Brooks Adams at the refreshment table, Win mentioned the dry cleaners. “I’m wondering what it would cost to buy the lot and demolish the building. It’s so old it looks like one good shove would knock it over. We could plant some trees or even put up a sign.”
“Good idea, Win. Why don’t you handle it?” Sipping decaf, Brooks leaned closer and whispered, “Tell you what, why don’t you buy it yourself? See if you can get it cheap. Don’t mention us. Maybe some out-of-state outfit owns it and has no idea about the project. You could buy it, clear it, and sell the lot to us at a profit. Hell, we overlooked it, why not make a little killing? That condo down payment is going to be stiff—even with a twenty percent discount.”
And he had an extra thousand sitting in his checking account to play with. Win made a few phone calls. A city clerk informed him that the Kwik Kleen property was titled to the owner’s widow, Mrs. Vido Spano of Coral Gables, Florida.
“Mrs. Spano?” Winfield telephoned from his Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan office.
“Si. Which one? Me or my mother-in-law?”
“Well, I want to talk to the Mrs. Vido Spano who owns a Kwik Kleen building on North Third Street in Milwaukee.”
“That’s my mother-in-law.”
“Is she available?”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh.”
“Had a stroke. She won’t be out for a month or two. Can I help? Is this about her taxes?”
There was concern in her voice. “Well,” Win began, using the tone he reserved for failing students begging for incompletes, “taxes can pose a serious problem. As well as the potential liability of an abandoned property. Anything can happen. Accidents. Break-ins. Children starting a fire or being injured. Is the property fully insured?”
“Are you an insurance salesman?”
Damn! He’d blown it. Her voice had that “I-saw-some-thing-about-people-like-you-on-Sixty-Minutes” edge to it.
“No, this is Doc . . .” he halted. Why use his title and sound like some overpaid MD? People loved soaking physicians with bad investments and stinging them with bum property. “This is Doc Payton. I’m shopping for a site for a donut shop. Like to make an offer on the property.”
“Really?”
She seemed thrilled at the prospect. “We tried to sell that store two years ago. Al just got tired of flying back and forth. Say, you know we got a better store with more parking on Capitol Drive. Much better neighborhood.”
“How far west?”
“Oh, I can’t remember exactly. Ninety-five hundred something.”
“Too bad. I already have a store on 92nd Street. But I could use one on Third. I can have my lawyer speak to your husband. I’m a little short of cash, but I think I can scrape up enough to take it off your hands. If it’s not too steep,” he added cautiously.
“Oh, God. Wait till I tell Al. With all these doctor bills. You wouldn’t believe what Medicare don’t cover.”
“I hope we can work something out.”
Win hung up the phone, feeling like Donald Trump at the top of his game. He’d let Brooks and Keisha play with the numbers. If he could get the property for less than seventy-five, he could finance the deal himself without a loan.
Three days later Brooks called with good news.
“Win, guess what? Keisha talked the Spanos into selling for sixty grand.”
“Sixty!” Win clenched the phone. “Fantastic.”
“We just have to demolish the building and tidy up the site. Let me make a few calls. We could get a minority contractor to do the job. We need the MBE credits. This is going to work out all around. You can probably scoop up a fast twenty percent profit.”
Over ten thousand bucks for a few phone calls! Win gazed at his telephone with new respect and began thinking about yet a third career opportunity. No doubt there were other hot properties that could be bought and flipped for a handsome profit. His twentieth reunion was just two-and-a-half years away, and he wanted to make sure he could hold his own with the gynecologists and leverage buyout man-agers.
“Sounds good, Brooks. Tell Keisha to go ahead. Just let me know what papers she needs from me.”
“OK, keep in touch.”
As soon as he hung up, Win got a text message from his agent:
Win,
Gobel & Gobel dumped your screen
treatment. Nix to STREET SISTER. Legal
says too close to STREET ANGEL. Will pay
$2,000 kill fee.
Gloria Silverman
Another two grand! Life couldn’t get any better. He had totally forgotten about his three-page treatment about a hooker stalking the killer of a teen runaway. It had taken less than an hour to bang out. Jeez, a kill fee a month wouldn’t be bad.
While his creative writing class struggled with haiku, Winfield scribbled ideas for bad movies. He tapped his forehead with a number 2 pencil, deep in thought. What would Gobel & Gobel find interesting enough to read and reject with a kill fee but not so interesting to request a complete script? Besides Gobel & Gobel, there were half a dozen other hard R production companies specializing in cable and straight-to-DVD thrillers featuring ex-centerfolds in soft porn tales of serial killers, terrorists, beach detectives, and all-girl biker gangs.
At last he was reaching that precious point when even his bad ideas were worth money. Soon he would be able to collect advances for books unfinished, books unwritten, books unplanned, even book ideas doodled on napkins. Agents and editors would carefully fold his Sardi’s cocktail napkins, holding them delicately like swatches from the Shroud of Turin. And they would write checks. Big checks.
Win’s telephone message light was blinking in C262. There were three messages. Two students explained in rasping voices they had missed the mid-term because of illness. Students always delivered these messages with throaty coughs. On the phone, they believed their ailments had to be audible to be appear genuine. No one called a professor to announce a broken ankle or gall bladder attack in full voice. The final message, from Lionel, was decidedly different. His excited voice boomed loud and clear from the speaker.
“Win, call me as soon as you can! That property you sold us—we struck oil!”
Oil? Win wondered. Oil, in Wisconsin? True, he had recalled reading about Native American tribes protesting drilling, but that was hundreds of miles north, practically in Canada. Win had a spotty knowledge of local history, but to his recollection, no one had ever struck oil in Milwaukee.
Win picked up the phone and rapidly punched out numbers. Lionel’s cell phone crackled. He sounded strained and worried. “I’m at the site now. Maybe you should get over here. Brooks is in Chicago and won’t get back until six.”
Win decided to skip an English Department meeting. Nothing on the agenda concerned him. He did enough for diversity already and would hardly benefit from another ninety minutes of tortured white liberal angst over the Great Ebonics Debate.
Afraid of running into the chairwoman or one of her lackeys in the elevator, Winfield took a utility stairway to the basement garage. Donning sunglasses, he waited for the traffic to clear then rolled out onto Sixth Street, sun visors lowered.
As Win pulled into Brewer’s Court, Lionel ran forward arms waving. His lavender jumpsuit, with obligatory pink scarf dangling from his left pocket, was spotless. So much for Win’s image of a gusher. Lionel was no James Dean, blackened to the eyes, stumbling from his roadster in Giant proclaiming a fountain of instant wealth.
He motioned towards a white step-van parked next to the half-demolished Kwik Kleen building. “I’ll let this guy tell you. I didn’t do well in chemistry,” Lionel explained, tapping at the door.
A grim face appeared at the dusty window. The door opened, and Win followed Lionel inside the truck. There was hardly room to stand in the mobile lab.
“Jack Kleinman, DNR,” the glum figure in overalls announced flatly.
Win extended his hand, then withdrew it. Kleinman wore latex gloves and was holding the end of a thin tube as if handling bodily fluids taken from a Bronx junkie.
“This sample should do it. It’s from three meters. Just under ten feet. I’m getting clear readings of hydrocarbon presence. You can see the oil sheen.”
Leaning closer, Winfield saw a slight shininess to the dark smear on the end of the aluminum probe. A gentle luster, like the patina on three-day-old ham, glimmered in the dim light.
It seemed hardly significant. But then a trace of oil at ten feet might be promising. The gusher might be tapped fifty or a hundred feet lower.
“Mineral rights.”
“What?” Lionel asked.
“I think I got the mineral rights,” Win said, trying to recall the contract he had signed a few days before. Even if he sold the whole thing to Brewer’s Court, it would certainly be worth a bonus.
“What type of oil is it?” Win asked, recalling enough from sophomore earth science to appreciate that oil came in different grades.
“Probably thirty weight with a little ethyl mixed in.”
“Ethyl? You mean you hit gasoline?” Didn’t gas have to be refined? Could you have a gasoline well?
“It’s mixed together in the subsoil of course. God knows how many gallons were spilled over the years.”
“Spilled? Where did it come from? It’s not natural?”
“In Milwaukee?” Jack Kleinman snorted. “This is no joke. We’re not talking about somebody tossing out a dirty oil filter here. Did you notice the islands?”
“Islands?” Win asked.
“Islands. Islands! Those concrete platforms out front,” Kleinman barked as if talking to a mental defective. “This was a gas station for fifty years. You didn’t know that? The tanks are still underground.”
“Oh?” Win asked uncertainly. “How big are they?”
“Probably five thousand gallons.”
“You mean they left five thousand gallons of gas down there?” Winfield asked, doing rapid multiplications.
“They may have left a residue of ten or twenty gallons. It’s the motor oil that’s the real problem.”
“Problem?”
“You’re looking at major toxic contamination here. You’re close enough to the river to face a lawsuit if any of these contaminants entered the runoff.”
Win swallowed hard.
“No doubt back then they just dumped used motor oil in a pit in back of the garage. Then there’s all those solvents the dry cleaners used. That’s another toxic stew.”
“What do we do?”
“I just conduct tests. An environmental impact team will have to file a report. I can tell you to get some shovels ready because you’re going to have to dig up those tanks and haul them out of here. Then you have to remove all the contaminated soil. This has to be treated and buried.”
“What will that cost?”
“Remember that gas station that used to be near the post office downtown?”
“Oh, sure,” Win recalled, finally understanding why the entire foundation of the Exxon station had been dug up and removed. It was evidently not, as Winfield previously assumed, an archeological dig.
“Well, that ran half a mil plus fines and land restoration fees.”
“Fines?”
“The state levels a fine every day the pollution existed.”
“But God, this place was empty for almost twenty years. You can’t expect people to pay for that.”
“Tell your lawyer. The ‘93 law has a grandfather clause. Nothing purchased before then could be fined. Only if you bought or sold property without an environmental impact study. Just pull yours and you’re covered.”
In moments of stress, Winfield turned to his mother. But she was on a Paris buying trip. He left frantic messages at George V, then turned to the next available supportive female. As a criminal defense attorney and wanna-be sex partner, Shelly Bronfman was perfect.
Smoking one Benson and Hedges after another, she tilted her executive chair back and gave Win a sympathetic nod before speaking in her studiedly husky Lauren Bacall voice, “It’s clear, Win, you have a problem. Ignorance of the law is no protection.”
“But I had a lawyer arrange the deal. She talked to the Spanos. Nobody told me I needed an environmental impact study.”
“I know. I know.” Leaning forward, she patted his thigh with a heavily-veined, manicured hand. “I know. I know. You’ve got a problem, but I don’t usually handle this kind of thing. Give me a good rape case or a clean shooting where it’s one victim’s word or a couple of eyewitnesses. People I can tear apart on cross. That’s what I do. People say boo about my client, I bust their balls. But you went ahead and signed some papers. Your signature clinches it. Let me call my husband.” Her hand slid higher on his inner thigh. “Relax, they found some oil, not a body.”
In the days that followed, overalled DNR men trooped through the half-renovated Brewer’s Court complex, prying up granite cobblestones, boring holes, and drilling through basement floors to insert probes. Samples were placed in labeled jars and sent to Madison for analysis.
Shortly before Thanksgiving Win received a certified letter instructing him to appear before a hearing. Sidney Bronfman agreed to represent him pro bono. God knows what Shelly had on him.
At the appointed time, a black and gray Rolls Royce swept up to a side entrance of MITI’s main building. Winfield climbed into the softly-lit back seat. The car smelled of cologne and cigars. The New York Times was strewn across the green carpeted floor. Bronfman, heavyset and scented, sipped coffee from a Wedgwood cup.
“How are ya?” he asked in a whisky-crusted voice. He swelled out his Brooks Brothers suit like a Macy’s parade balloon. “Have coffee. It’s Colombian. Special blend.” He pressed a button with a jeweled finger and a silver carafe rose from a cabinet. Computer screens blinked out commodity prices in neat green numerals.
A smart phone buzzed. Bronfman dug into his expansive vest and retrieved a Samsung in a gold case. “Sidney Bronfman,” he announced with quiet importance. He might as well have answered “Henry Kissinger” or “King of England.”
Tapping the glass partition, he signaled his Filipino driver on.
Consulting his watch, Bronfman spoke into the phone as if Win were invisible or unconscious. “I dunno, Burt. I got a little legal this morning. A hearing. Handling a little problem for one of Shelly’s boys. See you at the club later. And maybe that what’s her name can join us. Candy? Chrissy? The blonde.” He gave a sexual chuckle then hung up. He, too, placed a veined, manicured hand on Win’s thigh, “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll take care of this. You pay a little fine and walk out the door a wiser man. What the hell, I did it for the Balistrieri’s often enough, why not you?”
Throughout the hearing, Bronfman took calls, chatting with clients in Chicago, New York, and the Cayman Islands. The Assistant Southern District Environmental Officer was impressed. A plain, plump blonde in a JC Penney blazer, she smiled nervously, shuffled papers, and haltingly read from state statutes, “Any party possessing property endangering the environment and property of others, whether public or private, with contaminations resulting from the improper disposal of industrial, agricultural, or commercial waste substances shall be liable for a fine of no less than one hundred and no more than ten thousand dollars per day of ownership.”
She cleared her throat, then added, “Since you failed to conduct an environmental impact study, you knowingly refused to seek evidence of possible contamination.”
Cupping the phone with his soft palm, Bronfman turned and whispered, “My client had no idea the site was contaminated. The previous business was a dry cleaner. How could he know it was a gas station thirty years ago? He ain’t clairvoyant. He was only trying to eliminate an eyesore, a liability to the neighborhood. It could have become a crack house. It was urban beautification.”
The Assistant Southern District Environmental Officer smiled politely and cleared her throat again. “Despite your well-guided motivations, you did possess the property in question for five full days. You are still liable for any fines incurred. The present owners, Brewer’s Court Redevelopment Corporation, will have to restore the site and bear all costs. Given the circumstances, the state feels a fine of five thousand dollars a day would be adequate.”
“Hold it, pal,” Bronfman whispered to a client calling from Las Vegas. He scowled, then gestured to Win, “This man is providing a community service. He’s a teacher. Works in minority business. Inner city redevelopment. He’s a man of limited means. Let’s not drag this out and go into a full blown hearing or wind up in court. Let’s cut to the chase and save the state time and move on. The site will be cleaned up. Why punish my client for being stupid for five days? Look at him, he’s naive, a babe in the woods. Pathetic. A guppy swimming with sharks. A grand a day is more than enough.”
Glancing at Win like a fourth grade teacher hearing a dog-ate-my-homework story, she nodded pensively. “One thousand dollars a day,” she reflected. “I’m sure the Southern District Environmental Office will find that sufficient. Sign here.”
Win reached into his pocket for the Mont Blanc he used for signing important documents.
Bronfman kicked him under the table. “Use a Bic,” he hissed.
Win let the fountain pen slip back into his pocket and withdrew a plastic Frederick Douglass S&L pen.
“My client will pay in thirty days,” Bronfman announced. “Let’s go.”
In the elevator Bronfman gave him a brief lesson, “When you plead poverty, you don’t sign with a five-hundred-dollar fountain pen. And send her a check—certified—today. The full five grand. Don’t screw it up.” He checked his Rolex. “You don’t mind grabbing a cab do you? I gotta catch the interstate for Chicago.”
The brass elevator doors slid open. Bronfman, brushed past Win, pinched him, and let out a sexual chuckle, “Keep Shelly happy and outta my hair. Slan, Paddy.”
The Brewer’s Court Redevelopment Corporation’s December finance meeting was well attended—despite a blizzard that dumped ten inches of snow the night before. Hampered by the snow and frozen ground, work crews excavating gasoline tanks demanded overtime and hazard pay.
“According to our contractor’s estimates, these additional costs should not exceed twenty thousand dollars,” Brooks stated hopefully.
The men and women seated around the conference table tapped their copies of the inch-thick report. Accountants threatened to snap pencils. Attorneys who had quit smoking years before patted empty shirt pockets for phantom cigarettes. Everyone anticipated lunch time martinis.
Bundled in parkas and furs, the out-of-state investors were exceedingly glum.
“We should realize that these costs are quite reasonable,” Lionel offered. “We have to remove the tanks and dig a hole twenty feet deep to extract all the contaminated soil. The site will be restored. In the spring we can plant a flower bed. This will rectify an environmental problem and enhance the aesthetics of the main entrance.”
“At five hundred dollars a daffodil,” a banker muttered behind Win.
“Let’s not forget the environmental damage we have prevented. This site could have gone undetected for years had this discovery not been made. It could have cost us millions in the future. In a way we are rather fortunate.”
Shirley Collingsworth, vice-president of First Chicago Realty, snorted, “I don’t call shelling out four-hundred-thousand dollars for a flower bed fortunate.” She waved her report. “We get stuck paying four-hundred grand while the prick who sold us this land gets off with a five-thousand-dollar fine! I’ll tell you who’s lucky! I’d give my last functioning ovary to know just who the fuck this Winfield Payton is!”
Win swallowed hard and snapped his pencil.