Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Three

The wrought-iron gates of Joanne Meir's weekend estate sneak up on me.

It doesn't help that they're obscured by eighteen-foot ficus hedges, so God help the driver who rounds the final bend of her driveway in a vehicle with bad brakes.

I roll down my window, prepared, as in the movies, to hold up my driver's license, my press pass, or both to the security camera. But my entry's not so dramatic. No stern voice asks me for anything. A buzz, whir, and click, and the gates swing inward.

It's funny how stereotypes work. As I drive another fifty yards with lush lawns and garden on either side of me, I'm amazed that Milwaukee, Wisconsin, has such opulent homes. And I'm immediately ashamed for being amazed. Atlanta, Detroit, and Washington, D.C., are majority-minority big cities, and all three have glorious histories of wealth and old money. Why not Milwaukee?

Technically, we're in Whitefish Bay, a northern suburb, but it's just a ten-minute drive and a light year away from the unfair negative stereotypes that define cities like Milwaukee and Chicago — too black, too grimy, too dangerous, too underachieving...too unAmerican.

A Mediterranean revival mansion perched at the edge of a bluff above Lake Michigan greets me, and a raven-haired man awaits my arrival just outside an enormous oak door.

Either he's got good genes or a good surgeon because I can't tell if this guy is twenty-five or fifty-five. He's unwrinkled. He doesn't smile. I can tell that his suit is expensive and his oxfords equally so.

"Mr. Wilson."

I recognize the voice from the call, nod and follow.

We move swiftly through two long corridors separated by a great room with a black and white checkerboard marble floor and life-sized chess pieces-as-sculptures scattered about. The great room gives way to a blindingly bright sunroom, and by the time my eyes adjust, my tour guide is gone.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Wilson."

The melodic voice comes from a corner obscured by a six-foot-tall fan palm tree.

I mutter that I wouldn't have said no even if I hadn't had to drive ninety-eight miles up Interstate-94 to her weekend getaway. But I don't think she heard me.

An extremely tall, rail-thin woman steps from behind the palm, wearing a short apron and grasping small pruning shears. Her platinum blonde hair is swept up in a beehive style made popular in the nineteen-sixties.

She extends her free hand and smiles warmly, as I think that I'd guessed correctly about her voice matching her appearance. I hadn't guessed that hairdo, though.

Joanne Meir, a second cousin of the late Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir, gestures to a wicker loveseat and lowers herself next to me.

For just a moment, the philanthropist and retired fourth-grade teacher sizes me up, then, deciding, apparently, that I'm worth the hassle, gets right to business.

"The building is mine."

"Excuse me?"

I genuinely have no idea what she's referring to.

Meir nods patiently, clasps her hands tightly and says it again, this time elaborating.

"The. Building. Is. Mine. I'm not proud of the state it was in, but that old candy factory where those boys were shot belongs to me."

The revelation is interesting, but I'm not sure it's useful for my reporting. The building had been vacant and deteriorating for decades, ceding, in practical, if not legal, terms, its ownership to the streets.

"You may have seen in your own newspaper that I have been on a campaign for the past ten years —since the week after I inherited my father's, ahem, assets— to clean up the city. My efforts have had mixed results in alternative schools, art programs, even free childcare centers. But two years ago, Police Chief Randolf Watson told me that if I really wanted to help, I would start by doing something with all the properties my late father's company had allowed to fall into disrepair."

Meir sounds a bit defensive, though I'm not blaming her for her father's shortcomings. She explains that she and her new business team have managed to quietly fix up and give away or sell at a loss more than sixty homes and two dozen commercial buildings.

"I know it sounds lame, as the kids like to say," she continues, "but that factory was on our list. We would have begun renovations on it soon. My intention was to turn it into a shared workspace and mixed-use creative space and community center. Artists who could prove their work would have free memberships. And community members would all have twenty-five free hours of access to the space each month, including technology and work studios. Honestly, I really wanted to makeover the entire block. My father dropped the ball, Mr. Wilson, but I really believe it's simply because he got too old and his business too unwieldy to manage. But he grew up on that block and loved it with all his heart. I thought that, perhaps, it could be a peaceful gesture to make up for his neglect by turning that entire block into a model of sorts for what modern, working-class urban living can be."

This, I think, is news. But it still doesn't advance my story on the killings. And I'm a bit miffed, as she could've told me all of this over the phone. And I could have listened...over the phone...from Chicago.

Again, she preempts my thoughts. "I may not know anything about why those shootings took place there, but it's my honor. And I can't let it stand unchecked. I want to help."

I raise my hand and stutter out something about the police having the situation under control, but Meir responds with a smirk that says she knows otherwise.

"You're not the only one with good contacts inside the law enforcement community, Mr. Wilson. We both know the police don't have, how does it go? Jack squat. I want the bastard or bastards caught. You're going to catch them if they're to be caught. And you'll do it faster with my help. I have resources."

I rise to leave. I don't want her money. Well, I want a lot of money. I'd love to be rich. But I don't need a handout from Meir. I'd prefer to get it the old-fashioned way, at a high-stakes table in Vegas.

We shake and exchange pleasantries as she escorts me to the front door. Mr. Wrinkle-Free materializes from a side hallway and follows us, trailing about thirty feet.

"Your father's a minister, right?"

I want to ask how she knows that. But she's rich and has "resources." So I don't bother.

"He is."

"You've heard the scripture that to whom much is given, much is required?"

I nod. It's one of my dad's favorites. Maybe she knows that too.

"Well, young man, I've been given much. And I'm self-aware enough to admit I didn't earn a penny of it. I am required to help right this wrong. And you? You may not have all of this," she says, gesturing at her estate. But you have access to the people. You've been given much too."

With that, I climb into my Jeep and pull around the circular driveway, catching a glimpse in my rearview mirror of her creepy majordomo stepping up to her side and slipping a caressing arm around her waist.