Paper Cuts and Gun Metal - Chapter 2

The rain had washed the streets clean by morning, but Chicago never stays clean for long.

I started with the bank.

Midwestern Development Advisory Group had an account at Lakeshore Trust, the kind of place that smelled like polished wood and quiet secrets. The marble floors were swept, the brass rails gleamed, and the tellers wore the same pleasant expression you see on nurses who know you’re dying but don’t plan on mentioning it.

I walked in with Donnelly’s cancelled checks folded in my inside pocket and my pension ID tucked behind them. I didn’t lead with either.

The teller was a young woman with hair pinned tight and a voice that sounded like it had been trained not to carry.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m looking to confirm the existence of an account,” I said. “Corporate. Midwestern Development Advisory Group.”

Her smile tightened just enough to let me know she recognized the name.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss client accounts.”

“I’m not asking about balances,” I said. “Just whether it exists.”

“That would also be confidential.”

I leaned slightly closer, not enough to threaten, just enough to let her see my face without the lamplight kindness of my office.

“I’m representing a contractor being charged a monthly retainer by that firm. If the account doesn’t exist, we’ve got fraud. If it does, we’ve got something else. Either way, it’s going to land in the State’s Attorney’s lap.”

Her eyes flicked toward the manager’s glass office.

“Perhaps you’d like to speak with Mr. Hargrove,” she said.

“I would.”

Hargrove looked like he’d been born in a pinstripe suit and raised on numbers. Narrow face. Small mustache. Hands too clean for a man who handled money all day.

“I understand you have questions,” he said.

“I understand you have answers,” I replied.

He didn’t smile.

“Midwestern Development Advisory Group,” I said. “Active account?”

He considered the ceiling for half a second, then looked back at me.

“Yes.”

“Opened when?”

“Last spring.”

“Corporate officers?”

“That information is not for public release.”

“I’m not the public.”

“You are not a signatory.”

I let my voice drop a shade.

“Mr. Hargrove, if my client’s checks are being deposited into a shell that launders funds into political hands, you’re going to want to have cooperated when the subpoenas come.”

His jaw shifted slightly. Not fear. Calculation.

“The account is in good standing,” he said. “Deposits are regular. Withdrawals are… structured.”

“Structured how?”

“Cash withdrawals. Certified drafts.”

“Made by whom?”

“A representative.”

“Name?”

He paused.

“Walter Briggs.”

So Briggs was real enough to sign paper.

“You’ve seen him?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Does he look like a man who builds anything?”

Hargrove frowned faintly. “He looks like a man who prefers paperwork.”

That tracked.

I leaned back.

“Who introduced the account?”

“That would be internal.”

“Internal means someone vouched for them.”

He didn’t answer.

I let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.

“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Hargrove,” I said. “When I was stationed at Camp Lejeune, I spent ten years investigating men who thought paperwork could hide what they were doing. It doesn’t. It just slows the bleeding.”

The word Lejeune had a way of settling into my mouth like a stone. I hadn’t meant to say it. But sometimes you let a little truth out just to see how it behaves.

Hargrove’s eyes flickered.

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said quickly.

“I didn’t say you did.”

I stood.

“If anyone asks, I was never here.”

He gave a tight nod.

Outside, the air had turned sharp. The wind cut along the lake and slipped between buildings like it knew the shortcuts. I lit a cigarette and let the smoke steady my thinking.

A firm that opens an account in spring, deposits regular five-thousand-dollar checks, pulls structured cash, and uses a man named Briggs to do it isn’t a back-alley outfit. It’s a conduit.

The question wasn’t who was taking Donnelly’s money.

The question was where it flowed after that.

I headed south to the union hall.

Local 217 sat in a squat brick building with frosted windows and a door that had seen more fists than keys. Inside, smoke hung thick enough to taste. Card tables were scattered across the floor. Men in work shirts and suspenders leaned over hands of poker that moved slower than their eyes.

Nobody smiled when I walked in.

A big man with forearms like fence posts stepped away from the bar.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone who can explain a grievance filed against Donnelly Construction.”

He didn’t blink.

“Grievances get filed all the time.”

“This one showed up two weeks after a consulting firm made a suggestion.”

He scratched his jaw.

“We file based on violations.”

“Fifteen years with the same scaffolding crew. No violations. Then suddenly there are?”

He took a step closer.

“You accusing us of something?”

“I’m asking a question.”

Men at the tables stopped pretending not to listen.

The big man looked me up and down.

“You look familiar,” he said.

“I get that a lot.”

“Where you from?”

“Here.”

“No,” he said. “Before that.”

I held his stare.

“Marine Corps.”

He nodded slowly. “That explains the haircut.”

“Habit.”

“You here official?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you tread careful.”

I leaned in slightly.

“You ever see a grievance filed and withdrawn in the same month?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because Donnelly’s was.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Not surprise. Recognition.

“That happens when misunderstandings get cleared up,” he said.

“Or when money changes hands.”

The air in the room shifted. Chairs scraped.

He leaned closer.

“You’re walking into something bigger than your office, Marine.”

“Gunny,” I corrected automatically.

He smiled without warmth.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard.”

That made my neck tighten.

“Heard from who?”

He shrugged.

“Word gets around.”

I let it go. Press too hard and the room would turn.

“Who signs off on grievances?” I asked.

“Executive committee.”

“Names?”

“They’re posted.”

“Then I’ll read them.”

I turned and walked out before anyone decided to test how disciplined I still was.

The wind hit harder outside. I felt eyes on my back until I rounded the corner.

Word gets around.

That wasn’t random. That meant someone was already talking about me.

I crossed into the ward office next.

Ward 11 occupied a second-floor suite above a pharmacy that smelled like liniment and old prescriptions. The waiting room was lined with folding chairs and framed photographs of ribbon cuttings. The man behind the desk wore polished shoes and an expression that suggested he’d never walked through mud in his life.

“I’m here to see Alderman Caruso.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid—”

“Tell him Gunny McKenna is here.”

The name hung in the air.

He disappeared behind a door.

A minute later, I was ushered into a room with a large desk, an American flag, and a man who looked like he’d practiced smiling in a mirror.

“Mr. McKenna,” Caruso said. “What can I do for you?”

“Midwestern Development Advisory Group.”

His smile didn’t falter.

“I’m not familiar.”

“They operate out of South Wacker.”

“That’s downtown.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“They’ve been collecting retainers from contractors in your ward.”

He steepled his fingers.

“I can’t speak to private business dealings.”

“You can speak to inspection patterns.”

He tilted his head.

“Inspection patterns?”

“Permits delayed. Violations discovered. Grievances filed. All after a contractor declines a consulting arrangement.”

He leaned back.

“You suggesting corruption?”

“I’m suggesting coincidence has limits.”

His smile thinned.

“You were in the military, I understand.”

“Twenty years.”

“Military Police?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you know how chain of command works.”

“I do.”

“And you know how things can appear one way from the outside and quite another from within.”

I held his gaze.

“I also know when systems protect themselves.”

For a second, the room went still.

“You’re walking a thin line,” he said softly.

“I walk them for a living.”

He stood.

“I have no knowledge of this firm. If you have evidence of wrongdoing, bring it to the proper authorities.”

“And if the proper authorities are part of it?”

His eyes went flat.

“Good day, Mr. McKenna.”

I left with nothing on paper and everything in instinct.

Back on the street, the sky had cleared to a dull gray. The wind carried the smell of diesel and lake water. I headed to the courthouse.

The records room sat in the basement, beneath the echo of footsteps and the shuffle of lawyers who billed by the hour. Dust hung in the air like it had been there since Prohibition. Shelves sagged under the weight of ledgers and permit books.

A clerk with sleeves rolled to his elbows looked up as I approached.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for permit filings connected to Donnelly Construction. Last six months.”

He squinted at me.

“You a reporter?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because someone’s manipulating inspections.”

He sighed.

“Everybody says that.”

“Everybody right?”

He hesitated.

“Give me the year.”

“Fifty-six.”

He shuffled off between the shelves.

While he searched, I walked the rows. Names stamped in fading ink. Dates. Signatures. Patterns.

When he returned, he handed me a stack.

I sat at a long wooden table and began flipping through.

Applications submitted. Approved. Delayed. Approved.

Then I saw it.

A signature on an inspection delay that matched a grievance filing date to the day. Same clerk. Same handwriting. Same tight loop in the capital D.

I flipped back three months. Same signature. Same pattern.

A machine.

Not random bureaucratic incompetence. Design.

“You see something?” the clerk asked.

“Who assigns inspectors?”

“Rotation.”

“Does rotation ever get… adjusted?”

He snorted softly.

“You think I’d know that?”

“You see the same names more often than others?”

He leaned in slightly.

“You didn’t get this from me,” he said. “But certain contractors get extra attention. The kind that makes them cooperative.”

“Who tells you which ones?”

“Orders come down.”

“From?”

He straightened.

“I like my job.”

I held his eyes for a second longer than comfortable.

“I like mine too,” I said.

I gathered my notes and headed out.

Halfway down the alley behind the courthouse, I felt it—the sense of being measured.

A man stepped out from between two garbage cans. Cheap gray suit. Tie askew. Hat pulled low. He wasn’t big. He didn’t need to be.

“Gunny McKenna,” he said, like he owned the syllables.

“Depends who’s asking.”

He smiled thinly.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Have I?”

“Union hall. Ward office. Bank.”

That stopped me cold inside, even if I didn’t show it.

“Chicago’s a small town,” I said.

“For some men,” he replied. “You should consider slowing down.”

“I don’t take advice from men who lurk in alleys.”

He stepped closer.

“This isn’t a street problem. It’s business. Let the businessmen handle it.”

“Then tell them to stop leaning on Donnelly.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t see the whole picture.”

“Then show me.”

He looked at me for a long moment, measuring.

“You were at Lejeune,” he said quietly.

The word hit like a knuckle to the ribs.

“I was.”

“Provost Marshal’s Office.”

“That’s right.”

He smiled again.

“You know how files disappear.”

I felt the old pressure behind my eyes. The one that comes when you remember paperwork that didn’t sit right but moved anyway.

“I know how men disappear,” I said.

“Then don’t be one.”

He stepped back into the shadow and was gone.

I stood there a moment, listening to my own breathing. The alley smelled like damp brick and stale garbage. Somewhere a door slammed.

Word gets around.

I walked back to my office slower than usual.

Inside, the lamplight looked smaller.

I sat at the desk and opened Donnelly’s envelope again, this time with a different eye. Not just invoices and letters. Everything.

Behind a permit application—tucked where it didn’t belong—I found a folded newspaper clipping. Yellowed. Brittle at the edges.

I unfolded it carefully.

LOCAL ALTAR BOY MISSING

Michael Ruiz, 14, last seen near St. Brigid’s Parish…

The date sat at the top.

1936. 

The same year written on the back of the photograph.

The same year circled on the church bulletin.

The extortion intersected that date like a scar reopening.

I set the clipping flat on the desk and stared at the name.

Michael Ruiz.

Not money.

Memory.

And someone had just reminded Donnelly that 1936 wasn’t finished.