Michael Harvey - The Fifth Floor

Hubert was nonplussed. “Our records cover the entire twentieth century.”

“Eighteen hundred sort of old.”

“Before the fire?” I caught the ghost of a gleam in the young man’s eye. This was sexy stuff. Relatively speaking, that is.

“Exactly.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

For Hubert, that was even better. He pushed me down the aisle toward a gray door in the back. The last thing I saw was the lady with the blue hair, looking our way and picking up the phone.

T hrough the doorway was a set of black iron stairs climbing two flights up and back, to another door of government gray. Hubert found the key and opened it. The air was like the inside of a closed coffin-if the inside of a closed coffin had any air, that is.

“This is our historical section, 1890 and before. Don’t come in here too often.”

Hubert found a switch and pulled it. Pale light dropped down from a single forty-watt bulb. I tried to get my bearings. Hubert was already whipping into the darkness.

“Come on. The bitch out front will wonder what we’re about in here.”

It was like the main room but even older. Shelf after shelf of property books, creaky and yellow. We took two lefts, a right, and then straight into a wall.

“Sorry,” Hubert said. “Back this way.”

We backtracked down one aisle and then across to a sagging set of shelves that ran from the floor to just below the ceiling. Above that was a long thin window, covered in wire mesh and set at what I figured to be about sidewalk level. Dirty light filtered in from the street, along with the smell of what I could only imagine to be Panda Express on a very bad day.

“Sorry. Chinese takeout has their Dumpster in the alley right outside.”

I ran my finger down one of the bindings. It was covered with spider scrawl in what appeared to be quill ink.

“Not a problem,” I said. “At least we can see. What does this say?”

Hubert bent down and took a closer look. “It says Shortall and Hoard. Then it gives a plat number and date.”

“Who is Shortall and Hoard?”

“John Shortall,” Hubert said. “Basically saved Chicago’s property record system.”

“Really?”

“Sure. The fire destroyed all of Cook County’s official real estate records.”

“Everything?”

Hubert snapped his fingers. “Gone. Shortall ran a title abstract company. Kept copies of almost all Cook County conveyances in his office.”

“Convenient.”

“Yeah. As the fire approached, Shortall commandeered a wagon at gunpoint, loaded up his records, and got them out of town.”

“If he hadn’t?”

“No one would have legally owned anything.” Hubert shrugged. “Chaos.”

“And these are the records?”

“This is them.”

I pulled out a book and opened it up. Felt the creak of time as pages and ink pulled apart.

“Careful.” It was Hubert, peeking over my shoulder.

“I got it, Hubert.”

“Yes, but the ink is brittle. And these are the only copies.”

Hubert slid the book from my hands and started peeling the long pages apart. I caught the flash of a date: 1858.

“Sorry, Hubert. This is too early for me, anyway.”

“No reason not to handle it just as carefully.”

“Yes, Hubert.”

I hung my head for the appropriate moment of penance and reflection. Then I pulled some books from 1870 off the shelves.

“These are the ones we want,” I said.

“This is the time period?”

“It’s a start.”

“And the location?”

“The city.”

“No kidding. In 1870 there wasn’t much else outside the city. Property-wise, that is.”

“Just south of the Loop,” I said. “Near Roosevelt and Canal.”

Hubert bit the ring he had pierced through his lower lip and ran his finger along the parched spines of Chicago history.

“That’s still a lot of ground. More specific?” Hubert handed me a look he probably figured passed for coy. I let him play.

“You got it right,” I said. “The Irish quarter. O’Leary’s barn and the whole neighborhood.”

“DeKoven Street,” Hubert said.

“Number 137, Hubert.”

“Yes, yes. But here it will be listed by property number. Not a high property number in 1870. But they did still have them.” Hubert dug a little deeper into the shelves and came up with four long books. “This covers O’Leary’s barn and ten blocks on either side.”

I reached for the book, but Hubert held up a hand. “We take them apart a page at a time. Each page, a moment at a time.”

Four moments later, we had skimmed across forty property transfers in O’Leary’s neighborhood. Fourteen of them were sold to the same person. Or, rather, to the same set of initials: J.J.W.

“Did they always use initials back then on deeds?” I said.

Hubert shrugged. “Don’t know. Seems sort of weird.”

The kid pulled the property register closer and squinted at the scrawl. “Actually, I think this is a company.”

He pointed to a squiggle of ink. “I think that’s a Co. at the end. Could stand for company.”

I took a look. The kid was right.

“I don’t suppose John Shortall kept any corporate records from back then?” I said.

Hubert shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Burned in the fire?”

Hubert nodded. “All the corporate records were completely destroyed. Everyone who had a business basically had to reincorporate. Start all over again. Records-wise, that is.”

“Corporate chaos?”

“I’d think so.”

Hubert ran a long nail down the property register, swallowed up some courage, and posed the question I knew was coming.

“If you don’t mind me asking, these initials. Do they ring a bell?”

Hubert danced his fingers off the page as I slammed the register shut. “Shut up, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

I slid the book back to its place on the shelf. “And forget about those initials. Make your life a whole lot nicer.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked at the dark wall of books surrounding us. Thought about John Shortall. Getting his wagon loaded up at gunpoint. Saving Chicago’s real estate market. Probably making himself a bunch of dough in the process. Seemed just about right. Then I thought about the initials I’d found scattered throughout the old property records: J.J.W.-as in John Julius Wilson. Also known as the mayor’s great-great-grandfather.

“Let’s go back downstairs,” I said. “Before your boss misses us.”

“Okay.”

Hubert began to pick his way back down the dark aisles.

“FYI…”

“Yeah?” I said.

“My boss…she’s the mayor’s cousin.”

“The lady with the blue hair?”

“That’s what they say.”

“And she runs this place?”

“Yep.”

I scratched the side of my head. “You gonna lose your job, Hubert?”

“Nah. I’m gay, so she’s scared stiff of me.” The young man’s words floated back on a cloud of nonchalance. “I’ll tell her you made a pass at me or something. She’ll love that.”

“Thanks, Hubert.”

“Don’t worry. She won’t believe it. Just give her something to talk about. That’s all it takes. Besides, working in Land Records isn’t exactly my life ambition.”

“Let me guess. You take classes at Second City.”

Hubert turned and smiled. “Stereotype. No, I’m a hacker.”

“Computers?”

Hubert wiggled fourteen rings, scattered across ten fingers. “Given the time and the money, nothing I can’t get into.”

“Really?”

“Scary real. You want to buy stuff online, let me set up your computer first. Save your credit cards from getting scammed.”