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 entitybeing 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 amberliquor 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 …”
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 entitybeing 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 amberliquor 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 …”
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