by JJ Partridge
The sun was attempting to pierce gray clouds that looked like dusty bags of cement when we drove past Westerly’s Spanish Renaissance style Amtrak station as an Acela Express roared through. Tramonti made the sweeping turn into Canal Street where granite faced office buildings and brick store fronts were elegant reminders of a prosperity once brought by the town’s numerous quarries, textile mills, and machine tool plants. Tramonti gave me the street address for Flanaghan’s office, but too late as we had already driven past it, requiring us to circle around the town’s elegant and rightly renowned Wilcox Park. We parked in a puddled asphalt lot facing the Pawcatuck River; Oboe took his owner on a tour of a grassy plot where Tramonti lit a cigarette. I waited for them at the embankment. Pretty spot, I thought, as I surveyed riverside brick buildings obviously converted to condos or apartments, their colorful awnings and flower pots brightening iron railed balconies, and in the distance, past the deck bridge to Connecticut, the imposing headquarters of The Washington Trust Company mimicking a Florentine palace in its granite block exterior, maroon tiled roof, and palladio windows.
Oboe, finished with his duty and smell detection, and eager for affection, pulled Tramonti toward me. I knelt and rubbed behind Oboe’s ears as Tramonti flicked his cigarette into the inky, quietly flowing water. “You’ll like Tom,” he said. “Lived in Westerly all his life. Used to be the town solicitor.” We entered a two-story, freshly painted clapboard building with a discrete sign on the door reading ‘Thomas A. Flanaghan, Esq. and Associates.’ Tramonti whispered, “His kids are his ‘Associates.’ ”
A pleasant faced, full figured woman in his fifties, with short white hair, wearing a loose green blouse and black pants, rose from behind a desk and greeted us warmly. She took my hat and our jackets, and gestured toward a doorway filled by a middle-aged man, big in body, head, nose, and smile. His hair was black and unruly and looked like nothing could make it stay in place. A brown belt held up trousers and enclosed a billowing white shirt; a green tie was loose at his collar. “Tony,” he called loudly, “Good to see ya. C’mon in here. This must be Alger Temple.” I moved forward, my hand extended, and it disappeared into Tom Flanaghan’s meaty, two handed grip.
“Jean,” Flanaghan called over my shoulder to the front desk and took Oboe’s leash from Tramonti. “My wife, Jean,” he said, and we exchanged ‘hellos.’ “Came down to straighten out a few things which we always appreciate,” he said fondly and handed her the leash. She stooped to scratch under the dog’s ears and Oboe fell in love as he was led away.
“Meet Benno Bacigalupi,” Flanaghan said as he led us inside a conference room, gesturing toward a slender man in a gray suit, starched white shirt, and monochrome tie. Below a shaved scalp, a hook nose dominated a narrow face with tight, thin lips. I wasn’t sure what to expect since our first encounter hadn’t worked out well for anyone involved, including Benno, but he nodded as an acknowledgement, meeting my eyes with a hard stare that bared the chilly personality of a naturally suspicious man. I knew when he spoke, it would be rapidly and out of the corner of his mouth and be full of Rhode Island’s floating ‘r’s’ and ‘ah’s’ instead of ‘o’s’.
Breaking the silence, Charlie Fessenden stood and said quickly, “Tony,” which got a mumbled response from his brother-in-law. Then, he grabbed my hand. He remained trim and good-looking in a boyish way, although time was beginning to work its way into the skin at his eyes and the flesh under his chin; longish blond hair strayed over his shirt collar and his face had the smirky grin that had been tolerable in a twenty year old. “Algy, so good to see you! Good to have you on my side. How’s Nick? Great of him to join the Club. Can’t wait to get him on the course!”
His genial greeting was not unexpected since Charlie is, after all, first, last and always, a salesman. But he couldn’t quite disguise his anxiety since superficiality only goes so far. And what a contrast to drab-on-purpose Benno: Charlie wore an open collar Madras plaid shirt, brown slacks, black belt with a cell phone holder, and I didn’t have to look to know he wore sockless Dock Siders.
Tramonti and I were directed to seats facing Benno and Charlie, and Flanaghan squeezed by us to the head of the table. “Okay,” Tramonti said abruptly, “what can we do with this mess.”
Charlie made his first miscue by protesting fussily, “Could we avoid calling the situation a ‘mess.’ It sets the wrong tone. Really, it’s straightening things out….”
“It is a goddamn mess! That’s why we’re here,” Tramonti snarled back. Charlie’s jaw muscles bunched up at the rebuke.
Flanaghan, now wearing half lens reading glasses that seemed too small for his large, round face, apparently sensed, as did I, that the meeting needed a facilitator. “Let me go through where I think we are and how we got here,” he said as he unrolled what appeared to be a tax assessor’s map of a portion of Westerly and spread it on the table. An area south of Route 1 near the Charlestown line marked ‘Haversham Golf Club’ was highlighted in yellow and divided by various colored hash marks. A crooked black line ran north-south through the Club land with the left side—the west side—marked ‘owned’ and the right side marked ‘leased.’ “The Club’s land was assembled,” he began, “over the past ten years by—”
Charlie, unable to contain himself, interrupted. “You see where my land is?” He reached across the table and tapped the map on a parcel shaded red between the golf course and Wynomet Pond.
Flanaghan ignored Charlie. “This large parcel,” he pointed to an area set off by purple hash marks within the Club’s land, “a hundred and fifty or so acres, was part of the estate of Admiral Horatio Duffie, a stretch leading north from Charlie’s land up to Route 1. The Admiral purchased the land from Charlie’s grandfather back in the late forties.” Flanaghan fingered a second parcel in green hash marks within the Club’s boundaries, partly within the ‘owned’ portion of the Club’s land and containing all of the leased portion. “This land here, mostly contiguous to Admiral Duffie’s, was part of the land owned by the Randall family until Darius Randall died about five years ago and his estate sold it to ….”
I said, “Randall. Any relation to the guy in the ashes?”
“Yeah, same family” Flanaghan replied, “and it gets better. The Randalls are old time swamp yankees. At one time, they owned everything south of Route 1 but gradually lost it or sold it off. What was left was a couple of hundred acres, a lot of it wet, crisscrossed with streams and creeks, except where they farmed or took out gravel over by Route 1. As you can see, part of the Randall land is now owned by the Club, part is under long-term lease to the Club, and the rest of what the Randall’s owned is choice development real estate that borders the golf course and has access to Wynomet Pond and the barrier beach.” Flanaghan’s long index finger moved down the map parallel to the Club’s leased land to the pond and over to the barrier beach. “So, the Club consists mostly of the Duffie parcel on the west and Randall parcel on the east, some owned and some leased, bordering Charlie’s land on the north. Now, important to why we are here, Charlie owned this finger of land, about six acres”—he pointed to a slender parcel hashed marked blue within the Club owned land—“between the Duffie and the Randall parcels, a remnant from….”
Charlie, who apparently couldn’t help himself, leaned forward. “My grandfather originally picked up land through a couple of foreclosures, including one against the Randall’s back in the Depression. Built his summer home—now my house—and sold some of his land to the north to Admiral Duffie. Now, this was before regulations on subdivisions and town planning and the deed to Admiral Duffie had one of those descriptions like ‘to the apple tree and down to the stone wall’ kind of things they used back then. Later, when the Admiral had his parcel surveyed, he found that he didn’t have title to about six acres between his land and Randall’s remaining property. The Admiral sued my grandfather for the land but my grandfather was a tough old character and he won.” Charlie put his finger on the blue hash marks. “Six acres on th
e ridge line where the clubhouse was built….”
Flanaghan murmured, watching Charlie carefully, “Highest point in the area….”
“But worthless!” Another interruption from Charlie, anxious to put his spin on Flanaghan’s facts. “Landlocked by a sliver of Randall’s land. We couldn’t get to it! Since the Admiral was angry with my grandfather over losing the lawsuit, he refused us access through his property and, of course, so did the Randalls who despised us. Without access, the six acres weren’t worth a dime. You had to own either the Duffie land or the Randall property, or get an easement, to link up.”
Charlie looked at each of us to make sure we were following and excitedly continued. “To make things worse, Dani and I had just moved back to Westerly when the goddamn Quonnies claimed that parcel and….”
“Who?” I said but Charlie was charging ahead.
“My dad had gotten crank letters for years from those rag-tags before he died, all nonsense, but they included the parcel in their land claims when they tried for federal recognition as a tribe. Outrageous! Everyone knows the Quonnies have been up in the Indian Swamp in Greenwich for generations! And now, they wanted our land?” He was waving his hands excitedly in front of his face. “It was more of the Randalls’ spite! Somehow or other, they’re part Quonnie. Old man Randall, and then Ollie, let them through their land to trespass on our six acres to set bonfires! Said it was a ‘signal’ hill or some such nonsense. We’d call the Westerly cops to chase them out but since they had to go through Duffie’s or Randall’s land to get there, so the police didn’t do anything but cite them for open fires without a permit. Less than useless. It was dangerous to have those fires up there….”
I had a vague recollection of stories or legends about the Quonnies but also had become impatient with Charlie’s sidebars of local history and so had everyone else. Flanaghan recognized the mood and said, “Now, you’ll want to know how all this land became the golf course. That brings us to Ugo Calibrese.”
My breath caught. “Did you say Ugo Calibrese?” I turned to Tramonti whose expression told me he already knew.
But hadn’t told me!
CHAPTER THREE
Every small city on the East Coast has one or more Ugo Calibreses. They come out of nowhere to own half of the downtown, the half that is decaying, dirty, and desolate, the Class C office space, the crumbling buildings with yellowed ‘for rent’ signs in fly-spattered windows and the remains of last night’s wino party in entrances. Then, they go a little upscale, in Calibrese’s case, picking up real estate on Federal Hill, buying into upper-scale restaurants and the club scene by the harbor, slowly emerging from the shadows. When he purchased Greenwick Downs, a run-down dog track in Greenwick, about ten miles to the north from where we sat, he took it out of bankruptcy by getting the state to grant him a license for video slots, bingo, and simulcast horse racing and he became a person of interest to the Journal. It didn’t take the newspaper long to dredge up his background as a slumlord in Olneyville and the West End and his connections to various unsavory characters, including members of the Marfeo crime family. He also showed up as one of Sonny Russo’s biggest financial supporters which was no surprise since the Mayor ‘owned’ the members of the city’s License Board, political hacks who for fifty thousand a year, approved liquor licenses, closing hours, and security requirements at all Providence restaurants, bars, and clubs. Ugo Calibrese, in other words, had become a Providence ‘somebody.’
Flanaghan, who hadn’t noticed my reaction, was into Calibrese’s background. “Born in Westerly, in the North End. Moved up to Providence, made his money … howsoever … and bought the Watson mansion in Watch Hill when prices were in the pits during the early eighties. Sometime later, on the quiet, using various front companies, what we call ‘straws,’ he started buying any available land south of Route 1 between Dunn’s Corner and Charlestown….”
Again, Charlie interrupted. “But I never dealt with him! Not once! I was approached by a …” a slur formed on his lips but he managed to stop “… Jewish fellow from Providence. I figured he had a deal with either the Duffies or the Randalls for some of their land so I agreed I’d give him an option to buy the ‘finger,’ as you call it, at what I thought was an absurdly high price. I was paid a good price for the option, too.” He checked our faces for level of belief. “Told him about the Quonnies’ claim but he said he didn’t care. I even tied up the option parcel with restrictions so that if the option was exercised, the land couldn’t be developed to adversely affect my home. He never once mentioned Ugo Calibrese!” He turned to me. “Algy, that was at least a year before anyone was talking about a golf course! My option deal was in place before I was hired to represent the Club and I disclosed it to the Board when we focused on the land! It was the best available property for a new golf course anywhere along the shore! I swear!”
Flanaghan stopped Charlie’s search for my affirmation by spreading his hands out over the map. “The town was already on edge about the Quonnies’ claim for a piece of Westerly when word got out that Calibrese was buying nearby land. We put two and two together that, maybe, the Quonnies and Calibrese were going to build a casino right here in Westerly….”
Charlie cleared his throat noisily. “When I found out who was holding the option, I was extremely upset. If I had known it was a thug like Calibrese ….”
Flanaghan took off his glasses and stared at Charlie. Clearly, he had evaluated Charlie and found him to be wanting in character and, as I already knew, a class conscious twit. Then, he surveyed our tense faces and decided we needed a break. “Anybody want coffee? Soft drink? Water?”
We all responded ‘no’ except for Charlie, whose forehead glistened with a film of sweat, who thought water would be ‘grand.’
Flanaghan left us in an uncomfortable silence. A quick glance to Tramonti saw him grimly staring past Flanaghan’s vacant chair and through the window to spring green maples dipping branches into the river. Benno, who hadn’t uttered a word as yet, was focused on a large multi-colored map of Westerly from pre-1900, seemingly bored with all the local history. Charlie stared at his hands as his fingers played with a Yale class ring. Me? I hope I maintained a neutral, ‘I’m here as a friend’ demeanor.
Flanaghan returned with two bottles of AquaFina, one for himself and passed the other to Charlie who opened it and took a gulp. Flanaghan, with his glasses back on, said, “Everything down here is complicated, isn’t it?” His comment was clearly designed to give Charlie a modicum of support and his easy manner evoked confidence and familiarity. “About then, some Watch Hill summer people began to investigate the possibility of a golf club and hired Charlie as their real estate agent. Charlie says he suggested approaching Calibrese because Calibrese’s land had more than enough acreage for a golf course, was convenient off Route 1, had ocean views, plenty of groundwater, and very importantly, was in the hands of a single owner. Charlie thought the town fathers might cooperate with the Club on permitting if the purchase would get rid of Calibrese and the threat of a Quonnie casino.”
“What about the Quonnies’ land claim?” Tramonti asked.
“A condition of the deal with Calibrese,” replied Flanaghan, “was that the Quonnies give up their Westerly claim. It took awhile, but Calibrese did the ‘magic,’ as they say. Not a huge surprise since he’s got a lot of the Quonnies on the payroll at his dog track. Their tribal council voted to take the Westerly claim out of their application and recorded a release in favor of Calibrese’s entities.” Flanaghan began to roll up the map. “That’s the story….”
“A lot of people in Westerly told me then I had rescued the town from the Quonnies and Calibrese,” Charlie proclaimed with more than a little sanctimony. “I was a blinkin’ hero! The Club never would have been put together without my efforts.” And then under his breath, “How easily they forget!”
Flanaghan’s response was to loudly snap an elastic band around the rolled-up plan. “Which leads us to the rumor that’s goin
g around. Essentially, the rumor is that in addition to getting the agreed upon sales price for his property when Calibrese exercised the option for the six acres, Charlie got something ‘extra.’ ”
“Poppycock. Mean, despicable, poppycock,” Charlie responded, his voice unexpectedly loud and strident, repeating a word that was odd but reflective of Charlie’s persona. “I didn’t get a nickel more than what I bargained for. It was a fixed price option! I disclosed it! I worked hard to get the Calibrese deal closed because my clients wanted a golf course. Tom, when I find out who started the rumor, I’ll sue!”
The room hushed. Collectively, we sensed a soft spot in his story that matched the soft spot in his backbone. People with a history of behaving badly rarely behave better.
Flanaghan took a sip of water, then said, “Next, insurance. Charlie is the Club Secretary. Which means he sat on the Building Committee that bought most everything for the clubhouse, and among other things, was responsible for purchasing insurance. The issues are whether the Club was adequately insured and can it prove its loss.”
Charlie, after drawing a deep breath to give us a sense of his burden, began his defense. “Insurance was one of the last things we got to, when we accepted the clubhouse as finished from the contractor. With everything else going on, hiring a club manager, inspections, preparations for the opening of the course, furnishings coming in, it was a confusing time. I don’t claim to know a lot about insurance. I just paid the bills the Building Committee approved. The insurance broker basically took care of it. We got a binder from him for insurance that was supposed to include everything to protect the Club as far as the Building Committee was concerned. The policy was to come later.” He looked around the table, a victim of circumstance, focusing on me. “We’re not insurance experts! That’s why the broker got his commission! What do you think, Algy?”