by JJ Partridge
“Still sounds bizarre to me.”
He paused as though considering my motive for inquiry. “Oaky wants no trouble in Westerly, in case this is where you’re headed. I can’t see Ollie Randall, even drunk, going against Oaky to prove a point about rights some Quonnies think they lost. Not with Peter around. This had to be personal….”
Flanaghan had picked up a vague thought I had on my walk back to my office. Smart guy. End of thought.
* * *
Commencement Week at Carter University includes colloquia and public forums featuring renowned political leaders, scholars, and occasionally, celebrity parents of graduates. Full of big ideas, these luminaries come to promote themselves and their causes before appreciative and supportive audiences of alumni, graduating students, their families and friends, buoyed by the tactile sense of ‘being there’ and finding agreeable affirmation for positions they likely already hold.
Events run from tonight’s Carter Forum through Saturday’s graduation. Our distinguished guest for the Forum, a ‘DG’ in the jargon of senior staff, was our nation’s most recent President, not an alumnus but a ‘close personal’ friend of several influential alumni and Trustees, on the speakers’ circuit raising money worldwide to support AIDS research. Sharing the stage would be the popular Dean of the Carter University Medical School, the chairman of an international AIDS research foundation, and a billionaire financier whose private foundation supported AIDS research. The Development Office drooled at the panel’s prestige which would drive positive media attention to our small Ivy, almost matching the hype when Bono was the DG the year his daughter graduated. Perhaps, their presence would put to bed forever the notoriety we suffered when Danby’s predecessor invited a ‘gangsta’ rapper who arrived with his posse in armor-plated SUV’s for a Forum on rap music as an art form. Within minutes, the audience was chewing on their seats.
Prior to the Forum, the University’s VIP list, scoured and reduced to seventy-five ‘necessary’ people, would enjoy cocktails and a light buffet at President’s House. As Marcie had warned, included among the invitees was a prominent alumnus, very rich, very prickly, very much used to getting his way, and remembered by me for his sneers at legal niceties. At his twenty-fifth reunion, he had offered, with appropriate publicity, to donate an upscale apartment complex in downtown Philadelphia to the University. His plan seemed simple enough, an annual donation of a portion of the partnership that owned the complex, until the University owned the whole thing and could sell it. On its face, it should be ‘thank you very much!’ The problem was that, according to the Development Office, he was seeking an aggressive valuation for his gifts, high enough so that our benefactor could quickly meet his longstanding, multi-million dollar pledge to the University’s capital fund drive at a discount. My task, not atypical of what I do when not scrapping with Puppy Dog, was a letter replete with citations warning of federal income tax perils if his claimed tax deductions didn’t match appraisals which the University would require with his annual gift. And, more delicately, that the University would credit his incremental partnership gifts toward his pledge at its own appraised value. It was a Mission Impossible moment and I fully expected to be cornered at the cocktail party.
At the last decent moment, I walked down Carter Street past the Old Quad through swirls of dogwood and mock cherry petals to President’s House, then waited to gain entrance to the brick faced mansion through a phalanx of our security people and Secret Service officers. Eventually admitted, I maneuvered through the crowded, familiar rooms of the first floor and outside to a sculpture garden where a throng of Trustees, big contributors, important alumni, a sprinkling of administrators and faculty, and of course, our DG, were enjoying drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I accepted an offered San Pellegrino and found a spot nearly hidden by the girth of an oak tree facing a Calder sculpture, a set of rotating, interwoven plates shimmering in the light evening breeze. I scanned the crowd and spotted the apartment baron in a cluster of gushing admirers surrounding the DG who was patiently posing for cameras and signing autographs. The financier had attracted a smaller group, including our aggressive Vice President for Development.
Charles Danby approached me. “Artemus told me that you arranged a truce?” His questioning face reflected the same wariness of all to whom I had declared victory.
“I should have never used that term.”
“If it keeps things peaceful this week, it will be more than a truce as far as I am concerned. And if longer, the better.” He motioned toward the DG, now with his arm around the stooped shoulders of the billionaire. “Getting them in and out of here, controlling the picketers and protesters, the parking, all the security issues, Commencement Day. Could be chaos if Sonny gives us trouble.”
“It will cost some money to ready those buildings ….”
“Peanuts in the larger picture. Even a good idea. Shows how we could work with the city. In any event, we’ve got to figure out what we want to do with them. I’m thinking maybe we should offer them to RISD. That’s really their part of town.”
“Artemus thinks I should let Puppy Dog hang until after Commencement. But thinking about it, maybe, I should give him a hint of acceptance, a teaser….”
“Check with Artemus, but I like your idea. With Sonny, you never know….”
Danby left me and returned to his guests. Smart, determined to succeed, witty, and sincere, this first African-American president of an Ivy League university is perceived by his College Hall colleagues as a rare, innovative leader in the highest echelons of academia. After tamping down campus cultural warfare with its policy-killing, interminable debates, and surviving national bad publicity caused by a serial rapist on campus, he had gained sufficient stature in his third year of office to embark on a dynamic plan of future growth for the University. Important to me, he recognized my role as a trusted advisor and delegated legal affairs willingly, giving me wide latitude to make decisions. For that, I was appreciative and had become a downright admirer.
* * *
I finished my dutiful stay at the cocktail party, having skillfully avoided the donor who, despite an occasional wandering eye, was enthralled by his proximity to the DG and the financier. By seven, I was in my kitchen, a bottle of Vinho Verde uncorked, a spaghetti, tomato, onion and garlic frittata in the frying pan. I envisioned a quiet night, perhaps watching the second game of the series between the Red Sox and Blue Jays, with the prospect that Nadie would appear after the Forum likely on fire with the cause! God, why can’t I get that way! Why is it I balance everything and then craft a response? Somehow, I can’t, could never, just jump into things!
As I flipped the frittata for the final few minutes of cooking, the kitchen phone rang. Dani Fessenden’s voice was tremulous. I had half expected, maybe hoped for, a ‘thank-you-for-helping-Charlie’ call, but this wasn’t one. She choked back emotion when she said that after insistent prodding, Charlie had described our Sunday meeting in Flanaghan’s office and she realized that he hadn’t been totally candid. “Why does he do things like this?” she said. “I know this is an embarrassment, and he’s had such trouble, but he has to be totally open with you. He says he didn’t think it was relevant.”
What she was talking about? My reply was to ask her to start again.
“He thought he was protecting me.” She sniffled into something and took a deep breath. “Ollie Randall was fired not just because he was drunk—and I’m sure he must have been—but because I had an … incident … with Ollie that same morning. I know he doesn’t show it but Charlie is over-protective. Beyond bounds, sometimes.”
Charlie’s violent jealousy was one of the ‘issues’ from years before, along with drinking and some abusive behavior, maybe booze related, that her brothers didn’t know about, would rip him into pieces if they did.
“I’ve known Ollie for years and he’s never done anything to me, but he’s kind of creepy because he doesn’t shave and he’s not … clean. And he drinks. He had some disease o
r accident that put him in a back brace so he limped. The morning he was fired, I was out for a ride. My dog was with me. Ollie was crossing from his property …, I mean, the property his family sold …, and I probably wouldn’t have stopped but he waved and it seemed like the polite thing to do. Came over to me, and then I could see he was red-eyed and his slurred his words. My dog growled at Ollie, and Fancy, my horse, got skittish and started pawing and snorting and got a forelock up pretty close to him. He grabbed for the reins—which is about the worst thing you can do when a horse is skittish—and started yelling and swearing and slapped Fancy on the flank! She reared, took off, and I barely held on. I managed to get her back to the barn. I was on the verge of hysteria when I told Charlie what happened. He stormed out after Ollie but he was gone. Later, when Ollie showed up at the Club, and they got into it, Charlie told the manager Ollie was drunk and insulting and Ollie got fired. When he wouldn’t leave, they called the Westerly police to remove him.”
That stupid, silly bastard! Why didn’t he tell us?
“I thought if the Board knew there was something personal….”
Dani, I wanted to say, wishful thinking. The Board would heap blame higher on Charlie because Ollie Randall’s revenge against the Club might have been triggered by that ‘something personal.’
“I told Tony and Fausto, but Charlie should have told you and ….”
“You told your brothers? When?”
“After Charlie heard that evil rumor. I ….” Her voice lowered. “Charlie’s coming in. Please don’t say I told you,” and quickly ended the call.
Goddamn! Nasty thoughts flooded my mind as I returned to the stove top. The brothers had been purposeful in not telling me of the Calibrese connection and Charlie’s personal motive for the firing of Ollie Randall. Was anything else being kept from me? Why?
* * *
The frittata was overcooked but edible and, fortunately, the young wine was fruity and delicious. I ate and drank in the company of the ‘down’ clues of last Sunday’s Times crossword, noting that the caption clue was appropriate: ‘Two-Time Loser.’
I took a last glass of wine upstairs to the Red Sox game. In the sixth inning, Tim Wakefield’s knuckleball stopped fluttering and he was replaced by Mike Timlin who promptly gave up two homers which blew open the game. I was about to call it a night when Nadie telephoned. She was still captivated by the DG’s message, augmented by a one-on-one discussion at a post-Forum event where the DG no doubt enjoyed the attention of an intelligent, beautiful, and impassioned proponent of his cause. After listening to her ardent endorsement of the DG’s politics, I told her of my meeting with Derek Kirk. She seemed pleased that I had consulted Kirk but before I got into his exposition, she said, “If someone like Derek Kirk is in their corner, the Quonnies have legitimacy. He’s not going to support a spurious claim.”
“I never said that they had a ‘spurious’ claim. For all I know, there are five other groups out there with similar claims so we can have casinos on every street corner.”
A hiss of disagreement followed. Nadie is ever alert to a challenge. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t see a casino on Congdon Street.” And, she was back again to the AIDS epidemic in the Third World, that there seemed to be some hope for a cure despite an uncaring world order prejudiced against poor people, particularly poor people with AIDS, and that she was heartened by the passion of the DG and the other speakers. Then, we discussed schedules, mine wrapped up in the last days of Commencement Week while she, through with exams and grades, would finish her book review tomorrow and, as long planned, take the Acela to visit with her mother, up from Miami and staying with Aunt Ida in Brooklyn, until sometime Saturday. Then, she was back to the Quonnies.
“Okay,” I said, “I have been educated about Rhode Island’s native people. Interesting and thank you.”
Her voice told me she wasn’t satisfied that I felt enough ancestral guilt but said, “Good.”
I said, “I love you and miss you already.”
She replied, “By Saturday, you will. Be a good boy. Visit your mother, watch a DVD, and if Dani Fessenden calls and is a little vulnerable, don’t get too sympathetic.”
How did she know?
CHAPTER TEN
Responding whistles and trills of cardinals from the trees of Prospect Park and down the Hill on Pratt Street woke me from a confused dream—a lot of sex and some vertigo—before the alarm went off at six-twenty. I donned shorts and went to the basement where I put in a half hour on the treadmill watching the murderous Matt Damon as The Talented Mr. Ripley morph into Jude Law’s character in the classic thriller, so compelling a film that I lingered until Mr. Ripley crushed his former friend’s skull with an oar while in a rowboat off St. Remo on the Italian Riviera. Ouch! Then, I played a game of single-handed eight ball and followed that with an espresso, a toasted croissant sliced in half and spread with Rose’s lime marmalade, and a perusal of the morning Journal. After that, it was a long, hot shower, ablutions and off to College Hall by eight o’clock.
To my surprise, Human Resources had dispatched a temp to our office, a fragile looking, bespectacled graduate student in English, who upon arrival declared that she was our receptionist-secretary for the rest of the week. Marcie patiently gave her some instructions on filing, how to answer and use the telephone console, and our computer system. The temp immediately pegged us as an undemanding duo, set up Snood on her computer, and informed Marcie, without embarrassment, that she wasn’t adept at ‘multi-tasking.’
In the next hours, I worked conscientiously, e-mailing my letter to our Philadelphia apartment baron, marking-up a proposed contract with ESPN for coverage of Cats football and Ivy League basketball games for next season, and outlined a legal strategy for a continuing fight between the University and a sports marketing firm who claimed ownership to the ‘Carter Cat’ logo. Nice, traditional law. After a lunch at the Faculty Club with Marcie who was at her indignant best after having digested Steve Winter’s legal memorandum on the Arts Quad intrusion, we returned to the office. As I began to read Winter’s memorandum, the temp appeared at my office door. “There’s a Mr. Goldbloom here.”
Puppy Dog? Here? No way!
“Said he was taking a chance you might be in the office.”
Ugh!
He wore the same seersucker suit as Monday and a much battered straw fedora with a wide red, and soiled, band. His narrow face was flushed after a climb of three flights of stairs. “Just passing by, Alger. Thought I’d see where you spend all of your time.”
Ordinarily, the rare unexpected visitor to our suite would have me ushering him or her into our mini-conference room/library, apologizing for its apparent disarray, asking about coffee or water or juice, clearing away files from the conference table. But, I couldn’t make myself do that for Puppy Dog. Instead, I waved him into my office where he took in the piles of redweld files and folders on my sofa and desk before sitting in Marcie’s chair by the open window. His hat rudely remained in place as he craned his neck to survey the room’s photographs and paintings, focusing on a monoprint of the chalky hills of the Tuscan Crete. “Italian?” I managed a ‘yes’ and there was silence as I expected another dismissive question or comment. I found myself staring at his hands hanging out of frayed cuffs, his small fingers with nails bitten to the quick. Eventually, he sucked in a breath and exhaled loudly. “I try my best, Alger, I really do, but you guys put your heads in it up to your keesters every time.”
“Not every time, surely,” I said, barely thinking of my words, intent on his hands. The right one showed a number of liver spots and made me wonder as to Puppy Dog’s age. Sixty? More? Was Puppy Dog really that old? That black sweep of hair over his pate didn’t disguise much—was there another liver spot on his scalp—and there was his prominent Adam’s apple almost lost in the folds of a turkey neck.
“By the way,” he said, “are we set for the buildings?”
I replied, feigning disinterest, “The Presiden
t hasn’t gotten back to me yet with Commencement Week being so hectic. I expect so but I’ll call you on Monday.” The bobbing and weaving was beginning.
“Don’t wait too long, Alger. McCarthy is offended! Pissed off! I’ve got all I can do to keep him from bringing charges against your security people.” He leaned toward me to deliver his confidential advice. “Gotta get Tuttle on the team, Alger. He’s going to blow it for you. Has these chats with his old buddies on the force and word gets out. We have the jurisdiction to decide what we are going to do and Tuttle’s gotta remember that. Otherwise, ….” His voice drifted away as he twisted his head toward the open window. He likely could see the blooming mock cherry trees and dogwoods out to Prospect Street.
I didn’t comment.
“Beautiful place here. I can see why kids want to get in. Like the Mayor’s niece. His sister’s girl. At Bay View Academy. Ya know Bay View? Over in East Providence? Has her heart on gettin’ in here. Parents too….”
Ugh.
“… and smart as a whip. Did very well on the PSAT. Should be right up there.”
So, there it was. A typical Puppy Dog farrago. The first of Puppy Dog’s ‘coupla things’? He was like a Portuguese man of war, a gas bag with poisonous tentacles.
“I’m sure if she applies, has the grades, the extra curricula, and SAT’s, she’d receive every appropriate consideration.”
Puppy Dog smiled back at me, as though my neutral words contained a hidden promise. He took out a stained handkerchief, blew his carrot-like nose, and assumed a ‘that didn’t hurt too much, did it’ pose.