by JJ Partridge
* * *
Five minutes later, I walked down Bowen Street, avoiding the puddled sidewalks where plane trees and maples continued to drop rainwater, in tune with a half-remembered ‘summertime dreaming’ Beach Boys song that popped into my head. The air had been washed, retaining its after-rain smell, my spirits were high. That lasted until I spotted the police cruiser in front of my house.
I rapped on the cruiser’s passenger side window. It slid down with creaks, as though grit was in the rails. “Officer, can I help you?” I said into the darkness of the car’s interior. Only a blue short sleeve shirt was visible.
A large head with a dark brush cut and black eyes craned out of the shadows to see me. “Are you Alger Temple?” The voice had spent years in growls.
“That’s me. What’s the problem, officer?”
“No problem. I’m supposed to let Goldbloom know if you arrive.” He reached to a handset on the dashboard. It crackled and he said, “72. Tell Goldbloom that Temple’s home.”
Static, unintelligible voice, and more static.
“Just tell him, okay?” he responded impatiently.
More noise and words that made little sense to me but to the cop something that needed a response. “Look, give him the message! I’m goin’ back to patrol.” He slammed the handset into its dash holder. The window went up an inch and stopped. His head was again visible. “You the Commissioner’s friend, right? The guy from the University …?”
I acknowledged that I was.
“Let me tell ya somethin’. I’m on the force … twenty years. Never had a commish that wasn’t just a stooge set up by a mayor to do the awards and stuff. Tramonti …, he’s trying to do something. Got a set a balls. You should hear the crap Sonny and McCarthy put out about him. Probably shouldn’t say this, but ….”
I shoved my hand into the car. “I appreciate it.”
“Vinnie Greco.” He took my hand and leaned forward to display a wide face with substantial nose, square chin, and a wide grin. “Do me a favor. Don’t pass it on.”
“I understand.”
“Puppy Dog must need to see ya. I’ve been sittin’ here for an hour. Whatta waste of time for me to be sittin’ here for that asshole. That’s what’s wrong. Ya know what I’m tellin’ ya?”
I agreed, heartedly, said goodbye, and entered my house. Mrs. Pina was in the living room and looked up from her vacuum cleaner to cluck at the wet I had brought to the hall. “E-e-e!,” her hands went to her pile of thick gray hair. I said, “Sorry,” complained about the rain of the morning, told her the place looked spick-and-span, and escaped further admonishment by asking after her grandson who is our district councilman and her pride and joy. I changed clothes quickly and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. When the front door chimes rang a few minutes later, I figured it was Puppy Dog and barely beat Mrs. Pina to the door.
Puppy Dog, in his other suit but same straw fedora, breezed by us into the central hall. “I called four freakin’ times …!” he complained and then he saw Mrs. Pina. She appraised him in a single glance, looked at me quizzically, and with her nose pointing at the ceiling, went back into the living room. I love her!
I led him into the kitchen where he stood at the center counter, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. There were transparent pimples of sweat on his oily, carrot-shaped nose. “You avoiding me? You gotta get on the Journal!”
He followed me into the den. I said over my shoulder, “Look, we’re not putting out a statement. That’s it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“What could we say anyway? Sonny doesn’t pay his bills on time?” I sat on the divan and he didn’t. He went to the windows, took a deep breath, and addressed me in the reflection of the glass.
“Better get off that,” he snarled. “You just got away with your Commencement. Now, you owe!”
I almost went for his bait by firing back in anger. Usually, my best tactic in dealing with Puppy Dog is to let him ramble while I remain silent. It irritates him enough to fill the void. But not today. He was on my turf, had chased me down, not the other way around. That realization helped my voice remain calm, almost pleasant. “Leon, do yourself a favor. Leave it….”
“Put the word out that the billings get screwed up sometimes, especially when there’s a big party. You sent the bill to City Hall, not his address for political things. Anything, something….”
“How about the truth….”
“Bullshit! The truth is the Mayor’s got a problem so you got a problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Simple. Sonny takes the hit for a day. Okay? But then he turns it around on the University, and you and Tramonti get accused of a conspiracy against him. The Mayor’s protecting taxpayers so you try to embarrass him because you’re Tramonti’s buddy. It’s all a political set up by you. Sonny’s gonna get through it. He pays the bill … clerical problem, whatever, … somebody takes a fall in the organization. But, you, you’re goin’ to take a hit. Only chance for you is that Danby starts thinking about how the Mayor gets paid back for not making you—and I mean you—the issue. These goddamn buildings for instance. What’s the fuckin’ delay? And it’s time to take care of a coupla other ….”
“I can’t believe what you’re….”
“Hey, tough fuckin’ titty! I’m just the messenger. Grow up. This is politics.”
By now, I was pacing the den behind Puppy Dog who remained facing the windows. My stomach was so tight with anger, I could hardly talk. Providence politics is a blood sport and Puppy Dog and I had been in a lot of battles, but this time his threat was personal. I couldn’t remember if he had ever used a vulgarity addressed to me. Something is up. What? Why? It made me emboldened.
“Okay, you tell Sonny this. Maybe you should use very simple words so he’ll understand. First, no ‘fuckin’ apology.’ We’re not putting out a statement. That’s it. Tell him this is ‘politics.’ The Faculty Club is separate and apart from the University. Other than an annual subsidy, it runs itself. If Sonny wants to take advantage of its hospitality as an ex officio member, he can. That’s in its charter. But if he runs up a bill again, he gets tossed, with lot’s of publicity about what a welsher he is, and that’s a hell of a lot better than a story about how Sonny got to be a member in the first place.”
“What…?”
“Oh, please! Any Journal reporter willing to dig would find it, how the Club was denied a full liquor license for years and, bingo, Sonny puts in the fix and the License Board says ‘yes.’ ”
Abruptly, Puppy Dog turned to me, his face in a disparaging sneer. “You don’t have the balls to go there.”
“After years of applying and no license, Sonny’s guys on the Board get the Mayor’s nod and they vote for the special club full license, but only after the club’s charter got changed making the mayor of Providence an ex officio member. Who’s idea was it for the quid pro quo? I don’t know and don’t care. It happened long before me and it’s history as far as I’m concerned. But to a Journal reporter…? Tell Sonny if he tries to do anything to me, one thing out of line that he can’t prove, there’ll be lawsuits and subpoenas and depositions and everything he doesn’t need. Especially on those jerks at the License Board. He’s got more to lose than I do if that story comes out.”
Puppy Dog turned and snarled, “You wouldn’t dare push a load of crap like that. You know you can’t prove anything….”
“Right.” I moved closer to him, my lips zippered, my eyes showing the matter was closed. I knew Puppy Dog—and Sonny—wouldn’t risk the Journal delving too deeply into the machinations of his flunkies on the License Board. And he flinched! A gulp bounced his Adams apple two inches. “So, you’re threatening the Mayor….”
“I never threaten. You want the buildings, they’re yours. All clean and nice and Italian. But if Sonny gets nasty, presto, they disappear! If he’s got a cover story for the Faculty Club exposé, use it. We won’t deny it.”
Puppy Dog marched out of the den, tripping on the last step to the kitchen in his haste, slamming doors on his way out. I remained in the den, still feeling feisty. I had been so ballsy! The rumor about the License Bureau, all secondhand to me and old news for some, but a great twist on the expenditure story that Sonny wouldn’t like. Who asked who and for what? When did it happen? Sonny’s first term, six, seven years ago? Would anybody care? And the buildings. He needs the buildings!
But was my threat enough? What else was coming our way?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Having learned the hard way that the better lawyer is the prepared lawyer, I wanted to brush up on insurance law before tomorrow’s Haversham Golf Club’s membership meeting in case I got involved in a colloquy with a knowledgeable member.
After a lunch of thinly sliced capicola on a hard roll from Mrs. Pina’s cousin’s bakery and a hard boiled egg washed down with a Bass Ale, I went upstairs to the loft and logged into our office’s online library to an insurance treatise, Kaplan on Insurance. ‘Important Points’ was the heading on my yellow legal pad as I made notes from relevant chapters:
‘(1) Policy Construction—in favor of the insured. If there is doubt as to whether coverage exists, such doubts should be resolved in favor of coverage. Good!
(2) Policy Binders—not as good as a complete policy but if the parties agreed as to what the policy was going to provide, a binder would be ‘binding’ on the insurance company. See World Trade Tower cases. But, the intended insurance had to be proven by a preponderance of evidence. Could the Club do so?
(3) Type of Policy—a commercial business policy should cover liability to third parties, fire damage and other casualties to buildings and contents, and have appropriate endorsements for ‘business interruption’ due to any calamity that shut down revenue. Any exclusion from coverage should be strictly construed against the insurer. Good!
(4) Breadth of Coverage—the building would be insured to replacement value up to a ‘cap.’ If the ‘cap’ was less than 80% of the loss, that would trigger a ‘co-insurance’ clause which requires the insured to pay a portion of the loss. Awful result but unlikely here. But the cap had to be high enough to cover the loss and the cost of rebuilding.
(5) Building Contents—had to prove what the insured owned and that it was destroyed in the casualty. (Up to Charlie and the accountants.)
(6) Arson—doesn’t affect the collectability of insurance unless the fire was set by someone with an interest in the proceeds. (Assuming it was Ollie Randall, no issue.)
(7) Business Interruption Coverage. What did it include for a private golf club? Protection from revenue loss from the Club facilities? From members paying dues and guest play? From the pro shop sales? Delays in payments of dues? What about continuing costs for salaries during shutdown and repairs? Any separate cap on damages? Watch this one!
(8) Subrogation. If a third party was negligent and caused the loss, the insurance company would have all the rights of the Club to sue to get back any money paid out. (Maybe the fireworks company, or Ollie Randall’s estate—if there was one?)’
It all came down to this: the binder would refer to standard coverages and amounts of coverage and maybe a general description of the types of insurance. The adjusters, the lawyers, and the insurance company would have to agree as to what coverage was applicable under standard policies, conditions of the underwriting, and the quote, and any special endorsements standard for a ritzy golf club. That was the legal side. The practical side was what could be proven.
* * *
I showered, as much to get the legal clutter out of my head as anything else, and then watched the five o’clock news on Channel 11 whose video-cam truck followed today’s graduation events. After thirty seconds of celebrating graduates and close-ups of President Danby and guests, Chief Daniel Patrick McCarthy, looking official in a white shirt with brass collar emblems, shoulder boards, shiny badge, and black tie, smiled into the camera. He answered a reporter’s unheard questions by saying his ‘men’ were happy to see the end of this class, a bunch of ‘smart alecks’ and ‘troublemakers’ who had no respect for ‘law and order,’ who sneered at the citizens of our fair city!
Goddamn it! How had the ‘buffoon of the year’ gotten air time to besmirch our graduates? My guess was that Channel 11 had this interview in the can when they showed up at graduation. A Puppy Dog shot across the bow, whether we had a truce or not.
I gave the Chief his due by clicking off, although that didn’t quench my frustration. To whom could I vent? It was three hours before I picked up Nadie. Not even a Gordon’s gin martini and crackers with dolce gorgonzola helped as I scanned the Journal’s ‘Lifebeat’ section for some early evening diversion. As the last of the setting sun flooded downtown with golden light, tonight’s WaterFire would begin with eclectic music while flaming braziers transformed the Providence River into a glowing path for party boats, even gondolas, and thousands of Riverwalk strollers. Not quite up for that. What else? The Pawtucket Red Sox at home against the Ottawa Lynx at McCoy Stadium in Pawtucket? I would have to leave in the seventh inning. Stay at home with the package of Netflix DVD’s unopened on the hall table?
I opted for dinner at Jimmy’s.
* * *
At the Billiard Club, the pool tables were dark and only a table of card players and a few members watching a golf tournament on the plasma screen occupied the lounge. I went behind the bar for a Bass Ale and took the bottle to a table at the far side of the room, snapped on the cones of table lights, and set a rack of balls. I barely noticed the woman who entered the Club and busied herself behind the bar until she walked over to my table, Heineken bottle in hand. She was tall, a redhead with curly hair, maybe thirty, looking attractive in a white blouse and dark trousers, one of the few female members I didn’t know by sight or name. She said, “Hello.” Her voice was a touch breathy. “Bethany Reins,” and she put out a slender hand.
“Hi. Alger Temple.” ‘Bethany Reins.’ The name was vaguely familiar.
“I’m in the woman’s flight for the tournament. Thought I’d get in some practice.” Her voice was a flat Midwestern.
“Had the same idea.”
She took a step into the table lights. “Want a game? Nine ball?”
It was so natural and innocent. If she had been a guy, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say ‘yes,’ so I wouldn’t for a woman? Some pleasant company wasn’t going to compromise me.
We played two games of nine ball. She was pretty good and I played better than I might have. Go figure. There wasn’t a lot of conversation, just banter as to good and bad shots, the upcoming tournament, and that many women were disinclined to play the game seriously because unlike golf, it was widely viewed as either too macho or seedy. She seemed sincere and pleasant; during the second game, she mentioned she began playing pool with her dad and brother in the family’s basement rec room in Akron, Ohio. I said I had been a player since I was a teenager, told her how I was introduced to the game by Young Jimmy and his friend, now Police Commissioner Tramonti, describing Jimmy’s Billiard Club when it was a neighborhood Irish bookie joint owned by the infamous politician and tavern owner James Aloysius Hannigan. Before I knew it, I’d asked her to join me for dinner.
We went downstairs and the restaurant’s hostess, Maria Catarina’s niece, placed us at a red clothed table in the center of the busy dining room, a little conspicuous but, what the hell. We ordered the pizza special of the day, molto tomatoes with chopped green onions, paper thin chouricco, and mushrooms and decided to split a calamari appetizer. I ordered wine and our waitress was soon pouring glasses of Quinto da Aveledo. She was talkative, about her family and growing up in Ohio, and as she went on, I appraised her. Close up, she wasn’t especially pretty, a touch overweight for her height but with a warm smile showing white even
teeth, a nice complexion, hair that was more amber than red in the subdued restaurant lighting, with striking blue eyes. A plate of golden calamari with chopped hot banana peppers and red sauce arrived and I was going to ask her about her job when I remembered who she was! An investigative reporter for the Journal.
“Hey,” I interrupted her abruptly. “Is this really a coincidence?”
“What do you mean,” she said, her eyes widening.
“Are you on the Faculty Club story?”
“That’s me,” she said without reticence or abashment. “And I don’t stalk people.”
I betrayed disbelief as I made a show of pushing away my plate.
“Sorry, that’s hard to believe.”
“I wouldn’t abuse Jimmy’s like that.”
“So, can we have dinner and not mention the Mayor or the University?”
“If you want.”
I pulled back my plate, but couldn’t let the awkwardness dissipate. “I imagine the Mayor’s not too happy.”
“Actually,” she said with eyes that didn’t meet mine, “he’s been cooperative. I didn’t expect that. Claims it’s a matter of administrative miscue. He knew we were on a story about how he spends his political action committee money, the dinners, the ‘meets.’ As for the Faculty Club, it’s no secret the University is his pet peeve, so why does he spend any time and money up there? Can’t be just the food….”
She was eliciting a response. I stabbed a calamari.
“Oh, come on,” she continued, smiling now. “It has to be because he enjoys making everyone there uneasy. By the way, I’m a Carter graduate, ten years out now. The University has been and will always be his target. It’s a wedge thing for him.”
“An undeserving one,” I responded.
“He’d debate that one,” she said. “After all, he does have a point about real estate taxes. The University owns some of the best real estate in town and doesn’t pay any taxes….”