Hoax

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  It was an image so complete that few people ever knew that there were really two Andrew Kanes. The one most people met was the glib, white-shoe lawyer—the only remaining partner of Plucker, Bucknell and Kane, a big Wall Street firm that mainly represented institutions and wealthy individuals for exorbitant fees. Anyone who could read a newspaper knew that the lucrative law practice, phenomenal timing in the stock market, and an astute sense for real estate development in Manhattan had made him one of the wealthiest men in a city of wealthy men.

  Still, what was wealth without power? he mused as he looked down on the crowd. It was power that truly appealed to him, which had prompted his decision to finally seek public office after being a behind-the-scenes kingmaker for so many years.

  Of course, the Fifth Avenue public relations firm orchestrating his campaign couched it as “giving back to the city that had given so much to Andrew Kane.” But he saw the office of mayor as only a stepping-stone to greater things. Next would come governor or senator. And who knew, if he played his cards right, it was easy to imagine himself sitting at the big desk in the Oval Office. The most powerful man in the world; the man with the finger on the button. Just the thought of so much technological testosterone sent a shiver of pleasure from his head to his groin. Lesser men have certainly done it…take Clinton for instance…

  Even this, the public Andrew Kane, the one he thought of as the faux Kane, was something of a chameleon. He could be a man of the people, appearing in Harlem or Inwood wearing a suit straight off the rack from Sears, properly crumpled and pilled around the collar as though to imply long days, and a man who, while rich, was at heart just plain folks.

  Kane worked those audiences like a traveling revivalist. In blue collar, white neighborhoods, they leaped to their feet and shouted his name—led by shills hired to pump up the crowd—when he promised more union jobs on city contracts.

  “Amen!” they yelled in black neighborhoods when he spoke out in favor of affirmative action quotas “to right the wrongs of the past.” And when he promised the Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Mexicans, and assorted other Latinos that his administration would back “fair and equitable” immigration reform, he was lauded with “Viva Senor Kane!”

  In a way, the media was even easier to manipulate than the people. A case in point was the hastily arranged “community meeting” that afternoon by his press information office after a gang shooting in Harlem the night before.

  “As mayor,” he solemnly promised the array of television cameras alerted to the photo-op by his press secretary, “I will declare a War on Gangs and accept nothing but their unconditional surrender until our neighborhoods are safe for law-abiding citizens.”

  The pronouncements brought only polite applause from the live audience—they’d heard similar promises ad infinitum with little ever actually done to fulfill them. Their applause, however, was more enthusiastic when he added that he would make sure that the officers of the New York City Police Department understood that it was their job “to protect and serve the public, including people of color.”

  Meanwhile, in the wealthy, mostly white enclaves of Manhattan, they listened to the same messages on their televisions and believed that they were hearing a promise to keep the blacks, Hispanics, and Asians in their own areas of the city. There, as far as they were concerned, the undesirables were free to kill each other. The police were, of course, expected to work for the people who actually paid taxes.

  Kane was savvy enough to know that the public would turn off too much negative news. So he mixed in a little lighter pap that was near and dear to the heart of any New Yorker by vowing to have a personal talk with “my good friend” George Steinbrenner, the owner of the Yankees, as well as the owners of the New York Jets, Mets, and Knickerbockers, to see what could be done about the high price of tickets for sporting events.

  “It’s getting so a hardworking American family can’t afford to go to a game, buy a coupla’ hot dogs for the kids, and maybe (wink wink) a cold, frosty one for Dad…. After all, attending a baseball game is practically an American birthright and more important than ever since that terrible day of September 11, 2001.” He’d found that mixing in a little 9/11 sentimentality with baseball, mom, and apple pie brought them to their feet every time.

  Surprising to some in light of his wealth and social status, Kane enjoyed the support of many of the Harlem ministers, who pronounced him a “strong voice for the African-American community.” Indeed, he brought tears to the eyes of many black matrons when asked to speak at their church services, where he’d recount his now-famous story of how he’d been abandoned by his mother in a Dumpster. “I don’t bear her any ill will,” he’d say, his voice cracking dramatically. “I’m sure it was the desperate act of some poor, troubled, unwed teenager. It was only by the grace of God, to whom we are giving praise today, that I was fortunate to have been adopted by such a loving couple, Michael and Elizabeth Kane.” Who, he thought with a smile, just happened to live in Mount Vernon, the wealthy enclave north of Manhattan.

  The story would lead into a popular “Kane sermon” that always struck a chord in the black churches—the importance of having both a mother and a father in the home. Then afterward, as he stood at the door and the congregation filed out, he would squeeze their hands and his eyes would brim with tears. “Thank you, brother. Thank you, sister. Remember me in November, and I’ll remember you at City Hall.”

  The chameleon’s color changed, however, when back among the people he normally socialized with in midtown Manhattan. Swimming through the cocktail parties and charity events like a shark through a school of mackerel, he preferred silk Armani suits that cost more than some of the just plain folks earned in six months. And he made sure the power brokers of the city understood that all that courting of the great, unwashed masses was just politics and the price to be paid to keep one of their own in charge of the city.

  Teased by his wealthy acquaintances about his comments in the Times and Post about cheaper sporting events, Kane would smile and shrug, “Simple minds, simple pleasures.” Then he’d look back over his shoulders as though watching out for eavesdroppers and add, “The Romans kept them happy with bread and circuses; we have beer and baseball.”

  He was always up for a good “nigger joke” at private dinner parties when the women retired to another room and the men turned to Cuban cigars and snifters of brandy. Unless, of course, some of the few blacks occasionally allowed into the circle were present—and usually trying so hard to fit in that the others laughed at them behind their backs and referred to them as “Michael Jackson wannabes.” If some of the blacks were in hearing range, then the off-color humor might be directed at the Puerto Ricans or the “boat people” from Asia. Usually, the blacks would chuckle along with the rest, secretly ashamed not to object but telling themselves that they could do more good later “changing the system from within.”

  The press loved Kane. He could be counted on for a great quote, as well as picking up the tab at restaurants and bars. Moreover, he moved in the same social circles as the editors, station managers, and publishers, as well as the media stockholders. As such, attempts to portray him in anything but a good light were generally spiked by editors, who insisted that reporters make greater efforts to be “fair” in their copy. Because most of those reporters were generally too lazy, inept, or unwilling to really dig and take on someone like Kane, the hard-nosed stories usually died a slow death in some computer file. Or, they were turned into powder-puff pieces focusing on Kane’s contributions to the arts and his open wallet for every charity that came knocking.

  What few negative reports surfaced seemed to slide off his back like grease on a hot skillet. Then his press secretary would go on the attack, labeling the accounts as scurrilous slander by some unscrupulous member of the press “who is just trying to make a name for himself.”

  Kane glanced at his diamond-encrusted Bulova. Nearly midnight. He was growing restless, flexing and unflexing the muscles of
his well-knit body, and needed something to release the tensions of having to maintain the faux Kane for such a long period.

  Still, he remained on the dais making small talk with the man at his side, Cardinal Timothy Fey, the archbishop of New York. The fund-raiser was to pay for Fey’s pet project: a new cathedral—grander and more magnificent than St. Patrick’s—to be located next to Ground Zero where the World Trade Center had stood.

  A beefy, florid septuagenarian, Fey had been raised as a child on the violent streets of Belfast. He still spoke with an accent and retained something of the old parish priest that endeared him to New York’s large Irish-American community. Despite the trappings of his office and the fact that he was one of the most powerful men in New York, he was generally viewed as a simple, pious shepherd of his flock.

  The cardinal looked tired but was determined to greet the flock of men and women in tuxedos and thousand-dollar designer dresses who approached. And as Plucker, Bucknell and Kane was the church’s law firm, its senior partner thought he ought to remain as a show of support.

  Kane looked at his watch again and scowled. He leaned back slightly to see the man on the other side of the archbishop.

  Father Riley O’Callahan was a rather nondescript specimen—average height, weight, curly but thinning blond hair, and a Vandyke beard—except he had a lazy eye that tended to drift off on its own when he was engaged in conversation. Catching his attention, Kane raised his eyebrows and O’Callahan answered with a shrug.

  As if that was a cue, O’Callahan looked down and reached for the cellular telephone clipped to his belt. The priest stepped back and answered, listening carefully, then flipped the phone closed. He looked up at Kane and smiled. “Wrong number.”

  Kane smiled and turned back to the partygoers, nodding to those who caught his eye like a benevolent king looking out upon his adoring subjects. A moment later, his face drained of color and he felt as though he might faint.

  The archbishop saw the change and reached for one of Kane’s arms as though to steady him. “Andy, are you all right?” he asked.

  When Kane said nothing, Fey and O’Callahan both turned to follow his gaze. He was staring across the room at three people, two men and a woman. One of the men was about O’Callahan’s height, thin and well groomed in a sort of turn-of-the-century banker’s way, complete with pocket watch and fob. His facial features were sharp though softened somewhat behind round, steel-rimmed glasses, and he had an efficient but essentially harmless look about him.

  The woman, on the other hand, was rather large and, especially in view of all the black coats, ties, and dresses, garish as a Las Vegas casino in a low-cut red dress that exposed great expanses of her cantaloupe-size breasts, with matching red stiletto heels that looked capable of piercing tires. She was as out of place as a liberal Democrat at a National Rifle Association convention, but she gave the impression that most of the people in attendance were beneath her.

  Yet, it wasn’t the woman or the efficient man who had caused the reaction in Kane. That distinction went to the third in the party. He was tall—six foot five, by Kane’s guess—with a rugged face that looked as though he’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring…and lost. He walked with a noticeable stiffness in one leg, but there was nothing that suggested weakness in body or spirit.

  While they’d never met, Kane knew from newspapers and television newscasts that he was looking at New York District Attorney Roger Karp. Seeing him across the ballroom, a single word had popped up in Kane’s mind—nemesis—and he was reminded of the old saying about someone dancing on his grave. His stomach had knotted and he felt his heart pounding in his ears. For one of the few times in his life he was afraid.

  Still, Andrew Kane would not have been who he was if he let any man’s presence shake him for long. In fact, once he recovered from the initial shock, he welcomed the fear; it gave him a deliciously edgy felling. He pulled his arm away from Fey. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Must be tired.”

  Kane wondered why he’d had such a strong reaction to Karp. It was simply remarkable that their paths had never crossed before. He made it a point to know who was who in the city. As the head of a large law firm for nearly thirty years, he knew of course that Karp had been the chief of the DA’s homicide division and then the number two man in the office. He was also aware when Karp was appointed to fulfill the remaining years of the incumbent, Jack X. Keegan, who’d left that past winter for a federal judgeship.

  Yet, Karp as a person had flown beneath Kane’s radar, a nonentity…just another drone in a large, inefficient bureaucracy. Now, he found it disturbing that he knew so very little about what made the man tick.

  According to his spies, the new DA was making an effort to reach out and recruit bright young law students. Meanwhile, the old guard who’d been killing time in the office since the days of manual typewriters were getting the message that they were either going to start pulling their share of the load again, or they were going to be passed up for promotions and the best assignments. The laziest among them might even find their asses out on the street. “He calls it a ‘return to meritocracy,’ ” one of Kane’s spies, who happened to be a member of the old guard, sniffed. “The lousy bastard.”

  Hardly anything to be alarmed at…every new politician and bureaucrat came to office promising reform, promises that were quickly forgotten. Like all men, Karp would prove to be another mere mortal with weaknesses to exploit. And I’m just the man to find them, he told himself.

  With that reassuring thought, the color returned to Kane’s face. He decided that the best defense was to attack. He stepped off the dais and headed for Karp with the surprised Fey and O’Callahan scuttling after him like baby ducks.

  “Butch Karp, I presume,” Kane said in a loud bonhomie voice, using the big man’s well-known nickname. He extended his hand and did his best to bathe the DA in the glow of his warmest smile. “Andrew Kane. I don’t believe I’ve had the honor, but I think you know his eminence, Archbishop Fey.”

  Karp smiled in return, though it looked as if he might have strained a muscle in his face to do so, and extended a hand. “Mr. Kane,” he said without any real enthusiasm before turning to shake Fey’s hand somewhat more warmly.

  As the other two men exchanged pleasantries, Kane had the opportunity to study Karp. The DA was obviously not a man who spent a lot of time with a tailor, maybe just long enough to take down the hems and sleeves of whatever suit he could find at a tall and big man’s store. Probably spends most of his free hours in sweats, he thought.

  However, what struck him about Karp was the intensity of his eyes whether he was speaking to Fey or had turned to look at someone in the crowd. The eyes were gray and sprinkled with flecks of gold and gave Kane the mildly unsettling impression that their owner was trying to see beneath the surface of whatever he was looking at.

  The examination was interrupted when the rest of Karp’s party was introduced. The short man was his “special assistant,” Gilbert Murrow. The woman, Ariadne Stupenagel, a journalist who was apparently writing a story for the Village Voice on Karp.

  As they made small talk, a photographer from the New York Times seized the moment to snap a photograph of Karp and Kane, who placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder as if they were best buddies. Beneath the smile, Kane detested Karp and was infuriated by the way the district attorney shrugged off his hand after the photo was snapped. But he was a firm believer in the old Chinese proverb: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. So when he got a moment, he steered Karp aside “for a little private chat.”

  Away from the others, he launched into his spiel about “declaring war on gangs” and bringing law and order back to the streets of Manhattan. “But I can’t do it alone,” he said, allowing his face to melt into a mask of absolute sincerity. “I’d like your support and in return, you could count on mine…. You know it costs a lot of money to mount a campaign these days, and my sources tell me that the Republicans think they have a goo
d shot at the office. But I hear nothing but good things about you, and I’d like to have you on my team when I’m mayor.”

  Kane pulled out a business card from a small leather holder he kept in his breast pocket and extended it to Karp. “This is my private number,” he said, “give me a call and let’s do lunch next week.” He’d said it with such charm that he was stunned when Karp looked at him as if he’d crapped in his pants.

  “First of all,” Karp said icily, “the New York District Attorney’s Office is not a part of the mayor’s office, so I would not be on your team. I have my own team, and we work for the people of the city and county of New York. Second, I don’t do lunch, unless you call grabbing a potato knish and an Orange Crush soda between 12:11 and 12:13 Monday through Friday doing lunch. Third, I thought there had to be an election before one got to call himself mayor. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my friends.”

  Kane stood staring at Karp’s back with his mouth open and the card still extended in his hand. He couldn’t believe that he’d just been dismissed in front of a room full of people, each and every one of whom—he was certain, even without looking—had just seen and heard his humiliation and were now tittering behind his back. He felt the eggshell of the faux Andrew Kane cracking and was afraid that he was about to start screaming.

  Fortunately, Murrow suddenly appeared and snatched the business card out of his hand. “Sorry,” the DA’s assistant apologized as his boss walked away, “it’s been a long day, and we’re getting a little cranky. We’ll give you a call and maybe we can do…” he stopped and shrugged, “…I don’t know, maybe dinner?”

  With an effort, Kane pulled the smile back on his face. “Sure, sure I understand, rigors of the campaign trail and all,” he said as calmly as he could manage, but he really wanted to reach out and strangle the man.