by Brown, Dick
“Shezzz, gone,” Rick mumbled.
“You can tell me all about it when I get you home. Help me out here. Put your arm around my neck.”
Rick’s arm slid off Wil’s shoulder when he tried to lift him off the bar stool.
“Come on, you’ve got to stand up. I can’t carry you.”
Rick managed to get his feet under him and stagger-stepped out of the bar with Wil’s help. Loaded into Wil’s car, Rick wretched, putting his hand to his mouth before Wil could start the engine.
“Don’t you dare puke in my car!”
Rick just sat there, unable to move his convulsing body. Wil reached across Rick and, opened the door, and shoved his head outside. He grabbed him by the back of his shirt just as Rick threw up a day’s worth of bourbon, beer, and roasted peanuts onto the curb.
“Damn, Rick! You must have been trying to drink the bar dry.”
Wil pulled him back into the car, closed the door, and then drove off.
At Wil’s house, which he and Ginger had just moved into, he propped Rick up in a straight-back chair in the kitchen—next to the sink, just in case. Wil poured half a pot of black coffee cocktails mixed with Bufferin tablets down Rick until he was finally coherent enough to carry on a conversation.
“Are you ready to tell me what in hell this is about?”
“Candi left for Africa today,” Rick said, his voice barely a murmur.
“What’s she going to do in Africa?”
“She wants to photograph the genocide and starvation and win a Pulitzer,” he said, his voice stronger.
“That’s a pretty drastic move. When did this all come about?”
“She mentioned it a couple of times when we first started dating. I just didn’t think she was serious,” Rick confessed, holding his head with both hands. “I need to lie down. My head is killing me.”
The front door opened and in walked Ginger. When she saw Rick, she smiled and came over.
“Hi, Rick, good to see you.” She leaned in to give Rick a hug but pulled back when she saw the front of his shirt covered in vomit.
“Ugh, what happened to you—bad day at the office?”
“It’s a long story,” Wil said, getting out of his chair to help Rick to the bathroom. “I’ll fill you in later. Right now I have to get him out of those clothes and into bed to sleep it off.”
Chapter 55
“An appropriations bill in the assembly sponsored by yours truly has granted funds to establish a technical curriculum in Bankstowne High School.”
Tank’s condo
Sam paced in front of the fireplace like he always did. This time of year, the gas fire logs weren’t lit and Tank had already warned him not to spit his tobacco juice on the fake logs.
The General Assembly was in short session considering raising the tax on cigarettes. The cigarette tax bill was mired in the Appropriations Committee and would likely die there like it had every session it was introduced.
“Have you pulled in all your chips on this one?”
“Come on, Pop, they’re only talking about a nickel a pack. Even if it’s passed, which it won’t, how much can that hurt your profit margin?”
Sam shot him a stern glare. “Enough to make me worry. You should be worried, too.”
“They aren’t going to raise any taxes in an election year, especially on tobacco. That bill will never make it out of committee.”
Sam merely grumbled in response.
“It’s a pretty neat thing you did,” Tank said, “pulling strings to off-load the tax liability of the Shops property onto the state to house a new Steam History Museum. Pretty ironic, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?” Sam stopped pacing and turned a quizzical face toward his son.
“You closed it down and I’m going to open it back up. Truth is, my first term as state senator is almost over, thank God. We both know I’m not going to get re-elected. The Grad School Assemblyman has lost his appeal with the people. For once I can to do something I feel good about.”
“You’re giving up too soon. I need you here for another term, and then we can retire rich men. The folks in Bankstowne are excited about the idea of a museum. It means tourist dollars and could save the town. A nostalgic speech about the good old days at the dedication could give you a boost to get re-elected.”
Tank sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m tired, Pop, really tired. Playing football was never this hard. I really don’t want another term. I want my life back.”
“To do what? Sit behind a desk in some law firm in Raleigh? Take advantage of the weekend in Bankstowne to rest up at the house. You just need a break. You’ll think differently when you’ve rested up a bit.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ll be there representing Coastline along with a contingent of other officials. I doubt if my presence will be very welcome, but you don’t say no to the major stock holder and president of Coastline Railway, even if he is younger than me.
“How is Mom doing these days, anyway?”
“You could call once in a while and find out for yourself, you know. She finally made a couple of friends to play Bridge with. Otherwise, she hates it in D.C. The few friends she had down here dropped her after the strike. Now she wants me to retire so we can travel.”
“You have all the money you need. Why not get out while you’re ahead and make her happy for once?”
“I hate to fly, there aren’t many passenger trains anymore, and driving tires me out too much. But I think I might enjoy having more time to play golf. I play a couple of times a week at Kenwood Country Club in Bethesda. I could get used to playing there every day. There are usually a few congressmen and senators being schmoozed by lobbyist. I’ve joined them on occasion and do a little politicking myself. Railroads are suffering and we need a strong presence on Capitol Hill.
“There you go, thinking about business even in retirement.”
“Your mother has taken up tennis and plays Bridge twice a week while I’m on the golf course. So what if I do some work on the side? I’d go crazy if I left work completely.”
“Not me,” Tank said, wistfully crossing his arms behind his head. “I’m going to enjoy my eventual retirement. And you should give more thought to sucking it up and getting on a plane, if only for Mom’s sake.”
“You realize that would be contributing to the competition? That wouldn’t set well with young Thaddeus Banks”
“Sure Pop, give it some thought, like you always do about things she would enjoy doing in retirement. Are you staying over tonight? I’ll fix the guest room for you.”
“I have to get back for a big board meeting tomorrow. I can sleep on the way back. Henry is a safe driver and that Cadillac limo rides like you’re floating on air.”
“Relax about the cigarette tax, too. It isn’t going to happen, so you can keep all that New York tax money.”
“Don’t say things like that out loud. This house might be bugged . . .
“Because of that money you speak so derisively of, you won’t have to worry about a job if you don’t get re-elected. Just keep that in mind. We aren’t doing anything more than hundreds of little operators are doing running a truck load at a time, just on a bigger scale.”
“Pop, it doesn’t matter whether somebody loads up the trunk of his car or you load up a freight car. I’m a lawyer and member of the General Assembly. I’m tired of walking through a minefield every day, worried someone like that newspaper reporter will discover our business operation. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable I feel? If this thing blows up, we’ll both go to prison.”
“Every one of those politicians has a game of their own and use their office to promote or protect it. And as far as being a lawyer goes, they defend their clients—it isn’t their job
to decide guilt or innocence. I’m your client, so don’t go getting a conscience on me. Tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you. If you continue to protect our enterprise for the rest of your term, I’ll get out of the business and you can get out of politics if you don’t get re-elected. You’re right, we’ll have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. Deal?”
“Deal, but I think I could have made just as much money playing in the NFL and had a hell of a lot more fun.”
“You would be aging out about now if you were lucky enough not to get injured.” Sam scoffed. “Be grateful for what you have, son. You can afford to make a run for the U.S. Senate if you want to.”
“No way. We just made a deal. I’ve had enough politics. I’m thinking about maybe coaching. Carolina hasn’t won a bowl game in two years and that’s too long. I think I could do a better job coaching a football team than running the state.”
“My God, son, you can’t be serious? College coaches don’t make any money.”
“I already have enough money. You said so yourself. I want to do something I’ll enjoy. A waterfront beach house on Nags Head sounds appealing. I could do some serious thinking there.
“I’m tired, Pop. Bone weary. I just might go to our house in Bankstowne and sleep for a week,” he joked. “But right now, I need to start work on my speech for the dedication. I’ll walk you out.”
Standing in the doorway, Tank waved to his dad climbing into a sleek limousine. “Give Mom my love.”
“Call and tell her yourself,” Sam responded as the chauffeur closed the door.
The limousine pulled away. Maybe I’ll do that, he thought. She’s coming down a few days before the dedication ceremony to open the house. We could do a lot of catching up.
Chapter 56
“This funding will allow your children to be trained in the latest technical fields as electricians, mechanics, and drafters.”
Ann gets a break
Ann tried to look busy waiting on a phone call from Officer Cartier. The coffee vendor restocked supplies for the next week. Her monthly payments to all other bills were caught up. She’d finished going through Marie’s desk and file cabinet and found nothing usable in either one.
The phone rang just as she poured her second cup of coffee.
“S & T Distributing, how can I help you?” she said in a relaxed voice.
“Good morning, Ann. John Cartier here. I have the information you needed. Got a pen?”
“Yes, and thank you for being so prompt.”
“The vehicle is registered to a Rick Barnes in Raleigh. I did a little more digging and found out he’s a reporter for the Raleigh Times Herald. His phone number is (919)243-7318. Anything else you need?”
“Very impressive, Officer Cartier. That will do nicely.”
“Not a problem. Our mantra is, To Protect and To Serve, and please, call me John.”
“Well, thank you very much, John. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Could I ask a favor of you?”
“I owe you that much. What can I do for you?”
“Would you have dinner with me Saturday evening?”
Ann sat speechless.
“Uh oh. Do I take that as a no?”
“John, you’re a nice man, and I’m grateful for your help. But I’m going to have to decline. My husband passed away suddenly last December and I’m still working my way through that. I appreciate your kind invitation. I hope you understand.”
“I’m so sorry about your husband. I apologize for being so forward. I meant no offense.”
“None taken.”
“If I can be any help to you in the future, please don’t hesitate to call me. Take care and have a good day.”
The click from the other end echoed in Ann’s ear. She laid the phone in its cradle, wondering if she would ever be ready to have a serious relationship again. She felt relieved and proud that Rick had gone on to a successful career as a journalist, and she wondered what her life would have been like as Mrs. Rick Barnes.
Right now she needed to know what Rick was doing asking questions about the products being distributed from the warehouse. Did he know what was going on here? Since the local police weren’t interested in her newfound evidence, Rick might be the person to send it to. If she gave the information to him anonymously, he could deal with the police and leave her out of it.
She had to protect her family.
Chapter 57
“In conclusion, it saddens me to formally close these shops that have been the center of Bankstowne’s life for generations. But I am proud to announce that Coastline Railway will donate this facility to the State Bureau of Historical Preservation to make it the best Steam History Museum in the country.”
Secret informer
Wil sobered Rick up and let him sleep all the next day. The overdose of alcohol had flushed Candi from his memory, at least temporarily. He went back to work the next day in a new environment without Candi. He missed her already, and knew the only cure was to lose himself in work.
Back at his desk, Rick sorted his mail with the help of a cup of Ben’s high-octane coffee to kick start his neurons. He was about to toss a letter with no return address into the trash when he noticed a Winston-Salem postmark. Intrigued, Rick opened the envelope and pulled out a note block printed by hand.
Mr. Barnes,
I have information that can help your investigation of the S & T Distribution Co. Do not try to identify me. I must remain anonymous for the safety of my family. More information will follow.
Rick read the note again, trying to decide if it was a gag or not. He took it to Ben’s office and tossed it on his desk.
“What do you think?”
Ben read the note, cocked his head, and arched his eyebrow. “It might be real. Wait to see if you hear from them again. But we have to be extremely careful dealing with an anonymous source. Anything we get from this person has to be verified before we can use it.”
“I’ll run it over to SBI and get Wil to check it for fingerprints.”
“I would be surprised if there are any prints beside ours.” Ben shook his head. “What a couple of professionals we are. We’ve already contaminated the evidence. This person is afraid of being exposed. It would have to be somebody on the inside knowledgeable of the operation. Let’s hope they’re serious,” Ben said, handing the note back to Rick. “Keep me informed.”
SBI office
Rick carefully folded the note and hurried over to the SBI building. He repeatedly punched the elevator’s call button. It was moving too slow. He found the stairs and bounded up them two at a time to the third floor. He hustled down the hall to Will’s office and burst through his door without knocking.
“Wil, you won’t believe what I got in the mail this morning.” Rick handed the note to Wil, which he’d enclosed in a wax paper envelope normally used to store negatives. “Can you get this run for fingerprints? I’m afraid Ben and I handled it, so our prints will be on there too.”
“Thanks for contaminating the only evidence we’ve ever had, big brother. If you get another note, please don’t handle it. Bring it straight to me. Then we may find something.”
“So, shoot me, I’m a lousy detective.”
Rick spent the following morning hanging around the General Assembly building, quizzing house and senate members on the status of the cigarette tax bill. He avoided Tank but spotted the Appropriations’ Chairman, Senator Edward Palmer darting between meetings.
“Senator Palmer, Rick Barnes from the Raleigh Times Herald. Could I have a minute?”
“Walk with me,” he said, setting a quick pace Rick was barely able to keep up with.
“Senator, this is the fourth time in Governor Mathews’ administration that this or a similar bill to inc
rease the tax on cigarettes has been introduced. Each time it failed to come out of your committee. In spite of budget shortfalls, why not help close the gap with increased revenue from tobacco? You’ve raised sales taxes, license plate fees, inspection fees, driver’s licenses, and gasoline to the point that North Carolina is one of the most taxed states in the country. Can you explain why there has been such a hands-off policy on cigarettes by the General Assembly?”
“North Carolina is a tobacco state. Tobacco farmers vote, especially when their livelihood is threatened,” Palmer responded without breaking his stride.
“But sir,” Rick said, “other major tobacco growing states like Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and South Carolina have raised their tax per pack several times in that same timeframe. We have the lowest tax on our cigarettes and lead the other states in illegal sales transported to states with a much higher cigarette tax. Wouldn’t increasing the tax help reduce the illegal sale and smuggling of our low-taxed, unstamped cigarettes to higher taxing states like New York? It’s no secret that smuggling is rampant while the law and legislature look the other way. And your co-chairman, Assemblyman Johnson, has personally crusaded against any tax increase on tobacco. Yet he has no connections to tobacco. Why is that?”
Senator Palmer stopped abruptly and wheeled around to face the trailing, out-of-breath reporter. “Are you insinuating there is a connection between our refusal to tax cigarettes and the illegal smuggling of cigarettes from North Carolina?”
“No sir, but you just did. You still haven’t answered my question, sir. Why is North—”