What Goes Up

by Allen Weiner

  The two men found an empty conference room outside the newsroom tucked alongside the HR office. Max flipped the light switch on, and with a crackling that sounded like angry fireflies, the room lit as they took seats across from one another at a small round table. Max had filled Aaron in on his early digging into Donahue’s background, and the older reporter was glad to partner with his younger colleague. Grant was well aware of the chemical dumping series’s work and saw a chance to capitalize on Max’s passion, keen sense, and instinct. Aaron knew that with Max’s eagerness would come a chance of rookie mistakes.

  “I’m not sure how much you know about Mark Donahue, but since you’ve worked here for a while, I wonder what you might know about some of the questions regarding him getting companies to relocate here.”

  Grant paused, sizing up his new work associate. On the surface, they had nothing in common. It was obvious to Grant, based on Max’s accent and cadence, that he grew up in a big city—most likely Philadelphia. You could fit thirty Dothan, Alabamas in the city limits of Philadelphia. Grant admired Max’s longish hair in contrast to his own rapidly receding hairline. He also grinned, measuring his starched white shirt and tie compared to Max’s brandless old button-down and khakis. Grant also surmised Max to be Jewish while he was a Southern Baptist through and through, not that it mattered to him. Opposites work well together, Grant thought to himself. Isn’t that what they say?

  “I know a little about the mayor,” Grant said with just a hint of Southern drawl. “I did a piece a few years back about his wife and her work with local nurses. I got to meet Donahue when I went to their house to do the interview.”

  “What I was thinking was a little bit of misdirection,” Max suggested. “What if we approached Donahue by saying that we’re doing a feature on the development successes he’s led. In the meantime, we can poke around and see what we can find about his connection to the companies that moved here.”

  “I can arrange for the interview,” Grant said, signaling he agreed with Max’s approach. “How about I check into the toy company and typewriter firm, and you can focus on the local contractors who did the construction on the remodel of the building on South 7th.”

  “Should we tell Jack Devlin what we’re up to?” Max asked.

  “I’ll take care of that. I see him every day. Let’s touch base at the end of the week.”

  After meeting with Grant, Max drove up to Nesquehoning for his regular shift at the bureau. He stopped at McDonald’s for a burger, fries, and Coke—a meal he indulged in more often than he should, but sometimes expedience trumped the need for healthy food. As he opened the door to the Chronicle’s suburban enclave, a burst of cold air accompanied him, causing everyone to turn around and pretend to shiver.

  Max sat at his desk and wolfed down his high-calorie, high-carb lunch while looking through the few pieces of mail on his desk. After his last visit to the Carbon County Chamber of Commerce, he figured he was persona non grata, but there was an invitation to the chamber’s Christmas party in living color. Max chuckled and tossed the glossy piece of mail in the trash. He made a note to RSVP in the negative in the next day or so.

  Al Hickey was finishing up a phone call as Max, still munching on the few fries left in the small, greasy paper bag, approached Al’s desk. Wanting to follow Devlin’s instructions, he gave Al a recap of his meeting with Aaron Grant and the plan to approach the Allentown mayor using a bit of an end-around. Max asked Al, the assignment editor at the bureau that day, to pass on his message to the managing editor. Max knew that each day around 5 p.m. Devlin had a phone conference with the bureau editors to get an idea of what stories were cooking for the next day’s morning edition.

  “Wait, before you go,” Al said, putting up his hand as if he were stopping traffic. “Let me tell you about Joe Taylor. Taylor has earned the nickname ‘Bull’ for a good reason. He’s a pitbull, built like a linebacker, and is well known as Donahue’s fixer. He became part of the mayor’s team when he first took office in 1970. I’ve heard rumors that paint him in less than favorable light.”

  As Max turned to walk back to his desk, Al added four words that would be turn out to be eerily prophetic: “Be careful out there.”

  Max found out that Sue was given the assignment to cover the Marian Catholic High School basketball game. This was no ordinary game, as Tamaqua’s Marian was undefeated in the state and ranked number one. That night’s game, a semifinal in the Pennsylvania AA Girls Basketball Conference, was against Delone Catholic, a team with only one loss. Max hadn’t seen Sue in a few days and had hoped to thank her for her willingness to help with his spycraft.

  Before heading out to a school board meeting in Jim Thorpe, Max called Aaron Grant to see if he had an interview scheduled with the mayor.

  “I’m waiting to hear back. I forgot to tell you: there’s this guy, Joe Taylor, who has to approve any interview with the mayor. I’ve dealt with him before, and he’s a bit of a prick—pardon my French.”

  “Okay, keep me posted,” Max said. The second time in fifteen minutes, he heard the name Joe Taylor, and it was not followed by “What a great guy.”

  On the same legal pad Max used to list possible targets for investigation directly above the words “Payoffs” and “City Officials,” Max wrote the name Joe Taylor—Bull. Who is this guy? Max wondered. Whatever the case, Max knew who he had to call to learn more. The sooner, the better.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Barrett searched through the Yellow Pages to find the uniform store closest to his condo. He planned to rent, if possible, the uniform of a janitor, which would allow him to work undetected on the elevator in Allentown City Hall. Because the building was the city’s political nerve center, it would be impossible to plant an FM transmitter in one of its elevators without causing suspicion. Barrett made a “closed for cleaning” sign he would place outside the elevator while he fiddled around inside to plant the eavesdropping device.

  The plot was thicker than just sticking a transmitter behind the billboard in the lift. There were three elevators, and it was Barrett’s job to figure out which one the major and his attack dog, Bull, most often used. Barrett would have to sit at key times in the city hall lobby and take notes to learn that. Well, for most people, it would mean take notes—given Barrett’s well-studied memory tricks, it would be easy to remember.

  Max was working in parallel to attack his reporting mission on two fronts. Task one was to dig into every piece of information—no matter how trivial—related to Mark Donahue’s time in Springfield. Max wondered if he left Springfield for more than the reason for relocating to be closer to his wife’s family. Max also quietly—as quietly as he could without raising suspicion—poked around to get the scoop on Joe Taylor. Any access he and Aaron Grant would gain to the mayor would undoubtedly have to go through Taylor, a.k.a. Bull. As a reporter, Max felt it would be wise to know how much clout Taylor had.

  Unbeknownst to Max, Joe Taylor was busy on the phone learning as much as he could about Max Rosen and Aaron Grant. Grant had been with the Chronicle for years, so putting together a dossier on him was simple. Taylor leaned on his contacts at the newspaper who would fill in the blanks on Grant—Where did he live? Was he married with kids? What did he do in his spare time?

  Taylor was frustrated with his results in getting the skinny on Max Rosen. He learned that Max was born and raised in Philadelphia, went to college in Allentown, and joined the Chronicle less than six months ago. The only color Bull found out was that Max was a huge sports fan. Immediately, Taylor wondered how he could use that fact to his advantage. As a fixer, Taylor had an additional layer of sources he could call on for more info on Max Rosen. As the appointed mayoral gatekeeper, it was his job to keep his boss safe from harm, be it political or personal.

  Jack Devlin brought the Sunday Squad together for a status meeting as the days drew closer to Christmas. The calendar showed ten shopping days left before Santa’s arrival, and most of the Chronicle staff was winding do
wn doing holiday shopping and planning for the newspaper’s big Christmas party. Some were even spending their expected holiday bonuses on the currently popular game, Simon, a memory game in which players had to repeat colored lights patterns, assuming they could find one in stock somewhere.

  Devlin intended to hear what his team had unearthed in their first week of work. Aaron, speaking for the pair, gave a quick summary of their plan and encouraged Tom or Ximena to pass on anything that could help in their work. Tom was digging further into chemical dumping and its possible trickle-down impact on the entire state’s economy. Ximena was focused on the issue of rental discrimination against recent immigrants to the Lehigh Valley.

  It was a short meeting with Devlin, who suggested a conference call for the following Tuesday with another update. The managing editor wanted to begin scheduling some feature stories for upcoming Sunday editions. Putting together a calendar allowed Devlin to arrange for the necessary art and graphics for these front-page features and promotional ads. Devlin and the publishers hoped that the work of the Sunday Squad would yield new subscribers and advertisers.

  Friday afternoon, Max was back at the Nesquehoning office when Aaron Grant called. Grant was able to lock down an interview with the mayor the following Wednesday. The appointment was to include lunch at Donahue’s private dining room with Joe Taylor also on the menu. Taylor, who spoke to Grant to arrange the logistics, asked if Max and Aaron could provide a list of topics or questions they wanted to cover. Grant relayed the request to Max, who thought to himself, Like hell we will, but instead said the two would put together some fairly nonspecific angles for their upcoming lunch.

  Taylor’s request signaled a bright red flag to Max. Other than major celebrities or sports stars with agents wanting to protect their golden geese, it’s rare for reporters to be asked to submit their queries in advance. While it wasn’t Max or Aaron’s aim to catch Mayor Donahue off guard, the notion of giving an interview questions in advance makes for a less-than-spontaneous dialogue.

  No more than a minute after Max ended his call with Aaron, the phone rang. The caller was Doug Finkle of the State-Journal Register, the newspaper of record in Springfield, Illinois. Max had lobbed a call into Finkle, hoping to get some background on Donahue from his days as a city councilman in the Illinois capital city. Like any seasoned reporter, Finkle’s guard was up and wondered why Max was interested in some minor political figure who left town more than two decades ago.

  “Thanks for returning my call,” Max said, summoning up as much collegial warmth as possible. “Mark Donahue is a popular figure here in Allentown, and we’re doing a feature on his success in getting companies to relocate here. I was just wondering if there was anything you might add on background that would show how he developed his business acumen,” Max said.

  “Business acumen,” Finkle responded. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. He wasn’t exactly run out of town on a rail, but there were some issues with Donahue and a fellow city councilperson, if memory serves. Sylvia McGrath, I seem to recall, was her name. Anyway, after a few days of speculation, the whole matter disappeared. The reporters digging into the story always suspected a payoff. Most of us believed he moved away to save his marriage,” Finkle added. “While you’re at it, you may want to check into his car dealership. That’s about all I am comfortable saying.”

  There was a long pause as Max was scribbling notes as fast as possible. For a moment, Finkle thought they were disconnected before Max responded, thanking his fellow journalist for his time and assistance.

  Max was scheduled to work Saturday, but being so close to Christmas, it would be a slow news day. Saturday night, there were two Chronicle holiday parties—one for the reporters and staff at the bureau at six, with an eight o’clock celebration at the Hotel Pennsylvania in Allentown for all Chronicle employees.

  The party in Nesquehoning was very low key, given the events that led to the retirement of Ray Tomjanovich. Many of the support staff and those in circulation and advertising were unaware of the circumstances under which Ray left. Still, the rumors led all to believe it was a family matter.

  At seven fifteen, Max excused himself to drive down to the Chronicle party in Allentown, which was certain to be a lively and festive affair. Max was not much for these social events, but he felt he needed to make an appearance given his new, high-profile assignment. Earlier in the day, he asked Sue if she would like to go with him. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than she answered in the affirmative.

  “It’s a date,” she said with a laugh.

  Max was surprised at how much he enjoyed the Allentown celebration at the Hotel Pennsylvania. The newspaper had a good year financially as both ad revenue and circulation were on the rise. The night kicked off with a perfunctory speech from the publisher, Tim Daniels, but the three-hour affair was mostly one of good food and an open bar. Max had a Bloody Mary, which he carried around while Sue was giddy after three glasses of sparkling wine.

  Sue never left Max’s side, and when the night was over, they drove back to Nesquehoning, where Sue had left her car before the bureau event.

  “I’m way too drunk to drive home,” Sue said in a voice as soft and breathy as she could muster. “Can I stay at your place?”

  “I guess so . . .” was Max’s shaky response. He was unprepared for this situation. As Sue awaited a more exciting answer, Max’s associative memory pulled up a series of sad past events that tugged at his heart. What did Sue expect to happen that night? What did Max want to happen?

  Max and Sue got out of his car and quietly made their way up the stairs to his apartment. Sue was getting wobblier, so Max held her arm as he opened the door. That day was a rare one as Max straightened up before leaving for work and even made his bed.

  “Why don’t you take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch,” Max said with little conviction.

  “Are you sure?” Sue responded with more than a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “Yeah, I think it’s for the best.”

  “Okay,” Sue said as she turned toward the bedroom with tears running down her cheeks.

  Sue was up an hour before Max and wanted to avoid the awkwardness leftover from what was generally a wonderful night. She didn’t know if Max didn’t find her appealing or something was going on with him, causing him anxiety in potentially intimate situations.

  Too tired to delve deeper, Sue left a note thanking Max for taking her to the Chronicle party, kissed him on the cheek, and walked to the bureau parking lot to find her car.

  Sunday, Max planned on spending his day poring over Donahue’s background. Sunday afternoon, after he compiled a timeline for the mayor’s political ascent, he planned on calling Aaron to discuss a strategy for their Tuesday lunch. He hoped they would finalize the questions they would offer Bull before the big event. Max also would call Barrett to put the second phase of their eavesdropping plan into action. If knowledge was power, Max hoped that Barrett could provide the fuel that would put Max and Aaron’s investigation into overdrive.

  Monday afternoon, Max was set to meet with Aaron in Quakertown, halfway between the Nesquehoning bureau and the Chronicle’s main office. The Dunkin’ Donuts where Max met Barrett six weeks before seemed to be a safe place, where customers kept to themselves. While not one that was dealing with national security, their conversation had some sensitive info the two reporters would rather keep to themselves. At least, for now.

  Max was seated by the window waiting for his black coffee to cool off. It was at least thirty degrees warmer inside the donut shop than outside, and the window to Max’s left was coated with condensation. A vintage Chevy Camaro pulled up with some sort of gospel music pouring out of the car’s open windows. The hymn continued for at least thirty seconds before Aaron Grant turned off the engine. Max noticed Aaron was behind the wheel with his eyes closed, deeply engrossed in the music. “When the time is right,” Max muttered under his breath, “I have to ask him about that music.”
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  Grant smiled as he walked in the door. Max waved him over to his table and asked if he wanted coffee or a donut. A fresh batch of cinnamon crullers appeared from the shop’s back and the scent of freshly baked—or fried—pastries filled the air.

  “Nah, I’m good, but thanks,” Aaron said as he sat down across from Max. “So, whatcha got?”

  “A few things. First, I sent over a list of topics to Joe Taylor that we might cover tomorrow. The questions I sent are softballs about his many accomplishments. And while the list is sort of bogus, it keeps him from thinking we’re going to launch into a verbal assault.

  “Second, I have been talking to some folks from Springfield—you know, where Donahue lived before he moved here—and what I learned is more than revealing. A reporter from the local paper hinted there was something fishy about the mayor’s auto business. Although he wasn’t specific, it was enough to raise suspicion.”

  “This sounds good,” Grant said, rubbing his palms together in expectation.

  “I called the Better Business Bureau, and they told me there was a suit against Donahue’s car dealership. It had something to do with not paying off a customer’s existing loan when they had a trade-in. It became a small class action suit and cost Donahue $65,000.”

  “I guess that’s something,” Grant replied with a look of disappointment. “A shady car dealer? That’s not news.”

  “Wait, there’s one more thing. There was a rumor that one of the reasons Donahue left Illinois had to do with some woman he saw on the side while he was a city councilman. That gives a bit of credence to something my editor at the bureau told me related to him carrying on with a secretary that led to an under-the-table settlement.”

  “I don’t know, Max,” Grant responded. “We have the car dealership thing and some rumors. That’s not much to go on, and certainly not enough ammo to catch Donahue off guard at our lunch. Let me tell you what I have, Max,” Grant added. “The construction company that was hired to do the remodeling of the toy company that moved here is run by one of Donahue’s largest contributors. I found this out through another reporter at the Chronicle who covered the groundbreaking.