What Goes Up

by Allen Weiner

  It was a perfect plan except for the fact that Joe Taylor was two steps ahead of Max. Max didn’t know that Taylor and his helper were more than a fixer and a suspicious errand boy. The two men met in the early sixties when both were stationed in Poland during the Cold War. The naïve reporter didn’t realize that he was up against real spies and that Joe Taylor was far more than the mayor’s fixer. Until Mark Donahue first ran for mayor, the Springfield, Illinois transplant had never met or even heard of Joe Taylor. For reasons that Donahue never knew, Taylor came with his initial campaign supporters. At a Lehigh Valley Democratic fundraiser, Bill Hinke, the then-head of the party, introduced Donahue to Taylor and said that Joe would be a big asset to his run for office. After that day, Taylor was by Donahue’s side whether the mayor wanted him there or not.

  Unaware of his more-than-worthy opponent, Max went into action. Sue had just returned to Nesquehoning from her shift in the city hall. Max wheeled his chair across the office’s aisle and put his hand on her shoulder, indicating he had something personal to share.

  “Since we spoke after you left the city hall, I put together a scheme. I will make a bunch of calls from my home that will throw Taylor off the scent. I’d like to call you first. All you need to do is play along.”

  Max left the office and drove the few miles to his home. As he pulled into his assigned parking space, Max looked for a van or truck used to monitor his phone calls. Not a single car, van, truck, or even scooter was in sight, leaving Max puzzled about how they would listen to his phone calls in real-time. Nonetheless, he was set to move forward with his first fake phone call.

  Remembering the issue with his downstairs neighbors, Max went slowly up the stairs to his apartment. His footsteps were measured as if he were walking a tightrope between two skyscrapers. He opened the door, put his coat on a chair by the door, and made a beeline to the phone.

  “Hi Sue, this is Max. Did I catch you at a good time?”

  “I have a couple of minutes. What’s up?”

  “So, you know I’m working on this story about the mayor for the new Sunday feature section, right?”

  “Yes, it’s all you’ve talked about.”

  “Well, I have hit a dead end. I have nothing, and I’m going to have to dump the story. I am going to meet with Aaron later today because he has nothing either.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how much you’ve put into it. Do you want help coming up with another feature idea? I have one or two that might work.”

  “Let me meet with Aaron and get his take. How about a beer after work?”

  Paul Revere was parked two blocks away from Max’s house. He got a good laugh out of Max’s charade and couldn’t wait to return to Allentown and tell Joe Taylor. This caper, if you could call it that, was nothing compared to some of the stunts Revere and Taylor pulled off in their service to their country.

  On his ride back to Allentown, Paul Revere was surprised that he and Bull were able to fool Max so easily into believing that their elevator stunt was successful. Revere chuckled to himself at the bad acting on Max’s call to Sue, pretending he didn’t know his phone was bugged. This kid isn’t as sharp as Joe thinks, Paul Revere thought to himself.

  To Max, unaware he was losing the Spy vs. Spy game, things were falling into place. The fact that Joe Taylor had his phone bugged was an indication that he and Aaron were hot on the track of a story that would bring Mark Donahue down. Yes, there were some missing pieces, but Max planned to meet with Aaron on Friday afternoon to fill in the holes which would complete their investigation. While Max was playing cloak and dagger games, Aaron was off checking his sources to learn more about Donahue’s involvement in political pay-for-play deals or similar types of illegal activities in Allentown.

  “Timing is everything,” Taylor told Paul Revere as they met in Revere’s spymobile, parked down the street from city hall. It had taken Bull’s partner an hour to make the normally forty-minute trip from central Carbon County back to Allentown. It was three days before Christmas, and the roads were jam-packed with working stiffs on vacation doing heavy-duty holiday shopping.

  “So, what’s next, Bull?” Revere asked. He left his engine running to keep the car’s defroster going. The two men were trained to always be aware of their surroundings, no matter how safe things appeared. The streets were practically deserted, but even in a simple counterintelligence action—such as the one they were presently in—you never could be too careful. While Paul Revere didn’t think much of Max’s skills as a covert tactician, Taylor wasn’t as quick to dismiss the young reporter.

  “Now, we wait,” Taylor explained. “At some point, given the gravity of the story, the newspaper will have to check the facts and offer Donahue the chance to refute the claims of union kickbacks. Until then, it’s business as usual.”

  “By the way,” Revere asked his long-time friend and co-conspirator, “are you going home for Christmas?”

  “Nope. I’m going to spend it the same way I did in 1964, if you remember that.”

  “How can I forget?” Revere replied, letting out a huge sigh.

  While Taylor and Revere were finishing up their debrief, Max met with Aaron Grant just a few blocks away at the Chronicle headquarters. Shortly after his make-believe phone call with Sue, Max drove down to Allentown, mighty pleased with what he thought was some pretty damn good Spy vs. Spy action. Mad magazine founders Harvey Kurtzman and William Gaines would be proud.

  Max and Aaron Grant found an empty conference room and spread their notes around the large round table. Grant looked over Max’s notes and smiled.

  “This is some great stuff,” Aaron said, beaming. Max had detailed notes from follow-up conversations with reporters from the Springfield newspaper and an assortment of local Illinois politicians who spoke, on the record, about Donahue’s less-than-honorable stunts.

  “How about we put together a draft of the story?” Max asked. “First, let’s decide whether we want to do this in a series or cover it in one big story?”

  “Here’s an idea,” Aaron responded. “Let’s cover the details related to payoffs first, and then present Devlin the option of having us expand about his Springfield issues in that story or make it into two or three parts?”

  “Works for me.”

  Max and Aaron pounded away on typewriters they brought into the conference room from the newspaper’s supply closet for the next two hours. They were not IBM Selectrics, but they were more than adequate to get the job done. Every twenty minutes, the pair stopped and played “cut and paste” with their sections. That process involved physically cutting a paragraph or sections and arranging them in a cohesive order. The last part of the action was a misnomer—the assembly medium of choice was Scotch Tape.

  By the time Max and Aaron were done, it was well past dinner time. Max suggested they drop off the copy in Devlin’s inbox. The managing editor could get to it that evening—if he was around—or first thing in the morning. The two reporters knew the process ahead before the story could be published. It would need to be reviewed by the managing editor, the publisher, the Chronicle’s lawyer, and then offered to Donahue for a chance to rebut or clarify anything that would go into print.

  Max was glad he and Aaron would get a chance to have a meal together. Max wanted to get to know his new partner better. There also was this question about Grant’s love for Elvis’s gospel recordings. Max knew Elvis’s hits like “Hound Dog,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and his favorite, “Return to Sender,” but when it came to gospel music, Max had zero knowledge.

  The two men drove over to the Paddock, a restaurant/bar known only to locals. Grant said he’d never heard of it despite living in the area for several years. Max explained that it was a favorite haunt of his when he was in college because he loved their thin-crust pizza. It was also where Max and a few friends watched the Ali/Ken Norton fight in 1973, so the place held a special spot in his heart.

  Max nursed a Ballentine Beer and shared a large pepperoni pizza with Grant
. Aaron had a Yuengling and ordered a side of chili. He explained to Max that a man is only as good as his ability to make great chili down in Alabama, so he wanted to see if the Paddock was up to the challenge.

  The night was cut short as Grant remembered he had some last-minute holiday shopping to finish, and he was running out of shopping days. He told Max he was married and had a nine-year-old son who was getting into football in a big way. Grant said he wanted to buy Aaron Jr. (Bud, his nickname) his first pair of football cleats to play pee-wee football.

  Max drank about two ounces of his beer, so he was safe getting home. There wasn’t much to his liking on the car radio two days before Christmas, so he listened to Bob Seger’s Stranger in Town at full volume in his car’s 8-track player. Max was in a good mood, sensing accolades on the horizon for another job well done. “We’ve Got Tonite” was just finishing when he pulled into his designated spot at his apartment building.

  It was blistering cold when Max opened the entry door and gingerly walked up the stairs into his second-floor unit. Even though he was off the day before Christmas, he planned on driving down to Allentown on Christmas Eve day to talk to Jack Devlin in person about the draft of his and Aaron’s story. After a long and tiring day, Max fell asleep shortly after his head hit the pillow.

  The bank sign on Catawissa Street on the outskirts of Nesquehoning read twenty-four degrees as Max passed by on his way to meet with the managing editor the next day. He picked up right where he left off on Bob Seger’s hit album with “Hollywood Nights,” “Still the Same,” and “Old Time Rock ’n’ Roll,” guiding him along his route to Allentown. With no traffic, he reached his destination in record time.

  Jack Devlin was at his desk wearing what looked to be the grand prize winner in a local Ugly Christmas Sweater competition.

  “Max, you and Aaron knocked it out of the park,” Devlin said as Max approached his desk. “We want to take our time and give the series all the promotion it deserves.”

  Even with some recent successes, Max was still terrible at reacting to compliments.

  “When do you think you’ll run it?” the young reporter asked.

  “Hmm. Well, as you know, it has to go through internal review, and then we have to offer the mayor a copy to respond. I was thinking of sending it over there today. Even though his office is officially closed, I have it on good authority that Donahue is around today.”

  “So, do you think it will make this Sunday?”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Devlin responded, putting his managing editor hat on. “January 7 is the first Sunday next year. We can begin teasing it several days before to get it the attention it deserves.”

  “That sounds terrific,” Max said, slightly underenthused. He was ready for instant gratification and wanted to see it in the following Sunday paper, this weekend. But, realistically, he knew with the holiday and the need for mayoral review, that was not going to happen.

  “Have a great holiday,” Devlin said to Max as the younger man turned toward the doors that led to the Chronicle parking lot.

  Max planned to see his parents the next day to spend the holiday with them and his sister. The myth that Jewish people celebrated Christmas by eating Chinese food was not true with the Rosens. Max hated Chinese food and preferred it when his mother made something like a brisket or roast for such occasions. This Christmas Eve, Max planned to cook a frozen lasagna and watch the Sixers play the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. Max was still living off the high of the 76ers 1976–1977 season when the team made it to the NBA Finals, only to lose to the Portland Trailblazers.

  After a Sixers win, 109–94, Max cleaned up from dinner and was about to get ready for bed. It was 11 p.m. when the doorbell rang. It’s a little early for Santa, Max joked to himself. He had no clue who possibly could be at the door at this hour on Christmas Eve.

  Max quietly walked down the stairs in case his neighbors below were asleep. With condensation on the window, he couldn’t make out who was there, but he could tell it was a man, and a big one at that.

  “May I come in,” the man standing outside said, stating rather than asking.

  There stood Joe Taylor looking more menacing than ever. It was in Max’s best interest to comply.

  Max led Bull up the stairs and into his apartment. Taylor closed the door behind him.

  “Wanted to let you know we got a copy of your story,” Taylor said matter-of-factly. “I thought it was best to come to talk to you in person.”

  Even at the same height, Max was physically and emotionally dwarfed by Taylor’s presence.

  “Okay,” Max said.

  At that moment, Taylor reached into the pocket of his tan camelhair coat and pulled out something that he wrapped around his right hand. He then opened his hand, and there in Taylor’s palm sat the FM transmitter that Barrett had placed in the middle elevator in Allentown’s city hall.

  With a smirk of victory on his face, the next words out of Taylor’s mouth nearly caused Max to faint: “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Listen. Tell your friend, or whoever it was, that if you’re going to pose as a janitor or maintenance man, it’s smart not to wear a thousand-dollar coat while doing it,” Taylor said with more than a hint of laughter. “Kid, you’d better sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”

  Max was getting ready for bed when the surprise knock at the door came. He was in one of the oversized T-shirts he wore to bed but was still in his corduroy pants. He backed up and sat down on the couch, taking the glass of water from Joe Taylor. Taylor chose to stand to maintain his frightening presence.

  “Did someone tip you off about the device in the elevator?” Max weakly offered.

  “Between the guy in the rich man’s coat and the woman with the transistor radio, the guard on duty was suspicious. He called up to me, and I took care of the rest. Without going into details, when it comes to Cold War surveillance, I am lightyears ahead of you and your buddies.”

  Taylor continued, taking off his coat and draping it over his arm. “I do have to hand it to you. You did fairly good for a couple of rubes. With a little work, you might be good enough to get shot in a real situation.”

  Taylor couldn’t stop laughing at his remark. Max gulped the water as his hands shook.

  “So, now what?” Max asked. “Are you going to call the publisher and have me fired . . . or maybe you’re going to have me arrested. Which is it?”

  “Neither, kid. A lot is going on that you don’t know and probably won’t ever know. But for now, what you’re going to do is kill that story. Or, better yet, tell that Devlin guy you need more time because you found out some new information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “That’s not important. Just make sure that story doesn’t run on January 7, as your managing editor said. This thing here,” Taylor said, holding up the small FM transmitter, “this is my sword of Damocles hanging over your head. You know that story, right?”

  Max nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll be on my way. I think you know that I’m a serious man who doesn’t make idle threats. Just keep up your end, and it will all be fine.”

  With that, Taylor lumbered down the stairs, possibly rattling the china closet of the downstairs neighbors. Intentional or not, it was a nice touch.

  It took Max a good hour to process the last twenty minutes of his life. Could he go from screwup to the hero and back to screwup all in two months? He knew there was more at stake than his job here. Max had no idea what sort of bullshit he could hand Jack Devlin to put the story on hold. He was heading home to see his parents first thing in the morning. Two days away might give him time to come up with a solution.

  It was rainy and windy, and thirty degrees, as Max drove to Philadelphia on Christmas morning. Instead of taking the turnpike, he drove on Route 309 south from Nesquehoning and Allentown through Bucks County. Eventually, 309 turned into County Line Road, a straight shot to his parents’
home. The only place open at 8 a.m. was a gas station in Richland, where he stopped to get a lukewarm cup of black coffee. The rancid joe did little to brighten Max’s outlook on the day, and to be honest, he was going home because he promised his parents he’d show for the second night of Hanukkah. His mom and dad were also anxious to hear everything about his new assignment with the Sunday Squad.

  Max pulled into the driveway of his parents’ home a little bit before ten. Max’s mother parked her bright yellow Volvo in the garage, so the driveway was clear. While Max never gave it more than a passing thought, his father did not drive and was never inclined to learn. His parents were a one-car couple, which became somewhat of a challenge after moving away from Oxford Circle, where public transportation was more widely available. After turning off the engine, Max realized he drove the entire forty-eight miles with the radio off and his 8-track player silent. It was going to be that kind of day.

  Walking up the two flights of stairs to the house, Max took a deep breath and tried to focus on putting on a happy face. At that point, he had decided not to tell his parents the details of his current calamity. With sympathy would come advice and possibly admonishment. He was looking for neither and hoping to make a clean getaway on the twenty-seventh.

  Max pulled out his key and opened the door. He heard his mother on the phone in the kitchen, talking either to his sister or her sister. When she realized Max was home, his mother hung up the phone and rushed to greet him at the door. He gave her a perfunctory hug and kiss on the cheek.

  Instead of saying “Welcome home” or “We’re glad to see you,” the first words out of her mouth were, as always, to the point: “What’s wrong?” she said, holding her son’s shoulders at arm’s length. “I know something’s wrong.”