What Goes Up

by Allen Weiner

  Tex listened without any sense of surprise to the details dating back to Max and Barrett planting an FM transmitter in the Carbon County Courthouse. Not one detail was left out.

  “So, Joe Taylor stood right over there,” Max said, pointing to the spot where the mayor’s assistant planted himself on Christmas Eve. “And now, you know everything.”

  “I always wondered how you got the goods on that prick Albrecht,” Tex said. “Now it all makes sense.” Tex got up from the couch and stood at the card table. “These papers over here. What’s this all about? They look like pages from an old geometry textbook.”

  “I compiled a list of everything and everyone that was part of Aaron’s and my investigation, plus a few things I added from my interactions. I put them in a Venn Diagram, which is supposed to show the relationships between all of these people and things and see where they overlap.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “So far, nothing. I think I am taking the right approach, but being new to the area, I am missing a lot of background info. Like, for example, this Bill Hinke guy—he seems to be involved somehow, but I’m not sure how or why.”

  “Hold on a second,” Tex said, holding up his hand like a stop sign. “Craig Gentile. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t know him. I’ve never met him.”

  “Well, he’s your man. You know, the missing link. My uncle Matt was a union delegate for Gentile’s construction company, and from what Matt tells me, Gentile is a crooked SOB.”

  “So, what’s your suggestion? Can I talk to your uncle?”

  “I’m sure he’d be willing to talk, especially if you promise him one of these,” Tex said, holding up his empty bottle of Yuengling. “I know one thing he’ll tell you,” Tex said, walking to the fridge to grab another beer. “Follow the money.”

  Tex opened his second beer and stood next to Max and put his arm around his young friend’s shoulder.

  “You may not be out of the woods yet,” Tex said, winking. “But there’s a clearing up ahead, and you’re heading straight for it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max recognized Matt Carpenter without ever seeing his picture. Carpenter stood about five feet, ten inches tall with a hefty beer gut and forearms like tree trunks. On his left bicep was a tattoo of Chesty Puller, the mascot of the US Marine Corps. Uncle Matt, as Max was told to call him, served in the Korean War in late 1952. He was awarded a Marine Distinguished Service Medal for his heroism in the Battle of Old Baldy, a series of battles in West-Central Korea that cost more than three hundred American lives. When Tex told Max about Uncle Matt’s time in the service, he advised his young colleague to avoid the topic.

  The day after talking to Tex, he arranged to meet up with Uncle Matt, who was sitting at a high-top at the Coal Miner’s Bar & Grill in Lansford, a short ride from Max’s apartment. He was more than halfway through a draft beer when Max approached. Tex had given his mother’s brother a good description of Max, so Matt rose out of his chair and extended his hand to Max. Even though Max had a good five inches on the older man, Max’s hand disappeared in the grip of Tex’s uncle.

  “Tex told me a lot about you,” Uncle Matt said, pointing to the stool on the opposite side of the table. “How about a beer?”

  “Sure. Do they have Miller Lite?”

  The belly laugh that ensued gave Max his answer.

  “Make that a Budweiser, then.”

  “So, kid, Tex tells me you wanted to talk about Craig Gentile. Now there’s one guy who has his hand in everyone’s pockets. When I was a shop steward at Teamsters Local 773, we used to call that prick ‘Craig the Crook.’ ”

  “Local 773, is that involved in the building trades?”

  “Sure is. Mostly bricklayers and electricians. I’d say we were involved in every job in Lehigh Valley that was more than a simple home remodel.”

  “Were you still active before Donahue became mayor of Allentown?”

  “You bet. Why?”

  “When he got elected and got the typewriter and toy companies to move to the Lehigh Valley, was there any union involvement in the recruiting?”

  “Do you mean do I know if there were any under-the-table payoffs? Pretty sure there was.”

  “How much can you tell me?”

  After a long pause, Uncle Matt signaled the bartender and held up two fingers.

  Max was two sips into his Budweiser when a second bottle arrived along with a pint of whatever Matt Carpenter was drinking.

  “I owe a lot to that union, kid. No way I could have retired on my pension from the service, and I’m not old enough for social security. The union takes care of its own, so I need to be careful of what I say. And, anything I tell you cannot come back to me. You know that, right?”

  “I respect that, sir. My dad fought in World War II and is a member of the VFW in Philadelphia, so I know about the loyalty among vets and union guys.”

  “Okay. Now that we got that straight, I’ll give you coupla leads. This Donahue guy, for one. No one ever heard of him before he got here. I know the story that he moved here because of his wife, but that’s total horseshit. I have it on good authority that the mayor had a connection that brought him here to save his marriage. It was common knowledge he was playing slap and tickle with his secretary.”

  “I’ve heard that from other people as well,” Max responded, taking another sip from his original bottle of Budweiser. Uncle Matt was way ahead in the drinking competition.

  “One last thing,” Matt Carpenter said, in a soft voice, barely above a whisper. “As big a crook as Craig Gentile is, I wouldn’t trust that Bill Hinke guy as far as I can throw him. And with my sore shoulder, that wouldn’t be very far.”

  “Hinke. He’s the head of the Lehigh County Democratic Party, right? What sort of business is he in?”

  “Let me think. Yeah, I remember. Hinke is in real estate. He owns a bunch of property—mostly crap apartments on the outskirts of downtown and some undeveloped land out near the college. He’s been pushing to get gambling going on the land owned by the Lenape Nation out near Easton.”

  “He’s a busy man,” Max said, wanting to bring his meeting to an end. His head was spinning with an entirely new set of facts that he wanted to piece together and maybe create a new set of Venn Diagrams.

  “I can tell you’re ready to go, kid. It’s no big deal—you got some big fish to fry. It was nice having a drink—well, part of a drink—with ya,” Uncle Matt chuckled.

  “Uncle Matt, if I can call you that,” Max said as he stood up, extending his hand, “thank you for all of this. I promise to keep it on the Q.T.”

  Max left the dark, smoky bar and sat in his car, engine off, in the Coal Miners Bar & Grill parking lot. It was cold, but Max’s brain was working overtime, providing more than enough heat to keep him from feeling the freezing temperature.

  The pieces were all there with some visible points of connection. Any time you have a crooked union official, a political party honcho, a big city mayor, and the potential for a large influx of money, there are multiple opportunities for some palms to be greased. What Max needed was a timeline of events and to determine where Joe Taylor fit in this mysterious situation. With his emerging reporter’s intuition, Max visualized a few scenarios, but knew it was time to bring Aaron Grant into the picture. Grant’s experience and wisdom could be just the thing needed to make sense of this multi-sided puzzle.

  Max knew he had to walk a fine line. As he started the engine, he made a mental checklist of next steps. Max had to let Jack Devlin know there was more to the story, and it would be ideal if he could delay publishing the blockbuster story a week or two. Max knew he’d need a very compelling argument for that to happen. Next on the list was to meet with Aaron and reveal the info Uncle Matt shared. Lastly—and this was a big one—Max realized he would benefit from talking to someone on the inside of the city hall, and he already knew the perfect person.

  It was almost dinner time as Max drove from La
nsford to Nesquehoning. He was in no mood to make anything for dinner. Since he wanted to save his mother’s leftovers, Max stopped for a hoagie at Cabrera’s Pizzeria & Restaurant, which was halfway between the Coal Miner’s joint and home. Max was not a big hoagie guy—something no native Philadelphian should admit—but that night it sounded good. He was hoping the place had a veal parm hoagie on the menu.

  Max, his veal parm hoagie, and a bottle of A-Treat Sarsaparilla soda spent the evening watching the Flyers play the New York Rangers on TV. The Flyers were still living off the high of their 1975 Stanley Cup victory on their way to a second-place finish in the Patrick Division. The team’s pugnacious “Broad Street Bullies” identity was fading with such players as Dave “The Hammer” Schultz and Don “Big Bird” Saleski either gone from the team or in the waning stages of their careers.

  A 6–5 Flyers victory took Max’s mind of the complex situation at hand. He decided to take the entire night off from reviewing and analyzing the information he had collected from Tex and his Uncle Matt. At that point in the process, Max decided he would present the new findings to his reporting partner Aaron Grant. Max decided to call his colleague before the hockey game even though Grant was off on vacation. Aaron was glad to hear from him and invited Max over on the twenty-eighth to talk about new developments that might materially change their story. Grant, who lived in Catasauqua, suggested that Max come over for lunch and sample some of his family’s down-home cooking. Not sure what type of cuisine was in store, Max agreed but decided to bring a sandwich along for the ride home, just in case.

  The following morning, Max padded around his living room in his new bedroom slippers, a gift from his sister for Hanukkah. Since four, Max had trouble with his feet, a genetic gift from grandparents of Eastern European extraction. The soft lining of the slippers made his often-sore arches and enlarged bunions feel warm and comfortable. He stood staring at the stack of papers sitting on the card table he put up after watching the hockey game. A new day gave Max new insight into the fragments of guidance that sat in a series of circles on yellow sheets from two large legal pads.

  The drive from Nesquehoning to Catasauqua took a shade under one hour. Max brought Aaron’s wife some flowers and a box of cookies he bought at Connie’s Cakes and Cookies, which had just opened after being closed for the holidays. He decided against bringing a bottle of wine for several reasons. The primary one was that Pennsylvania State Stores, the only place you could legally buy alcohol in the state, did not have much of a selection.

  Loretta Grant, Aaron’s wife, greeted Max at the door. Once inside, Max immediately got that warm feeling that comes with being a guest in a cozy, inviting home. Christmas decorations were still up, and a collection of toys cluttered the living room floor. The kitchen counter was an opened box that housed a new multi-speed blender, a welcome gift for any serious home cook. It was apparent that all in the Grant household had a good holiday.

  Aaron came out of his home office to welcome Max and officially introduce him to his wife. His son played in his bedroom, and Aaron promised he would make an appearance come lunchtime. Aaron suggested that, before lunch, they meet in his at-home work sanctuary.

  Max carried his mountain of paper in his new briefcase and proceeded to empty them on the couch in Aaron’s home office. Aaron pulled out a large coffee table, and Max put the pages in neat piles. Each stack represented a different piece of the puzzle, starting with one that said Donahue in Springfield. All told, there were twelve piles to go through.

  Aaron surveyed each pile, picking up the top page, slowly thumbing through each sheet. As a seasoned reporter, Aaron Grant knew what he was looking for. Grant would periodically stop, pull a sheet from the pile, and carefully study every word. He would then take those sheets he reviewed and put them in a separate pile off to the side. This process went on for twenty minutes, during which Max sat silently on an overstuffed recliner in the back corner of the office.

  “Look here,” Grant said, holding up his pile of papers. “There’s a common thread here and an answer to one of your big questions.”

  “What’s that?” Max responded inquisitively.

  “The center of this whole operation is a relationship between the union and the Lehigh Valley Democratic Party. I’ll bet you were still in school when there was a big downturn in construction projects here that was putting a lot of people out of work.”

  “I wasn’t living in the area from ’75 to ’78 when I was in graduate school and working my first job as a magazine flunky.”

  “Well, the backstory is that the unions, who are huge contributors to the Democratic Party in these parts, leaned on Bill Hinke to make something happen. My hunch is Hinke looked for a puppet—a frontman, if you will—to come to the Lehigh Valley and start handing out money for favors. I’m not sure how they picked Donahue, but that’s not important. He’s just a figurehead for some guys playing fast and loose with the law.”

  “You figured that out from those notes I have here,” Max said, pointing to the stacks of paper. “That’s pretty amazing. You must have come across this kind of scheme somewhere else.”

  “I have, but in a different form. This plot is much thicker than any I ever have run across, but when I was working for the Dothan Eagle, I got a PhD in crooked politicians.”

  “You mean that good ol’ boy image you see on TV and the movies is for real?”

  Aaron laughed. “They tend to exaggerate in the movies, but the book All the King’s Men is pretty close to the real thing. Have you read it?”

  “I read it in high school, I think. The movie, with Broderick Crawford as Willie Stark, was really good. My dad and I watch it every time it comes on.”

  “Really? I’ve never seen it. Hang on,” Grant continued. “There’s more. This Joe Taylor guy. This may sound crazy, but I don’t think he works for the mayor, and it’s even possible that’s not even his real name.”

  “You discovered that in my notes? How?”

  “No, it’s just a feeling I have. After the Dothan newspaper, I worked for the Charlotte Observer for five years, and something about this investigation reminds me of a corruption case down there. After the dust settled, some of those under suspicion just up and disappeared. At the time, some of us working on the story suspected they were some sort of undercover agents—maybe with the FBI or Treasury. We never were able to confirm that.”

  Max’s rapidly maturing reporting instincts were working overtime. “We need to find someone inside city hall. It needs to be someone close to the mayor and asks some questions. What do you think?”

  “I like it. Who do you have in mind?”

  Max explained his idea of who he thought was the person to ask for the information they needed. Someone in city hall made out weekly timesheets or distributed paychecks to employees. Not necessarily an employee in a highly sensitive position, just an aide or secretary who kept track of employment records. Max offered two possible names, one of which Aaron rejected because of past dealings with this man.

  “He’s not someone we can believe,” Aaron said. “Plus, he’s likely to immediately tell the mayor or Joe Taylor that we were snooping around.”

  “That leaves one person, right?” Max said. “We both know who she is, but do you know her name or how to contact her?”

  “Not directly, but her husband is a typesetter at the paper. I’ve never met him, but I know a bunch of others in that department, so I can get an introduction.”

  “Once you get a handle on the guy and get his wife’s contact info, do you mind if I speak to her?” Max asked. “Before I forget, don’t you think we should ask Devlin for some more time before publishing to flush out this new direction we’ve uncovered?”

  “Yes, to both questions.” Aaron looked at his watch. “Holy crap, we’re way past lunchtime. I hope Loretta isn’t mad; we’ve been holed up in here for two hours. I’m pretty sure my son Bud already ate, so it will be just us.”

  Lunch was not what Max expected. Inst
ead of hog jowls or grits with a side of ham hocks, Loretta Grant prepared an array of salads with trays of freshly baked bread and a wide assortment of cheeses. It was a make-your-own-sandwich lunch, and everything looked delicious. Max was not prone to great table manners, so he had to remind himself to wait patiently for his hosts to describe what was on the table. Max also had to remember not to reach across the table for food and to put a napkin on his lap. Despite there always being a lot of great food in the Rosen household when Max was growing up, table etiquette consisted of not chewing with your mouth open.

  After lunch, Max left the Grant household, thanking Loretta and Aaron for their hospitality and saying that he hoped to return their kindness with his own home-cooked meal.

  “Do you cook?” Loretta Grant asked as she walked Max to the door.

  “I know how, but I rarely get the chance to cook for anyone but myself and occasionally my parents. It would be nice to have a chance to show off for you and Aaron.”

  On the ride back to Nesquehoning, Max replayed his two-hour meeting with Aaron. Max was astonished at his colleague’s reporting sense and ability to comb through the stacks of papers, ultimately coming up with an impressive overview and significant findings. He was also pleased, but ashamed, that he didn’t have to tell Aaron about the hidden FM transmitter and the confrontation with Joe Taylor.

  A few minutes outside of Nesquehoning, snow flurries began to lightly coat the road. It was 4 p.m. in late December, and snow was common in Northeastern Pennsylvania that time of year. The bank clock showed the current temperature was thirty-two degrees, which meant there was only a fifty–fifty chance of the snow sticking to the ground in any meaningful way. Even though his current residence was only seventy miles from where he grew up, the weather was much colder, with an inch or two more of snow each year.

  With three days left in the year, Max spent the night contemplating whether he was interested in writing an end-of-the-year recap going over his highlights, such as the Chris Albrecht trial and the chemical dumping series. From a personal perspective, he thought about inviting Sue over for New Year’s Eve. He could utilize his lightly tested culinary skills while they watched Dick Clark narrate yet another ball drop in Times Square. Max knew in advance the complications such an evening would bring.