by Allen Weiner
After a quick nap and a light dinner, Max read through the Thursday edition of the Chronicle while he listened to American Top 40’s countdown of the top songs of 1978. When he turned the radio on, Casey Kasem was up to number ten, “Three Times A Lady,” by the Commodores. Max tried his hand at guessing the nine remaining songs, and he failed miserably. He missed the top song, “Shadow Dancing,” by Andy Gibb, which he didn’t even have in his top five, and chose “Fool (If You Think It’s Over)” by Chris Rea as his number one. Max was only eighty-three songs off on that call.
The twenty-ninth of December was another cold one, with the high in Nesquehoning expected to barely crack freezing. Max gathered up his stacks of papers and headed into the office after a quick breakfast. Other than a few people from circulation, the bureau was empty. With the place so deserted, the heat was on sixty-eight, forcing Max to leave his coat on while he worked. His first order of business was to see if Aaron had come through with a contact within the city hall.
Aaron answered on the first ring and sensed it was Max calling.
“Max, I knew it was you. I got a late holiday gift—the secretary in the mayor’s office is willing to talk to you. She remembered us from the lunch with the mayor and Joe Taylor and thought we were nice gentlemen.”
“Is she working today?”
“Nope, you’re in luck. I spoke to her husband at the paper and passed on our message. City Hall is closed till January 2, so she’s home with her grandkids.”
“What’s her name?”
“Marjorie. Marjorie Nelson. She’s expecting your call.”
“I’ll get right on it. After I’m done, I’ll call you right back.”
Max put the phone down and walked toward the back of the empty office. He took a few deep breaths and returned to his desk. With a lot on the line, he picked up his desk phone and dialed.
“Hello,” said the voice on the other end, “Nelson residence.” Marjorie Nelson’s voice was significantly less harsh than when she led Aaron and Max down the hall outside the mayor’s office and instructed them to sit outside the conference room before lunch.
“Hi, Mrs. Nelson. This is Max Rosen from the Chronicle. Your husband said you might be expecting my call?”
“Why, yes. Are you having a nice holiday?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me on your time off. The reason I am calling is about Mayor Donahue’s office. I take it you are familiar with Joe Taylor, the mayor’s assistant.”
A long pause. “I’m not sure what you are asking.” Marjorie Nelson’s voice quickly went from cheery to defensive. “I know Joe Taylor, but I think you’re interested in something else.”
“Like what?” Max responded.
“You probably don’t know this. Well, I am sure only a few people know this. Joe Taylor doesn’t work for the mayor. He doesn’t get a paycheck from the city, and I have some doubts as to whether that’s even his real name. I call him the Mystery Man—but never to his face.”
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as Max hung up from his call with Marjorie Nelson, he called Aaron Grant to give him the details. While surprised, Grant’s experience prepared him for nearly all imaginable twists and turns in their newspaper investigation.
“I think I’m glad to be right,” Grant said with some hesitation. “I also think it’s time to hit the pause button on our investigation for a few days. People will be difficult to get ahold of until after the first of the year. We also need to talk to Jack Devlin, and I know he’s on vacation with his family in the Poconos. They have a place up there.”
Max was sad to hear that Aaron wanted to slow things down until after the first of the year, but he knew that it was the wise course of action from a practical sense. It would also provide a cooling-off period from the ultimatum given by Joe Taylor and provided Max with a sense of relief in the short term. Max also took comfort in knowing that no other news outlet covered this possible corruption case, especially since the Chronicle was the only major newspaper within seventy miles, and the Lehigh Valley didn’t have a single network-affiliated TV station. While it was always difficult for him to be patient, Max conceded to Aaron’s suggestion.
“I will yield to your wisdom and experience,” Max said half-heartedly. “I hope you, Loretta, and your son have a great rest of the holiday. Let me wish you an early Happy New Year.”
Max hung up the phone only to realize that his adrenaline—which had been on full tilt for months—was beginning to wane. And quickly. In the past, when his internal fuse was not lit, Max became depressed. Knowing that he was currently working toward personal and professional growth, it was important to find something to look forward to for the next few days to avoid feeling down.
Max rose from his desk, hoping to see if, by some chance, there were any assignments listed on the editor’s board for him. En route, he passed a desk on the other side of the room that had a vase on it with a single yellow rose. Max knew it had to be where Sue last sat, given she was the only female reporter in the bureau and that she loved roses. Remembering the warm feeling he experienced when Sue kissed him on the cheek, Max realized it had been more than a week since he spoke with her. With an unexpected empty slot in his upcoming social calendar, Max wanted to arrange to spend some time with Sue. He didn’t know whether she was at her apartment during the holidays or visiting with her parents in Easton.
With no one else in the office, prying ears would not be privy to Max’s calls. He dialed Sue’s home number, and he was just about ready to hang up after eight rings. Out of breath, Sue answered as if she just finished a cross-country race.
“Hello,” she said while trying to catch her breath.
“Sue, it’s Max. How are you?”
There was a long pause. Max was concerned that Sue might have hung up. “I’m fine. I was running to the phone because I am trying to clean up since my parents are coming over for dinner tonight. They know I am a slob,” she said with a laugh. “I’m working on an early New Year’s resolution to be a neater slob.”
“Well, that’s a New Year’s resolution I’d never be able to keep,” Max joked. “As long as I can find whatever I am looking for, then the place is neat enough.” Max cleared his throat. “The reason I called was to invite you over to my place for dinner on New Year’s Eve. You may not know this, but I have some decent cooking skills. I’d like to make a thank-you dinner for your help with the city hall elevator caper.”
“Ooh, that sounds good. I was going to have takeout with my sister and her husband, but this invitation is much more fun.”
“Is there anything you don’t or can’t eat?”
“I don’t like Brussels sprouts.”
“Don’t worry. They are out of season. Why don’t you come over at about six thirty? We can have some wine before we eat and watch my buddy Dick Clark do his thing at midnight after we’re done with our gourmet meal.”
“Your buddy?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you the story when you come over.”
Max hung up the phone and found himself grinning ear to ear. Besides planning his menu, he decided against putting too much thought into the New Year’s Eve dinner. Was it a date? Did she expect to stay over? Max moved those stressful thoughts to the side and focused on impressing Sue with his cooking and having a good time.
After his call, Max headed home. There were no pending assignments, and any catch-up work, such as going through his mail, could be done at his apartment. Even after living in eastern Pennsylvania his entire life, Max never could get used to how early it got dark in December. It was four thirty in the afternoon as he walked to his car, and the streetlights in downtown Nesquehoning were shining brightly. Max had a quick flashback to his freshman year in high school. Due to overcrowding, his school had to add a late shift in which students started their classes at ten thirty in the morning and ended their day at four thirty in the afternoon. Starting high school was difficult enough, but to add the concept of your last
class letting out in the dark made life extra stressful.
Max ate the leftovers from the family Hanukkah dinner his mother had packed for him. The brisket and all the side dishes were just as good as when he first ate them. Between watching his mother cook and viewing countless episodes of The French Chef, Max inherited some of his mother’s talent in the kitchen. For Max, cooking was therapy. He enjoyed lending a hand to his working parents by getting dinner started, especially in the summer. Nirvana, to Max, was peeling potatoes and making the salad for dinner while listening to the Phillies play the Cubs at Wrigley Field in an afternoon game. To show what sort of baseball nerd he was, Max even kept score while puttering in the kitchen.
Excited about his upcoming New Year’s Eve non-date, Max went to sleep with something to look forward to. Due to his lack of seniority, Max was scheduled to be in the office on the thirtieth to handle the phones and take on any assignment that might come up.
December 30 was bitterly cold. Even with his bluff about looking for his winter coat in the basement, Max brought his heaviest overcoat back from his recent visit to Philadelphia. He got up early, put a bagel in the toaster, and grabbed it on his way out the door. Not expecting anything earth-shattering, Max went to work in a flannel shirt and corduroy pants. He lived close enough to the office that he could change into something more businesslike if need be.
As with the day before, the office was empty save for two circulation employees. Instead of sitting at his usual desk, Max moved up to the bureau editor’s desk if a call came in. He grabbed the day’s paper, and since it was a Saturday during a holiday weekend, the Chronicle was half its normal size.
Midway through his bagel and the Chronicle sports section, the phone rang. There were three lines on the bureau editor’s phone, and the one flashing was a direct line from the newsroom in Allentown. Max figured a nervous editor at headquarters was checking in to ensure someone was in the office. Max picked up in the third ring.
“Chronicle, Max Rosen speaking.”
“Max, are you the only one in the office?” The voice at the other end was unfamiliar to Max. “It’s Charlotte Robb. I’m the editor working with all the bureaus today. We have a skeleton staff down here. I have what looks to be an important story I need someone to follow up on.”
“I can do it,” Max said.
“Okay. Here are the details as we know them. There’s been a kidnapping—the wife of Arnie Mitchell, publisher of Tickle magazine. The FBI is holding a press conference in Scranton at 2 p.m., and we need someone there. You up for that?”
“Do you know anything more about the kidnapping?”
“All we know is that Mrs. Mitchell was grabbed outside her home sometime yesterday morning. Normally, they wait forty-eight hours, but because of Mitchell’s high profile, the FBI was called in right away.”
“I’ll find the address for the FBI office in Scranton. Do you need to tell them I’ll be attending the press conference?”
“Taken care of. Please check in on the way in case there are any updates. You can call me collect.”
Max wrote down Robb’s number, grabbed his coat, and headed to the parking lot. In the brief time Max was in the office, his car’s windows were thick with frost. Max popped open the trunk and pulled out his trusty yellow scraper courtesy of S&H Hardware.
Traffic was light on the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and at the rate Max was going, he would be an hour early. Max pulled off to fuel up, maybe grab something to eat, and check in with Charlotte Robb. A block off the turnpike in a small town called Avoca, Max found an Esso station next to the Tipsy Turtle Airport Pub. Max braved the cold and pulled up to an open pump while looking across the airport restaurant’s parking lot. It was 11:45 a.m., and the pub’s lot was packed. What made things curious was that more than half the cars were the police of some sort—Lackawanna County Sheriff, Pittson City Police, and at least five state police vehicles.
Max got back in his car after filling up and drove to the edge of the gas station’s lot that bordered the Tipsy Turtle. A phone booth sat on the gas station side of the adjoining lots. A simple robbery, Max thought, wouldn’t bring out so many cops—especially state troopers. It had to be something major.
Most of the law enforcement personnel weren’t engaged in whatever was going on, so Max walked over to a group of three state troopers leaning on their Ford Torino with a long pigtail antenna. Using a bit of logic, Max selected the three men’s oldest and spoke quietly but directly.
“Officer, I’m Max Rosen, a reporter with the Allentown Chronicle, and I’m on my way to the FBI office in Scranton to hear about a kidnapping. Is this related?”
The older officer, with the name Wayne on his badge, looked at his fellow troopers.
“What kidnapping? We’re here because we got a call about a disturbance at this place. That’s all we know.”
Max smiled and walked around to the front of the building. With police from all over the state crawling over one another, it was impossible to get a handle on what was taking place. There were no ambulances or aid cars, which would signal that no one was seriously injured or worse. The read was the sort of utter confusion that takes place in the aftermath of a big event.
The phone booth next to Max’s car in the adjacent parking lot was still unoccupied. Max reached into his pocket for a dime, stepped into the small enclosure, and closed the door. He slipped the dime into the appropriate slot and dialed “0” for the operator.
“Collect call for Charlotte Robb from Max. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes, operator,” Charlotte responded. “Max, what’s going on? Our police scanners have been on fire for the past half hour. Something big is taking place where you are headed.”
“You mean, where I’m standing. I’m in a phone booth next to the Tipsy Turtle a few miles south of Scranton. Either a major crime took place here, or there is an impromptu law enforcement gathering with free donuts.”
“Max, you must have the luck of the Irish. You are in the right place at the right time. Apparently, from what we hear on the scanners, a kidnap victim was set free at that pub. I’m betting that’s what the FBI press conference is all about.”
“For starters, I’m not Irish,” Max said with a laugh. “As far as a kidnapping goes, I guess I’ll get all the details at the local FBI office. I’ll check in after the press conference.”
Max got back into his car and drove another fifteen miles to Exit 122 for Downtown Scranton. Having never been north of Wilkes-Barre, Max checked his Thomas Guide for the FBI office’s location in Scranton. The map showed that Washington Avenue was only a few blocks from the exit, which would put Max right on time for the press conference. He did wonder if, after this new development at the Tipsy Turtle, the press event was even still happening as planned.
The FBI had seven offices in Pennsylvania, with the largest one located on Arch Street in Philadelphia. The one in Scranton was relatively smaller but had the same security level as its largest outpost in the state. Max showed his Chronicle ID and Pennsylvania driver’s license and was handed a badge and sent to the third-floor conference room.
For a small FBI office, this one had a large, almost-banquet-sized conference room. Chairs were set up in the front with thirty feet of space between the first row and the stage. There were reporters from the Wilkes-Barre and Scranton newspapers, and WBRE-TV, a UHF station that served most of Luzerne County. A man who looked no older than sixteen, and appeared out of place, was sitting on the front row in the last seat from the door. Max casually walked by and read his tag, which identified him as a stringer from the Philadelphia Inquirer.
After a prolonged wait of thirty minutes, an FBI spokesman made his way to the stage and laid out all the details of what was initially determined to be a kidnapping but ended up being a simple miscommunication. Michelle Mitchell, the wife of porn publisher Arnie Mitchell, was reported missing, and, because of her husband’s profession, everyone assumed there was fo
ul play involved.
The FBI spokesperson inferred that there was a kidnapping, but it was meant to warn Arnie Mitchell for something the authorities would not disclose. His wife was released safe and sound at a restaurant ten miles south of Scranton. Since Arnie Mitchell refused to press charges, the investigation would not proceed any further.
The TV reporter, wanting to impress her peers, asked a few questions about what circumstances led to the kidnapping to which the FBI representative answered, “No comment.”
It was 3 p.m., and Max realized he wasted most of the day on what turned out to be a non-story. Looking for a silver lining, he told himself that he did get to see Scranton, the birthplace of Delaware’s two-term Senator, Joe Biden. On the other hand, he was totally behind schedule planning the New Year’s Eve dinner for Sue.
Before heading out, Max asked the FBI agent who led the press conference where the closest restroom was. It was a long ride back to Nesquehoning, and Max was in no mood to stop along the way. Walking along the corridor to the men’s room, Max was taken with the pictures of decorated FBI agents from as far back as the mid-1950s. Some had small plaques under the photos with the agent’s name and the reason for the award.
Just as Max reached the restroom, he stopped dead in his tracks. In a crisp black and white photo, dressed in a neat shirt and striped tie, there was someone painfully familiar—Joe Taylor. Underneath the photo, there was a small plaque that read “ ‘Joe Taylor’—for bravery beyond the call of duty.” Unlike the other FBI heroes’ pictures, the name Joe Taylor was in quotes, indicating that it was not his real name.
Max stood, staring at the picture for three solid minutes. He put his briefcase on the ground, rubbed his eyes, and refocused them on the photo.