What Goes Up

by Allen Weiner

Jack Devlin, Tom, and Ximena were in the Chronicle’s conference room when Max and Aaron walked in. It was ten thirty on the button, but Devlin was eager to get started.

  “For starters, welcome back. I have some wonderful news. I spoke with Tim Daniels last week while I was on vacation, and we agreed to push your story on the mayor up to this weekend. Starting tomorrow, we have a full-scale promotion in place announcing the launch of the Sunday Squad. Kicking it off on the seventh with a blockbuster will boost circulation and put us in contention for some big awards.”

  Ximena and Tom stood and applauded Max and Aaron. In any other circumstance, Max would be proud of the recognition from his peers. In this case, not so much. He reached for something to say in return for the kind gesture from his peers but came up empty. Instead, his eyes locked on Aaron Grant, who was seated across the table. Calmly, Grant returned Max’s stare with a half-smile. Max knew what he was thinking.

  Holy shit. We’re in trouble.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the remaining forty-five minutes of the meeting, Max was there only in physical form. After the managing editor’s gleeful declaration that Max and Aaron’s investigative work would run in five days, he had no memory of what happened in the conference room. On his way out, Max did remember Tom Monahan saying that he was happy for Max getting star treatment for his work.

  As Max left the Chronicle and walked into the parking lot, Aaron yelled at Max to get his attention.

  “Max. Max! Wait a minute!”

  After hearing Aaron, Max stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around and met his reporting partner halfway between their parked cars. While Max felt like he had the wind knocked out of him, Aaron appeared energized.

  “I think we need to talk,” Aaron said in a major understatement. “I see we have two options, and I’d like to talk them over. Call me here at the paper when you get back to Nesquehoning.”

  Max nodded and got into his car.

  After starting his car and turning on the heat and defroster, Max had an unexplained urge to make a detour on his way back to the bureau. He made a right turn out of the parking lot, went three blocks, and made a left on Chew Street. He drove past the West End Cemetery and the Allentown Fair Grounds before he reached his destination.

  Max parked in the lot of Keneseth Israel, the synagogue where he taught during his four years in college. He got out of his car, walked to the corner where Chew Street ended, and stood, surveying his alma mater that occupied the next several blocks. To the left stood the fraternity he had joined, but he was only a social member. Ahead on the right was the school’s Commons building, which housed the cafeteria, bookstore, and the student radio station, which held Max’s best college memories. Beyond the Commons was the dorm Max lived in for the last three years of school.

  After fifteen minutes of standing silently, Max returned to his car and got on the road back toward the bureau. As he drove, Max tried to comprehend why he felt compelled to visit the school he graduated from nearly four years earlier. The best he could come up with, at that moment, was to try to understand the path that took him from four tumultuous years as an undergraduate student to where he was in his personal and professional life on January 2 of the new year.

  After Max reached the parking lot of the Chronicle’s Nesquehoning bureau, it was evident that the forty-five-minute ride did little to provide any answers to Max’s existential dilemma. It was 12:30 p.m. when Max walked into the office, filled with reporters and circulation department personnel. Tex, Al, and even Ervin came over and wished their star reporter a happy new year. Tex gave his friend and colleague the once-over since he was the only one in the office who knew about Max’s pressure.

  “I’m in the office,” Max said softly, after reaching Aaron on the phone. “We can talk, but I have to be careful about what I say at this end.”

  “I get it. As I see it, we have two options. What if we came up with a better story than the investigation into the mayor? That kidnapping you talked about that happened last week—what if we were able to break that open?”

  “In four days? I’m not sure about that.”

  “The other choice is to go to Jack Devlin and come clean.”

  “I like the first choice better,” Max said with a major sigh. “Give me until the end of the day to see what I can find. I thought of an idea that I can tell you about after calling a friend who is a lawyer in Philadelphia.”

  After getting off the phone, Max looked through his new briefcase to find the number of Norm Weiss, his friend and lawyer in Philadelphia who had been a great help during the chemical dumping story. Norm was instrumental in getting Dan Bigelow a settlement against Andersen Trucking. Since working on that case, Norm Weiss’s firm made the headlines regularly for its work in an emerging class of whistleblower cases. With that work, Max hoped, Norm may have made some contacts at various law enforcement agencies.

  The purpose of Max’s call was twofold: Norm may have some background on the kidnapping case involving Arnie Mitchell’s wife, and he possibly may know more about the timing of the FBI investigation into Mayor Donahue and his varied associates. Norm was the kind of man whose character was such that he gained trust from everyone he worked with. It was not too far out of the realm of possibility he might have a contact at the FBI office in Philadelphia.

  The switchboard operator at Fogel-Rothchild-Hess, Weiss’s firm, told Max that Norm was out at a trial but would be calling in for messages. Max left word that it was important that he reached Norm before the end of business and gave both his work and home phone numbers.

  Before making his next call, Max walked back to the series of file cabinets jammed against the wall between the assignment editor’s desk at the back office where Ray Tomjanovich once sat. In each file cabinet was a series of small manila envelopes stuffed with newspaper clippings. This section of the bureau represented the bureau’s archives and was handled with great care by the reporters. Anytime a folder was removed, it was returned to its designated spot, which was in alphabetical order by the year—the files dated back to 1969, before which stories were on microfiche.

  Max removed the folders for Arnie Mitchell and a separate one for Tickle magazine. He took them back to his desk just as his phone rang.

  “Hey, Max, I’m returning your call.” It was Norm Weiss, who sounded like he was in the middle of a busy intersection. “I’m at a payphone near City Hall, and I got your message. What’s up?”

  “Without a long explanation, I was wondering if you could find out some information on two matters. One is related to a kidnapping last week in Allentown. It is the wife of that porno publisher Arnie Mitchell. To make a long story short, the FBI claimed it was not a kidnapping, but I suspect there’s more to the story.”

  “Uh-uh,” Norm responded. “What else?”

  “This is the big one. I know the FBI is investigating the mayor of Allentown on corruption charges. I would imagine they would need indictments in advance; is there a way you could find out when those are likely to be handed down?”

  “Hmm,” Norm said, “those are some tall orders. I’ll tell you what—I feel I owe you because that chemical dumping case put my firm on the map, and we’ve taken off. Give me some time, and I'll poke around.”

  “Anything you can do would be great,” Max said, hoping for a small miracle. “My clock is ticking.”

  After the call ended, Max opened the envelopes he had taken from the file cabinet and learned more than he cared to know about Arnie Mitchell and his magazine. After reading about how Mitchell built his empire—by eliminating the competition one way or the other—Max concluded this was not a story he could put together in time to offer it as a substitute for the mayoral investigation.

  In need of a friendly voice, Max dialed Sue’s home number to see how her family’s New Year’s Day Brunch went. Instead of reaching Sue, Max got her answering machine with a message that was short and sweet: “I’m not here. Please leave a message.”

  “S
ue, it’s Max. I was just checking in to see how your family brunch went and wish you a happy New Year. Call me back today when you get a chance.”

  Max looked up to see Ervin had gotten off the phone after a long conversation. Max left his desk and walked up to speak with Ervin, who was on as editor that day.

  “Ervin, have you seen Sue around? I wanted to talk to her.”

  “I got a call from Allentown that she’s on some sort of special assignment for the rest of the week. I took her off the calendar for any assignments.”

  “Special assignment?” Max asked with a puzzled look.

  “I have no idea what that’s about. Are you ready for an assignment? The Tamaqua Borough Council has an emergency meeting tonight. Something happened to the high school’s water main, and they must figure out where to get the money to repair it. The borough’s 1979 budget hasn’t been approved yet.”

  “Sure. I wanted to head out that way to talk to someone for another story.”

  Max stopped to say hello to Tex, grabbed his coat and briefcase, and headed for the parking lot. It was three thirty, and the emergency meeting was scheduled for six. That gave him plenty of time to meet with one man who could provide some help with his race against the clock and the FBI.

  Matt Carpenter was sitting at the same table at the Coal Miner’s Bar and Grill as he was when Max first met him. Uncle Matt was finishing a pint and watching the Cotton Bowl on TV when Max walked over. Uncle Matt rose and extended his meaty hand.

  “Let me finish my beer,” Uncle Matt said, never taking his eyes off the game. “I have Nebraska plus four points, and I think my money’s safe. Grab a seat. Do you want something?”

  “I’m fine, sir. I do need your help, and it’s important.”

  Matt placed his sixteen-ounce glass on a paper coaster, which seemed odd given the table had seen better days. “How can I help you, man?”

  “I know you have your ear to the ground on matters related to the union and local politics. I wonder what sort of people you know in law enforcement?”

  “Why?” Matt said with a laugh. “You need a parking ticket fixed?”

  Max stopped and gathered his thoughts. He needed to tell Uncle Matt what was going on briefly without revealing many gory details. Max had no choice but to trust Tex’s uncle.

  “I don’t need to tell you about the underhanded dealings of the union and its relationship with local politicians. Things are coming to a head based on an FBI investigation, but I don’t know when. I must find out when indictments are going to be served. My career depends on it.”

  Matt picked up his beer and finished it with one gulp. He signaled to the bartender he wanted a refill by holding up one finger.

  “Buckley told me you would be coming by,” Matt said. “I had a chance to make some calls before you got here.”

  “Buckley? Who is Buckley, sir?”

  Matt let out a roar that shook the table. “Son, that’s Tex’s real name. Do you think my sister named him Tex?” When he finally stopped laughing, he continued. “So, here’s what I know. And, by the way, you did not hear this from me. One of the union guys told me that he was asked to testify against Gentile and Hinke. They told him to be ready over the weekend.”

  “Do you know if that’s Saturday or Sunday?”

  “My guess honestly would be Saturday, probably later afternoon, but that’s just a guess. Sunday, around these parts, is considered a day off even for the FBI.”

  Max slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table and said, “Uncle Matt, I owe you one. Let me pay for your beer.”

  Tamaqua City Hall was a ten-minute ride from the bar, giving Max enough time to grab something to eat. An undercooked flame-broiled burger and fries from Burger King served as dinner, after which Max walked across the street from the burger joint to the borough hall. He was right on time, and the meeting was brief. The borough manager, Pete Marshall, suggested the borough take a short-term loan against its cash reserve to fix the high school problem. The motion passed unanimously, and the meeting was over.

  It was a long way to go for such a minor story, but Max knew the trip was worth it. The clock was still ticking, but hope emerged that he and Aaron might get lucky, and the FBI would announce the end of its multi-year probe in enough time to make the deadline for the Sunday paper. The timing would be tricky no matter how things evolved as he and Aaron would need time to add to their existing story before the paper went to press at 10 p.m. Saturday.

  Max was back at his desk at 8:15 p.m., giving him more than enough time to write up the Tamaqua borough council story. As he reached for some paper to feed into his Selectric, Max noticed a message taped to his phone. It read: “Call Norm Weiss tonight. He has what you asked for.”

  Max powered through his five-hundred-word story on the water main issue at the Tamaqua High School. Technically, Tamaqua was in Schuylkill County, which was somewhat outside the Chronicle’s coverage area. But since people in cities such as Jim Thorpe, Lehighton, and Palmerton had relatives or did business in Tamaqua, the borough was included, for the most part, in the paper’s Carbon County edition.

  After dropping off the story on Ervin’s desk, Max told the night editor that he was headed home, and if there were any questions about his work, he could call him there. Max lived ten minutes from the bureau, so he could hurry back if anything major was required.

  Feeling a little queasy after his greasy dinner, Max took a ginger ale from the fridge after taking off his coat. He took a few sips and then picked up the phone to return Norm’s call. He knew Norm had kids, so he wanted to reach him before it was time for goodnight stories and last-minute glasses of water.

  “Norm, I got your message in the office but waited until I got home to call you.”

  “That’s fine. I have some great news. A friend of a friend who I worked with on my last case involving a whistleblower at the Navy Yard here in the city knows someone reliable in the FBI office in Philadelphia.”

  “And?” Max pushed, hurriedly.

  “There will be an FBI conference at the Lehigh Valley office late afternoon Saturday. Right now, it’s about 90 percent certain, but will be locked down no later than tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Do you know what could prevent it from going down?”

  “No, I don’t. These things have a timetable of their own. At first, I thought they picked Saturday afternoon to avoid media attention, but I think it’s more that they have to bring in some other agencies that need some time to prepare.”

  Max took a deep breath. “Is there any way I can know it’s 100 percent certain?”

  “Sorry, Max, there isn’t.”

  “I am deeply indebted for what you did for me, and I will never forget it.”

  “I am glad to help. You see, I know you, and your intentions are honorable here. You just got a little zealous and maybe took a few shortcuts.”

  Max didn’t respond. He was not about to tell Norm about the transmitter, his run-ins with Joe Taylor, or his pressing deadline. There was no sense in burdening his friend with more than he needed to know.

  “Again, thank you. Talk to you soon.”

  At this point, there was little Max could do but wait. His temptation was to try to bluff Joe Taylor and tell him he knew the FBI would announce the results of its investigation on Saturday. In his past dealings with the undercover agent, however, he had more than met his match. The risk of Max being wrong this late in the game would spell disaster for the young reporter’s personal life and professional career. Max’s best option was to meet with Aaron and tell him what he learned from Matt Carpenter and Norm Weiss.

  Despite being stressed, Max was so exhausted that he slept well. He went through his usual morning routine and was in the office at 10a.m. He picked up the January 3 edition of the Chronicle and found his story on the Tamaqua Borough Council meeting buried on page four of the local Carbon County edition. The story was so short that the editor in Allentown had omitted Max’s byline, which was customary for such re
porting. It recalled the time he covered a car crash in Lansford, and one of the editors in Allentown spelled Max’s last name incorrectly.

  Max looked at his watch and at eleven he called Aaron Grant in the office. Grant was on the phone, so the call went straight to voice mail. Max asked Aaron to call him back as soon as possible.

  With nothing next to Max’s name on the assignment board, he could spend the day doing some more background work on the Arnie Mitchell kidnapping case. Max still had the file folders on his desk that he had taken out of the bureau’s archives the day before. He emptied the folders and laid out the stories in chronological order.

  Arnie Mitchell came to Allentown from New York, where he worked for Bob Guccione at Penthouse. Mitchell oversaw hiring photographers for the model shoots but was unhappy with the popular adult magazine’s mainstream direction. Wanting to start a competitive, more risqué porno magazine, he chose Allentown as his headquarters because of its proximity to two of the nation’s four largest cities.

  Max was about to read a profile piece on Mitchell done by Philadelphia Magazine in 1976 when his phone rang.

  “Max, it’s Aaron. What’s up?”

  For the next five minutes, talking at warp speed, Max updated his partner about his conversations with Matt Carpenter and Norm Weiss.

  “So, what’s our next move?” Max said with more than a touch of fear in his voice.

  “I know I said we had only two paths—tell Jack Devlin or find another story,” Grant said firmly. “I think we have another. Is there a way to do a three-way call with our phone system?”

  “I’m sure there is. What do you have in mind?”

  “We get on the phone with Joe Taylor. If we ask the right questions, we should get the right answers.”

  “I am not sure I follow exactly, but I trust you. I will find out how we can do the call. Should we say 3 p.m.?”

  “Sure. Just call me as soon as you can confirm we can pull this off technically.”

  Max asked the only person in the office who would know the Chronicle phone system’s inner workings. Tex was seated twenty feet away on the other side of the office, reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone.