“Give me and my son a moment, Matthews,” Max Pilcher said.
Tad Matthews shut the door behind him on his way out. Leonard Pilcher strolled about his father’s office like he owned it, even laying hands on some of the prized ornaments with which his father had decorated the place. Max Pilcher was having a difficult time concealing his irritation with this impudent, supposed adult he called his son.
“Sit down, Lenny,” Max Pilcher said. “We’ve got to have a little talk.”
Leonard claimed a comfortable chair. Exuding boredom, he draped his leg over one of its arms.
“You don’t know this Moscone character, do you?” Max Pilcher asked. “Did he fly with you?”
Without batting an eye, Leonard Pilcher replied, “Never saw the son of a bitch in my life, Dad.”
“So it’s all bullshit?”
“Of course it’s bullshit,” the younger Pilcher said. “He’s either out of his mind…or he’s part of some other campaign’s hatchet job, that’s all.”
The father looked skeptical. “My sources haven’t found any evidence of that, son. The other candidates aren’t taking you seriously enough to bother running a hatchet job…not yet, anyway.”
Leonard shrugged. “Okay…so he’s crazy! Don’t worry, Pop. This’ll die all by itself.”
Max considered his son’s analysis for a moment. Then he shrugged, too, and rose from his chair, signaling this brief engagement closed. “Fine,” he said. “Send the faggot back in here.”
Leonard remained seated, motionless. He looked confused.
“The faggot…the queer. Get him in here, Lenny.”
Leonard’s face still registered no understanding of his father’s order. Max Pilcher was incredulous.
Finally, Max shouted, “Matthews, you idiot! Matthews! What’s the matter? You didn’t know he was a nancy-boy?”
Leonard Pilcher looked more confused than ever. His father shook his head, perhaps in disbelief or perhaps in regret for siring this dullard sitting before him. His words escaped his mouth like a sigh of deep regret. “Son, you are dumber than a box of rocks. How do you think I keep Matthews in line so easily? Knowledge is power, my boy…Knowledge is power.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Joe Gelardi sat nervously in the reception area, wondering why he had bothered to arrive on time. The chairman of the math department was notorious for keeping visitors waiting, absorbed as he was with the demands and politics of running a prestigious academic unit at MIT. The secretary had reminded the chairman twice: Doctor Gelardi is here, sir. All she had received in return was a perfunctory wave of acknowledgement as he continued with one pressing phone call after another.
Joe knew exactly why the chairman wanted to see him. A few days ago, while leading a class in Boolean algebra, he had observed two male students on the rooftop below his upper floor classroom’s window. They were engaged in horseplay that made them appear to be fighting, just like Leonard Pilcher and David Linker had been on that rooftop in Sweden. But Joe could not see or hear that these young men were exchanging laughs and boyish grins rather than angry looks and hateful words. His smooth and orderly presentation to the class became halting and incoherent.
The boys on the roof made their way to the ledge, still engaged in the good-natured pushing and shoving that looked like something altogether different—and frighteningly familiar—to Joe Gelardi. As they leaned over the edge to yell to colleagues in the courtyard below, Joe Gelardi, pressed against the classroom window, began to tremble. Bewildered students rushed to his side and asked what was wrong.
“HE WAS KILLED THAT WAY,” Joe blurted, then collapsed to a seated position on the floor. Almost a fetal position. Those close enough could hear him whispering through his sobs, Oh God, he killed him…That bastard killed him…
Help was summoned. A faculty member gave Joe a glass of water as another helped him to a chair. A campus policeman arrived. An ambulance was called.
The term nervous breakdown was uttered by a few of the pitying onlookers. Most, however, just looked on and shook their heads sadly, finding nothing else appropriate to do or say.
Within a few minutes, Joe regained his composure. Those who had come to his aid hesitantly retreated, not quite convinced that he was fine… just fine, no matter how many times he reassured them.
Stifling the humiliation that raged within him, he resumed the class.
It was 15 minutes past the appointment time, and the chairman was still on the phone. Joe pulled a folded document from the inside pocket of his sport jacket. He unfolded it like a poker player arranging his hand, taking care the secretary could not read it.
It was an offer of employment from IBM. The space for the accepting signature—Joe’s signature—was blank. He stared at the paper, deep in troubled thought.
“The chairman will see you now, Doctor Gelardi,” the receptionist finally said.
Joe carefully folded the job offer and returned it to his jacket pocket. As he entered the office, he was surprised to find the chairman seemingly relaxed and unhurried. He had expected to find an impatient man, harried by the pressures of his lofty position. Instead, he found what appeared to be a sympathetic friend.
“Hold my calls, Sally,” he said to his secretary. He stood and offered a handshake and a warm smile to Joe. As they settled into chairs, there was a moment of awkward silence before the chairman spoke.
“We’re very worried about you, Joe.”
Joe did not feel the need to say very much. The chairman’s tactfully worded attempts to stimulate dialogue boiled down to one simple question, which he finally came right out and asked: “Are you happy here, Joe?”
The words Joe would have liked to say coursed through his mind: What does he expect me to say? No, sir…I’m miserably unhappy with the never-ending politics of this place and seriously considering leaving?
“You’re a wonderful teacher, Joe. Your students adore you.”
Great…so why have I been getting the runaround over promotion and tenure? Doesn’t everybody act a little strange around here from time to time? And Forbes Nash is out of his ever-loving mind, but you never had the nerve to kick him out…
“But there’s something troubling you, Joe. I wish I knew what it was. Quite frankly, this could have a major impact on your career at the Institute.”
“You mean on my application for tenure?” Joe asked.
There was a long pause. “That…and more,” the chairman finally replied.
Joe struggled to keep down the anger that was rising inside him. The urge to announce his resignation right then and there—and accept the offer from IBM in his pocket—was very strong.
I should sign this job offer right now…right on his desk! How’s that for a resignation?
But that would not help anything.
Must stay calm…analytical…Make a decision based only on facts, not emotion.
Most importantly, Joe had to do what was best for his daughter. Without an answer to that question, the job offer would remain unsigned for yet another day.
The chairman’s look of sympathy faded. The playing at Dutch uncle was over. The cold efficiency and formality of an administrator appeared.
“Perhaps it would be best if you took a leave of absence, Doctor Gelardi. I’ll arrange it with the provost. Take as long as you need. You’ll be paid as usual.”
There was no mistaking it—he was being suspended. Unofficially, of course. A prelude to dismissal disguised as some sort of sabbatical. No black mark in his CV. At least not yet. The job offer in his pocket buoyed him like a life raft in a troubled sea.
Joe rose to leave. He knew escaping that office would feel like a rush of sweet freedom.
The chairman’s tone softened once again, and he offered one last piece of advice: “Get some help, Joe. Then we’ll see what we can do about your position here.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Philadelphia: Allegra Wise wished she knew this city better. Even though she was
a Pennsylvania native from the affluent Pittsburgh suburbs, she had only managed the requisite school trips to view the historic landmarks of the City of Brotherly Love. She had certainly never spent a second in its rundown neighborhoods, one of which she was now walking through, searching for the house where Tony Moscone lived.
She looked painfully out of place here, a well-dressed businesswoman strolling through a concrete purgatory of dilapidated row houses, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on their cracked and crumbling brickwork. Their life-scarred occupants—women probably in their 30s but looking 50—eyed her through tattered curtains with great suspicion. Noisy children, bundled against the late winter cold in faded, often-patched hand-me-downs, interrupted their street games to gawk at her, surprised and amused by this tall woman who might as well be a visitor from another planet. Allegra certainly felt like one.
She had witnessed the seamy side of life before as a reporter on the police beat in her native Pittsburgh. The detective she met and took as her lover during that gig had been circumspect when discussing the horrors he saw doing his job amidst the city’s lower strata. One warm summer night, as they lay still, entwined and damp after making love, he had said to her out of the blue, Ally, I wish you’d get some other job. I don’t want you to see the things I have to see.
It was not that well-off people did not kill and maim each other; she knew better than that. But on streets like the one she was currently walking, the threat of violence and random death just seemed so much more real. More likely. Her cop lover had given her a piece of advice, and she was employing it now: Always walk down the street like you own it…less chance somebody will fuck with you.
That advice seemed to be working. The tallest among a group of boys lounging on a stoop—maybe 12 years old—took a deep drag on his cigarette, then called out in a menacing tone, “Hey, lady! You lost or somethin’?”
Mustering all the confidence she could gather, Allegra replied, “No, young man. I know exactly where I’m going, thank you.”
There was some mumbling among the boys. A little snickering, too. The tallest one spoke again, just loud enough for Allegra to hear. “Nah, she ain’t no social worker, dipshit. She’s dressed too good.”
Allegra walked on, unmolested. Maybe they do think I own the street, she hoped, fighting the urge to quicken her stride. She regretted not having the cab from the train station drop her off right at Moscone’s address, but she wanted to walk these streets. She needed a feel for the place to better understand who Tony Moscone was. But that sociology class bullshit was feeling pretty weak right now. What a dope I am, she thought. The place is a shithole! I could’ve figured that out still safely inside the cab.
She stopped and checked her notebook. The house number was crudely applied to the brick in freehand brush strokes of white paint. Yep, this is it...723. She climbed the steps. There was no doorbell. She knocked.
Nothing. She knocked again.
There was activity behind the door. The click of a deadbolt. The door opened a crack, as far as the safety chain would allow. An unfriendly female face—plain, pasty, not a hint of makeup—peered through the slim opening.
Harshly, the face behind the door asked, “Whaddaya want?”
“Miss Moscone? I’m Allegra Wise from WCBS TV, New York. I’d like to talk to Anthony…”
She was interrupted by a string of curses from the face behind the door. Much to Allegra’s surprise, the door almost closed, then flew wide open—and standing in the threshold was a small, frail, but agitated woman, probably 40 but looking much older. Face flushed, eyes bulging, her frizzy black hair looked like it was ravaged by an electric shock. Her bony body swam about in a baggy housedress and tattered sweater, quaking in foreplay to the rage she was about to unleash. Ninety pounds of dynamite with a very short fuse, standing on sinewy feet in fuzzy bunny slippers.
“I TOLD YOU SONS OF BITCHES TO LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE! AIN’T HE BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH?”
Allegra was certain this crazy little woman had just sprayed spit all over her, but she stayed calm and tried to be reassuring. “I’m only trying to get Anthony’s side of the story, Miss Moscone…”
But Theresa Moscone was in no mood for reassurances.
“GET THE GODDAMN HELL OUT OF HERE, LADY!”
Then the door slammed in Allegra’s face. Had she looked up, she might have seen a face at an upstairs window, just watching. Tony Moscone’s face.
Despite the background din of city noise, Allegra felt she was in a bubble of silence. She considered knocking again. No point, she rationalized. No telling what that crazy little bitch might do next. She would have to find some other way to interview Tony Moscone. She jammed her business card through the mail slot in the door. Couldn’t hurt, she rationalized again.
Only then did it dawn on her that she would have to run the same gauntlet on the way out of this neighborhood as she had on the way in. It was a few blocks to the nearest phone booth; she would have to call for a cab from there. None seemed to cruise these mean streets in search of fares.
Much to Allegra’s surprise, the streets were practically deserted as she retraced her steps. The children were gone, probably called in to supper by their world-weary mothers. But she continued to walk as if she owned the street, even though there was no one else laying claim to it at the moment.
Once at the phone booth, she decided to first check in with her office in New York. She was startled to find that there was a phone message from Tony Moscone, received just a few minutes ago. “The ink on the message slip isn’t even dry yet,” the secretary on the other end of the line said.
The message was brief: If you want to talk to me, meet me at Monty’s Deli on Kensington at 6 p.m. Any cabbie will know it.
Tony was right—the cabbie knew Monty’s like he knew Independence Hall or the Liberty Bell. Allegra arrived at the crowded deli well before 6 p.m. She took a table near the back, ordered a sandwich and coffee, and waited. Everyone was staring at her. She looked out of place here, too. “Some high-class broad slumming with the working stiffs,” a patron muttered, intentionally loud enough for Allegra to hear.
She ignored them. This day had shaped up to be much longer and far more tiring than she imagined. Her feet, in their expensive pumps, were killing her. At least it’s not my time of the month, she thought. That would be the perfect capper.
Allegra would have known Tony Moscone even if she had not seen his mug shot. She picked him out the moment he walked in. A small, wiry man—a build much like his sister’s. These Moscones sure don’t come from a line of giants, Allegra thought. He was jittery, with eyes that constantly darted but never seemed to be looking at anything. His hands were jammed tightly into the pockets of his well-worn pea coat, shoulders hunched forward. He seemed to be trying to fold up into himself, to disappear. She waved at him; he started her way. She towered over him as she stood in greeting.
“I had to wait until I left for work. Otherwise, she would’ve known something was up,” Tony said.
“She…being your sister?” Allegra asked.
“Yeah, who else? I heard the browbeating she gave you…Theresa means well, I guess. But I don’t need no more of her shit. Don’t need no big sister looking out for me.”
Allegra ordered him coffee. Beneath his pea coat, Moscone wore the white uniform of a kitchen worker. He was sure she was making mental notes, sizing him up without asking him a damn thing. He held open his coat to reveal the stenciled logo Hotel Cornwall on his uniform shirt.
Deadpan, he said, “So you don’t think I’m some doctor or something. I work at the hotel up the street. The VA got me a job there. I guess they got tired of babysitting me.”
“What do you mean by babysitting?” Allegra asked.
He looked straight at her for the first time, his dark eyes boring into her with a sad yet fierce intensity that she did not expect and found unsettling. “Lady…I lost my frigging mind in that airplane. I’ve spent years in and out of that VA…j
ust so I can be a goddamn dishwasher. I knew all about radio, you know…and I still do, damn it! I could have been an engineer or something…”
Allegra found herself moved by Tony Moscone’s words. He just encapsulated sixteen years of hell in three sentences. Brilliant. They both took a sip of coffee before continuing.
“Mr. Moscone, who did you see Captain Pilcher murder?”
He paused before answering. “Davey. Davey Linker. That bastard pilot threw him off the roof.”
Allegra leaned closer. “Who was Davey Linker? A friend of yours?”
“One of our gunners on The Lady M. And yeah...he was a good friend. A real swell guy. Smart as a whip, too.”
“You were both in Pilcher’s crew?”
“Uh-huh.”
Allegra jotted feverishly in her notebook. She took a deep breath before speaking again.
“Mr. Moscone, did anybody else witness Linker’s murder?”
“I don’t know…I just know what I saw.” He paused. In an instant, he was agitated.
“Look, I know what you’re gonna say…what they’re all saying. Moscone’s out of his fucking mind! He’s crazy! Don’t listen to him!”
He was nearly in tears now. “Even that guy on the TV said I’m a nutcase!”
Now it was Allegra’s turn to look Tony straight in the eye. “If I believed that, Mr. Moscone, I wouldn’t be here.”
That calmed Tony a bit. Allegra leaned forward and asked, “What else can you tell me about your time in Sweden?”
Shaking his head sadly, he said, “Not much. I just remember us guys from the crew walking around in civvies all the time…like we was on vacation or something.” After a long pause, he added: “And that nice blonde lady who took care of us.”
“Do you remember the blonde lady’s name, Mr. Moscone?”
“No. Sorry…and call me Tony.”
“Do you remember the names of the other crew members, Tony?”
“Of course I do!” he replied. He proceeded to reel off—with great precision—the full names, ranks, and hometowns of the other four members of The Lady M’s crew in Sweden: Joe Gelardi, Ed Morris, Frank Hughes, and David Linker. “And Hughes hung himself over there.”
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