Unpunished

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Unpunished Page 19

by William Peter Grasso


  “Hughes committed suicide?”

  “Yeah,” he said, then added with a tight-lipped smile, “and they still call me the crazy one. Ain’t that something?”

  Allegra did the math. “That makes only six,” she said. “Weren’t there ten men in a bomber crew?”

  “Yeah…four guys weren’t there,” Tony replied.

  “What happened to them?”

  Another long pause. “Don’t know that either, lady.”

  “But can you tell me their names, too?” Allegra asked.

  “Sure,” he replied, and then reeled off the names, ranks, and hometowns of the remaining four: Harry Lapinski, Lou DiNapoli, Larry Harkin…and Fred O’Hara.

  Allegra stopped writing at the mention of that last name: Fred O’Hara. Something clicked in her memory. The Philadelphia Inquirer she had picked up at the train station earlier was still jutting from her bag. She grabbed it and scanned the front page, searching to see if her memory served her correctly. Sure enough, at the bottom of the page, there was an article titled ASW No-Show for Pilcher Endorsement. She felt her pulse quicken: Could this be another obscure link that no one else has uncovered, falling from the heavens right into my lap?

  Breathlessly, she repeated Tony’s last bit of information. “Fred O’Hara? From Pittsburgh?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  Pointing to the article, she said, “A man named Fred O’Hara just happens to be president of the ASW. Wouldn’t that be a fascinating coincidence?” She tried to control the urge to sprint to a phone.

  Tony Moscone just stared back at her blankly. He had no idea what she was implying.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The telephone receiver dropped from Tom Houlihan’s hand, bounced off its cradle, and came to rest on the table. Lying on its side, the receiver became a visual representation of unfinished business. That’s exactly what the phone call had been about: unfinished business. The ASW’s endorsement of Leonard Pilcher had not happened.

  And the payment Houlihan was due for said endorsement—that had not happened, either. The Bahamian bank account set up to collect it languished at the same minimum required balance since its inception.

  The telephone receiver began the harsh claxon that signaled it was off the hook. It took a few moments before Houlihan, still in shock from that phone conversation, became aware of the annoying sound and summoned up the energy to silence it—not by hanging up, but by seizing the cradle, jerking it from the table and its cord from the wall in the process, then flinging the entire apparatus across the room. One of his wife’s precious porcelain lamps had the misfortune to be in the trajectory. It disintegrated to a thousand clattering shards, punctuated by the flash of the shattered light bulb and the thud-thud of the cradle and receiver striking the wall beyond, a split-second apart.

  Mercifully, the chaos in the living room had not awakened Tom’s wife, still a sound sleeper in her late 70s. She would wake eventually, though, and when she did, recriminations for the broken lamp would be loud and lengthy.

  Her and her shitty lamp are the least of my worries, Tom imagined. He made his way outside to the back porch. It was a beautiful night on the Gulf Coast of South Florida—a bright moon, a gentle breeze off the water. Across the yard, his Chris Craft cabin cruiser—Union Maid—bobbed silently at its dock, like so many others in this cove-side community, populated mainly by retirees from the frozen North.

  This is heaven, Tom thought, but I ain’t got a penny to pay for it. That gambling money… the vig the Caputos are laying on it’s gonna kill me! The forty grand I owe doubles if I don’t pay by the end of the month. After that, I’m screwed. The endorsement money from Pilcher would have covered the forty grand…with ten grand left over.

  But that ungrateful son-of-a-bitch O’Hara has the balls to go against me? Who the fuck does he think he is? I made him…he’d be nothing without me. Can’t the little prick see that?

  Houlihan sagged into a wooden deck chair and considered his options. Time was running out. O’Hara had to go. He was sure he could fix a recall election and put a more compliant lackey into the union presidency, but there was no way that could happen before the end of the month.

  Gotta be sooner than that, Houlihan resolved. He sat completely still for a few more moments, letting the enormity and finality of his decision wash over him. Then, he rose and shuffled back into the house.

  He needed a phone. The one in the living room lay in a useless heap, its severed wires coiled around it. But there was another phone in the bedroom where his wife slept.

  Good thing she sleeps like the dead.

  Gently, silently, he lifted the receiver and dialed “O.”

  In a voice barely above a whisper, Houlihan said, “Operator, I’m calling long distance…”

  His wife stirred but did not wake. Tom waited and listened as a series of female operators with Southern accents announced their city—Jacksonville, Atlanta, Knoxville, Richmond—making their innocent contribution to Tom Houlihan’s dirty work by connecting his call farther down the line. Finally, a decidedly non-Southern female voice that seemed to be at the other end of a long tunnel announced, “Pittsburgh.”

  A moment later, as a phone in that steel-making town rang at the home of his most trusted henchman, Tom Houlihan mentally composed his message: We’re gonna get O’Hara out of office…with a bullet.

  Chapter Forty

  Fred O’Hara threw the newspaper down on his desk in disgust. It landed with a plop, the photo on the front page still staring up at him with that mocking grin. The headline of the article that accompanied the photo blared: PILCHER CANDIDACY PICKS UP STEAM.

  As O’Hara fumed in silence, his secretary stuck her head in the door.

  “There’s some TV reporter from CBS on the phone for you,” she said.

  “Tell him no comment.”

  “It’s a she,” the secretary replied. With a puzzled expression on her face, she added, “Says she wants to ask about The Lady M?”

  Fred sank into his chair as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him. “Okay, put her through,” he mumbled.

  He stared uncomfortably at the phone for a few moments, as if mesmerized by the blinking light on the incoming line button, before he took the call.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Charlie, the head researcher for the news team, sat impatiently behind a desk cluttered with documents, publications, and photos. Allegra Wise paced before him. He did not even look up at her as he began to rattle off the information his staff had uncovered. “The tail gunner, Hughes, is dead, Ally…hung himself while interned.”

  Allegra frowned. “I already know that, Charlie. And Harkin, the bombardier, is dead…Lapinski, too, according to O’Hara.”

  “Ooo, there’s no fooling you, is there? But wait…you’re gonna love this. DiNapoli…he’s a mobster right here in New York City. Runs the Bronx for the Montemaro Family.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I figured that one out, too…O’Hara talked about him a little. They were POWs together. It was pretty obvious.”

  “Well, goodie for you, Ally! I suppose you didn’t actually get to talk to Mr. DiNapoli?”

  “You suppose correctly. The phone number turned out to be a delicatessen on Fordham Road. O’Hara and DiNapoli aren’t much help, though. They weren’t in Sweden.”

  Charlie laughed. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Now this Morris guy…he’s still in the Air Force, but good luck finding him. Wherever he is, it’s classified. It would take an act of the Pentagon to unearth him. But this Joseph Gelardi…he sounds like a real egghead. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding him…and the Boston area is simply lovely this time of year.”

  Allegra checked her open notebook, tapped her pencil against the page, tallying its contents. “That just leaves our alleged murder victim, David Linker,” she said, slamming the notebook shut.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  PILCHER FOR PRESIDENT signs seemed to be plastered everywhere ac
ross this city. As Allegra Wise made her way across the University of Pittsburgh campus, they lined every thoroughfare like guideposts, funneling the crowds to the campus auditorium where Leonard Pilcher was to speak.

  There must be two thousand people stuffed into this crappy little hall, Allegra thought as she muscled her way toward the front seats, utilizing sweet but hollow words of apology and elbow leverage to clear her path. The crowd was mostly college kids, with some faculty, a few local bigwigs, reporters, and photographers, all wanting a good look at this unlikely presidential candidate. The press flyer stated that the congressman would entertain questions after his speech. She would not be the only reporter chomping at the bit to ask the congressman a question or two. One would have to be assertive to get a word in. Allegra was determined to make her question entertaining.

  Allegra wondered if the large number of students were present merely because professors had been requested to cancel classes during the congressman’s appearance. Empty chairs in the auditorium would reflect poorly on the university, an institution that benefited much from the Pilcher family’s largesse. Failure to appear supportive of that family’s endeavors might have a negative impact on future endowments.

  Allegra finally located an unoccupied seat near the front. It had not been an easy search; she bulled her way to it, settled in, and caught her breath. Several bookish young men to her left spoke with great seriousness of the US role in Central and South America and what the continued presence of a Republican in the White House might mean for that role. The sorority girls sitting to Allegra’s right were busily comparing the contents of some fashion magazines.

  The university president strolled onto the stage, said a few words of thanks to those in attendance, and moved quickly to the main event. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with the oily grace of a carnival barker, “I give you the next president of the United States, Congressman Leonard Pilcher, from the great state of Pennsylvania!”

  He had failed to whip the crowd into the desired frenzy. The applause was tepid, at best, but Leonard Pilcher seemed not to notice. He stood with arms raised high, acknowledging the weak applause as if he was some conquering hero soaking up the accolades of the adoring masses.

  One of the sorority girls to Allegra’s right said, a little too loudly, “Look at him! You’d think they just crowned him king of the world or something!” Then all the girls dissolved into derisive giggles. Allegra wondered if Pilcher would put his arms down before the anemic clapping died out completely or if he would keep them up, leaving him looking even more ridiculous. He put them down just as the clapping ceased.

  Pilcher then launched into a droning, boilerplate political speech that had the already disinterested audience shifting impatiently in their seats. After 10 minutes of speaking that seemed like hours, Pilcher, attempting to punctuate some mundane point with a grand physical gesture, accidentally swept the water glass from the podium with his arm and sent it crashing to the stage.

  The audience snickered, but Pilcher seemed unaffected by the gaffe. With a wide grin, he kept right on speaking. “A little water over the dam, eh? But no matter…As I was saying, diplomacy not rooted in strength is a fool’s game.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I’ve been to war. I know about strength. I was one of those crazy heroes who bombed Germany!”

  There was no response from the audience—none at all. Surely that was a guaranteed applause line, was it not? But they sat as one monolithic mind, craving intellectual nourishment but being fed nothing. The few murmured comments that rose in that awkward stillness, though unintelligible, possessed the unmistakable tone of mockery. In the shadows of the last rows, several audience members decided they were finished with this charade and slipped out the doors.

  In the wings, Tad Matthews watched in horror. Had he not beaten into Leonard’s foolish head don’t mention the war…especially your war record! Yet there Leonard was, uttering two blatant falsehoods in one sentence: hero and bombed Germany. An argument could have been made that Pilcher had been truthful about the crazy part, at least.

  Immediate damage control was necessary. Matthews hurried onto the stage and whispered something in Pilcher’s ear. The words left Pilcher disoriented and fumbling. It appeared to Allegra that Matthews was actually trying to nudge Pilcher from the stage with a subtle but undeniably urgent motion of hips and shoulders.

  If I’m going to say anything, it’d better be now, Allegra thought. She sprang to her feet.

  “Congressman,” Allegra called out, “it was rumored that you would receive the surprising endorsement of the ASW. Did you and that union’s president, Mr. O’Hara, serve together in the war?”

  The question blindsided Leonard Pilcher. Startled, he attempted to approach the podium, speaking words that were nothing but an unintelligible stammer. Before any meaningful sound escaped Pilcher’s mouth, Tad Matthews grabbed the Congressman’s arm.

  With a look that could only be described as one of annoyance and disgust, Pilcher violently shucked Matthew’s grasp. Then, Pilcher turned back to the stunned audience. Allegra searched her brain to find just the right words to describe the look now adorning Pilcher’s face as he glared at her: It’s a smirk, she decided, but I’ve never seen someone so drenched in superiority! It’s nothing but raw contempt! Unbelievable!

  She had asked uncomfortable questions of politicians many times before. The usual response was some fancy dance around her query, a vaguely worded denial that could deflect the truth long enough for the denier to make his getaway.

  But Pilcher’s response was something totally different: a silence that defiantly screamed Fuck you. Even the truth can’t hurt me.

  Her eyes remained locked on Pilcher’s for another moment. Matthews whispered to Pilcher again, with more urgency this time. Pilcher’s look of raw contempt turned from Allegra and was now focusing itself on Matthews.

  Allegra shouted her follow-up: “WERE YOU AND MR. O’HARA CREWMATES? WAS MR. MOSCONE?”

  The audience buzzed with excitement. This mundane political event had suddenly gotten interesting.

  In what looked to the onlookers like two grown men dancing an awkward two-step, Pilcher and Matthews exchanged places so that Matthews was now before the microphone. His gaze swept the auditorium, then focused on Allegra. Matthews began to speak; his tone could only be described as offended. “Miss Wise, as I told you once before, we will not be dignifying that nonsense with further explanations.”

  Tad Matthews paused, relishing the fact that he had regained control—however briefly—of what could very easily become a hostile mob. It was time to make a hasty exit, before some other troublemaker picked up Allegra Wise’s line of questioning. He raised his hand in a wave of goodbye; Pilcher took the cue and did the same. Matthews spoke one more time: “That’s all we have time for, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you.”

  And then the stage was empty. Suddenly, everyone in the audience was talking to their neighbor at once, all voicing the same thought in 2000 different ways: What the hell just happened?

  The only one not speaking was Allegra. She settled back into her seat, a satisfied smile on her face. A triumphant thought filled her head: This story’s going to get me on camera…or win me a Pulitzer…or both!

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Fred O’Hara was awake at the first sound. The dull thump—someone bumping into furniture on the first floor of the darkened house, nudging it out of place just a bit. Someone unfamiliar with the layout—an intruder. He jostled his sleeping wife awake, and clamped a hand over her mouth to silence the inevitable, irritated, What? What?

  In an urgent whisper, Fred commanded, “Stay up here with the kids. Keep everyone quiet. Take the phone into the closet and call the cops, quick!”

  Her terrified eyes pleaded a question above the hand still clamped to her face: Why? What’s the matter?

  “We’ve got company downstairs,” he said.

  Fred slid to the floor and reached beneath the bed. When he stood, he
was holding the pump-action shotgun he kept there. A gift from Lou DiNapoli. Fred chambered a shell. The action made a soft clack-clack sound. He felt sure that whoever was downstairs would never hear it.

  More shuffling sounds from the lower floor. Closer to the staircase that led upstairs. Heavy footsteps trying to be stealthy but failing. Fred peered from the bedroom into the dark hallway, the shotgun’s barrel leading the way. He could just make out the staircase, its lower end lit dimly by street light that filtered in though a downstairs window.

  He could hear the muffled ratcheting of the phone’s dial as his wife called the police from behind the closet’s closed door. He stepped into the hallway and crouched low at the upper landing of this narrow, walled staircase. To get to him and his family, an intruder would have to climb it—and walk into a perfect killing zone for Fred’s shotgun.

  Probably a couple of them, Fred thought. Get them all on the stairs, then let them have it.

  The heavy footsteps were very close to the lower landing. Fred still could not see the intruders. He tightened his grip on the shotgun. Nestled his finger firmly against the trigger. Held his breath. He could feel his pounding heartbeat.

  Any second now…

  A moment of silence that seemed to last an eternity. A darkened emptiness that was crowded with invisible assailants somewhere below, their breathing so heavy that he could feel but not quite hear it.

  Wait for it…

  And wait he did. But no shadowy figures materialized. Suddenly, there were scuffling sounds. A sharp thump by the base of the stairs, quickly followed by another. Two loud thuds as heavy objects hit the floor, like sacks of potatoes—or bodies. A few seconds later, the sound of things being dragged toward the back door. Men’s voices speaking low, the words unclear but the accent of the New York City streets unmistakable. The sound of the back door closing, then stillness in the house. A car’s wheels crunched to a stop on the gravel driveway.

 

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