“What can you tell me about the death of David Linker, Doctor Gelardi?”
She swore she could detect the slightest tremor in Joe as he heard the question. Did he just tremble? A little hard to tell…He’s been so damned twitchy the whole time.
He gestured with his hands before speaking—both raised, open, palms up, signifying Who knows? “Can’t tell you much of anything, I’m afraid,” he said.
Allegra winced. She struggled to keep a pleading tone from her voice. “The people I’ve talked to so far…your fellow crewmen, Mr. Moscone and Mr. O’Hara, plus David Linker’s parents…all refuse to believe David Linker committed suicide. Mr. Moscone’s mental state is, of course, in question…and O’Hara wasn’t even in Sweden. But you were, Doctor Gelardi. Do you think it was a suicide?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist or a policeman, Miss Wise. I can’t help you any more than that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”
“Wait! Can I buy you lunch, perhaps?”
“No time. I’m in quite a hurry, Miss Wise.”
“Maybe we can finish this later? Tonight, perhaps?”
“We’re already finished, Miss Wise. I have nothing to add.”
She handed him her business card. He stuffed it into his briefcase along with some papers from his desk.
Allegra added one more request: “If you think of anything…anything at all…please call me.”
Outside the building where she had just met with Joe Gelardi, the taxicab was waiting for Allegra.
“Dispatcher says you wanna go to the Greyhound station, right?” the driver asked as he threw her bulky suitcase into the trunk.
“Yeah. And step on it…I’m running late.”
“Ooookay, lady…anything you say. Where’re you headed?”
“Nashua, New Hampshire.”
“That ain’t much of a drive,” the cabbie said. “How about I take you there?”
Allegra crooked an eyebrow and opened the negotiation with a demand: “Off the meter.”
After a few moments of haggling, they agreed on a price.
Allegra had no idea that at that same moment, Joe Gelardi was hunched over a toilet. So shaken was he by her visit, his body convulsed with dry heaves which persisted long after the stomach had emptied its contents.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It had not been such a great day for flying. By the time Fred O’Hara had set down his twin-engined Piper at Teterboro, he was physically and mentally exhausted. The line of storms, bringing March snow to the inland areas and a cold, harsh rain to the East Coast, had proved an almost impossible challenge for an airman to get around or through. But he had found his way, bumped and battered by turbulence and the ever-present danger of airframe icing. He now sat in an office in a small warehouse in the Bronx, sipping coffee with Lou DiNapoli.
“Shitty flight, eh?” Lou asked as he took another bite of his chocolate bar.
“You know it, brother,” Fred replied. “Thought I was going to have to turn back for sure.”
“It’s gotta be really bad for you to think about turning back, Freddy.”
Lou picked up a snub-nosed revolver from the table and began idly spinning the cylinder. He turned to the large window that looked out on the warehouse floor. A ring of cars—expensive, flashy sedans—were parked there. A dozen tough-looking characters—Lou’s men—lounged against the cars. A few had baseball bats in their hands.
In the center of the ring, suspended from a ceiling-mounted hoist, was a man—upside down, bound, and blindfolded—his head swaying a few feet off the floor. Lou’s men took turns taunting their suspended captive with invectives and jabs from the fat end of a baseball bat. Blood began to drip from the captive’s face, forming a small pool on the floor below.
Behind the glass window of the office, Lou and Fred could not hear the taunts, but every jab with the bat caused a moan they could hear softly but clearly. The spectacle was making Fred a bit squeamish. Lou noticed Fred’s discomfort and began to laugh.
“What’s the matter with you? You’ve done worse yourself,” Lou said, placing the pistol into a holster on his belt.
Fred shrugged. “Yeah, I have, haven’t I?”
“No shit, killer,” Lou replied, popping another piece of chocolate into his mouth.
“What did that poor fucker do, anyway?” Fred asked.
Lou popped the last piece of the chocolate bar into his mouth before answering. “Let’s just say that he disappointed me.”
“Hmm…You guys sure like your baseball bats,” Fred said. “Couldn’t help but notice them that night at my place.”
“Let’s just say that they’re very effective weapons in certain circumstances...affordable yet versatile.” Lou turned serious. “But speaking of disappointments, can you believe the shit that scumbag Pilcher’s putting out? Like he’s some kind of fucking war hero?”
Fred let out a derisive laugh. “What did you expect?” Then he, too, turned serious. “Did that skirt reporter get ahold of you?”
Shaking his head, Lou let out a derisive laugh of his own. “Freddy, Freddy, Freddy…Of course not. We don’t talk to the press in this line of work.” After a brief pause, he added, “Neither should you.”
“I didn’t tell her shit, Louie…aside from the fact that Picher is a lying scumbag. And what do we know about what happened in Sweden, anyway? We had our own fucking problems, remember?”
Lou’s face took on a pensive look. He remembered all too well.
Fred stood and began to pace the room. “That son-of-a-bitch Pilcher needs to get dead, Louie. Right now.”
Lou moaned. “You gonna start with this shit again?”
“You’ve gotta help me with this thing, Louie…”
Lou jumped to his feet. “Listen to me! I told you before…this ain’t my fight. I ain’t getting involved with pushing the button on no politician. Not for that.”
“We spent almost a year in the Stalag Luft because of that chickenshit coward, Lou!”
“We made a choice, remember? Besides, what took you so fucking long?” Lou mimicked Fred’s words with a mocking, whiny tone. “I’m gonna kill him, Louie…I’m gonna kill him!” His voice turned serious again. “Gimme a break, Freddy. It’s been sixteen fucking years. Just forget about this shit, OK?”
Dejected, Fred slumped into a chair. This was not what he wanted to hear. Lou put a comforting hand on Fred’s shoulder.
“But I’ll tell you what I will do,” Lou said. “All you little chatterboxes are gonna need someone watching your asses now. You and Tony, at least…that’s for damn sure. You screw with the Pilcher family and you just might be the ones getting dead. You didn’t really expect to crap in their faces with that endorsement bullshit and walk away clean, did you? Houlihan coming after you was small potatoes compared to the shit storm that kind of money can bring.”
“I’ve been fighting the Pilcher family for years, Louie. It ain’t nothing new.”
On the warehouse floor, Lou’s men cut down the hostage. He crashed to the floor, whimpering and struggling against his bonds.
Lou surveyed the scene out the window. “See? We didn’t hurt him so bad. We ain’t fucking barbarians…we’re businessmen.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
The New Hampshire primary, the kickoff event to the presidential election season, was just two days away. Nashua was a forest of campaign signs and banners. Everywhere Allegra Wise looked, the work of the small army that made up Leonard Pilcher’s campaign staff had managed to outdo that of the other candidates by at least two to one. PILCHER FOR PRESIDENT, the campaign signs screamed in bold letters. Some signs added the message AN AMERICAN HERO. Others added COURAGE YOU CAN COUNT ON.
Pilcher’s daddy sure is pumping a ton of money into this race, Allegra thought as she wolfed down a sandwich and coffee. The quaint Main Street restaurant in which she was dining had red, white, and blue bunting draped across its facade. The CBS sound truck was parked on the street outside. The unit dir
ector held up five fingers to the restaurant window for her to see. That gesture meant she would be on the air—live—in five minutes, for the first time in her career.
She pulled the compact from her purse and checked her face. Good thing this is just a voice-over without video…I look like shit.
After the semi-successful interview with Joe Gelardi, the cab trip from Boston to Nashua had been quick and relatively relaxing. It had given her enough time and solitude to perfect her 30-second report on the Pilcher campaign for an evening news TV broadcast. She was ready to throw some stones at Pilcher’s hero nonsense, coast to coast. She had enough solid information to go on now. Allegra had held her breath while the producer read the proposed on-air report she had just dictated from the restaurant’s phone booth. After an agonizing silence, the producer said, “So now we’ve got two sources…sane sources…confirming the three missions and the internment angle…”
But the alleged murder angle would have to remain on ice for the time being.
After one last sip of coffee, Allegra Wise stepped out to the street and approached the microphone that had been set up on the sidewalk. She smoothed her skirt, trying to keep her knees completely covered, hopefully hiding that they were knocking together from nervousness.
The unit director began the countdown to air by raising his hands, all fingers extended. One by one, those fingers folded into the palm until the last remaining finger was transformed from the tick of a second to a pointer—one that was pointing straight at Allegra. She was amazed how composed she felt as her words started to flow.
“As we approach the beginning of the presidential primary season here in New Hampshire,” Allegra began, “this reporter has uncovered new information concerning underdog candidate Leonard Pilcher. The congressman’s claim of being a hero that bombed Germany may well be something of an exaggeration. Informed sources say that Mr. Pilcher spent a considerable portion of his time overseas as an internee in Sweden, safely out of combat after only three missions, and never actually dropped a bomb on German soil…”
The unit director’s hand was up again, its fingers counting down the last five seconds of the voice-over segment. Allegra was pleased when she spoke the final word of her report just as the last finger retracted and his hand became a closed fist.
“And we’re out,” the director said. “Good job, Allegra.”
Yeah! It was a good job, she thought, clearly pleased with herself. Keep this up and I might even get my mug on camera soon.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Tony Moscone pulled the collar of his pea coat tight around his neck against the late night chill. Stuffing his hands into the coat’s pockets, he made his way quickly down the deserted Philadelphia street. The white pants of his kitchen worker’s uniform, still sporting the splatters from a day’s work at the hotel, seemed to give off an eerie glow in the light from the street lamps.
A noise: a car’s engine started, then settled into a hum that sounded barely above idle speed. Tony glanced over his shoulder to see a dark, nondescript sedan rounding the corner, a car just like the ones police detectives drove. It fell in behind him, keeping pace. He walked a little faster. It was only two more blocks to his house.
The car’s engine suddenly revved faster. The dark vehicle sped past him a car length, then lurched to a stop as the front doors flew open and two men jumped out. They wore suits, ties, overcoats, and fedoras—just like Dick Tracy.
The beefier of the two stepped in front of Tony, blocking his path. The other, tall and lean, circled behind him to prevent an escape back up the street.
“You’re going to have to come with us,” the beefy one said.
Tony’s reply was loud and full of panic. “WHAT? WHAT THE HELL DID I DO?”
The men in suits closed in.
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! HELP! HELP! POLICE!”
The lean one laughed. “We are the police, numbnuts.”
They grabbed Tony and dragged him toward the car. The lean cop held one of Tony’s wrists in a hammerlock. He slapped a handcuff on it and grabbed for the other wrist, which was flailing wildly.
“Settle down, shithead,” the beefy one said as he slammed Tony’s head against the car.
Two more cars rounded the corner with a squeal of tires—but these were much too flashy to be carrying policemen. They squealed to a stop, bracketing the police car. Half a dozen men—silent men holding their unbuttoned overcoats closed—spilled from the cars and advanced toward Tony’s assailants.
The two cops arrogantly stood their ground and flashed their badges, hands resting on pistols still not drawn. The silent men produced baseball bats from beneath their coats and deftly swatted the badges from the cops’ hands.
The cops tried to pull their pistols. They were swatted away, too—with much more force this time. The two cops crumpled to the pavement, clutching their shattered hands to their chests. For good measure, they pummeled the cops with body blows from their bats for a few moments before the silent men climbed back into their flashy cars and sped off. The groaning cops were left sprawled in the gutter.
Tony Moscone might have enjoyed seeing his assailants beaten to a pulp, but he was long gone. As soon as the first blow from a bat had been struck, he had fled up the street to his house, a set of handcuffs still dangling from one wrist. He had never seen the faces of the silent men who saved him.
It had been several days since the attack, and Tony Moscone still refused to leave the house. He hid behind the locked door of his second-floor bedroom, only stealing out to grab some food from the kitchen or use the toilet when he felt sure that his sister was sleeping or out shopping. He had managed, with great difficulty, to remove the handcuff by sawing through it with a hacksaw, an arduous process that had dulled several blades and taken the better part of a day. During all this, his sister periodically stood outside his door, screaming obscenities and warning, “You’d better get your ass to work, Anthony!”
He had already missed three shifts at the hotel kitchen. No doubt, they had fired him.
Tony’s dingy, cluttered room looked more like an electronics repair shop than a proper sleeping space. A battered wooden table against a wall served as the main workbench, its top surface scorched by soldering irons like some wood burning craft project gone awry. In his self-imprisonment, he had kept himself busy fixing the old radios and television sets others had left at curbs and in alleys for the trash man. They were stacked everywhere, in various states of disassembly. Some had taken temporary residence on the narrow bed, so he slept on the floor that night. It was easier than making room someplace else for them or trying to sleep among the sharp metal edges and fragile glass vacuum tubes that bristled from the exposed chassis.
The next morning, as he put the finishing touches on a TV that he had just brought back to life, he heard a car pull up to the curb. He peeked out the window.
It’s one of them flashy jobs…like those guys who saved my ass drove.
A knock on the door. There was none of the usual tirade his sister hurled at unwelcome visitors, which included practically everyone on the planet. I guess she ain’t home, Tony surmised.
Another knock. Tony peeked out the window again. There were two guys in suits—one leaning on the Cadillac, the other on the doorstep. Tony tried to duck away from the window, but the guy leaning on the car spotted him and called out, “HEY, MR. MOSCONE…WE’VE GOT A MESSAGE FROM YOUR OLD WAR BUDDY, LOU DINAPOLI.”
Louie DiNapoli…from The Lady! If these guys are doing his bidding, he sure must be doing okay for himself.
Tony went downstairs and opened the door.
The guy on the steps said, “Too bad you didn’t stick around the other night…we gave them two scumbag cops a good beating for you. Them dirty bastards won’t be bothering you no more. Anyway, Mr. DiNapoli has a deal he’d like to offer you…”
Chapter Fifty
The after-dinner coffee in his cup had long turned cold. Joe Gelardi rose from the kitchen table an
d walked to the stove. The percolator Mrs. Riley had left was still hot. He poured himself a fresh cup.
Mrs. Riley had left the old table-top radio on, too. Joe had paid it no attention as he was staring pensively at the document on the table, but now the excited male voice from the radio, spitting words in machine-gun patter, seized his attention. Joe stopped in his tracks. He could not believe what this voice was saying:
With 95 percent of the vote counted, Congressman Leonard Pilcher has received a totally unexpected 46 percent to the vice president’s 48 percent. Here at Richard Nixon’s New Hampshire headquarters, what should be an air of jubilation is instead one of deep concern. To the vice president and his campaign staff, this most narrow of victories in what should have been a cakewalk is as good as a loss. This primary changes the complexion of the Republican race completely...
In the Gelardi dining room, Meredith Salinger watched as Diane struggled with a problem in the Calculus. Diane fussed; the radio in the kitchen was disturbing her concentration.
“Daddy, could you please turn that down?”
But Joe did not seem to hear her. He was motionless. Shell-shocked, Meredith thought.
The radio voice feverishly continued: What seemed like a sideshow last month has turned into a Cinderella story. This race may have just begun, but Leonard Pilcher could indeed end up winning his party’s nomination for president. We now take you to Pilcher Campaign Headquarters…
Both girls were startled as Joe’s coffee cup slipped from his hands and crashed to the table. The hot coffee splattered all over the document on the table—the still-unsigned employment offer from IBM.
“Daddy, are you okay? Daddy?”
Joe did not answer. He did not even look his daughter’s way.
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