Undeterred, Matthews plowed ahead. “You’re going to make the rounds of the newspapers and TV shows. People need to see you unconcerned about this Sweden nonsense, talking about real issues.”
Leonard’s attention remained fixed on the newspaper.
“Are you even listening to me, Leonard?”
Pilcher let the paper drop to his lap. “What does it matter?” he asked. “They’ve shot their wad on this Sweden thing already. It’ll die all by itself…real soon.”
Frustrated, Tad replied, “I’m glad you think so…You barely won Wisconsin, Leonard.”
Pilcher shrugged off the comment and went back to the newspaper. As he turned the page, an article’s title caught his eye: STEEL UNION BOSS SURVIVES PLANE CRASH. For a moment, he seemed stunned by the words he was reading. But the familiar smirk soon returned to his face.
“Gee, ain’t that a shame?” Leonard said. “O’Hara had himself a little accident.”
Now it was Tad’s turn to smirk as he thought, I wasn’t going to mention this, Congressman…but since you’ve graciously provided the set-up, I’ve just got to pull the trigger.
“By the way, Leonard, your father knows it was you who tried to get rid of Fred O’Hara. And he’s not very happy about that.”
Tad Matthews watched with quiet amusement as Leonard’s face lost the smirk and froze into a look of panic. Tad understood; he knew well how uncomfortable life could be when you have displeased Max Pilcher. And yet his idiot son never seems to learn.
At last, the cab carrying Joe, Pola, and Bjorkman arrived at Pola’s hotel. The ride from LaGuardia to downtown Manhattan had taken forever in the dense midday traffic. The sidewalk at the hotel’s entrance was buzzing with reporters and photographers. A shiny black limousine was parked at the curb, its driver lounging against one of its prominent tail fins. Pedestrians gawked as they passed, wondering what famous person might be drawing all this media attention. That question remained unanswered as the pedestrians hurried on their way.
Several hotel security guards—silent, unsmiling men in matching blazers—manned the entrance, intent on keeping the newsmen out. As Joe and Pola passed through the revolving doors into the hotel, Joe laughed and said, “For a moment, I thought those reporters might have been waiting for us.”
Pola was relieved: Finally, he laughs! In the cab, I couldn’t get him out of that funk no matter what I said. But the prospect of being besieged by reporters dampened her spirits. Soberly, she said, “Tomorrow, Joseph. They’ll be all over us tomorrow.”
They passed through the lobby bar on their way to the restaurant. The bar reverberated with boisterous voices and laughter, crowded with those for whom lunchtime cocktails were a normal part of the business day. A man rose from a secluded corner table and made his way toward Joe and Pola. He parted the clouds of cigarette smoke as he walked, like a magician making his stage entrance through some mysterious mist. He wore an expensive suit and a smug smile on his face. His arms were spread wide in greeting.
“Well, well, well,” Leonard Pilcher said, “fancy meeting you here! I couldn’t believe my eyes! If it isn’t my two favorite lovebirds! What brings you to the Big Apple, Joseph? Does she still call you that?”
With menacing swiftness, Bjorkman moved to step between Pilcher and the woman it was his duty to protect. Pola stopped him with an outstretched arm. “It’s all right, Mr. Bjorkman,” she said.
Three men materialized from the corner table. One was Tad Matthews. The other two were tall and burly: Pilcher’s bodyguards. The congressman raised a hand to stop them as they approached. His voice loaded with sarcasm, Pilcher said, “That’s okay, guys. These are some old friends of mine.”
The bodyguards on both sides retreated a few steps, hands discreetly at the ready to reach for the pistols under their jackets. As Joe and Pola shot nothing but daggers with their eyes at Pilcher, the patrons closest to the confrontation took notice. They became transfixed by one of the adversaries: Didn’t I just see him on television or something? That couldn’t be…Is it really him? What’s his name…that guy running for president?
The other patrons sucked down their cocktails, oblivious to any distraction.
Pilcher seemed to be enjoying this face-off. “No…let me guess,” he said. “A little tryst, perhaps? A brief respite from the old ball and chain?” Focusing his leering gaze on Pola, he added, “I’m telling you, MacLeish…You must be some hot piece of ass if he still wants to bang you after all these years.”
Pola grasped Joe’s arm, trying to pull him toward the door, but he stood firm, training a feral glare on Pilcher. “Still every inch the gentleman, aren’t you, Pilcher. Apologize to the lady.”
In a voice dripping with insincerity, Pilcher replied, “Oh, I’m soooo sorry.” But his manner quickly turned huffy. “But how about showing me a little respect? Shouldn’t that be Captain Pilcher to you…or Congressman Pilcher? Hell, soon you’ll have to call me Mr. President.”
“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Joe said.
Pola’s fair, alabaster features turned even whiter with shock at Joe’s words. “No, Joseph! Not now!” she pleaded.
Pilcher erupted in anger. “What? Are you two planning on spreading more bullshit about me? I’d think twice about that, if I were you.”
Pola’s grip on Joe had not slackened throughout the exchange. He finally gave up his ground and allowed her steady pull to lead him to the door. An enraged Leonard Pilcher followed, just a step behind them.
“Did you hear me?” Pilcher said. “I’m not playing games here. Try to shit on me and you’re going to need bodyguards the rest of your miserable lives.”
A voice from the onlookers murmured, “Oh my God…that’s Congressman Pilcher.”
Tad Matthews streaked in and grabbed Leonard Pilcher, trying to pull him away from his quarry. Hissing in a stage whisper, Matthews said, “Shut the fuck up, Leonard! What is wrong with you? There are people…”
His words were cut short by Pilcher’s fist striking him squarely in the jaw. Matthews sank to his knees as Pilcher bellowed, “KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF ME, FAGGOT!”
The Congressman’s bodyguards swooped in, shielding the assailant from the assailed, as bar patrons hastily scattered to the periphery of the room. Safe behind his protectors, Pilcher turned his taunts to his campaign manager: “Get up, you fairy. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
Slowly, Tad Matthews stood. Rubbing his sore jaw, he glared hatefully at Leonard Pilcher.
“Check us out of here, Matthews,” Pilcher said. “I ain’t staying in this shithole.”
Tad shook his aching head. “Do you suppose we could wait until after the interview with the Times? It’s scheduled for 2:00 p.m…in your hotel suite.” He glanced at his watch; it said 1:20 p.m. “A little late to change venue, wouldn’t you say?”
Leonard scowled, as if the duties of this election business were nothing but nuisances. “Yeah, fine,” he said. “But right after that, we’re gone.”
Moments later, Joe and Pola were waiting for the hotel’s elevator. A tense and vigilant Bjorkman stood nearby, repeatedly scanning the lobby for any further threat. His hand remained where it had been ever since the scene in the bar, inches from the pistol on his waist.
Joe was still fired by adrenaline. “Maybe we shouldn’t be staying here,” he said, his eyes darting about just like Bjorkman’s.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Joseph,” she replied, her manner calm and collected. “This is where I live. Nobody is running me off…especially not that man.”
A single chime—the elevator doors opened and the three stepped on board. Another couple hurried to catch it but was dissuaded by Bjorkman’s menacing gaze and hulking frame blocking the threshold.
“Sorry,” Bjorkman said to the couple as the doors slid closed. The tone of his voice was not in the least bit apologetic.
As the elevator raced skyward, Joe asked Pola, “Do you still have an appetite?”
With an incr
edulous smile, she replied, “Of course I do! Let’s just order room service. We’ll still have time to pay that visit to Tony Moscone before going to the studio.”
Chapter Eighty-One
Double-parked on a lower Manhattan street, the big black Cadillac idled. Lou DiNapoli sat in the back seat, growing more frustrated by the second with his heavily bandaged hands. His attempts to remove the wrapper from a chocolate bar had all resulted in failure; it had slipped from his encumbered grasp for the third time. The henchman sitting next to him, fully aware of his boss’s fierce independence and mercurial temperament, had been reluctant to intercede. But he could sit and watch no longer. Reaching for the chocolate bar on the seat, he said, “Let me help, boss. Them hands must hurt like a bastard.”
Giving in to the offer of help, Lou replied, “I’ve had worse.” His desire for the sweet chocolate had overridden whatever do-it-myself determination he had left. The henchman unwrapped the chocolate and offered a piece, like a priest presenting the host at communion.
Before Lou took the offered treat, he called to his driver, “What time is it, Dino?”
“Three minutes past the last time you asked, boss,” the driver replied.
Lou grimaced. This is taking too fucking long.
On a rooftop a block away, the sniper squinted into the scope of his high-powered rifle. He counted to himself for what seemed like the hundredth time two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight floors up…From the southeast corner, I count one, two, three, four, five windows. Come on, already! Where are you, asshole! I know you’re in there…Step into my crosshairs, please.
His arms were growing tired. He had been holding the heavy weapon at the ready for too long; the long silencer screwed onto the muzzle made it even heavier and harder to balance. He had seen several people move past that fifth window on the eight floor, but the face that matched the photo he carried had never come into view. He changed position, moving a few feet to his right so he could rest the non-firing hand that gripped the rifle’s forestock against a rooftop ventilator. It increased the angle of the shot, but it was still well within his expert capabilities. Now, it was time to count all over again: one, two, three, four, five windows…
Chapter Eighty-Two
The lunch from room service was finished in short order. Pola devoured her sandwich; Joe hardly touched his. By 2:20 p.m., they were in a cab heading north from downtown Manhattan to the Bronx.
“Fordham Road, eh?” the cabbie said in the thick accent of a native New Yorker. “You want me to step on it, pal? Or do you got all frigging day?”
“As quickly as possible, please. We’re expected at three,” Joe replied.
With those instructions, the ride became something akin to a Monte Carlo rally. The cab snaked with alarming speed through the thick traffic of lower Manhattan, not even bothering to slow down for the traffic lights that had clearly turned red in time for it to stop. Once on East River Drive, its rapid progress northward mocked the speed limit signs posted at frequent intervals. In less than 15 minutes since Joe, Pola, and Bjorkman boarded, it had crossed the Harlem River into the Bronx. Less than five minutes later, the cab screeched to a stop before Fordham TV and Radio Repair. Its passengers finally released their death grips on the safety straps hanging from the door posts.
The hotel concierge had advised them the trip to the Bronx by cab would take about 40 minutes, provided there were no unusual traffic delays.
“You want I should wait?” the cabbie asked.
“Yes, we’d appreciate that,” Joe replied. “Mr. Bjorkman will wait with you.”
“It’s your dime, pal…The meter’s running,” the cabbie said, settling in to pass the time with a girlie magazine while totally ignoring the imposing Swede beside him in the front seat.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Tad Matthews was going through the motions of his job mechanically, like a robot that made phone calls, signed invoices, and cleaned up his master’s messes. If he allowed himself to think about the lunacy of working for the Pilchers all these years, he would probably scream, right there at the hotel’s front desk. He had made up his mind. Fortune be damned, this was his last day in their service.
Ever since that scene in the bar a few hours ago, where Leonard had punched him and called him a faggot right there in public, right in front of potential voters, Tad Matthews had finally had enough. He admitted to himself, for the first time, that he had been toiling in a lost cause. Leonard Pilcher could not—no, should not—be president. He would no longer have anything to do with the megalomaniacal dreams of that father and his incompetent son. They would have to find themselves another lawyer-turned-errand boy. While Leonard, puffed up by his narrow Wisconsin victory, had swaggered his way through the interview with The New York Times—never managing to coherently answer one of the reporter’s questions—Tad Matthews had been preparing his letter of resignation. He would deliver it to Leonard at the end of business today, backing it up with a special delivery letter to the old man in Pittsburgh. Then he would make his escape. Even if it meant hiding forever from their deadly tentacles for the rest of his life. It would be worth it. All that was left to do was check Leonard out of this hotel and into another uptown, then see that he got through the day’s remaining news interviews without making a compete ass of himself.
Across the hotel lobby, an elevator door slid open and Leonard Pilcher strutted out, his bodyguards close behind. His smug smile had faded by the time he reached Matthews at the front desk, for no one in that bustling lobby had given him as much as a nod of recognition. Only the desk clerk greeted him, with a less-than-reverent “Good afternoon, Congressman.” To the others, he was just another businessman—another well-heeled asshole in a suit and tie—among tens of thousands in this city. Certainly not a candidate for some party’s presidential nomination.
“Matthews, do you have my briefcase?” Pilcher asked.
Not bothering to look up from the papers he was signing, Matthews replied, “Since when do you have a briefcase?”
“Since now. I must’ve left it in the room. Go get it.”
Tad motioned toward the two bodyguards. “Why can’t one of the gorillas go back and get your goddamn briefcase?”
“Because they work as a team…and I told you to do it, that’s why. Is the limo out front?”
“Of course it is,” Matthews replied, sliding the signed paperwork across the desk to the clerk. “But wait for me here until I fetch your briefcase. I don’t want you wading through those reporters out on the sidewalk alone.”
“Fine with me. I’ll be in the bar. Make it quick, Matthews.”
As Tad made his way to the elevators, Leonard Pilcher mumbled something under his breath. The bodyguards were fairly sure he said fucking smartass faggot.
A thrill passed through the sniper’s body. The crosshairs in the rifle’s scope were zeroed on the back of a man’s head. Finally! I can’t see the son of a bitch’s face…but he’s alone, sitting right in front of the window, the fifth window…and he’s talking on the phone. It’s got to be him. He checked the telltale signs of wind one last time—the steam rising from pavement grates, flags flapping, chimneys spewing their smoke. Speed and direction are still the same. Don’t touch the sight settings.
His finger caressed the trigger, slowly but smoothly increasing the pressure, almost ready for the final, delicate squeeze. Still can’t see his face…but it’s got to be him.
It’s got to be.
It had taken Tad Matthews a minute to find the briefcase. It was under the bed, hidden, as if put there by some child not wanting his parents to find it. When Tad pulled it from under the bed and opened it, his jaw dropped in disbelief; it contained nothing but a few trashy paperback novels and an almost-empty bottle of whiskey.
He had to laugh. If he needed any further reinforcement for his decision to resign, this was it. Any sense of urgency to retrieve Leonard from the lobby bar and finish the business of the day dissolved. He settled into the
chair by the window to make a phone call, one he had thought he would not be making until later that evening.
“Brad,” he said to the phone, “it’s me. Listen carefully. Pack a bag…There will be an open ticket to Mexico for you at the airport…yes, of course, Brad. I mean Greater Pittsburgh Airport. Now stop interrupting me. I don’t have much time…Yes, of course I’m going, too. I’ll be meeting you there…No, this is not a vacation. This is freedom…”
After that gentle squeeze of the trigger, it had taken the sniper’s bullet slightly less than one second to shatter the fifth window, a millisecond more to shatter Tad Matthews’s skull. As the sniper quickly tore down his weapon and placed it into its carrying case, a nagging doubt clutched at the pit of his stomach: I never saw the face…but it had to be him.
In seconds, he was on the stairs leading from the roof. His mind offered one further rationalization: And Louie DiNapoli don’t pay if there ain’t no body.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Tony Moscone’s shop was one of several comprising the ground floor of a five-story tenement on busy Fordham Road. Beyond the front counter, two long workbenches lined the walls in the bright fluorescent light. They were crowded with radios and television sets undergoing repair and the equipment needed to troubleshoot them: meters, oscilloscopes, signal generators. More radios and television sets were scattered on shelves and the floor. It looked like there were at least 50 units in various states of assembly. Boxes of spare parts were crammed into any available space under the benches.
In the middle of all this sat one smiling man, perched on a high stool, engulfed in the wavy ribbon of smoke rising from the soldering iron in his hand. Tony Moscone was busily bringing a recalcitrant television set back to life.
Unpunished Page 30