A bell rang as the shop’s door shut behind Joe and Pola. Tony looked up from his work. His smile broadened as he bounded from the stool.
“You’re early, Professor,” Tony said, surprising Joe with the ferocity of his hug.
“Let’s just say our cabbie was inspired,” Joe replied. “It’s good to see you, Tony. You look terrific.”
With a good-natured laugh, Tony said, “Yeah, I’ll bet you were expecting the same old Section Eight basket case.” Proudly, he swept his arms across the panorama of his shop. “Things are better for me now. Did you see Louie?”
“No, he was gone from the hospital by the time I got there.”
“Too bad. Louie’s a real good friend to have.”
Joe eyed the premises skeptically. “Can Louie really protect you here?” he asked.
Tony replied with a confident smile. “Professor, you don’t know Louie. He owns the Bronx. Not even the cops bother me here.” He fixed a benign, inquisitive gaze on Pola.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Pola asked.
“Even if I don’t, I sure know of you, Doctor MacLeish.” Tony gave her a hug, too—gentler this time, but no less heartfelt. “I guess the two of you are going to show the world that old Tony Moscone ain’t so crazy after all.”
They settled into a reminiscence both painful and liberating. Soon, tears were rolling down all their cheeks. They found it difficult to utter the name David Linker without choking up. They avoided saying the name Pilcher, as if saying it would invoke some evil entity. They referred to Pilcher only as him, except for the one time that Tony, talking of when he was assaulted on that Philadelphia street, used the term piece of shit.
“Pardon my French, ma’am,” Tony said immediately after letting that oath slip.
“That’s all right, Tony,” Pola answered. “I speak fluent French. I understand completely.”
When the telling was finished, they all felt drained and winded, like they had completed a marathon. Tony sat quietly, his gaze troubled and distant, as if trying to look beyond the horizon to a world that might have been. It took a few anxious moments before he could voice what was on his mind. It was not said as a condemnation or accusation, just a statement of fact. “Looks like all these years we’ve been in the same boat. I feel like I let Davey down, too. First, I couldn’t say nothing, even if I wanted to. Then, when I could, they thought I was nuts.”
Placing a comforting hand on Tony’s shoulder, Joe said, “There’s nothing more you could have done, Tony.”
Tony’s face was that of a lost and frightened child, desperately clinging to the hope that his salvation might be at hand. As he looked to Joe and Pola, he voiced a plea: “But you’re going to do more, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Tony, we are,” Joe said, checking his wristwatch. “In less than two hours, in fact.”
A news flash interrupted the programming on at least a dozen TV sets in Tony’s shop. A talking head reported the shooting at the hotel as a possible assassination attempt on Leonard Pilcher. Tony broke the stunned silence: “I guess we ain’t the only ones looking to put the screws to the congressman.”
Joe’s mind flashed back to his reunion with Fred O’Hara at the hospital and Fred’s mention of Lou DiNapoli’s little visit to Pilcher. With grim certainty, Joe said, “Perhaps we’re not, Tony…Perhaps we’re not.”
Chapter Eighty-Five
It did not take long for confusion and chaos to engulf the hotel. A chambermaid preparing a room across the hall heard the shattering glass. When her knock went unanswered, she let herself into the suite. For a brief moment, she was not sure what to make of the scene that confronted her in the sitting room. Curtains billowed, propelled by wind from the man-made canyons of Manhattan blowing through a window without its glass. Unmuffled traffic noise from the street below assaulted her ears. There were gooey droplets of pink matter sprayed on the walls and furniture. She looked down to see the body of the thin, well-dressed man, the back of his head hideously misshapen and matted with dark, fresh blood, sprawled face down on a carpet saturated with more blood and strewn with glass shards.
A hotel guest in the suite next door surmised out loud that the chambermaid’s screams could be heard across the river in New Jersey.
In minutes, there seemed to be a battalion of police in and around the hotel. A lockdown was imposed; no one was allowed to enter or leave. An irate Leonard Pilcher informed the pot-bellied veteran police officer holding him, his bodyguards, and the other patrons in the bar captive that he was, in fact, Congressman Leonard Pilcher…and I could leave whenever the hell I wanted. The unimpressed cop deftly blocked Pilcher’s path, stared him down and said, with the certainty of experience, “And I’m the Queen of England. Sit the fuck down, my friend. Have yourself another cocktail. Nobody’s going no place until the scene commander says so.”
Information leaked from the hotel with the inaccuracy typical of chaos. Before long, the reporters queuing outside, waiting hours for Pilcher to emerge, were hearing a man was found dead in some congressman’s room. Like in a game of telephone, that factoid was unwittingly revised as it passed from reporter to reporter, quickly becoming a man was murdered in the congressman’s room, and finally the congressman was murdered in his room! Reporters clawed over each other to get at the nearby payphones and call in their stories. If it was true, this was news worthy of a two-inch headline: Presidential Candidate Murdered! If it turned out to be bullshit, at least their editors knew they had their ears to the rumor mill.
It took almost an hour for detectives to determine the congressman was not lying dead on the floor but being interrogated in the bar by one of their squad. The scene commander, a nervous captain who seemed uncomfortable under the weight of the gold bars on his shoulders, could feel the disappointment rippling through the reporter ranks as he provided that update. Returning to the hotel bar, the captain apologized profusely for the detention and assured Leonard Pilcher that the mayor had authorized around-the-clock police protection while the congressman was in their fair city. In fact, the mayor was on his way to the scene at this very moment to offer his personal apology.
Despite Leonard Pilcher’s wishes, a press conference was hastily scheduled at his New York City campaign headquarters. He had no interest in talking to anyone, least of all the press. He was certain the bullet that killed Tad Matthews had been meant for him. That certainty made him want to cower in his limo as it drove straight to the airport so his plane could whisk him safely back to Pittsburgh. It had taken a phone conversation with his father to get him in front of the microphones. The elder Pilcher had spoken only two sentences during that brief conversation. After listening to his son blubber Someone is trying to kill me, Daddy, Max Pilcher said, “Get your ass back out there in front of the cameras where it belongs. Try acting like a man, you imbecile.”
The crowd of reporters was loud and surly, each clamoring for his turn to speak. The hostile tone of the first reporter’s question startled Pilcher. “A new poll just out today,” the reporter said, “shows your support dropping sharply, despite your narrow win in Wisconsin. Your comment?”
Pilcher bristled. “I don’t believe in polls,” he said, “and even if I did, I’d say they were nonsense. You members of the press need to stick to your job and ask relevant questions.”
A second reporter shouted above the din. “Do you believe you were the intended victim of the shot that killed Mr. Matthews?”
An incredulous Pilcher replied, “Of course I was! There’re lots of evildoers who’d like me dead…who don’t want to see a strong, vigilant America in this dangerous world.”
“Like who?” the reporter countered.
Campaign staffers at the periphery of the room cringed. Pilcher was once again dangling one foot over the edge of the political cliff. This was where Tad Matthews used to step in and prevent Pilcher from falling head first into the abyss of idiocy—but Tad Matthews was no longer among them.
“A decisive leader makes enemies,” Pilcher o
ffered in reply. “That’s what happens when you make the hard choices a leader has to make. Next question.”
Reporters’ hands shot up, but a tall woman pushed forward and seized the floor. “Allegra Wise, CBS Television…”
All heads turned. There was murmuring—CBS TV? Who the hell is she?
Allegra shouted her question. “Congressman, there seems to be an atmosphere of foul play surrounding your campaign. Two murders, several assaults, a kidnapping…and a mysterious plane crash that…”
A furious Leonard Pilcher interrupted. “I’LL REMIND YOU, MISS, THAT THIS IS AMERICA, WHERE WE DON’T STAND FOR LIES AND INNUENDOES! ALL THOSE PEOPLE MAKING ALLEGATIONS AGAINST ME DON’T HAVE THE NERVE TO MAKE THEM TO MY FACE!”
Cool and unintimidated, Allegra replied, “I believe I just did, Congressman.”
There was stunned silence in the room. The campaign staffers squirmed in discomfort, praying vainly that one of their number would summon the courage to yank their candidate from the stage.
“NEXT QUESTION,” the red-faced Pilcher shouted, but he was unheard as the murmurs in the room strengthened to a tumult.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Joe found himself amazed how bright the lights in the television studio were. No wonder they told me to wear a light blue shirt under a dark suit jacket. With all these spotlights blazing, white makes a terrible glare on a TV screen, they say. And what it must take to cool this place! How do they muffle the sound of all the fans running, drawing all that hot air out and pumping the cool air in? What a marvel of acoustics! It’s quiet as a tomb in here.
It was good that his scientific mind was captivated by those technical issues. If he thought about what he and Pola were about to set in motion, he would be far more on edge than he already was. They sat close together at an oval coffee table in a corner of the sound stage, an empty chair to their left. A stagehand placed a pitcher of ice water and three glasses on the table. The clock on the studio wall read three minutes until 6:00 p.m.
Allegra Wise walked onto the sound stage with the grandfatherly anchorman Joe and Pola had met the day before. As they diverged to their respective places on stage, the anchorman smiled warmly and said, “You’ll do just fine, Ally.” He then took his seat behind the desk at center stage, cleaned his thick-framed glasses with a tissue, and slipped effortlessly into his guise as the most trusted man in America.
The tall newswoman offered a nervous smile as she settled into the third chair at the coffee table. “Are you ready?” Allegra asked Joe and Pola, as she shuffled the pages of notes before her over and over again with unsteady hands.
Pola was, by far, the calmest of the three at the coffee table. With a serene smile, she replied, “Ready if you are, luv.”
Joe felt the cool dampness of sweat at his collar, in his armpits, and on his forehead. Good God! And it’s not even warm in here! I hope I don’t get the shakes, too.
A make-up lady swooped in, dabbed at his forehead and applied a touch more powder to his face. She was in no great hurry as she worked; the cameras would not be aimed their way quite yet. Stepping back to judge her efforts, she nodded approvingly, then exited the stage as the newscast began.
“Good evening from New York,” the anchorman said. “Alarming allegations continue to rise about congressman and presidential hopeful Leonard Pilcher. The Swedish Ministry of Justice announced today that it has brought forth an indictment for murder against Mr. Pilcher. Yet, the congressman remains defiant.”
The monitors in the studio switched to a taped confrontation between Leonard Pilcher and reporters. Pilcher’s face filled the screen as he ranted, “As I’ve said many times before, the charges against me are complete and utter nonsense! I’m no quitter! I have no intention of withdrawing.”
Pilcher’s face disappeared from the monitors, replaced by the face of the anchorman. Removing his glasses for dramatic emphasis, he continued: “CBS News has uncovered startling new information on the Swedish murder allegation. Here with a remarkable, exclusive report is the newest member of our CBS news team, Allegra Wise.”
The little red light atop the camera facing Allegra began to glow. Another camera rolled silently into position to capture the three at the coffee table from another angle. Its red light came on, too, as the director pointed to Allegra like a cop directing traffic.
In that instant, Joe felt his fear and nervousness swept away by a rush of exhilaration. This must be what it feels like to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. He stole a glance at Pola and was thrilled by what he saw: Look how calm, how beautiful she looks. She is completely ready to do this…and so am I.
He had not realized until that moment he was squeezing her hand—and she was squeezing back. Their hands were not visible in the monitor; they were being shot from the shoulders up. Neither felt the desire to let go.
Allegra Wise was completely ready for her moment, too. She took a deep breath and began to speak. “I’m here with Professor Pola Nilsson-MacLeish of the University of Stockholm and Professor Joseph Gelardi of MIT. They have a most shocking story to share with us…”
At the Gelardi house in Brookline, Diane and Meredith were glued to the television. Diane was wary. Meredith was enthralled.
Her face screwed into a sneer, Diane said, “So that’s Pola…”
“Yeah! She’s so great!” Meredith added. “So incredibly poised and well spoken! How hard that must be, with the story they’re telling.”
“What about my dad? He’s doing great, too, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Meredith replied, “but I already know how great he is.”
Diane remained unimpressed. “I don’t know…I think she’s icky.”
Meredith gave her a good-natured poke in the arm. “Don’t be such a retard, Diane. Give the lady a break. She’s a professor, for Pete’s sake.”
The stage director glanced at his stopwatch and signaled Allegra with a twirling forefinger, held above his head: One minute left. Wrap it up. The timing was perfect. Allegra was down to her final question.
In a businesslike tone that lacked any hint of accusation, she asked, “The question on everyone’s mind is, of course, why did you wait so long?”
There was a pause before Pola began to answer. Her smooth, professional veneer cracked just a bit. It was difficult enough admitting a mistake, but doing it in front of a million or more people took every ounce of inner strength a person might possess. Slowly, solemnly, she began to speak. “Sometimes, it takes years to fully know just how terrible a mistake you’ve made…”
As she paused again to compose herself, Joe, with a calmness and certainty that seemed to come out of nowhere, finished her sentence: “…and years more to correct it.”
Chapter Eighty-Seven
The secretary thought a saboteur’s bomb had killed Max Pilcher. When she heard the bang, she raced in from her desk in the outer office, expecting to find the old man blown to smithereens—those filthy union animals will stop at nothing! Instead, she was surprised to find him sitting quietly at his desk, blankly staring at what was left of the television, its chassis still smoking, the phosphorous dust from the shattered, imploded picture tube still swirling in the air.
She did not need to ask what had happened. His heavy desk set—pens, inkwells, and nameplate set in a highly polished, replica steel girder—was now sitting inside the television’s cabinet, among shards of shattered glass that used to be the picture tube. It did not take a genius to figure out how it got there.
“Are you hurt, Mr. Pilcher?” the secretary asked, although he seemed at least physically intact.
He replied only with a grunt and dismissive wave of his hand. Then he mumbled something to himself. Although it made no sense to her, she was fairly sure he had said, “Reporters and college teachers! What is this fucking world coming to?”
“I’ll call the custodians to clean this up,” she said. “Can I get you anything else? I was hoping you wouldn’t be needing me anymore today…It is after
6 p.m.”
His clarity and command returned as if a switch had been thrown. “Get the New York people on the phone,” he said. “Right now!”
As she hurried to her phone console in the outer office, Max Pilcher’s unsmiling eyes settled on Leonard’s photo hanging on the wall. He picked up a paperweight from his desk—a globe of the world cast in steel—and flung it at the photo, scoring another direct hit. As the paperweight and photo crashed to the floor, he knew what he must do: Got to get that idiot son of mine back here, pronto…and keep him away from those fucking news people.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
They had hardly touched their suppers. The feeling of relief after their television interview was all-consuming and satisfying. Eating seemed an unnecessary ritual in the completeness of their world at that moment. So did talking. They had hardly uttered a word since returning to the hotel suite.
Joe topped off Pola’s half-empty cup of coffee from the pot on the room service cart. She sipped it slowly. Relaxed in a plush armchair, her trim legs were tucked beneath her. The ribbon that tied back her white-blonde hair had been long discarded. The luminous strands fell past her shoulders and seemed to light her contented face.
The Swedish Embassy had insisted they stay out of the public eye once the on-air interview was done. Being constantly besieged by reporters was the biggest concern now; already, the hotel switchboard had been deluged with calls asking for interviews with the suddenly notorious professors. Joe had instructed Mrs. Riley to leave the phone at his house off the hook once their conversation ended. The housekeeper’s two sons, reinforced by a few burly friends for around-the-clock coverage, would have no trouble keeping the media out of the yard and away from Diane.
It was Pola who finally broke the silence. Her words escaped like a reluctant sigh: “It’s over, Joseph.”
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