The Pa-la-ti-'shan

by Neal Goldstein

  Bobby with Toto right behind her jumped into my arms the minute I entered the apartment.

  “We missed you so much. Mommy said we could all go for gelato tonight to celebrate the budget!”

  “She did, did she?” I looked over at Nicky who nodded. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to go along.”

  Bobby ran to her room to get ready for the treat. Nicky took me in her arms and kissed me.

  “Miss me?”

  “Uh-huh.” She kissed me again.

  “Bernie, who were you having a drink with last night?”

  “Jealous?” I teased.

  “Should I be?”

  I looked into her eyes and said, “No.” She kissed me again.

  It was good to be home.

  Nicky and I sat at Capogiro’s enjoying the best gelato this side of Italy as our daughter and her friends, who were sitting at their own table tasted and compared their selections.

  “I know I’ve only been away for a little over a week, but Bobby seems so grown up.”

  “She really loves it here. She’s made so many friends. I was a little concerned at first that moving from Greek Peak to Philly would be a shock. But Bobby hasn’t missed a beat,” Nicky replied.

  “Has she asked about the Conrads?”

  “Not recently, but she hasn’t forgotten about the trip to Disney World.”

  “Well, sooner or later she will ask about them. Have you decided how we should handle it?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about your father? Don’t you think it’s time for the two of you to get together and talk? You know, you’re all the family he has. Maybe there’s some plausible explanation for what happened.”

  “I don’t know. But why are you bringing this up now?” she asked.

  I told her about my meeting with Phil Wallander and Wallander’s father’s insistence that Phil retain an attorney before he contacted the police.

  “Well it seems his father’s advice hasn’t worked out so far,” she said.

  “That’s not the point. Phil’s father wanted to help his son out of a jam. Fathers sometimes give shitty advice. But he only wanted to protect his son. What your father did, not telling you where Bobby was, and who was taking care of her was wrong. But he only wanted to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “I don’t know, and neither will you unless you talk to him.”

  She sighed, obviously not convinced.

  “Bernie, Serge is going to be staying with us for a few days, is that alright?” she asked.

  She could tell from my reaction that I was not altogether thrilled with the idea.

  “Why is staying at our place?”

  “We’ll be rehearsing for the opening set at the Keswick, I told you about. Serge lives in New York City, and he just needs a place to crash for a few days. Don’t worry, he won’t be a problem.”

  “OK if you say so,”

  The next morning I asked Mike Zeebooker if he could find out why Robert Worthington had such a hard on for me.

  “As far as I know I’m one of about 50 sponsors of a bill that would restrict the sale of combat style weapons, and require more comprehensive background checks for arms purchases. The speaker told me the bill has no chance of passage. That’s the only thing I can think of that would attract his attention,” I said in reply to Zeebooker’s question

  “There must be something you’re missing. Why don’t you ask the governor, he may have heard something,” he suggested.

  Zeebooker had great faith in the governor’s insight of all things political in our state. Normally the governor was more interested in the private lives and goings on of the politicians than the affairs of state. What my mother would call a real yenta. But the budget fiasco was consuming all of his time and energy.

  “I’m waiting for an appropriate opportunity to pose the question. In the meantime see what you can find out. By the way, did you know that Jack Collins is back?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I heard he’s working for the governor. I think he replaced Earl Samson,” he said as I left the office.

  A young man in a black suit jacket and jeans walked right in my path when I walked out the door.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “Are you Representative Green?”

  I nodded.

  “This is for you,” he said and he handed me a large manila envelope with the Office of the United States Attorney typed on the front.

  “What’s this?” I asked but the young man had already walked away. I opened the envelope. It was a subpoena to appear before the Grand Jury.

  Joel Solomon looked up at me as he entered my office.

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders and gave Solomon the ‘whatever’ sign.

  “Well the good news is you didn’t get a target letter. That’s the good news.”

  “OK, so what’s the bad news?”

  “You got a fucking subpoena to appear before the Grand Jury.”

  “I know that; but, why? Doesn’t the U.S. Attorney have to tell me why I’ve been subpoenaed?”

  “Well, not if you’re just a witness, which is all you are. At least we know it has something to do with the Cinaglia case.”

  “But what the hell do I have to do with that?”

  “Dunno, but you’ll find out once he starts questioning you.”

  For the next hour Joel explained the grand jury procedure and what I could expect. Witnesses are not entitled to have an attorney present during Grand Jury testimony, I could, however, consult with counsel as necessary. The Grand Jury is a secret procedure. According to Joel, it’s a dog and pony show and if we pay careful attention, we can find out what the government is up to from the nature of the questions the U.S. Attorney asks.

  “Anyway, we have some time to prepare your testimony,” Joel said.

  “Prepare for what. Joel, I have no clue what they want.”

  “Well, in that case the preparation ought to be easy.”

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Time To Move On

  When Samantha Binnager had completed her report to Robert Worthington she was thrown by his reaction. Binnager had always considered Worthington to be a man who was in complete control of his emotions, someone who never lost his cool air of detachment.

  “Maybe Green’s a faggot. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t seduce him,” he whined.

  “No Mr. Worthington, he’s not gay.”

  “Then, maybe he just didn’t find you attractive. We can send someone else,” he said sounding like a petulant child.

  “No. I don’t think that would work. He’s just committed to his wife.”

  Worthington got out of his chair and began pacing behind his desk. He looked desperate.

  “You mean to tell me he just flat out refused your advance. I’ve seen your effect on men, especially the politicians. They catch a whiff of you and shoot their load on the spot. I just don’t get it.”

  “Bernie Green is in love with his wife. He’s not going to break his marriage vows.”

  “Jesus, this prick is a king sized pain in my ass. You’re sure there’s nothing we can dig up on him?”

  Binnager shook her head.

  “Alright then, I’ll just have to take care of him some other way.”

  Afterwards Binnager thought about her meeting with Worthington. She never really believed that Worthington had set her up to seduce Bernie Green because the freshman State Representative opposed the NRA policy on access to assault weapons. Green had absolutely no chance of passing any legislation that posed a real threat to Worthington’s organization. Not in this state where every town west of Philadelphia and east of Pittsburg was more like Kentucky or Alabama. Places where real men and women were proud to openly display their weapons of choice.

  There must be something that Green had on Worthington, or knew about him, that Worthington considered dang
erous. From her discussion with Green, she had concluded that whatever that might be, Green himself did not know what it was.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Worthington was right. She had a power over men. It was her talent. She knew that Bernie had been attracted to her. She felt his pulse quicken when she touched him. He even reacted to the innocent kiss that night at the Hideaway.

  Green’s wife was an extremely lucky woman.

  Binnager was concerned that whatever was the source of Worthington’s fear, and whatever Worthington might try to do to Green would ultimately affect her as well. She had come a long way from her days as a stripper at the clubs in Myrtle Beach. There was no way she was going back to giving the ‘gentlemen’ a thrill for a $20 tip. She had moved up in class, way up. She figured she had another ten or fifteen years before her looks would fade, maybe a little longer with the more mature men.

  Politicians were so easy to manipulate. If she played her cards right she might even convince one of them to risk it all and marry her. There was no way she was going to put her future in jeopardy because Bob Worthington might overreact to the threat, real or perceived, that Bernie Green posed. She realized that Worthington was a treacherous and powerful individual, someone who was capable of more than paying women to seduce yokel politicians, in order to control the outcome of legislation in Pennsylvania.

  She knew that Worthington was involved in other matters that provided him with the great wealth and power that set him apart from the other lobbyists. Unfortunately Worthington was immune to her attraction. She had long ago given up any effort to use her ‘gift’ to gain an advantage over him. She had concluded that Worthington was asexual. He was simply not interested in any physical or emotional ties with anyone, female or male. He was driven by power and greed, and nothing else. She managed to make herself indispensable to him by supervising his party girls and boys. This had provided her with access to more information than he realized; information that may well prove to be valuable in the future.

  She had managed her situation well and now it was time to move on. She could work her friendships with one of the congressmen or lobbyists from Pennsylvania to become a player in D.C. Binnager was confident that her unique skills would set her apart from the competition in the nation’s capitol.

  Maybe it was also the fact that she actually liked Bernie Green. She was more than a little impressed by his commitment to his wife. That was indeed a rare quality in this day, and especially in this environment. She should warn him about Worthington. It’s the least she could do. She reached for the vibrator and thought about Green. Yes, that was the least she could do.

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Jack Collins Returns!

  Joel told me to search my memory to try and come up with a rational explanation for the subpoena. Since I wasn’t the target or subject of an investigation, it probably would not be a problem. But Joel had a deep mistrust of First Assistant U.S. Attorney Robert Blackburn who he characterized as a political social climber.

  This was just what I needed, the ‘Spanish Inquisition’!

  I sat in my office at Brinkley Smoot and stared at the subpoena hoping it would reveal the secret of why I had been summoned. The phone rang startling me out of my trance.

  “Mr. Green, there’s a Mr. Collins here to see you.” The receptionist said.

  “Jack Collins?”

  “His card says John Collins. Are you available?”

  “Yes, please bring him in.”

  Jack Collins returned from who knows where. Just in the nick of time. I wondered how Jack knew he would find me at Brinkley.

  “Bernie it’s grand to see ya doin so well,” he said as the receptionist led him into my office. “Thank you darlin,” Collins bowed at the young woman who laughed at his gallantry.

  “Where the hell have you been,” I asked the moment she closed the door.

  “Time enough to get into that,” he said. “I understand you’ve been subpoenaed to the Grand Jury.”

  “Yes, that’s right. How did you know? I thought the process is a secret.”

  “Secret smekcret. The entire U.S. Attorney’s office is filled with leaks. It’s the gossip columnists’ wet dream.”

  “I can’t figure out why they want me to testify. I’ve been wracking my brain.”

  “Did you read Dan Gross’ column this morning?”

  “No.” Dan Gross again.

  “Well according to Gross, the U.S. Attorney needs a witness to tie the governor in to the Cinaglia case. When Earl Samson swallowed a bullet, he shot a big hole in the Government’s case. And it seems you’re the plug.”

  “But that’s crazy, I don’t know anything about the governor and Cinaglia’s dealings.”

  “Well, they think ya do. That’s for sure.”

  “So Jack, are you going to tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to for the past year?”

  He smiled his leprechaun smile.

  “It’s a tale worth the tellin, but it would go over better if we had a pint or two.”

  We agreed to meet at Westy’s our old watering hole.

  “So you being a big shot legislator and a married man with a youngster won’t interfere with your hoisting a few in public, eh?”

  “If I remember correctly, the reporters hang out at Westy’s. They’re probably not looking for a story there. But if Dan Gross is there, can you introduce me to him?”

  “Dan Gross doesn’t hang out at Westy’s. He’s far to cool to be drinkin at that joint. If you’re lookin for him, you’d have a better shot at one of those hoity toity, she-she vodka bars around Rittenhouse Square.”

  “Before you go, can you at least tell me what you’re doing back in town?”

  “Haven’t you heard, I’m the governor’s new chief of staff. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it!”

  After Collins left I called Nicky.

  “Honey, Jack Collins is back in town. I’m going to meet him for a drink right after work at Westy’s. He promised to tell me where the hell he’s been for the last almost eighteen months. Oh, and by the way, the US Attorney subpoenaed me to appear before the Grand Jury. How was your day?” I asked.

  Silence.

  “Hellow. Are you still there?”

  “My father called he told me about the subpoena.”

  I hesitated for a second or two to digest this information and prepare a response.

  “OK, so the Major called and you finally spoke to him… that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?”

  I waited for her reply.

  “That’s not all he said.”

  “Oh. What else?”

  “He said you were in big trouble. He told me I should distance myself from you, that I would be collateral damage.”

  “Exactly what kind of trouble did he say I was in?”

  “He didn’t. He told me he didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. He wants to see me in person.”

  “OK. So we’ll meet with him.”

  “Not us, only me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we should be together.”

  “There’s more. He told me you were cheating on me.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “I don’t know what to believe. Listen, I’m going to see my father.”

  “Nick I…”

  “Bernie, do you trust me?”

  I hesitated again. “Yes.”

  “Serge is here, he’ll watch Bobby. I’ll see you later.” She hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  The Tale of the Skunk

  By the time I got to Westy’s Jack Collins was already seated at his usual place, the last booth on the right. It was as if his absence for the last 18 months had never occurred. He was holding court, presiding over a group of reporters from the daily newspapers, some familiar faces from the past and some new.

  “If it isn’t himself the Honorable Bernie Green,” Collins said greeting me.

 
; I nodded and smiled.

  “Friends, do ya think ya can give me a moment with the State Representative so we can discuss the weighty issues of the day, none of which would be at all interesting to the likes of the working press. I promise if he imparts some critical information, I’ll leak it to ya directly.”

  They gave him a collective moan as they peeled away from the booth.

  When the coast was clear he said, “Bernie ya look like ya lost your best friend.

  I told him about Miller’s call to Nicky including the vague allegations of my being in trouble and the baseless assertion that I had been cheating on Nicky.

  “Nicky’s not believing that bull shite, is she?”

  “I don’t think so. But her father had considerable influence over her in the past. Anyway, I’ll deal with it.”

  What I didn’t tell Jack was the fact that Miller had withheld the information about Nicky’s daughter and the whole strange story Miller had offered about the reason he believed it was not prudent to do so. I also didn’t tell him about the handsome Brazilian musician Serge Paullo taking up residence in our apartment.

  “So are you going to tell me where the hell you’ve been since you disappeared and gave your phone number to the dry cleaner Kim Jong Il, or whatever his name is?”

  “Since you’re in somewhat of a hurry I’ll give you the edited version, although the story in all its fullness is well worth the tellin,” he said with a wink.

  He took a sip of his Guinness and began. “It all started several years ago when I was City Councilman Guiseppe Cardullo’s Press Liason. Do you remember Councilman Cardullo?”

  I thought for a moment. “Is he the one the press referred to as ‘The Skunk’?”

  “The very same one, and do ya know how he acquired the moniker?”

  I shook my head.