The Pa-la-ti-'shan

by Neal Goldstein

  “Yes my husband is an attorney, he’s with Brinkley and Smoot.”

  I looked up at the mention of my name and firm affiliation.

  “Yes of course, Representative Green. We’ll contact his office and make the arrangements if that is satisfactory with you,” he replied.

  “Certainly Mr. Pennington; you mentioned the size and composition of the bequest, can you tell me anything more about that so that we can prepare for the meeting?”

  “Mrs. Green, your daughter is going to have resources that will ensure her wellbeing for her lifetime and for generations to come. We have not yet determined the final value of the various real estate and other hard assets as of this time, however, our conservative estimate is that it will exceed well over $500 million dollars. We’ll be in contact with your husband’s law firm if that is satisfactory.”

  Nicky hung up the phone and stared at Green.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “That was Robert Conrad’s attorney. It appears he named Bobby his principal heir.”

  “That was nice of him, considering he kidnapped her and kept her from you for over seven years.”

  “Bernie, the lawyer said the bequest is over $500 million dollars.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I guess you’ll have to let Bobby have the new Play Station thing she was carrying on about the other day.”

  In truth I didn’t know how I felt about our daughter becoming a multi-million heiress. With great money comes great responsibility and even greater complications. Nicky and I decided to delay talking to Bobby about all of this until we consulted with the estate attorneys at Brinkley. Bobby was already quite a handful at eight going on eighteen. I was afraid that as a trust fund baby she could morph into another Paris Hilton, God forbid. I promised to consult with Mike Bollinger and assured Nicky that we would come up with a plan. Five hundred million dollars was quite a way for Conrad to apologize for keeping the little girl from her mother.

  As things turned out this was merely the first of many surprises, pleasant and not so much that lay in store for the Honorable Bernard Green the present district representative and likely future U.S. Congressman, as the day unfolded. By the time I finished meeting with Bollinger to discuss Bobby’s inheritance and make arrangements to meet with the Wilkes-Barre lawyers, Jack Collins called and told me that the president had endorsed my candidacy and would be making a campaign appearance on my behalf. Apparently, the administration was concerned that there would be serious erosion in the House of Representatives and it was vitally important to hold onto as many seats as possible in the upcoming election.

  Carlota greeted me with the news that the speaker had called and needed to meet with me to discuss my successor for the district representative position. Carlota also wanted to know if I planned to take the staff along with me to my new position. I assured her that I would make provisions for Carlota and the ladies to maintain their employment at either the district office or accompany me in the local congressional office. O’Grady had already advised me that after a transition period his staffers would be leaving either retiring or moving to jobs with the City Committee.

  “You may want to stay and help the new District Representative.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “What do you think about Rocky Malone?”

  She paused and nodded, “He’s very green, and a bit rough around the edges, but then again, so were you when you took the job.”

  Joel Solomon needed to meet with me to figure out how we would proceed with forensic analysis of Robert Worthington’s holdings since it appeared that the State Police investigation of his murder was winding down. We agreed to sleep on it and meet first thing the next day and hopefully come up with a solution.

  Carlota handed me message slips from Samantha Binnager and Mr. White, both marked urgent. What did either of them need to discuss with me that was so important? I decided the return calls could wait until I made the campaign stops that Bob and Marti Gronski had arranged for the afternoon. I was relieved that at least I hadn’t heard from the governor or former senator Cinaglia.

  Mike Zeebooker had offered to drive me to the campaign event. I could tell by Zeebooker’s demeanor that something was amiss.

  “Why the long face?” I asked as I got in the car.

  “I don’t want to trouble you with my problems. I mean it seems to me you have plenty on your plate,” he replied as he pulled into traffic.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “It’s just I need to know where I stand when you become Congressman Green. I mean where do I fit in?”

  “Book, you’re my right hand man. You come with me of course.”

  “But what about Jack Collins?”

  “Jack’s a political operative. I’ll need all the help I can get, but the most important thing to remember is I need to have people I trust working with me. I have absolute faith in you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX

  Two Phone Calls

  Axel Johnston knew what he had to do. He had made a commitment to Robert Worthington. He had accepted the man’s money. The fact that Worthington had been murdered did not in any manner relieve him of his obligation. Besides, he was more than happy to eliminate the Jew boy. Johnston was a devoted member of the Brotherhood of Aryans. Robert Worthington had supported his chapter and had provided the Brotherhood with weapons and money to build a range near their headquarters outside of Chambersburg in the Allegheny Mountains. It was God’s country, pure, white and safe from Jews and homosexuals and other influences that were ruining the Brotherhood’s way of life.

  Worthington had warned the Chapter about Green, shortly after he had been elected to the State House of Representatives. “Axel, you’d think someone who took up arms for our country could be counted on to preserve our right to bear arms. But you can never trust a Jew,” he said.

  Later after the fiasco in Rittenhouse Square, Worthington told him of the way the Mexican had screwed up the perfect hit. Axel could have told him that Mexicans and other low born races could never be counted upon to get the job done. Axel offered to make it right. Worthington insisted on covering his expenses. The $10,000 was far more than he needed, but he took the money anyway.

  Axel had used his connections with the Philadelphia chapter to find a place in the Frankford neighborhood where he could hide his weapons and plan his hit. He didn’t mind that the neighborhood bordered on the so called “Badlands” where Hispanic gangs conducted their drug operations. They put the poison in their bodies and sold their women and children into lives of desperation and servitude.

  He looked out his window at Frankford Avenue. The elevated train rumbled above as the skank hookers plied their trade in short skirts and high heels. He could not believe the johns would consort with them. A gust of wind from the elevated train blew trash and debris across the sidewalk. The sight of the crack whores and the perverts that patronized them sickened him.

  He read in the local newspaper that Green was planning a campaign event with the president in three days. Axel fantasized about killing both the Jew and the nigger at the event. He knew that this was not possible. The increased security that surrounded any presidential appearance made an assassination attempt a virtual suicide. He would kill the Jew and fulfill his obligation and move on. Leave the president for some zealot with a death wish. It was only a matter of time. This was not the time.

  Axel knew where Green lived and worked. He had followed Green’s wife and the little girl. Green was vulnerable on many fronts. He figured that with Worthington’s death, Green probably believed he was no longer in danger. To whatever extent Green and his people had heightened their security, with each passing day they would drop their guard and enhance his opportunity. It would not be much longer until he could leave this cesspool and return to Chambersburg.

  I returned the calls to Binnager and my father. Both insisted that their urgent messages required face to face meetings. I agreed to m
eet my father at, Maggie’s Pub, the taproom across the street from his union hall.

  I parked the Chevy Cobalt in front of the corner bar the car continued to run after I turned off the ignition and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t worth replacing the timing chain I thought as I limped to the entrance. I smiled as I noticed that the neon sign over the door still said “Mike’s Tavern”, however, the ‘e’ of Mike’s name had run out of gas years ago. Mike like the ‘e’ on his sign had disappeared, having run off with one of the waitresses leaving his wife Maggie, with 5 year old twin daughters and one in the oven to run the bar and face the long line of debts he had left in his wake.

  Maggie McGrath, smiled at me as I entered.

  “Aren’t you a sight for these tired eyes, come here and give us a kiss,” she said.

  “You know I had quite the crush on you back in the day” I said as we embraced.

  “Oh go on”, she blushed. “You were what, 15 – 16 when you used to come in with your dad. Now look at what a handsome man you’ve become. You worried us all so when you were away in Iraq. The girls and I are so proud of you.”

  “How are the girls?”

  “The twins are 22, Fiona’s married to one of your father’s business agents and Mary Margret is working on her doctorate at Columbia on some artsy fartsy ancient language studies nonsense. I figure she’ll be needin to wait tables here to make a living when she’s done. Cissy’s 18 and going to the CIA up in Poughkeepsie. She’s quite the chef, don’t you know, and a real diva. With the neighborhood changing and all the young toffs from center city moving into the lofts that used to be paper mills and foundries, we do quite the dinner trade.”

  “Maggie, maybe it’s time to change the name over the door,” I said.

  “What for, everyone who counts knows that good for nothin scoundrel flew the coup. Besides, the City wants to charge me a king’s ransom to change the name of this joint!”

  I laughed.

  “Is my father here?”

  “Yes, he’s waiting for you in my office. Be careful walking through the kitchen. Chef Cissy herself is in residence this weekend and she’s in a black mood,” she warned.

  I found my father sitting at Maggie’s desk with the phone to his ear, it was classic Max Green. He smiled at me and pointed to the chair. He placed his hand over the phone and whispered, “I’ll just be a second.”

  I sat down and waited.

  “Don’t worry governor you’ll have labor’s full support!” and hung up.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” Max Green said. “You know how insistent our friend the governor can be. He’s suddenly concerned about his legacy. He doesn’t want to be remembered as the chief executive who sold his state to organized labor. It appears the deficit that his eventual successor will inherit will be sizable. Guess who’s going to be blamed?” he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Dad that’s the way the conservative talking heads are spinning it, regardless of the reality. After all, why let the facts get in the way of a good campaign strategy?” I said and waited.

  After an awkward silence I said, “I assume you didn’t want this meeting to discuss political strategy.”

  “No, no, of course not; I’ve been advised of some troubling news that I want you to be aware of,” he said.

  I looked at him.

  “Our other mutual friend the senator told me the word out on the street is that Robert Worthington hired some Nazi skinhead to shoot you.”

  “But Worthington’s dead.”

  “I know. The senator says that may not matter to this nut job. Bernie, you got to be careful. Listen, I can have some of my guys watch out for you.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think that will be necessary. I can take care of myself.”

  “Be careful. There are sick and dangerous people out there. You need to make sure you and your family are safe.”

  “I will.”

  I got up to leave and held out my hand. Max Green got up and stepped around the desk and pulled me to him and embraced me.

  I said, “Dad, I’ll be all right.”

  I was still thinking about my father’s belated paternal concern as I sat in the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel waiting for Samantha Binnager. I was taken aback by his worry over my well-being. Perhaps I had been unfair in my complete break with Max Green. I had dismissed my mother’s and brother’s attempts over the years to consider reconciliation. Had I been stubborn and unforgiving and immature, like I accused Nicky of being towards her father? Why could I see this in others but not myself?

  I thought about how my life would have turned out if my parents hadn’t divorced. Would I be a different person if my father had been there for advice when I was 17 years old and witnessed the rape of the young man by a member of the faculty at my high school? Would I have gone out of my way to save Bob Gronski and protect people at the bank if I lived without the guilt of doing nothing to stop or report the attack?

  I also wondered if my father had anything to do with Congressman O’Grady’s sudden decision to retire and my selection by the party to run for the office. I wasn’t satisfied with the innocuous explanation my father gave me for his alter ego Mr. White. Max Green was connected to Cinaglia and probably others that were of questionable repute.

  “Bernie, you look as if you’re in some kind of trance,” she said as she touched my arm.

  I was so engrossed in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed her approach. From the attention of the other men in the lobby, apparently I was the only one who failed to give Samantha her due.

  The lobby of the Four Seasons was set up like a grand salon of the last century with high ceilings and stylish seating areas with oversized planters strategically placed throughout the room to give patrons a semblance of privacy. Hostesses circulated the lobby offering service from the bar. I waved the server away as Samantha took the seat opposite me.

  “How is your campaign going?” she asked.

  “Actually, it’s going just as planned. So far, the press has been positive and my opponent has not been able to unearth any dirt on my pristine reputation.”

  “I can vouch for that,” she said. “I hope our meeting won’t cause you any problems with the local wags.”

  “I’m not concerned about the press, however, Nicky may not appreciate it,” I paused and smiled at her.

  “Even though it’s always a treat to see you, what did you want to discuss with me that couldn’t be handled over the phone?”

  She smiled at me, pulled a file from her briefcase and handed it to me. I looked at the documents; they appeared to be account numbers, bank accounts at foreign banks with various amounts of currencies. I looked up at her.

  “Do you know what you’re holding in your hand?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Those are Robert Worthington’s off shore bank accounts. This is where he put the bulk of his profits from the Kids for Cash scam that Dunlap Holdings had set up.”

  “How did you get this information?”

  “Maybe it’s better that you don’t know that,” she replied.

  “Why this is really something, I mean, I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.” I was rambling.

  She smiled. “Well, I could think of a few ways you could show your appreciation, but I know you’re too married and too straight to consider what I have in mind.”

  I blushed.

  “Let’s just be friends.”

  Binnager had not shared all of Worthington’s off shore accounts with Green. There were a number of accounts in the Cayman Islands she had omitted from the list she had provided. She figured there was at least $7 million in those accounts, a fair finder’s fee for the $25 million or so the accounts she handed over to Green would yield for the litigation his law firm had instituted on behalf of the juveniles that had been wrongly incarcerated by Worthington and his partners in crime.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN

  Boy Scout’s Honor

  I told Nicky about my meeti
ng with Samantha Binnager and her disclosure of Robert Worthington’s off shore bank accounts. I did not want to take a chance that Dan Gross or some other gossip columnist would blog about it. I didn’t mention anything about my earlier meeting with my father.

  “What’s her angle?” Nicky asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why is she sharing this with you, and don’t tell me she’s doing it because it’s the right thing to do. Don’t be so naïve. That woman wants something from you, or maybe she just wants you. You know, another trophy, another conquest.”

  “I don’t know what her motivation is and I don’t really care. This information, these bank accounts, will enable Joel and me to secure a great deal of money for children who were victimized by the judges and Worthington. Regardless of what Samantha may want it’s all good. And by the way, I can’t believe you’re still jealous. How’s the heiress?” I said trying to change the topic.

  Nicky flashed me one of her patented megawatt smiles. “OK, I know what you’re doing Mr. Green. That may work out on the campaign trail, but I think you are seriously underestimating Samantha Binnager. That woman is trouble. I want you to promise me you will not meet with her again without me or someone whose judgment I trust being present.”

  I looked at her and shook my head.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, Boy Scout’s honor,” I said holding up my right hand with three fingers extended in the universal sign of fidelity.

  “Come over here and get your reward,” she said.

  I approached her, but instead of being embraced she punched me in the arm and said, “Don’t you ever forget to tell me you’re meeting with that woman again.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Hey, whose lip stick is that on your collar?”

  I looked up at her embarrassed.

  “I know what you’re thinking I swear to you it’s not Samantha Binnager’s.”

  She looked at me for what seemed to be an eternity before she said, “OK, I believe you, so who? Bernie what aren’t you telling me?”