“You sure are a gambler, Bairre Donovan.”
He lowered the volume. “Speaking of which …”
Fanning saw the look on his face and knew what was coming. “Bairre, I’m doing the best I can, but support for the bill is getting weaker and weaker with every passing day.”
“You know, Local 138 has put an awful lot of shamrocks in your coffer, Colin,” he said, becoming noticeably unhappy. “You know damn well that we’ve got everything riding on this gambling bill. How could you let it get away from you like this?”
“The governor received over five thousand letters complaining about what gambling will do to the town. It’s pretty hard for him to ignore that kind of mandate. He’s told every legislator in Albany that gambling is a dead issue, and that he’ll veto the bill if it passes.” He swallowed the rest of his scotch for courage. “Not me or anyone else in the legislature has the balls to cross the governor and that’s just the way it is.”
“Criminy. What in the hell am I going to do? I’ll lose control of the union. They’ll string me up by my short hairs, for crying out loud.”
Fanning put his empty glass down on the table. “I’ve got an idea, Bairre. I’ve got some sway with the Town of Islip, and … well, it won’t make the union well all at once, but over time …” He drew a deep breath. “It’ll keep the noose from around your neck, anyway … and frankly, Bairre, it’s the best I can do.”
Chapter 62
“Well, look at you all dressed up in a suit and tie,” Bairre spouted as he walked into Benzino’s office. He looked around, studying the new accommodations. An old commercial bakery had skipped on its lease and moved all of its equipment out in the middle of the night, allowing the union to take over the space for fifty cents on the dollar. A quick whitewash, new seven-dollar-per-yard carpet, and the new union enterprise was open for business. “You look like the Prince of Wales,” he quipped.
“Who?”
Bairre shook his head in dismay and chose to ignore Benzino’s question. “You need some pictures to make the place look homey. Do you want me to pick them out, or do you want to do it yourself?”
“You can do it. I’m not exactly the domestic type.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Yeah, the ponies—something to remind me of Belmont when I have to be here and can’t be there. Can we get those?”
“Can we get ’em?” Bairre laughed over the absurdity of the question. He was a man of great wealth and power—few things were beyond his grasp and the idea of a few pictures being unattainable … “Why I’ll have them bronze Secretariat’s nuts and plop ’em down on the desk right in front of you.”
“Ha!” Benzino’s thick cheeks bulged like an inflated tire tube as a grin replaced his stoic expression. “Secretariat’s nuts, that’s funny. What about Kelsey’s nuts?
Bairre’s eyebrows rose. “You do know that Kelsey’s nuts are lug nuts for the wheels on your car and not actually horse gonads, don’t you?”
Benzino shrugged.
Bairre took a moment to consider the intelligence of his conversational partner and then said, “So how do you think you’re going to like your new job?”
“I’m bored,” Benzino began. “I hope you don’t expect me to sit here all day.”
“Come and go as you please,” Bairre said dismissively.
“I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You’re the union managing agent, Enio. When paperwork comes across your desk, you sign it, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Without reading?”
“With reading, without reading—however you like. All you’re doing is signing representation and warranty documents attesting to the contents of the debris we’re hauling.”
“And for that you need a full-time employee? What am I supposed to do the other seven and a half hours a day?”
“What you’ve always done. I think you’re looking into this too deeply—sign a few papers, collect your salary, and we’ll all be the merrier.”
“And we make money for this?”
Bairre grinned, exposing a banner of white teeth. “Oh, very good money, my dear boy.”
“Is this because the gambling thing is gonna take a big smelly dump?”
Bairre’s eyes flashed angrily. He looked around and quickly pushed the office door shut. “Money is money and it makes no matter where it comes from. I don’t care if we make it hauling and dumping crap or at the roulette table. The gambling …” He filled his cheeks with air, then exhaled. “We’ve hits some bumps along the way, but it’s not dead.” He was lying through his teeth. Not entirely. “So keep your mouth shut and don’t go telling anyone the gambling proposition is dead.”
The proposition before the New York State legislature would be a stillborn. Fanning had managed to push the bill back on the legislative calendar, and when it finally came around for a vote, he and a few cronies would stonewall it until it was dropped. But the extensive delay would buy Bairre the precious time he needed to build a strong alternative revenue stream, and hopefully maintain control of the union and the resort. The smart-money players in Las Vegas were already privy to the news Bairre was keeping out of the hands of his union underlings. He was secretly courting a deal for the sale of the resort that would bring the union a fraction of the proceeds they expected and had already waited years to collect. “Do we understand each other?”
“Perfectly. Anyway, I don’t see any trucks—you expect us to cart this shit around in our jockstraps?”
“Now who’s the jokester? All in good time, my boy. The yard out back will be filled with payloaders and dump trailers by the end of the month.”
“And drivers?”
“That too.”
“We’ll need security, won’t we?”
“Sure. I’ll leave that to you. You catch anyone messing with our stuff, you know what to do?”
Benzino grinned. “The usual?”
“That’s right, Enio,” he said with finality. “The usual.”
Chapter 63
Bairre Donovan had his stocking feet on his desk and a copy of Newsday spread open before him. He was circling the horseraces at Saratoga when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he hollered.
Hollis Strom pushed the door open slightly and poked his head in through the opening in his standard subservient manner.
“Come on in, Hollis, and shut the door. I like Devil’s Envoy in the fifth at Saratoga.” He folded the paper back so that the racing card was on top and offered it to Strom. “You’re a lucky fuck, Hollis. You pick one. I’ll front the money and we’ll split whatever the horse brings in.”
“You’ve got a visitor,” he announced. He rolled his eyes as he reached for the newspaper. “Joe Spencer.”
“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” Bairre grimaced. “Does that mean I have to put on my shoes?”
“No.” He chuckled and quickly glanced at the race card. “How about Sloppy Seconds in the sixth race?” He quickly glanced at Bairre. “Don’t go reaching deep into your pockets on this one, boss. You know I don’t know dick about the ponies.” He handed the newspaper back to Bairre. “I just like the name.”
He glanced at the card. “I like the odds,” he said with a grin. “Sloppy Seconds, huh? With a name like that the horse has got to be lucky. Sorry, my friend, I’m not going to listen to you. I’m going balls deep on this one.”
Strom grimaced. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
He shrugged. “What the hell. It’s only money.” Reaching for his Bally loafers, “Bring him in,” he advised begrudgingly. “Let’s get this over with.”
~~~
Joe Spencer knocked and then pushed the door fully open without waiting for Bairre to acknowledge him.
He read the expression on the union steward’s face and braced himself for an attack. “You look like you’re ready to invade Anzio, Joe. Everything all right?”
Spencer dropped into a chair and allowed a clipped stack
of papers to fall on Bairre’s desk. “What’s this, Bairre?” he demanded.
Bairre fought the urge to shoot him a condescending scowl. Instead, he smiled congenially and picked up the papers. “And what’s aroused your curiosity today, Joe?” he asked, taunting Spencer with his cavalier manner.
“Why is the damn operating account almost empty? What the hell is going on?”
He flipped the pages one by one, knowing exactly where to find the union balance sheet but making no effort whatsoever to arrive at the page. “Ah, this?” he said finally. “Nothing to worry about, Joe. It’s just a blip in our cash flow. It’ll be shored up by the time the next financials are published.”
“What kind of blip wipes out the entire union operating account, Bairre?”
“Equipment outlay.”
“Equipment outlay? What kind of equipment costs north of half a million dollars?”
Bairre wanted to tell Spencer to fuck off and get the hell out of his office. He was unaccustomed to being challenged by anyone let alone his union steward. He drew a slight, unnoticeable breath while he began to count to ten. One. Two … “Vehicles and such.” He closed the report and handed it back to Spencer. “Are we done?”
“No, we’re not done. Are you kidding? What did we buy for half a million dollars, a fleet of Rolls Royces?”
Bairre stared at him hotly. “I won’t dignify that question with a response. Meeting’s over.”
“The hell it is. The men have a right to know what’s going on. It’s their dues we’re talking about, their money.”
Bairre slammed his fists on the desk. His face was red hot with anger. “And I’m saying get the hell out of my office.”
Spencer stood. “You can’t do this. You don’t want to be held accountable? Fine, but I’ll call a meeting and have the rank and file vote you out of office.”
“And who’s going to replace me? You, Joe?”
“That’s right, me. Honest Joe Spencer.”
Bairre dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “You’re kidding, right? When I met you, you were digging shit out of ditches. Don’t kid yourself. You don’t have what it takes.”
“Maybe yes and maybe no, but I’ll let the union men make that decision.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said hotly.
“Oh no? Just watch me.” Spencer glared at Bairre and left the office, leaving him with his mouth wide open, shocked by his defiance.
He drew in a few deep breaths before reaching for the phone and dialing. “What are you doing sitting around on your fat arse when there’s work to be done? I need something done quick.”
A gravelly voice replied, “The usual?”
Book IV:
Carnage
Chapter 64
The golf club general manager confronted Lieutenant Brooks. “Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost us?” he complained. “I had to cancel the Bar Association Tournament.”
Brooks shrugged in an offhand manner and replied callously, “I’m sure a goldmine like this has an army of attorneys. Feel free to use ’em.” He walked away leaving the general manager flatfooted and his mouth agape. I could see that the GM was beside himself and for good reason; the tenth hole of his golf course looked like the Wild West during the Gold Rush. Police technicians had replaced prospectors and the excavating equipment was a hundred and fifty years newer, but the result was the same. Within a matter of hours the micro-trimmed tee box and gorgeous manicured green fairway had been butchered. The turf had been ripped up and mounds of earth were piled everywhere. Vinyl sprinkler pipes protruded up through the ground like weeds. The spectators, normally enamored with the game of golf, were more interested in the burial sites than holes in one. The undercurrent of conversation seemed similar no matter who it originated from.
“I knew it. I always knew it. Beacon Hill, ghosts are buried here, my friend,” one spectator said.
“Maybe that’s why your game sucks, Hank,” another neighbor cackled. “You never met a water hazard you didn’t like.”
Still, as difficult as it was for the residents of the homeowners’ association to accept the fact that their golf course hid a graveyard, there were those who continued to murmur about the history of the old resort and the nefarious goings-on that had been rumored to have taken place.
One of the police technicians raised his hand to get Brooks’ attention and then pointed down at the cordoned-off area in which he had been digging.
“Jesus. Another one?” Brooks said, reeling from the magnitude of the discovery. The community’s narrow private streets were crammed with police vehicles, and strangers not normally permitted into the private community had come in such numbers that the security guard at the front gate had thrown up his hands in defeat and had gone off to sit in his car and listen to the radio.
A woman wearing a blazer with a real estate emblem bellowed, “Shit! There goes the neighborhood. I won’t be able to sell a property in this community for the next five years.”
The comment was far more than a realtor’s knee-jerk reaction to a situation that would have a devastating impact on her livelihood. It was a reality, and the community of Wind Mark would never again be the same. Property values would plummet—gossip and stigma would follow it for years to come. The ghoulishly curious would come by to snoop around and look for bodies the police had missed. Residents would offer their homes at fire sale prices just to flee the community. Three bodies had been found in a matter of hours. There was no telling how long the investigation would last. The golf course would likely shutter the pro shop and sell the course at acreage prices.
As the magnitude of the disaster settled on the residents, one name began to surface over and over again until an angry rumble flowed through the crowd. “Donovan,” they grumbled. “I hope they get the son of a bitch!”
A member of the police crew approached Brooks to show him what he had found near the skeleton he had unearthed. It was a large gold ring with an emblem inlaid in black onyx. Brooks recognized the emblem. “It’s a square and compass. It’s the symbol of the Free Masons.”
“Look at the inscription inside the ring,” the police technician insisted. “There’s something written in there.”
Brooks looked at the inside surface of the ring. He had to turn it repeatedly to catch enough light to make it readable but was ultimately able to make out the inscription. The first line read To Our Devoted Brother, Joe Spencer. The second read The Men of Local 138.
Chapter 65
The paparazzi were sucked through the hospital entranceway as swiftly as if they were caught up in the tornado spout that trailed Jim and Scarlett Donovan as they marched into the lobby. A hospital administrator greeted the senate whip and his wife and directed them toward the elevator as reporters and video cameramen followed like lambs obedient to their shepherd. They piled into elevator after elevator until the entire mob had vacated the ground floor and flowed to the upper floor where Blake Corey rested in his room.
It was a true media circus, a stunt Donovan’s campaign manager had concocted in order to pull mass public appeal like a ramshackle barn up the funnel of a twister, and the reporters were buying into it big time. A local teenage boy the senator had been photographed with at a recent charity event had been rushed to the hospital for treatment of a life-threatening event, and Donovan had rushed to the lad’s bedside to show his loyalty and compassion.
Scarlett strode down the corridor with the confidence of a monarch, a veritable Hitler in high heels. It mattered not that a child’s misery would be the springboard her husband needed to attain the White House. If cancer needed to be the necessary catalyst for his success, then so be it.
The cameras were rolling as he met with Blake’s family outside the room. “I’m so sorry … He’s such a fine young man … I’m here to help in any way I can. We’ll get Blake back on the football field.” He spouted an endless stream of empty sentiments and promises never to be kept, in the hope of shining like a star befor
e the media.
“God bless you, Senator,” Blake’s father said. Blake’s family stood together as tears streamed down their cheeks.
Excellent! Perfect! Scarlett’s counterfeit expression concealed her giddiness and pleasure. My God, he’s a shoe-in now. The party will have to nominate him this time. Donovan’s campaign manager had hired a team of cameramen and videographers to record the event and ensure that not a single precious moment of propaganda was missed. He’d use the footage over and over again, running TV spots until the American voting public was thoroughly brainwashed and convinced of Donovan’s warmth and humanity. Hard not to vote for a man like that, she mused. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.
Donovan and Scarlett entered the room and hovered over Blake, espousing their concern and well wishes for his recovery. All the while strobes flashed as Donovan and Scarlett fulfilled their agenda. Scarlett, the childless shrew, beamed at the sick boy with adoring eyes as if he were the son she never had. She lifted his hand and held it to her cheek.
He looked back at her, beaming a smile of sincere appreciation, gasped, and flat-lined.
Chapter 66
A doctor yanked a startled Scarlett Donovan out of the way and started compressions on Blake while a nurse hurried to retrieve the crash cart. The room quickly became a picture of chaos. Medical staff got busy trying to clear nonessential personnel from the room while they gawked and tried to snap photos of the stricken boy. An ambitious reporter pulled out his phone and quickly relayed the scoop to his newsroom.
Blake’s mother fainted. “It’s a freaking zoo,” a male nurse said as he hurried to her side.
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 66