What had happened was that Casimir "the Bull" Bolinski had come to town a month before, and Mickey had gone to see him at the Warwick. Mickey and the Bull went way back, all the way to the third grade at Saint Stephen's Parochial School, at Tenth and Butler Streets where Roosevelt Boulevard turns into the Northeast Extension. So far back that he still called the Bull "Casimir" and the Bull called him " Michael."
Sister Mary Magdalene, principal of Saint Stephen's, had had this thing about nicknames. Your name was what they had given you when you were baptized, and since baptism was a sacrament, sacred before God, you used that name, not one you had made up yourself. Sister Mary Magdalene had enforced her theologic views among her charges with her eighteen-inch, steel-reinforced ruler, which she had carried around with her, and used either like a cattle prod, jabbing it in young sinners' ribs, or like a riding crop, cracked smartly across young bottoms.
Casimir Bolinski had gone on to graduate from West Catholic High School, largely because when Monsignor Dooley had caught Michael J. O' Hara with a pocketful of Frankie the Gut Guttermo's numbers slips, Mickey had refused to name his accomplice in that illegal and immoral enterprise.
Casimir Bolinski had gone on to Notre Dame, where he was an ailAmerican tackle, and then on to a sixteen-year career with the Green Bay Packers. His professional football career ended only when the chief of orthopedic surgical services at the University of Illinois Medical College informed Mrs. Bolinski that unless she could dissuade her husband from returning to the gridiron she should start looking for a wheelchair in which she could roll him around for the rest of his life.
It was then, shortly after Bull Bolinski's tearful farewell-toprofessional-football news conference, that his secret, carefully kept from his teammates, coaches and the management of the Green Bay Packers came out. Bull Bolinski was also Casimir J. Bolinski, D. Juris (Cum Laude), the University of Southern California, admitted to the California, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Illinois, and New York bars, and admitted to practice before the Supreme Court of the United States of America.
He had not, as was popularly believed, spent his off seasons on the West Coast drinking beer on the beach and making babies with Mrs. Bolinski. And neither was Mrs. Antoinette Bolinski quite what most people on the Packers thought her to be, that is just a pretty, good li'l old broad with a spectacular set of knockers who kept the Bull on a pretty short leash.
Mrs. Bolinski had been a schoolteacher when she met her husband. She had been somewhat reluctantly escorting a group of sixth-graders on a field trip to watch the Packers in spring training. She held the view at the time that professional football was sort of a reincarnation of the Roman games, a blood sport with few if any redeeming societal benefits.
The first time she saw Casimir, he had tackled a fellow player with such skill and enthusiasm that there were three people kneeling over the ball carrier, trying to restore him to consciousness and feeling for broken bones. Casimir, who had taken off his helmet, was standing there, chewing what she later learned was Old Mule rough cut mentholated chewing tobacco, watching.
Antoinette had never before in her entire (twenty-three-year) life seen such tender compassion in a man's eyes, or experienced an emotional reaction such as that she felt when Casimir glanced over at her, spat, smiled shyly, winked, and said, "Hiya, honey!"
By the time, two months later, Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski returned from their three-day honeymoon in the Conrad Hilton Hotel in Chicago, she had him off Old Mule rough cut mentholated chewing tobacco and onto mint Life Savers, and already thinking about his-now theirfuture, which, pre-Antoinette, had been a vague notion that when he couldn't play anymore, he would get a job as a coach or maybe get a bar and grill or something.
Two days after the management of the Green Bay Packers had stood before the lights of the television cameras of all three networks and given Bull Bolinski a solid gold Rolex diver's watch, a set of golf clubs, a Buick convertible and announced that the number he had worn so proudly on his jersey for sixteen years would be retired, they received a letter on the engraved crisp bond stationery of Heidenheimer amp; Bolinski, Counselors At Law, advising them that the firm now represented Messrs. J. Stanley Wozniski; Franklin D. R. Marshall; and Ezra J. Houghton, and would do so in the upcoming renegotiation of the contracts for their professional services, and to please communicate in the future directly with Mr. Bolinski in any and all matters thereto pertaining.
This was shortly followed by that legendary television interview with linebacker F. D. R. Marshall and quarterback E. J. Houghton, during which Mr. Marshall had said, "If thebleep ing Packers don't want to deal with the Bull, so far's I'm concerned, they can shove thatbleep ing football up theirbleep," only to be chastised by Mr. Houghton, who said, "Shut up, FDR, you can't talk dirty like that on thebleep ing TV."
So Mickey O'Hara was aware from the very beginning that the Bull had not only succeeded in getting a fair deal for his former teammates from the Packers, but had also, within a matter of a couple of years, become the most successful sports agent in the business, and grown rich in the process.
But it wasn't until the Bull had come to town and Mickey had picked him up at the Warwick and they had driven into South Philadelphia for some real homemade Italian sausage and some really good lasagna that he even dreamed that it could have anything to do, however remotely, with him.
"Turn the fucking air conditioner on, Michael, why don't you?" the Bull said to Mickey when they were no more than fifty yards from the Warwick.
"It's broke," Mickey had replied.
"What are you riding around in this piece of shit for anyway?" The Bull then looked around the car and warmed to the subject. "Jesus, this is really a goddamned junker, Michael."
"Fuck you, Casimir. It's reliable. And it's paid for."
"You always were a cheapskate," the Bull said. "Life ain't no rehearsal, Michael. Go buy yourself some decent wheels. You can afford it, for Christ's sake. You ain't even married."
"Huh!" Mickey snorted. "That's what you think."
"Whatdo they pay you, Michael?"
Mickey told him and the Bull laughed and said, "Bullshit," and Mickey said, "That's it. No crap, Casimir."
"I'll be goddamned, you mean it," the Bull had said, genuinely surprised. Then he grew angry: "Why those cheap sonsofbitches!"
Three days later, the publisher of theBulletin had received a letter on Heidenheimer amp; Bolinski stationery stating that since preliminary negotiations had failed to reach agreement on a satisfactory interim compensation schedule for Mr. Michael J. O'Hara's professional services, to be in effect while a final contract could be agreed upon between the parties, Mr. O'Hara was forced, effective immediately, to withhold his professional services.
When Mickey heard that what the Bull meant by "interim compensation schedule" was $750 a week, plus all reasonable and necessary expenses, he began to suspect that, despite the Bull's reputation in dealing with professional sports management, he didn't know his ass from second base vis-a-vis the newspaper business. Mickey had been getting $312.50 a week, plus a dime a mile for the use of his car.
"Trust me, Michael," the Bull had said. "I know what I'm doing."
That was damned near a month ago, and there hadn't been a peep from theBulletin in all that time.
The good-looking dame, from last night, her hair now done up in sort of a bun, was behind the marble reception desk in the lobby of the Bellevue-Stratford.
What the hell is that all about? How many hours do these bastards make her work, for Christ's sake?
This time there was no line, and she saw Mickey walking across the lobby, and Mickey smiled at her, and she smiled back.
"Good morning, Mr. O'Hara," she said.
"Mickey, please."
"Mr. and Mrs. Bolinski are in the house, Mr. O'Hara. If you'll just pick up a house phone, the operator will connect you."
"If I wanted to talk to him on the telephone," Mickey replied, "I could have done that from home. I wan
t to see him."
"You'll have to be announced," the good-looking dame said, her delicate lips curling in a reluctant smile.
"You got your hair in a bun," Mickey said.
"I've been here all night," she said.
"How come?"
"My relief just never showed up," she said.
"Jesus! She didn't phone or anything?"
"Not a word," she said.
"You didn't get any sleep at all?"
She shook her head.
"You sure don't look like it," Mickey blurted.
Her face flushed, and she smiled shyly.
Then she picked up a telephone. She spoke the Bull's room number so softly he couldn't hear it.
The phone rang a long time before the Bull's wife answered it.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bolinski," she said. "This is Miss Travis at the front desk. I hope I haven't disturbed you. Mr. O'Hara is here."
Travis, huh? It figures she would have a nice name like that.
"May I send him up?" Miss Travis said, glancing at Mickey. Then she said, "Thank you, madam," and hung up. "Mr. Bolinski is in the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, Mr. O'Hara. That's on ten. Turn to your right when you exit the elevator."
"Thanks."
"My pleasure."
Mickey turned and started to walk to the bank of elevators. Then he turned again.
"You get yourself some sleep," he commanded.
The remark startled her for long enough to give Mickey the opportunity to conclude that whenever it came to saying exactly the right thing to a woman he really liked, he ranked right along with Jackie Gleason playing the bus driver on TV. Or maybe the Marquis de Sade.
But she smiled. "Thank you. I'll try," she said. "I should be relieved any minute now."
Mickey nodded at her, and walked to the elevator. When he got inside and turned around and looked at her, she was looking at him. She waved as the elevator door closed.
It doesn't mean a fucking thing. She was smiling at the old bluehaired broad last night, too.
Mickey had no trouble finding the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, and when he did the door was open, and he could hear Antoinette's voice. He rapped on the door, and pushed it open.
Antoinette was sitting on one of the two couches in front of a fireplace, in a fancy bathrobe, her legs tucked under her, talking on the telephone. She waved him inside, covered the mouthpiece with her hand, and said, "Come in, Michael. Casimir's in the shower."
Then she resumed her conversation. Mickey picked up that she was talking to her mother and at least one of the kids.
Casimir Bolinski entered the room. He was wearing a towel around his waist. It was an average-sized towel around an enormous waist, which did little to preserve Mr. Bolinski's modesty.
"I can't find my teeth, sweetie," he mumbled.
Mrs. Bolinski covered the mouthpiece again.
"They're in that blue jar I bought you in Vegas," Mrs. Bolinski said.
"Be with you in a jiff, Michael," the Bull mumbled, adding, "You're early."
He walked out of the sitting room. Mickey saw that his back, and the backs of his legs, especially behind the knees, were laced with surgical scars.
"Kiss, kiss," Antoinette said to the telephone and hung up. "We left the kids with my mother," she said. "Casimir and I have to really work at getting a little time alone together. So I came with him."
"Good for you," Mickey said.
"I didn't know we were coming here," Antoinette said, "until we got to the airport."
Mickey wondered if he was getting some kind of complaint, so he just smiled, instead of saying anything.
"How's your mother, Michael?" Antoinette asked.
"I had dinner with her yesterday."
"That's nice," Antoinette said. Then she picked up the telephone again, dialed a number, identified herself as Mrs. Casimir Bolinski, and said they could serve breakfast now.
The Bull returned to the room, now wearing a shirt and trousers, in the act of hooking his suspender strap over his shoulder.
"I told them to come at ten," he announced, now, with his teeth in, speaking clearly. "We'll have time to eat breakfast. How's your mother?"
"I had dinner with her yesterday. Who's coming at ten?"
"She still think the other people are robbing her blind?"
"Yeah, when they're not… making whoopee," Mickey said. "Who's coming at ten?"
"Who do you think?" the Bull said. "I told them we were sick of fucking around with them."
"Clean up your language," Antoinette said, "there's a lady present."
"Sorry, sweetie," the Bull said, sounding genuinely contrite. "Ain't there any coffee?"
"On that roll-around cart in the bedroom," Antoinette said.
The Bull went back into the bedroom and came out pushing a cart holding a coffee service. He poured a cupful and handed it to Mickey, then poured one for himself.
"What am I, the family orphan?" Antoinette asked. "I thought you had yours," the Bull said. "I did, but you should have asked."
"You want a cup of coffee, or not?"
"No, thank you, I've got to get dressed," Antoinette said, snippily, and left the sitting room.
"She's a little pissed," the Bull said. "She didn't know I was coming here. She thought I was going to Palm Beach."
"Palm Beach?"
"Lenny Moskowitz is marrying Martha Bethune," the Bull explained. "We got to get the premarital agreement finalized."
Mickey knew Lenny Moskowitz. Or knew of him. He had damned near been the Most Valuable Player in the American League.
"Who's Martha Whateveryousaid?"
"Long-legged blonde with a gorgeous set of knockers," the Bull explained. "She's damned near as tall as Lenny. Her family makes hub caps."
"Makes what?"
"Hub caps. For cars? They have a pisspot full of dough, and they're afraid Lenny's marrying her for her dough. Jesus, I got him five big ones for three years. He don't need any of her goddamned dough."
Mickey smiled uneasily, as he thought again of the enormous difference between negotiating a contract for the professional services of someone who was damned near the Most Valuable Player in the American League and a police reporter for thePhiladelphia Bulletin .
A few minutes later, two waiters rolled into the suite with a cart and a folding table and set up breakfast.
"I told you, I think," the Bull said, as he shoveled food onto his plate, "that you can't get either Taylor ham or scrapple on the West Coast?" Scrapple, a mush made with pork by-products, which was probably introduced into Eastern Pennsylvania by the Pennsylvania Dutch (actually Hessians) was sometimes referred to as "poor people's bacon."
"Yeah, you told me," Mickey said. "How do you think we stand, Casimir?"
"What do you mean, stand? Oh, you mean with those bastards from theBulletin? "
"Yeah," Mickey said, as Antoinette came back into the room, and Casimir stood up and politely held her chair for her.
"Thank you, darling," Antoinette said. "Has Casimir told you, Michael, that they don't have either Taylor ham or scrapple on the West Coast?"
"I could mail you some, if you like," Mickey said.
"It would probably go bad before the goddamned post office got it there," the Bull said, "but it's a thought, Michael."
"I never heard of either before I met Casimir," Antoinette said, "but now I'm just about as crazy about it as he is."
"Casimir was just about to tell me how he thinks we stand with theBulletin," Mickey said.
"Maybe you could send it Special Delivery or something," the Bull said. "If we wasn't going from here to Florida, I'd put a couple of rolls of Taylor ham and a couple of pounds of scrapple in the suitcase. But it would probably go bad before we got home."
"Of course it would," Antoinette said. "And it would get warm and greasy and get all over our clothes."
"So how do you think we stand with theBulletin?" Mickey asked, somewhat plaintively.
"You sound as if you don't have
an awful lot of faith in Casimir, Michael," Antoinette said.
"Don't be silly," Mickey said.
"It would probably take two days to get to the Coast Air-Mail Special Delivery," the Bull said. "What the hell, it's worth a shot."
He reached into his trousers pocket, took out a stack of bills held together with a gold clip in the shape of a dollar sign, peeled off a fifty-dollar bill, and handed it to Mickey.
"Two of the big rolls of Taylor ham," The Bull ordered thoughtfully, "and what-five pounds?-of scrapple. I wonder if you can freeze it."
"Probably not," Antoinette said. "If they could freeze it, they would probably have it in the freezer department in the supermarket."
"What the hell, we'll give it a shot anyway. You never get anywhere unless you take a chance, ain't that right, Michael?"
"Right."
FOUR
The Philadelphia firm of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester maintained their law offices in the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building at Twelfth and Market Streets, east of Broad Street, which was convenient to both the federal courthouse and the financial district. The firm occupied all of the eleventh floor, and part of the tenth.
The offices of the two founding partners, Brewster Cortland Payne II and Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, together with the Executive Conference Room and the office of Mrs. Irene Craig, whose title was Executive Secretary, and whose services they had shared since founding their partnership, occupied the entire eastern wall of the eleventh floor, Colonel Mawson in the corner office to the right and Mr. Payne to the left, with Mrs. Craig between them.
Although this was known only to Colonel Mawson and Mr. Payne, and of course to Mrs. Craig herself, her annual remuneration was greater than that received by any of the twenty-one junior partners of the firm. She received, in addition to a generous salary, the dividends on stock she held in the concern.
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