But if the supervisors eventually reject the private landfill, it would cost $36 million for a new one—almost equal to the school budget for a year, and a nasty chunk of Randolph’s $130 million total budget. In addition, state and federal requirements would bring the cost of closing and entombing the worn-out landfill close to $900,000.
Some of that expense would be made up by charging user fees, but it would take decades before a population base the size of Randolph could come up with enough of those to make the landfill a paying proposition. And if Thaxton-Klein fails to acquire any of the land on either side, they could run out of room there in thirty years.
Zoe read the story over Fogarty’s back as he typed, her hands on his shoulders. “You know who owns some of that land you’re talking about there.”
Fogarty turned around to look at her.
“So, would you sell?”
If he expected an impassioned denial, he was disappointed.
“I dunno,” she said. “It depends on what they offer.”
By now, the suits from Thaxton-Klein had made their pitch, the community had been given the opportunity to have its say, the supervisors had haggled both in public and, Fogarty was convinced, in illegal private meetings.
Booker and Apperson were solidly in favor of the deal, because they had decided it was good for business. Edmunds tended to vote the same way. That left Dixon and Bishop, and both of them were wavering.
The former, as always, was looking out for his constituency. Dixon represented the Poplar View section of the county, an area whose poverty defied its bucolic name. He knew that if the landfill didn’t go through, Booker and his cohorts would starting cutting into social programs and education.
Newspapers always use the term budget axe to dramatize budget cutting. Once Booker and company got started, it would be more like a chainsaw.
Moreover, Poplar View wouldn’t be directly affected by the new dump, because its residents sucked water from a separate underground river.
“It’s a no-brainer for Dixon to go along,” Fogarty told Daniel. “Fortunately, the good Reverend has a brain.”
And a conscience. Something in Dixon’s makeup wouldn’t allow him to abandon Bonifay as a means of fending off higher taxes in Poplar View.
Bishop’s view of the situation was equally conflicted. His libertarian instincts told him that outsourcing the landfill to a private company might be the best course to take in the long run. At the same time, a broad vein of paranoia ran through Bishop’s worldview, and he wasn’t sure he trusted the landfill company not to inflict environmental genocide on the place where he lived.
In his own way, like Dixon, he saw this as a moral issue.
Zoe, meanwhile, expressed amusement with Bishop’s stance against big government.
“He bought the stabilization rights to grow tobacco on my daddy’s farm,” she told Fogarty, “and he had no problem taking federal tobacco subsidy money then.”
“A walking contradiction,” Fogarty replied, quoting from an old Kris Kristofferson song. “Partly truth and partly fiction.”
It was his job to decide which was which.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FISHING
They took Fogarty’s car, pointing it north just after eight. It was roughly a seven-hour drive, and the plan was to arrive in mid-afternoon, just ahead of the ferocious North Jersey rush hour traffic.
“We can grab a bite to eat and just hang out for a while before we go to Noudi’s office,” Fogarty said.
“I’d love to see the Empire State Building,” Zoe said.
“A little too far away,” Fogarty said. “Would you settle for the Busch Brewery in Newark? Or how about a plain ol’ bar?”
“As long as it’s not an Irish pub.”
According to Jamie Fallon, the office of the Noudi Construction Company in Orange was always empty by seven on weekdays. A cleaning crew came around twice a week, but never before ten. That three hours was the tight window of time available for Eddie and Zoe to go through the files.
“And there’s a bunch of them,” Fallon told them. “A whole wall full in that one office.”
The drive north from Virginia to New Jersey was like being sucked into a vortex. Light on US 58, the traffic picked up noticeably along I-95 at Richmond. By the time they reached the bypass around Washington, it had seemingly doubled in both volume and velocity, hurling them out on the interstate through Maryland. Cars and trucks and buses on the New Jersey Turnpike moved en masse at more than eighty miles an hour, with a few daredevils in even more of a hurry zipping in and out of tiny openings.
“Why do these cops bother sitting by the side of the road?” Zoe asked. “By the time they pull out to chase somebody, that car will be a half-mile away.”
Fogarty laughed.
“They’re like hawks trying to pick out one bird from a flock,” he said. “Maybe they’re hoping for the intimidation factor.”
“It’s not working.”
The flow of cars had slowed to a crawl by four-thirty, when Fogarty took the Newark exit and headed west toward the Oranges. This still gave them time to beat the rush at an Italian restaurant called The Sicilian. Fogarty had once eaten there on the Jersey Progress expense account.
After they were settled into a rear booth with red plastic seats, Fogarty said, “Since we’re up here trying to bust the mob, this place seemed kind of fitting. I’ll bet a lot of wise guys eat here, maybe Carmine Noodles himself.”
“Why do they call him that?”
“Partly because of his last name, and partly because of his love for pasta. I’d say Carmine goes about two seventy-five.”
“You sound a little nervous,” Zoe told him.
“These mob characters play rough,” he replied. “If you piss them off and they get their hands on you, they’ll probably torture you for a while before they shoot you in the head.”
Zoe was silent.
An hour later, after the plates had been cleared away, Fogarty ordered a pitcher of beer and settled back in his seat. Zoe sipped red wine. They had another hour to kill.
“You never told me exactly what happened with you up here,” Zoe said. “What could you possibly have done that was that bad?”
“It’s a long, boring story,” Fogarty said. “You don’t want to hear it.”
“Sure, I do,” Zoe said.
Fogarty sighed and took a sip of beer.
“Short version. One day, this guy called me up—kind of like Jamie Fallon called us—and said he had proof that one of the higher-ups in city government was in with the mob. He said he had inside information that this Marty Ventura had manipulated the bidding on construction for a new road to guarantee it would go to Noudi. He had photos of Ventura sitting at a table with Leo Castelli, the local capo. He had a letter from Castelli to Ventura talking about the highway bid.”
“My problem was, this was a one-source story, and my source was really antsy about going on the record. You can imagine why.”
“The several hours of torture, shooting in the head thing?” Zoe said.
“Something like that. He thought the information he gave me would stand on its own, and I told him there had to be a voice to go with it. We met several times at different restaurants, and we went round and round about this.
“Then I got a brainstorm. What if I were to send what I had to the DA anonymously? He couldn’t ignore something like that, and he’d have to look into it. So I did that, and then I wrote a story saying that the DA’s office was investigating links between Ventura and Castelli. I mean, it was probably true.”
“So what happened?”
“I had hoped I could talk my source into coming out, maybe offering him police protection. But he had disappeared. When it turned out that the letter I’d been given was fictitious and the photograph was actually taken at some civic event for Big Buddies, Ventura threatened to sue if I didn’t come up with something better, I couldn’t, and he did. And that’s why I’m in Jefferson
Springs.”
“That wasn’t real bright of you, was it?” Zoe asked, locking eyes across the table.
“Thanks for reminding me,” Fogarty said. “But you’re right. I got cocky. I got careless. I’d had a good run of breaking big stories, and I started thinking I was invincible. I guess my boss thought so, too.”
“What happened to him?”
“Last I heard, he still had a job. No thanks to me.”
The drive to Noudi’s office took around half an hour. It was located on a side street, occupying most of a small block. Two stories, wood shingles on the outside, unobtrusive. This was just the repository for records and a place to house the offices of Carmine Noudi, his son Bingo, and a few accountants and office managers. All the equipment was parked and stored at another location.
Fogarty had encountered Carmine Noudi through his dealings with the city. Son Bingo—real name, Benedetti—was a dim-witted brawler who proved a frequent embarrassment to his old man by getting into various scrapes with girlfriends, fellow bar patrons, and once even an East Orange cop. Fogarty fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to meet him personally.
As Fallon promised, however, the headquarters building was dark when they drove slowly past it and parked on an adjoining street.
The company files were on the second floor and the main entrance was in the rear. Fogarty pulled out the strip of paper with the code Fallon had given them and punched it in with his forefinger. Nothing happened.
“Oh, shit,” Fogarty said.
“I think you might have hit five instead of four on the touchpad,” Zoe whispered.
Fogarty tried it again. The door clicked open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE GOOD STUFF
Fogarty didn’t like it. Any of it. As his source had told him, there was only one staircase leading up to the second floor of the Noudi Construction Company offices, where most of the key files were kept. That meant it would be impossible to avoid any unexpected arrivals, except perhaps by leaping from a second story window onto a concrete parking lot.
Worse, he and Zoe needed to explore this alien landscape by flashlight, since turning on inside lights would be like a beacon to the outside world. If some of Noudi’s thugs didn’t show up, the police would, and Fogarty had no idea how he would be able to offer a plausible explanation for his presence there.
So, they eased up to George Capanis’ office through darkness, lights aimed down at the stair treads. Capanis, Fallon had said, always kept a paper copy of each computer transaction in his file cabinet. Those files, Fogarty realized as the beam from his flashlight played across one wall, were extensive, dating back forty years.
The saving grace, from the perspective of the two snoops, was that each drawer was labeled. Fogarty went immediately to the files from 1985, the year of the Northwest Extension bid and his personal disgrace, only to be disappointed. The drawer for that year contained only sheaves of invoices, none of which seemed to have anything to do with Marty Ventura.
With a sigh, Fogarty moved on. For the next two hours, he and Zoe pawed through every file drawer back to 1980 and found nothing of interest. In his head, Fogarty felt the minutes ebbing until they would have to leave empty-handed or face the consequences. He was developing an ache just above his eyes from trying to decipher Capanis’ handwriting by flashlight. At one point, Zoe reached out and stroked his cheek.
“Since the lights are already out, maybe we should take advantage of it,” she purred.
Fogarty turned his head and stared at her in disbelief.
“Kidding,” Zoe said, backing away. “Only kidding.”
It was Zoe who discovered the single file cabinet next to Capanis’ desk. By some miracle, it was unlocked.
“Maybe this is the good stuff,” Fogarty said. “We can only hope, because it sure as hell isn’t over on that wall.”
Almost immediately, he found a file labeled Northwest Extension. He pulled it out, peered into it for several minutes and then shook it in Zoe’s face.
“This is what I needed all along,” he said. “If I’d had this, I wouldn’t have gotten my ass fired, and Marty Ventura would be in jail.”
“But that’s not why we’re here,” Zoe said. “This is not about what happened to you. It’s about keeping Noodles and company from poisoning half of Randolph County.”
The gleam faded from Fogarty’s eyes. It was true. His bridge back to the Jersey Progress had long since been burned, his credibility for anything involving Marty Ventura ruined. There was no going back.
He slid that file back into the drawer and kept looking. And looking. It was nearly nine before Fogarty happened to pull out a file labeled Icebreakers.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered, leafing through a stack of cancelled checks. Then one leaped out at him. It was payable to Clinton Apperson of Jefferson Springs, VA, for $2,000. “Holy shit,” Fogarty almost shouted. Zoe hissed at him, “Shhhh!”
Fogarty ignored her. “This is it. This is the Holy Grail,” he said, shaking the paper a bit too loudly. “We’ve got Apperson by the balls.”
He removed the copy of the check, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his wallet. “No way am I losing this,” he said.
The file was returned to the drawer. Chances are Capanis would never have the need to look for the paper copy of the Apperson check, since it was only a backup—and if he did, he most probably would just consider it misplaced.
Zoe reached an open palm out to Fogarty, who slapped it in triumph.
“Now you can put this trip down on your mileage,” she said. “Tucker told me we had to come back with something or else he wasn’t paying.”
Their small celebration was interrupted by the sound of the outside door opening and closing downstairs.
“Oh my God!” Fogarty whispered. “We’re busted. We’ve got to go out one of these windows.”
“Are you nuts?” Zoe said harshly. “We’d kill ourselves. And those are double-paned windows—how are we going to break them? With a karate chop?”
“We have no choice,” Fogarty told her, his own whisper sounding hoarse.
“No way,” Zoe said firmly.
They heard footsteps on the stairs. Fogarty’s flashlight beam went roaming in search of a weapon, and paused on the wall behind Capanis’ desk, illuminating a softball bat with the inscription, Orange Office League Champions, 1981.
“We’re going to make a run for it,” he told Zoe, clutching the bat. “Maybe we can catch them by surprise.”
By this time, the footsteps had reached the top of the staircase. Then, all was quiet.
“It’s been fun,” Zoe said, touching Fogarty’s arm.
They burst out of the door into brightness that made them blink—the hallway light had been turned on.
Three men stood nearby, eyes wide with surprise, effectively blocking any path to the stairs.
Fogarty waved the bat at them with a two-handed grip, praying against all hope that none of the men would reach down and pull out a pistol. But they just stood there.
“Cleaning crew,” one of them said finally, spreading his arms with his palms up. “We’re early tonight.”
“Jesus!” Fogarty said, lowering the bat. “I thought you were burglars.”
As he turned toward Capanis’ door to return his weapon to its prior ceremonial state, he said, “The room’s all yours. We were just leaving.”
All the way to the Jersey Turnpike, Fogarty felt as he once did when smoking pot and driving—paranoid. From his hyper-sensitive perspective, every car that fell in behind them could either be an unmarked police vehicle or some of Noudi’s soldiers.
“Can you make out that car?” he kept asking Zoe. “It’s been back there a long time.”
Finally they reached the Jersey Turnpike toll booth, and Fogarty allowed himself a deep breath of relief.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BATTLE PLANS
Fogarty and Zoe drove through the night and rolled into Jefferson Spr
ings about four, but Fogarty couldn’t go to sleep. The copy of the check written by George Capanis to Clinton Apperson burned in his wallet as though radioactive.
His adrenalin was still buzzing from their hasty retreat from the Noudi Construction offices, and he yearned for the time when he could have poured his nervous energy into an article for the next day’s paper. But it was Saturday, and the next weekly Echo wouldn’t appear until Wednesday. So he lay on the cot in his penthouse and wrote stories in his head until nine, which he considered a civilized hour at which to call Daniel at home.
A recorded message in someone else’s voice told him the publisher was out of town until Monday.
He replaced the phone in its cradle and considered driving to Rev. Dixon’s church for a post-service discussion, but the uncertainty of what to say stopped him. As he looked at the copied check in the light of day, some of his excitement ebbed—or else sleep deprivation was just catching up with him. He was tired and drained. Sometimes this profession could get the best of you, he thought.
Obviously, this piece of paper connected Apperson with Noudi Construction, which was damning enough. Even though Noudi wasn’t the name on the check, Capanis was Carmine Noodles’ closest associate. And the slick emissaries from Thaxton-Klein who had pitched the landfill to Randolph County’s citizens were safely removed from a company that sheltered the likes of Carmen’s thuggish son Bingo.
Or, maybe not so far removed.
What was expected of Apperson in return for this check? It wasn’t a lot of money, given the profits raked in by Noudi, but it would have been enough to turn Apperson in whatever direction they chose.
Fogarty fished a carton of milk out of his miniature refrigerator and splashed it over a bowl of cornflakes. But he was moving on auto-pilot as his mind continued to turn circles, and he barely tasted the cereal.
Of course, the fact that Capanis handed—or sent—that check didn’t necessarily prove anything. The copy that Fogarty pilfered gave no indication of whether or not the check had been cashed. If he were Apperson, Fogarty thought, he would feign indignation and say, “What an outrage! Do you believe them thinking I could be bought that way? I threw it in the trash.”
The Kudzu Kid Page 24