Worthy Of This Great City

by Mike Miller

  She gave me a further shrewd look and either believed me or not, I have no idea.

  Next I was virtually ambushed by Mimi Norton; she marched into my building as I was finally heading home, a righteous gold bar in a camel coat, studded leather boots, and a glittery designer bag. Standing formidable in the middle of the airlock, blocking me by force of character. I went debonair and asked if she’d like to go across the street for coffee but she glared that offer into oblivion, too full of indignation to leave room for refreshment.

  “I have nothing to do with mobsters, Mr. Manos.”

  I expressed surprise. “I believe you!”

  “That’s not what you’ve been claiming. You have been stating in print that I’m mixed up with the mob, which is legal libel. You listen to me.” And she came towards me in a decidedly unladylike fashion. “I have certainly made errors in judgment, and maybe was led astray and handed the wrong idea about how these things work. But the fact is I help people when no one else does. If I make money too that’s my private business.”

  A woman pushed through from the lobby, giving us a curious stare in passing; a slim, well-toned professional in a trench coat carrying a soft leather briefcase that matched her beautifully cut chestnut hair. Mimi used that breathing space to readjust her costume and perhaps recover from her initial explosion. As a matter of fact, she looked better, comfortable. Much of the terror was gone; she was on familiar ground now, fighting in the open. “And I do help people, not just in hospitals but in the projects and in houses that are practically falling down on their heads, seeing that they get treated like human beings. So I don’t need some holier-than-thou intimating that I’m conspiring with criminals.”

  “I think you’re the victim of a misapprehension. I never intended to imply that you knew or were in any way connected to Mr. Manetti. On the contrary, I’ve attempted to make clear that there’s only a coincidental connection between the city corruption scandal in which you’re possibly involved and a separate pending blackmail scandal involving the Columbus proposal and Mr. Manetti.”

  Stepping back, she scrutinized me from out of the protection of her outrage, reminding me of a suspicious turtle; I could see her anger diminishing like the daylight still lingering there on the horizon. After a moment she gave a decisive nod and simply decamped.

  And even Crystal manifested at MacIlhenny’s one evening, incidentally a place she liked to hang out despite the addicts and intellectuals. Go figure. She came in dressed down in jeans and minor makeup, dragging in this fresh-faced, hulking dude and sitting cozy at the end of the bar. “A real attorney,” she said.

  He engulfed my hand in a careless giant’s grip. “I hear you wanted to be a lawyer yourself.”

  “I learned better.”

  “Ha!” He gulped his beer and gave me a professional once-over. “So what’s the real story on Askew, anyway? You must have some idea.”

  I just shrugged, tired and troubled. They seemed tolerably content but I judged them both too superficial to tolerate each other for long. Soon enough he’ll stop being manageable and she’ll get anxious because underneath it all she’s empty. Later he’ll try to remember her but not be able to recall anyone in particular so he’ll make something up.

  She looked up at me and asked about the story, so of course I expanded on it and on my future plans, but she listened with a distracted version of her usual flattering attention so I could tell she wasn’t that impressed, and anyway I was still insulted by her lack of faith.

  The public was likewise treated to a succession of necessary encounters, explanations to the city. One such obviously from Tim Baylor, firmly facing the cameras lurking outside his recently ravished offices to explicitly refute every scurrilous allegation and welcome a full investigation. Yes, he certainly handled any number of lucrative legal matters on behalf of the city and yes, he also encouraged potential business associates to contribute as generously as possible to certain political action committees supporting the aims of the incumbent. So what? Moreover, he’d heard truly despicable rumors concerning a wonderful charitable organization, PhillyCares, simply due to his involvement. That concern must under no circumstances become collateral damage, a victim of confusion. He would not permit innocent people already facing tough circumstances to be further harmed by media or political opportunism.

  He seemed as blandly self-assured as usual, not that I expected less, standing there broad-shouldered and stalwart in front of the double glass doors to his personal suite, the gold etching partially visible behind him. “Yes, I firmly believe, and I know that others targeted by this particular investigation believe, that there are strong indications of political shenanigans, that there are political factors behind these allegations involving Harrisburg and even Washington. And we will not rest until we make clear to this community exactly what’s really going on here. We will, quite simply, prevail. We will refuse to let this happen.”

  So nothing but the usual unimaginative corruption, the kind you’ve forgotten next month.

  Meanwhile Ruth punctiliously fulfilled her own public responsibilities, stifling real strain and bewilderment, sheltering behind the empty rituals of traditional bravery. I called her as a duty, although to be honest I just wanted to talk about him.

  “Dear Con.” That distinctive, vibrant voice hungrily consuming my concern, sliding right back into our false confidentially. “Everything is so horrible.” And I mumbled a meaningless response but she was determined to continue right over me, overriding her own discretion with sheer speed. “No, you don’t understand. Right before he left I was literally screaming at him. The last words we ever had.”

  “Screaming?”

  “Because he was insisting again about PhillyCares and Mealy, that I separate myself immediately, all that crap, and he just would not let it go. And I told him it was exactly the excuse the station needed, dragging them into that, and I wasn’t going to cut my own throat.” She paused there and I waited her out. “You know what I’ve been going through, the deceit and hidden agendas and all the corporate shit. They would have thrown me out like a piece of garbage. They probably will now anyway.” With a painful throat, suppressed tears starting to hurt.

  “Well, I’m sure he realized that?” I didn’t really know what to say.

  “Not enough. You know how I can never admit failure. I never really let him see how bad it’s been.” And then I suppose the strain overwhelmed her because she apologized crying and hung up.

  “He must have been worried out of his mind,” I said to no one. And it was so simply, terribly sad. Thom imprisoned himself in his own ideal of romantic love, and Ruth expanded under his effusive adoration even more than she did from my own stupidly flattering attentions. His idealization whetted rather than satisfied her starved soul.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Finally we were treated to the full Manetti-Columbus revelation, including Ruth’s own accidental role, making her look a fool. This all proved a satisfying comedic interlude, the innumerable fraud, conspiracy, and extortion charges coming down against the various players. The pay-to-play scandal fell below the fold not merely because of the Landing and the coincidence of Thom’s involvement but because the whole Columbus affair was so unbelievably fucking stupid, a veritable testament to mind-boggling idiocy, in fact too stupid for a sane person to imagine which is why no one had. In a perfectly straightforward, preposterously optimistic scheme Manetti outright demanded a flat million from the potential Columbus developers as a prerequisite to facilitating passage of the necessary approvals, guaranteeing results. I simply he figured Columbus had the deepest pockets.

  Megan literally sputtered in disbelief: “That’s it? That was their whole plan?” She made me laugh, and she swiveled to look at me like I was responsible.

  “The whole world runs on stupidity,” I explained, but the truth is I was pretty shocked myself. I always am, but I’m not surprised at the same time. Maybe it’s common, but how can any rational person grasp the
amazing depth of ignorance loose in the world at any one time? It turned out the Columbus developers themselves had tipped off the feds because of course they had, why wouldn’t they? It made for a universally depressing situation.

  Even today I don’t know exactly what Manetti had on PhillyCares, but that organization, when examined under the spotlight of the Baylor investigation, proved to be a hotbed of tax evasion and ghost employees, all entirely Mimi Norton’s doing. No wonder she was reluctant to let Ruth drag her further into the limelight. No wonder she risked it, in the end. So Baylor was right, PhillyCares was collateral damage.

  And then people started intimating that Thom Askew was murdered because that was the obvious conclusion unless you were naïve or protecting your own interests.

  So Margery promptly stepped forward to answer the public clamor for justice, her authoritative voice confronting the issue in heartfelt, resonant syllables

  “I want to address this publicly.” She’d just emerged from an emergency meeting of the Commerce Committee and was staring, I thought, directly at me, although admittedly there were only a few of us present. She stood unflinching as ever, demanding our respect, both hands holding a huge purse against her black pencil skirt.

  “Suspicion is not unreasonable given the circumstances.”

  That evoked an interested murmur and a satisfactory flurry of questions, all welcomed with a determined nod. Isn’t it wonderful how absolute transparency absolves you of responsibility? We could tell it was going to turn out exactly the way everyone wanted, plus now we were allowed to discuss it.

  “Thom Askew fought for reform; he fought for an ethics bill that addresses the very abuses our papers are full of today. Through no fault of his own he was caught up in the investigation into corruption in City Hall. He was key to the Penn’s Landing decision and incidentally connected to the criminal machinations surrounding the Columbus project. It’s imperative that the current uncertainty be addressed.”

  I’d forgotten about the ethics bill, but it was irrelevant anyway now she was utilizing her God-given right to throw reason overboard whenever it suited. Can’t let facts impede the great design. I mean, what do proof or reasons have to do with her kind of visceral truth? “My own opinion? I think there’s more to this story. That’s what my experience tells me, but I don’t yet know any more than any of you. I am not rushing to judgment nor should anyone else.”

  I pushed after her down the corridor to cut off her retreat and tried to shove myself in front of her but she kept moving, a determined general, so I had to yell at her from the side. “What is the matter with you?” My voice was squeaking, I was so furious. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  I suppose I looked borderline insane, frenzied hair and feral snarl. Margery stopped then and stared down at me with a kind of exasperation, gathering her doctrine. “I’m not about to permit this matter to slide under the rug. I am not that person.” All lit up inside, her spiritual self tremendously, even sexually excited over this new hold on the future. “And you can stop glaring at me. And please spare me another of your endless condescending explanations. I’m in no mood for more of your self-serving shit.”

  So I backed up and then turned aside from that broad, burnished face carved in absolute conviction. I’ve never patronized her: if I offended it was out of ignorance. I know myself what it’s like to be invisible or else humored, the deadliest insult of all, so I suppose it’s inevitable I return the favor when I can, but it won’t happen again with Margery now I realize how resentful she is. I started to retreat but she came behind me to address the back of my head: “I’ve talked to the witnesses, the ones who saw the other man. Have you? No, because you know everything already, except how things work in this world. You have no clue about what really goes on.”

  Sure. In her alternate reality.

  The following week she busied herself conferring intently with assorted peers, the goal being the belated passage of the aforementioned ethics bill in tribute to Thom. Johnny Spivak joined in, and Harry Ciccarelli made the appropriate executive noises. June Dupre likewise automatically threw in her support along with a little crude opportunism. “I know I speak for all of us in expressing my deep personal grief.” In fact she looked mildly stunned but resolute and oddly luminous. “Today I acknowledge a personal obligation to carry on the legacy of Councilman Askew, his generosity of spirit and his belief in the future of our city.”

  So she was looking to usurp the mantle. Good luck to her, because she makes a poor wannabe idol. Anyway now we have the Ethics Board and various other safeguards to prevent any such scandal recurring so in that sense we’ve finally entered a new political era.

  David’s performance was muted compared to his colleagues’, more a solemn acquiescence to an obvious city imperative. But he stepped up to that responsibility oh so eagerly, giddy like all of them from the sense of fresh opportunity brightening City Hall, not a fading don after all but a man expanding his personal power. I knew I wasn’t imagining it then, and now you see I was right.

  “We all need to be patient.” This was up in the hallway outside Council, David pausing beside a smallish statue of some minor foreign patriot. Unusually resolute, as was due the urgent situation, and as always emanating that measured solidity. “First, I myself promise that the people of this city will achieve the honest administration they deserve; I am making this promise. Regarding the heartbreaking loss of my friend and colleague, of course we all understand that the circumstances require clarification, and I’m confident our various law enforcement agencies will successfully unearth the complete truth.

  In retrospect I’m amazed how completely blind I was to David’s enormous ambition. He literally couldn’t resist, that’s all it was, not with the incumbent badly damaged by innuendo. So there he was shifting over into an entirely different psychic landscape, marching towards oblivion with his customary grave aplomb.

  One way or another the barbarians always win, don’t they? Futile to reiterate the results of the thorough police investigation with the feds right at their shoulder, already completed for God’s sake with nothing suspicious discovered, the kid in the car not connected to anybody, no student loans magically disappearing, no credible evidence of anything else. Only nobody’s fool enough to trust official information these days. Why bother to point out how Thom had nothing on Baylor or Manetti or even Mealy, how his death served nobody, that there wasn’t a single coherent motive and the conspiracy shit was the result of dim-witted self-indulgence coupled with that new refusal to admit that facts can even exist. Post-truth truth is a public prerogative, the ignorant rabble is in control and they know it, and what they wanted, what Philadelphia wanted was a great municipal martyr, a city saint, a fucking people’s hero.

  I understood all this but I tried anyway, although the suspicions were already so certain, entrenched in all the media. The most popular had someone with Thom to push him into the path of the car; there were even witnesses who saw the two men together that night. Several times I was accused of being part of the cover-up, identified with evil as personified by Manetti or Baylor or the mayor, or that anonymous enemy of everything that benefits ordinary people, or the dark matter warping the cosmos.

  But then, Thom himself deliberately lied to us, flattered us mercilessly in his own interest, unfairly appropriated every glittering ideal to reflect his own ambitions. It was utterly fucking irresponsible, and now we’ve lost our lodestone, we have no one to perform for or impress. I don’t say it’s necessarily wrong to represent wonderful ideals, only now we’re left with these lovely imposed imperatives we can never achieve, splendid self-images we can never equal, so instead we cherish the hidden enemies that keep us brave failures.

  We caught Mealy posturing along a downtown side street one morning, surrounded by the requisite grim phalanx of attorneys and flunkies but supported by a distant light of redemption beckoning from beyond this undeserved ordeal. Automatically smoothing his mane for the cameras,
smiling but for once not too broadly because understandably furious at these outrageous deliberate distortions. The wife, essentially plastic in a neighborhood brunette way, hung onto his elbow and precisely mirrored his expressions, staring into his face devotedly while dutifully aping outrage or determination.

  Manetti made a far better impression traversing a similar back street, wifeless, ordinary, and businesslike, saluting us without rancor if without much interest. Why not? He’d be back soon enough; no one gets too stressed over non-violent mob activity these days. He stopped just long enough to deliver a final statement to the city. “In so far as any rumors going around that I had a hand in the death of Councilman Askew, let me say this is bullshit. For me, this was an upstanding gentleman and I personally never had any argument with him.”

  The Columbus developers exited the stage as if eagerly awaiting their cue, while the backers virtually vanished in place. As for a Center City casino, despite Margery’s dire prediction that final license was awarded to the sports complex area in South Philly, pretty much where it was first meant to go some eons ago. And that actually makes sense, doesn’t it? As for the Landing, there’s been some talk about a walkway under the highway but I don’t see how that’s much of an improvement since you can already walk over it.

  And Ruth, that favorite of immoral providence, floated above these tumultuous currents, always at her best in times of chaos, mysteriously immaculate and for an extended sympathetic interregnum utterly untouchable. At PHA the flowers and tweets and email condolences from caring or dutiful souls blessed her office and spread out over the general premises until they were carted off to some hospital. Meanwhile Ruth moved with the requisite quiet dignity around the cubicles and down the bland corridors, past the half-opened doors, sometimes distracted but always essentially competent, always a professional.

  Stanley faced her full on one early morning to deliver the required compassion. “You should take a break, go take some time for yourself. We would have no problem under the circumstances.” It was just short of an order. Only she hadn’t really wanted even her legal bereavement leave, there was just no real choice. “It’s like being made to feel like a fraud because you don’t grieve the right way. Fuck them.” You had to remember that she’d only just lost her father as well, that her earth was moving.