by Parnell Hall
But where the hell were the offices? There was a desk outside, but there was nobody at it to ask. But there were notices tacked to the wall behind it. I stepped behind and read them. One was a list of the various branches the assembly had jurisdiction over. Another was a list of all the assemblymen with the room numbers of their offices. At the bottom of the list it said, “All room numbers, except those marked (C) (for capitol), are in the Legislative Office Building.”
I whipped out my map. I was in the State Capitol, building number one. The State Legislative Building, building number four, was a long black rectangle directly across the street from it. Great. If I could ever find the street.
I went back down to the first floor and there over a doorway, as if it had been put there just for me, was a sign reading, TO LEGISLATIVE OFFICE BUILDING. I went through the door, down a hallway, down some stairs, and found myself in a long, mineshaft-like tunnel that seemed as if it might go on forever. It didn’t, it finally surfaced inside another building.
It was too much for me. I mean, I’d been in town for a couple of hours, and aside from some black squares and rectangles on a sketch map, I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was.
I was on ground level and there was a door. I pushed it open and walked outside.
Wow. Fresh air. Sunlight. What a bizarre concept.
Before me was a spacious lawn. Around it were buildings reflecting a clash of the old and the new. I admit I know nothing about architecture, but one was a modern office building, and one was a massive stone affair with peaked towers on its center and sides.
It was quite a sight. I wondered if the politicians had ever seen it. Or if they just drove into the garage in the morning, went about their business, and drove out again. By now I’d begun to think of New York State politicians as mole-men, strange furtive creatures who never saw the light of day.
I looked back at the building I’d just come out of. A sign over the door said, ALFRED E. SMITH BUILDING. Damn. I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere in the underground. I looked at my map. Let’s see, Alfred E. Smith was building number three. The building over there said, STATE EDUCATION BUILDING. That gave me the orientation. So the modern building was building number four, the State Legislative Building. Which made the old building with the pointy towers building number one. The State Capitol.
While I was standing there, a woman parked her car, got out, looked around and came up to me.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know where the State Capitol is?”
I smiled. Incredible. What with me being a stranger in these parts, and knowing so little about government, and having no idea what was really going on, it was funny someone should happen to ask me the one question to which I knew the answer.
“Yeah,” I said, pointing, “It’s the building right there.”
She looked, said, “Oh?”
“Yeah, me too,” I said. “I guess I was expecting a dome.”
She smiled, thanked me and walked off.
I checked the map again, crossed the street, and went into the Legislative Office Building.
It was a huge long building. With a huge long lobby. With elevator banks at either end. I was on the street level, but there was of course a lower level, the underground level for the mole-men. The middle of the lobby was open, so I could look down on the lower level, where there were other banks of elevators and corridors leading off in various directions.
So what the hell did I do? Take the elevator up and go through the offices one by one—”Excuse me, sir, do you happen to own a check hat?” Or did I pick an entrance, any entrance, and wait to see who went in and out? I mean, a check hat was a long shot to begin with, but to pick one out of possibly ten entrances, made the odds somewhat like those of winning the lottery.
I was beginning to feel rather stupid. I was also beginning to feel hungry. I went down to the lower level and sure enough found a tunnel marked TO NORTH CORRIDOR. I made my way along it and back to a cafeteria I’d spotted on the way in. I went in and had lunch, and discovered to my satisfaction that politicians don’t eat any better than anybody else.
By the time I finished it was nearly two, so I caught my bearings again, and mole-manned my way back to the capitol.
Where I had another choice. Assemblyman or senator? Two separate entrances on two sides of the building, can’t watch both.
I picked the Assembly. I figured there were one hundred and fifty assemblymen and only sixty senators, so that made the odds five to two.
I took up my position right outside the main entrance to watch the assemblymen file in. Apparently these sessions didn’t start on the dot, because nobody was there at two o’clock. The first assemblymen arrived around two-ten.
And reminded me once again I’m a total schmuck.
They were wearing suits and ties. But not coats and hats. They didn’t wear their coats and hats into the assembly room, take ’em off and hang ’em over the backs of the chairs. They hung ’em somewhere else. And if they did, it was a sure thing the senators did too.
I thought about asking. “Excuse me, where do the assemblymen hang their coats?” And then finding it somehow. And getting in and searching through it for a check hat. Going to jail for obstruction of justice almost seemed preferable.
I decided to wash it out. Come back at the end of the session, try to spot them leaving. I mean if I just knew where the coatroom was I could stake it out, and—
Then it hit me. Schmuck. You’re in the city of the mole men. No one needs coats. They leave their coats in their offices and walk around underground all day.
That decided it. All right, the hell with Check-hat. It was time for Futile-Plan-B. Buy a map somewhere and check out the addresses of the local POPs.
I went down to the first floor and found the tunnel back to the North Concourse. I was getting pretty good at it by now. I even found what I thought was the right elevator door, if I remembered the vendor opposite it correctly.
Let’s see, I went one stop, so I was on the top level. That’s level 3C. C, that’s right. Part of my formula. Lucky 7, Blue wa wa ooooo.
I found my car. I found the parking ticket that the machine had been so reluctant to give me. I paid my parking toll, and followed the arrows around and into the light of day.
All right. Now to find a store and buy a street map.
I pulled up to a light and stopped. I looked around. I discovered I was in the same place where I’d come up for air before. There’s the Capitol, there’s the State Education Building, there’s Alfred E. Smith. That’s Washington Street, which will be on my map, and—
I gawked.
I blinked.
You could have knocked me down with a feather.
The license plate on the car in front of me was POP-422.
26.
I’M NOT BIG ON coincidence. And I’m usually not long on luck. But this had to be one or the other, if not both.
I grabbed for the computer printout. I’d circled the Albany POPs. That sounds like a symphony orchestra, doesn’t it? Yes, POP-422. Kevin Drexel. Hello, POP.
Kevin Drexel, if it was indeed he, was alone. All I could tell from looking at his back was that he had short dark hair and was wearing a coat. He wore no hat. Unless it was beside him on the seat.
That thought set up a chain reaction in my head. Holy shit. Suppose it were beside him on the seat? And suppose it were check?
In the whole time I’d been thinking about POP and Check-hat, it had never occurred to me that they might be one. But I hadn’t seen Check-hat’s car at all. And I hadn’t seen the driver of POP’s car at all. But what would be more natural if Check-hat had called on her once, than that he might come back and call on her again? I’d never even thought of that.
Until now.
The light changed, and POP turned right and drove down Washington Street alongside the Capitol. I followed. We were going to have to turn again, because at the next corner Washington Avenue ended. There was a small rotary with a mo
nument in it, and a large brown and white marble building with a tall clock tower. So POP was going to have to turn left or right.
He didn’t. He pulled up around the rotary and parked by the monument. There were signs all around saying NO PARKING-TOW ZONE, but that didn’t seem to bother POP. He got out and walked toward the large marble building. Well, if he can, I can. I pulled up next to him, parked my car and got out.
I followed him into the building. The sign over the door said, CITY HALL. Inside was a big lobby with an elevator to the right and the left. POP walked over and pushed a button on the one on the left.
As far as I knew, he didn’t know me. Unless he’d caught a glimpse of me standing with the cops when he’d pulled into the motel. But he’d have had to be awful observant to have done that, what with spotting the cops and being in such a hurry to back out and get turned around again. Assuming, of course, that he was the right POP.
At any rate, I wasn’t going to take the chance of letting him get away. I walked over and got in the elevator with him.
He went up to the second floor. He walked down the hall and went into a door marked 202.
I gave him a little head start, then walked up and looked at the door. On it read, CITY CLERK, and DEPARTMENT OF LEGISLATURE.
I went inside. It was a room with a long counter. Behind it, three women clerks worked at desks. One was a black woman with a broad, open, friendly-looking face, one was an older woman with glasses and a gray hairdo that looked as if it had been glued into place, and one was a younger woman in a nicely-filled-out sweater.
POP was at the far end of the counter talking to the younger woman. He was a young pretty boy type, and he seemed to be handing her a line, or at least telling her a dirty joke, because I heard her giggle and say, “Really, Mr. Drexel,” before he grinned at her and ducked through a door into a room at the far end of the counter.
I walked up to the counter. The gray-haired woman got up from her desk. She frowned at me and said, “May I help you?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “I was hoping you could. I’d like to get some information.”
“About what?”
“About the city government.”
“What about it?”
“Well, for instance,” I said, pointing in the direction POP had gone, “what’s that room there?”
“That’s the City Council.”
“City Council. I see. And what do they do?”
She frowned. “Could you give me an idea of what you want to know?”
“I’m trying to get some insight into the workings of city government.”
“Why?”
Time to improvise. I’m not that fast on my feet, so I always figure the closest to the truth the better.
“Well, you see,” I said. “I’m a writer. I’m doing an article on the government.”
Her eyes narrowed. “The city government?”
“Yes.”
“The Albany city government?”
“Yes.”
“And the City Council in particular?”
“I would like to know about the City Council, yes.”
She was looking at me very suspiciously. I’m paranoid as hell, so when I start feeding someone a bullshit spiel such as that, I kind of expect them to be suspicious. But in this case I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.
“Are you from Albany?” she asked.
“No. I’m not.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York City.”
Her lips clamped in a firm line. “I knew it,” she snapped. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh yes, you are. You think I don’t know that? And you probably think you’re the first one, too. Well, let me tell you, there’ve been others before you, and they didn’t get a damn thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Don’t play dumb with me. You New York City reporters, you’re all alike. You think ’cause New York City’s got a parking violations scandal, Albany’s gotta have one too. Well, guess what? We don’t. We have a clean city government, and I won’t have anyone printing anything any different. You want a story, you know what you’ll have to print? Lies and innuendo. You won’t get one hard fact. The others didn’t, believe me.”
“That’s not what I’m after.”
“Of course not. That’s what they all say. But just let one spiteful malcontent make the slightest insinuation, you’ll change your tune.”
Spiteful malcontent? Good lord. I was dealing with a paranoid government clerk who slept with a thesaurus.
“I’m not a reporter. I’m not interested in parking violations. I’m interested in the City Council.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I’m doing a story on the functions of local government.”
“So you say.”
I was getting nowhere. “All right, look,” I said. “You tell me there’s no corruption in the City Council—”
It was the wrong opening. Her eyes flashed. “I knew that was what you were after.”
I held up my hands. “No, no, no. Time out. False start. Flag on the play. Let’s try again. Your City Council is honest. You haven’t a bad word to say about ’em. Believe it or not, neither have I. If you’d let me ask my questions, you’d see that. So why don’t you let me ask ’em? If I ask anything you find offensive, you don’t have to answer.”
Which was the wrong thing to say again. I have a knack for it. She was more suspicious than ever.
“Then you’ll print my refusal, won’t you? ‘Declined to comment.’”
I took a breath. “I’m going to try one anyway. How many members on the City Council?”
She looked at me. “Are you kidding?”
“No. How many?”
“Fifteen.”
That was a break. With my luck, it could have been two hundred and forty. But there were only fifteen.
“And what do they do?”
“Do?”
“Yeah. What does the City Council do? You say that’s their meeting room. When they have a meeting, what do they do?”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s because you’ve mistaken me for a muckraking journalist. If you’d figure me for a second-grader on a class trip, you’d be on the right track.”
She softened somewhat. “What do you want to know?”
“The City Council. Do they vote on things? Do they pass laws?”
She blinked. “Yes, they do.”
“Such as what?”
She hesitated.
“Aside from traffic violations, which I don’t care about,” I said quickly. “What else do they do?”
“They pass city ordinances.”
“Such as?”
“Well, regarding noise pollution, sanitation, housing, traffic ...” Her eyes blinked, nearing a dangerous subject. “Zoning ordinances. Stuff like that.”
“Does it have anything to do with the State government?”
She looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Absolutely not. It’s totally separate.”
“I see.”
She looked at me. “What else did you want to know?”
I had no idea. It was a dead end as far as I was concerned. And the thing was, it had seemed so promising. I mean, Albany had seemed the right answer. And then finding POP. And finding him connected to the government. True, not the State government, but still the government.
But Jesus Christ.
Julie Steinmetz could have been blackmailing a politician. Or, even if it wasn’t blackmail, it was possible she could have gotten involved in something of enough political importance to have gotten her killed. But the way I saw it, in either case that had to mean at least a Senator or Assemblyman. But some dipshit city councilman engaged in passing local ordinances on such weighty matters as noise pollution and zoning, just didn’t add up at all. Frustrating as it might be,
I was just gonna have to chalk POP up to coincidence and wash the sucker out.
I smiled at the perplexed looking woman, said, “No, I guess that’s it,” which puzzled her all the more.
I nodded at her again and turned to go.
And in walked a man with a check hat.
27.
IF MY FRIEND, the gray-haired clerk, had been confused before, she must have been utterly baffled now. Because I suddenly remembered I had a zillion other things to ask her. I paused in the doorway just long enough to hear the clerk in the pink sweater address Check-hat as Mr. Fletcher and see him disappear into the City Council room, when I was back at the counter saying, “Excuse me.” Which is the sort of thing Peter Falk used to do in the old “Columbo” series, when he had the suspect on the run, telling him, “That’s all,” starting to go, then turning back in the doorway saying, “One more thing.” It was a marvelous technique. It always irritated the hell out of the suspect and caught him off his guard.
It sure did this woman clerk. She must have been patting herself on the back at how well she’d brushed off the nosy reporter, when there I was again with more questions than ever.
And this time I realized what I’d missed the first time around. When she’d said, “Then you’ll print my refusal,” the woman had actually been voicing her deepest dread. She didn’t want to have anything to do with me, but she was afraid not to answer.
So I asked everything. Everything I could think of. About the councilmen. And when they met. And what they did. And was it a matter of public record. And where could I look it up. And the whole shmear.
That’s not to say that I got anything. I didn’t. I was pretty sure I hadn’t learned one damn thing useful. But I’d sure learned everything. This time around I covered the whole ground.
I also tailed Check-hat when he left, which was about a half-hour later. This hadn’t been a City Council meeting of any sort. In the half-hour, aside from POP and Check-hat, one other city councilman had come in. I didn’t know why any of them were there, unless it was to check their mail, or whatever it was city councilmen do. The gray-haired clerk didn’t know either. At least she said she didn’t, and I had a feeling if she’d known she would have told me. I really had her going the second time around.