Voices Behind the Curtain

by Gordon Zuckerman

  Seeing the look of fear, Marco had immediately said, “If it’s money you need, I can lend it to you.”

  “Uncle Marco, it’s not a question of money. The business has been profitable almost from the start. When I offered to pay back my ‘hard-money’ lenders, they said they were entitled to 25 percent ownership in my business! If it were only a question of ownership, I might have agreed to their new request, but there was no way I wanted them as partners, even silent partners.”

  * * *

  THE INTIMIDATING ANTICS OF THAT PARTICULAR LENDER WERE WELL known to Marco and many of the older members of the tight-knit neighborhood. When the lender tried to take advantage of the young, inexperienced, recent college graduate, they had crossed the line of accepted street code conduct.

  It hadn’t taken the streetwise “Uncle Marco” long to understand what had happened. “Armando, why don’t you take that pretty young wife of yours on a vacation and give me a few days to see what I can do about your problem?”

  One of the more carefully kept secrets was the arrangement Marco made with Armando’s lender. By the time Armando returned, Marco was ready to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. In exchange for his putting up all the money required to pay off the lenders and operate the business, Marco had requested a 50 percent interest in the now debt-free business.

  When his friends would ask him why he was willing to use his hardearned savings to help a friend salvage his business, Marco would answer, “Garbage collection, trash removal . . . What’s the difference? They are just different forms of waste management!”

  At that time, Marco, still employed full time by the garbage company, was limited to offering his new, young partner the benefit of his experience in the business, introductions to influential people, and, on occasion, morsels of sage advice.

  Quickly, building owners and office tenants began to take notice of the new company. New orders flooded in, not just from buildings and tenants in New York City but from other northeastern cities. In a remarkably short time, Marco and Armando were serving the building maintenance needs of tenant and building owners up and down the Northeastern Corridor.

  * * *

  MARCO ARRIVED AT THE DESIGNATED RESTAURANT A FEW MINUTES early and made his way to his regular table situated in the rear of the restaurant. Sitting with his back to the wall, he was able to watch anyone who entered the restaurant. At exactly on the agreed time of arrival, an obviously excited Armando came striding through the front entrance, a long cardboard tube tucked under his arm.

  Marco hardly glanced up as the jet-black curly haired young man walked up to the bartender, engaged him in small talk, and then disappeared into the men’s room for the prescribed 5 minutes. If anyone had been following Armando or paying any unusual interest in his arrival, Marco, the bartender, and the men staked out across the street would have had an opportunity to take notice and push the button, activating the yellow warning light.

  Watching his young partner emerge from the men’s room, Marco was reminded of how much he disliked asking his friends to observe his extraordinary security precautions. He knew, under normal circumstances, as only someone weaned on the streets of New York knew, you couldn’t refuse to give the “men on the arm” their customary take and hope to survive. Although, the “Dons” who were responsible for maintaining peace among the “connected family businesses” were aware and supportive of Marco’s plan to clean up and sell the borough’s family-owned garbage business he had been asked to run, he never understood how far their protection reached.

  Armando was speaking as he sat down at Marco’s table. “Marco, I have something you need to see.” Reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a thick packet of papers and set them on the table. They measured 4-by-6 inches and were embossed with a corporate logo, the name of the company, the name of the executive, and his title. Each of the executive memos was covered with difficult-to-decipher handwriting, some on both sides. Some of the notes had been folded, others crumpled. On each, the name of the caller and the date of the call had been carefully written.

  After surveying some of the notes Armando had placed before him, Marco shrugged. “I don’t understand. To me, these notes look like so much discarded trash.”

  Armando smiled. “Do you remember when I told you members of our maintenance crews are in the habit of extracting the discarded executive notes? My guys are always looking for anything they might regard interesting or unusual. During their midnight lunch breaks, for their entertainment, they take turns reading their interpretation of what they regard as some of the more interesting notes. Once read, they are thrown into the incinerator and forgotten.

  “Some time ago, they started to collect any of the notes that referred to something called ‘Manuel’s Club.’ Unable to cipher what they were suggesting, they brought the notes to me asking for an interpretation.”

  “Armando, just what do you think all this trash is telling you?”

  Flashing his most mischievous smile, Armando said, “Watch what happens next.” After he pulled out the tightly wound roll of butcher paper from the long cardboard tube, he spread it over the unobstructed white linen tablecloth covering the adjacent table. First, he started to explain the grid he had drawn with a blue ink pen. Pointing to the names written across the top of the chart, Armando explained, “Each is the name of the person who received a call. The names written down the left side of the chart are the people who initiated the call. Where the vertical column intersects with the horizontal row, I took the liberty of arranging the notes in chronological order and adding my interpretation of what they were discussing.”

  “I still don’t get it,” said Marco. “What is it I’m not seeing?”

  “Well, first of all, you must realize these are very powerful executives. Once you analyze all these different conversations, you start to see a lot of crossover and get a picture of what they’re doing. They’re all part of something called Manuel’s Club, and the big topic of conversation is the secret meeting they recently had in Mexico and the Mexican political war chest they helped fund. According to my analysis of the separate pieces of information, I concluded they are hoping to use the funds to finance some kind of a program that will cause the American government to accelerate the rearming of the American military and restore military contracting.”

  With the benefit of Armando’s explanation, Marco leafed through the notes a second time. Finally, he said, “Now, I guess I am beginning to understand. It would appear these notes are describing some kind of multicorporate plan to compromise the authority of the United States government for their own selfish benefit. Do you think anybody but the two of us understands what we have discovered?

  “Armando, even if you’re only half right, I think we need to call my good friend, Don Cerreta. Don works in the federal prosecutor’s office. You have heard me talk of him. He was the man who helped his friends expose some very interesting ‘Oil Club’ fraudulent business practices. If anybody will understand the implications of your information, it will be Don. He’ll know what we should do.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Mighty Warrior

  MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, APRIL 1948

  Life in the Stone household was becoming complicated. For the first time, considerations of health were preventing Mike’s wife, Cecelia Chang Stone, from playing an active role in an OSS or Sentinel operation. The stress of the 109-day kidnapping, a 2-month tour of China, Indonesia, and Malaysia, a rare strain of amoebic dysentery, and the exertion required to prevent the Dutch recolonization of Indonesia had taken its toll. There was nothing physically wrong with her, but her nervous system could only tolerate a limited amount of pressure.

  Ever since Mike began to suspect the Sentinels may become involved in opposing another effort to abuse the American system of free enterprise, he knew he needed to help his “Mighty Warrior from Hong Kong” to find a less demanding but meaningful role that would keep her challenged.

  Mike was pleas
ed when Cecelia enthusiastically approved of his suggestion they spend a week in Carmel, California. The last time they had made this trip together was in 1943. He remembered how concerned he had been over all her unexplained absences in San Francisco and all the late-night phone calls.

  One night when they were walking along the beach, she had explained her previous work with the federal government’s “Office of Special Services,” OSS. She had played an instrumental role in assisting wealthy families remove their wealth in advance of the invasion by the Japanese. Her sharing what must have been highly confidential information with him had broken the growing tension and had helped him to understand how much she cared for him.

  * * *

  THE TOP WAS DOWN ON THE RENTED RED FORD CONVERTIBLE AS THEY sped south along Highway 101 toward Carmel. The brilliant sun illuminated the lush countryside. The orderly orchards, the long parallel rows of crops that appeared to meet in the distance, the rich, warm, recently tilled soil, the tall groves of eucalyptus trees, and the old red farm buildings, together, created a memorable scene.

  It was late in the afternoon when they arrived in Carmel. Mike drove straight down to the foot of Ocean Avenue, parked the car, and beckoned for Cecelia to follow him toward the beach. Like Mike, she slipped off her shoes and hurried after him. Feeling the warmth of the sand on the bottoms of their feet and between their toes, they walked along the water, watching the sun slowly disappear like a big red ball falling into the Pacific Ocean.

  When Mike noticed Cecelia was no longer following close behind him, he turned to look for her. She was wandering aimlessly, like someone lost in thought. Changing direction, he caught up to her, put his arms around her, engaging her in a warm, protective hug. He could feel her tiny body beginning to tremble, and the tears of her silent crying ran down his cheek. Concerned, he caressed her tenderly, and in the gathering darkness, he gently lowered her down on the still-warm sand. Content to sit quietly, holding her in his arms, he was experiencing a very unusual moment of intimacy. He patiently waited for her to explain.

  * * *

  THE COOL EVENING FOG WAS BEGINNING TO ROLL IN OFF THE OCEAN. Finally, he dropped his arms and pulled back from Cecelia before he said, “Wait here. Take my coat while I gather some driftwood and make a fire before I retrieve the blanket and the bottle of wine we left in the car.”

  The fire Mike built gave off waves of heat. The wine was having its soothing effect. Wrapped in a foglike shroud of quiet, totally separated from the rest of the world with its worries and pressures, they were enjoying the warmth and comfort of each other and the fire.

  When the fire began to wane, Mike unwrapped himself from Cecelia. With all possible haste, he began to gather all of the driftwood he was able to spot in the failing light.

  He was stacking his last load of wood within easy reach of where they would be sitting when Cecelia said, “I think I’m ready to discuss what’s bothering me.”

  She waited for Mike to position himself back under the blanket, refill his glass, and then said, “If for one minute you expect me to stand aside and watch the rest of you work on the industrial-military complex problem, you don’t know me as well as I thought. Knowing you and loving you as I do, it’s important you understand I need to have my own project . . . call it my own kind of music to dance to, even if it’s only a little dance!

  “This will be the first time in more than 15 years when we have not been working together. I’m going to need your help, your support, and your love. Just knowing you understand will provide me with the confidence I’ll need.”

  Having said what she wanted to say, she hugged him ever tighter, snuggled deeper under the heavy blanket, and whispered, “I am beginning to believe there other issues that require our undivided attention!”

  * * *

  SITTING IN THE WARM SUN ON THE OPEN PATIO OF THE CYPRESS INN, Mike and Cecelia were savoring the last of their late breakfast and discussing what they would enjoy doing most on their first full day of their vacation.

  “I have an idea,” Mike said. “I know how much you appreciate good sculpture. Gordon Newell, a longtime friend of my family, has a studio on the wharf in Cannery Row. He does very interesting work and has sold his sculpture to private collectors and museums all around the world. His studio is as fascinating as his work. It is located in part of an old, dilapidated sardine factory he bought and renovated without disturbing the outer character of the building. Who knows, maybe we’ll find one of his smaller sculptures that will nicely fit into that lit, indented space in our front hall wall.”

  * * *

  IT WAS EARLY THAT SAME AFTERNOON WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE old, drab warehouse that housed Gordon’s sculpture studio. Their knocking on the frame of the open door was drowned out by the loud, repetitive clink of a hammer hitting a chisel hitting a block of marble. Unsure whether to enter unannounced or wait for the racket to stop, Mike said, “Knowing Gordon, he could be at it for hours. Let’s just walk in and let him know he has company.”

  Once their eyes adjusted to the dimness of the cavernous studio, they saw Gordon standing before a giant slab of upright marble with his back to them. For several moments they watched the absorbed artist as he worked, chip by chip, on the piece of marble that must have been 10 feet high, 6 feet wide, and 2 feet thick. With the removal of each little chip, the big sculpture was beginning to resemble an enlarged replication of the small maquette sitting on the adjacent workbench. Formed out of wax, the model was not more than 15 inches tall.

  * * *

  GORDON WAS STARTLED WHEN HE TURNED TO REACH FOR A DIFFERENT sharpened chisel when he realized he had an audience. “What do we have here? Mike, who is this lovely creature? Have you brought me the female model I have been waiting all these years to sculpt?”

  “Gordon, this woman is my wife. She is the infamous Cecelia Chang you’ve heard me talk so much about.”

  Before either Gordon or Mike could say another word, Cecelia had moved over to where she could see both the maquette and emerging shape of the sculpture. Fascinated by what she was seeing, she turned to Gordon and asked, “Would you mind explaining what you are hoping to accomplish?”

  Pleased by her attention, her interest in his work, and her excellent question, the man behind the tools began to explain. “I have a longtime collector of some of my work who asked me to spend enough time with him to enable me to develop a sense of who he really might be. After I had time to think about what I observed, he suggested that I develop an idea for a sculpture that represents what I thought I had observed.”

  * * *

  SHIFTING HER GAZE BETWEEN THE MAQUETTE AND THE MASSIVE block of granite, she asked, “I don’t get it. What is there about such a large piece of granite with a variety of different grooves, or negative space, running from top to bottom that represents what you have noticed about your client?”

  Fascinated by Cecelia’s question, the admiring sculptor launched into small talk with Cecelia, and before Mike could object, Gordon took her by the arm and started to show her around his studio. When they paused to inspect each individual sculpture, the artist would explain what he was attempting to accomplish. How his sculpture reflected what he was attempting to portray. Next, he would describe some of the problems he had encountered along the way.

  * * *

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, MIKE QUIETLY FOLLOWED THEM AS THEY TOURED the studio, slowly moving from piece to piece as Gordon explained the story behind each one.

  Wholly consumed with Cecelia, listening to her questions and observing her reaction to his answers, Gordon not only showed her the work he had on display in his primary studio but insisted they go into the adjoining building where he stored his unfinished pieces.

  When the casual tour ended, Gordon picked up one of the smaller sculptures, one that Cecelia had seemed particularly interested in, and handed it to her. Then he said, “Please accept this small token of our new friendship.”

  Unsure of what she should do with the offered gift, Cecelia
turned to Mike in a silent plea for help. Without hesitating, he walked over to her, lifted the heavy sculpture out of her hands, and said, “I’ll put it in the car before he changes his mind.”

  When Mike returned, the sculpture safely stowed in the trunk of the convertible, Cecelia and Gordon were locked into what appeared to be a serious conversation. He approached and put a hand on each of their shoulders and asked, “All right, you two, what kind of trouble are you planning?”

  “Mike!” Cecelia exclaimed. “Gordon just invited us to join him now for a few drinks with his good friend John Steinbeck over at the Bear Flag. You have to be familiar with John Steinbeck; he wrote Grapes of Wrath and Cannery Row! Can you imagine how interesting it will be to meet a Pulitzer–winning author in the very same setting he described in his books? Oh, Mike, please say yes!”

  * * *

  MIKE HAD SEEN SOME PRETTY REMARKABLE PEOPLE DRINK AND TELL stories, but it was nothing like what he and Cecelia were witnessing. For the next 2 hours, sitting next to Cecelia at a sturdy oak table in the sleepy little bar, it was becoming quite clear that as long as the steady procession of cocktails continued to arrive, the two raconteurs were not to be denied. In Mike and Cecelia, they had a new audience for their old stories—and someone to pay for the drinks.

  Word of a possible “free drink” began to spread among the regulars of Cannery Row. Under the spell of the revelers, laughing generously, sharing stories of their own, Cecelia and Mike found themselves hosting a full-fledged Cannery Row party. By two o’clock in the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Stone had more than earned a place as honorary drinking members of the local clan.

  * * *

  LATER THE NEXT MORNING, THE BRIGHT SUN SHINING AGAINST HIS eyelids awakened Mike. Momentarily uncertain where he was, he threw off the covers, climbed out of bed, and looked around. Slowly, the events of the previous night came back to him, along with the fact that he had somehow managed to navigate their way back to their second-story room at the Cypress Inn. The clock on the wall read eleven o’clock.