.Gerald Mullens looked at the book that had been pushed across the lunchroom table. It was titled The Bernstein Way. An attractive softcover about the length of the New Testament.
“What am I supposed to what with this?” he asked.
“Read it cover to cover,” replied Bill Kitner. “Absorb its message. Be prepared to follow its precepts during your entire stay at Bernstein’s.”
“Your kidding, right?” Mullen looked up from the book into the face of his designated company mentor, and knew he wasn’t being kidded. He adjusted accordingly.
“So this explains my duties at work,” he said. Serious now. Attentive.
“Your duties. Your attitudes. Everything that animates you on the job. Even some thoughts about your demeaner during non-working hours.”
Animates me, thought Mullens? Demeaner during non-work hours? This some kind of cult? Do we sing a corporate fight song evey morning while doing callethetics?
“Look around you,” said Kitner, his face taking on an excited glow. “Look at this lunchroom.”
Mullens did as instructed. He noticed that Mitch Bernstein was also seated at a table in the far corner but he didn’t stare. The boss was just another part of the team. Separate, maybe, but equal. He already understood that element of the code.
“You’ve been around the block when it comes to financial news broadcasting,” Kitner continued. “Ever see a lunchroom this well stocked? Ever eaten better corporate lunchroom food? Ever been able to choose from three entrees a day, with all the fixings, and half-a-dozen desserts thrown in? All free?
“No,” said Mullens.
“No,” repeated his mentor. “And how about the free breakfasts? Did you get them at your last job?”
“No.”
“You can even eat dinner here if you have to. Even just want to. Did you know that?”
“Never occurred to me,” Mullens admitted.
“We’re a 24/7 outfit. You work your ten or twelve hours, do weekend stints as needed, you can get three meals and even take home snacks. Then there’s the fully paid medical and dental. Great plans. The free life insurance coverage that’s in effect as long as you’re here. The prestige that comes with being part of the best. The job security. Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
In today’s job market, Mullens knew, it was truly amazing. Provided you were willing to work like a Korean and be as manically enthusiastic as Kitner.
“Amazing,” he said aloud.
“This is a family with no loser in-laws. A government that doesn’t elect a new set of jerks every couple of years. You die and we pay for the burial. Some of our people have even asked that the company equities choir sing at their burial service. It’s all explained in The Bernstein Way. What we expect, and what you get in return. You’re lucky to be aboard.”
Mullens and Kitner chatted amicably for another half hour while they finished their lunch specials, homemade paella and roast chicken respectively. They sipped company coffee, too, which didn’t seem to affect Kitner but after only a few days on the job still had the newcomer totally wired. Several other long-term employees came by their table to welcome Mullens and tell him how lucky he was to be part of the Bernstein team.
Mullens was reminded of the love bombing and group reinforcement he’d encountered years earlier from people trying to sign him up for a pyramid scheme. Except this time around the deal really did seem to be as good advertised. If this job required him to appear, like Kitner, as outwardly devoted as a flower peddling Moonie, what the hell.
What Mullens couldn’t know was that Kitner and several of the other old timers who had dropped around to welcome him were quietly sending out their resumes. Not that they thought this corporate ship was in danger of sinking. It was simply a realistic appreciation of what was almost certainly going to happen when Mitch Bernstein left to become mayor of Philadelphia.
All his likely replacements might be as cynically competent as Bernstein believed them to be. They were all nonetheless corporate functionaires and lacked the genuine repore and respect for employees you sometimes find with founder builders. Andrew Carnegie knew every worker on his shop floor. He understood they were contributors to his own success. Mitch Bernstein had a comparable notion. His likely successor was a corporate infighter who could easily view competance as competition and largesse as drains on the bottom line.
The old timers knew it was every man for himself time. Those who could get
new positions elsewhere while Bernstein’s was still known as a place that never fired or laid off would have a big jump on those who waited to be fired or laid off.
“Welcome aboard,” said Kitner, raising his mug of Bernstein java. He had gotten a bite on one of his own resumes just a day earlier and was hoping for an interview at another company within the week.
“Great to be here,” said Mullens, wondering how long he would have to put up with this phony smile boy crappola before he had enough saved up to quit and write his novel.
The quiet lunchroom cormer table where Mitch Bernstein and Joe Connors sat was so quiet because no one else sat close enough to interrupt them, much less eavesdrop. Like the Fishbowl, it cleared out when Mitch appeared. This particular table was also the only one in the lunchroom not scanned by cameras and listening devices. A little secret known only to Bernstein, Connors, and some security people.
It was now more than forty hours since a murder had been committed just two floors above their heads. The crime scene investigators had left the building. Anyone the police still wanted to question was being questioned elsewhere. Things were back to normal, except that virtually no real work was being done because almost all Bernstein employees were busy hashing out theories and developing their own list of suspects.
There was also, of course, the annoying fact that a company dedicated to reporting things about other companies was now the focus of the most intensive local media blitz anyone could remember.
“So? Tell me the ‘interesting news’ you picked up from Detective Ryman this morning.”
It was the usual tableau when these two got together. Bernstein leaning back in
his chair making a pyramid of his hands, a bland unreadable expression on his face. Joe Connors leaning well forward as if making an offering, hands every now and then gesturing for emphasis, an anxious to please look on his own face.
“A young woman was killed last night in Powelton Village.”
“Lot of crime there. I’m going to put more foot patrols in the area.”
“She was one of our people.”
“What!” Bernstein’s bland expression was gone in an instant, replaced by the pugnacious one he wore when something he owned was threatened, or even worse, actually stolen. “Who was she? How did it happen?”
“Name was Lisa Sankerson. Kid of twenty-three. One of Myron’s composers. Worked here for just a few months but was so good at her job she was just named our employee of the month.”
“I remember the name now.”
“The word I got was that someone at the company was probably poking her. Could have been Myron. He had the inside track. We didn’t think he had the nerve to pull that shit but maybe....”
“Damn. There were times I wanted to fire that guy so bad.” Bernstein had sunk a bit into his chair. Clearly, this was a subject he didn’t want to remember much less discuss. “I don’t let my managers take advantage of my people. I hate that sort of thing, Joe. You know that.”
Joe knew that. He also knew that until a few years ago, when political correctness merged with political ambition, Mitch himself wasn’t averse to a bit of intra-office poking.
“He just had me in a place I shouldn’t have gotten into. He was bringing in so much money. But money or no money, I planned to fire the bastard before leaving here for City Hall. You know that Joe.”
First I heard about it, thought Connors. “I know, Mitch. I know,” he replied.
“Does the girl, Lisa....”
“Lisa Sankerson.”
“Does she have family in Philadelphia?”
“She went to school in Boston. I understand her parents live in Harrisburg.”
“We’ll pay to ship her body to Harrisburg. I’ll call her parents later today to offer my personal condolences. Terrible. Terrible.” Bernstein’s body shook as if feeling a sudden chill. Then it passed and he resumed a leaned back position. Calm but attentive. “Who did it?”
“Police don’t know yet. According to Ryman there were drugs found near the body. She was bludgeoned to death.”
“And no one saw anything?”
“There were no witnesses. When Ryman found out where Lisa worked, and who she worked for, he pretty much discounted the drugs. Thought they were obvious plants.”
“Any theories? Yours? Ryman’s?”
“Well, the obvious theory is that Lisa knew something about Myron’s murder that the murderer didn’t want anyone else to know. Ryman’s got some of his people talking to other composers about that. To Lisa’s friends outside the company, too. See if they might be able to shed some light.”
“Do you think that will lead anywhere?”
Connors considered the question. “Don’t know. Doubt it. Mason’s working on this, too, though. He’s got a leg up on the police. They haven’t tumbled to the Fab Four connection yet. At least, Ryman hasn’t indicated he knows.
“How about our Fab Four friends? The building’s monitors were all off during the time the killing happened so we can’t track their whereabouts that way. But you said Clay would check around with people who might alibi one or more of them.”
“Nothing there yet,” said Connors. “So far we can’t definitely rule out any of the
four based on sightings during the half-hour Myron was killed. All the killer had to do was scoot up or down a flight or two of stairs, say ‘hello’ to Myron, whack him, and come back to wherever he’d been before.”
Sensing a negative reaction to this observation, Connors added: “A lot of
resources at work here, Mitch. I don’t think we’ll have to wait too long for a resolution.”
Bernstein looked hard at his assistant through the triangular window made by his finger pyramid before picking up a cup of coffee from the lunchroom table and sipping. Joe Connors was smart. Very smart. Very loyal, too. But he was missing the critical point. It would have to be laid out for him.
“Listen to me closely, Joe.” The coffee cup was put back on the table carefully, almost ceremoniously. “I know the killer will be found eventually. But the longer this murder goes without a resolution, the dumber I look to the public, the smaller my chances of getting elected mayor. The other media will be on to our connection to this Sankerson murder in a day or so, maybe sooner, no matter how the police try to keep it quiet. And the police can’t keep anything quiet. You ought to know that by now.”
Connors felt the jab but said nothing, though his head dropped another inch or two. Bernstein continued, his voice taking on that dreaded undertone.
“Wrap it up quickly. No more than one more day. Two at the very outside. We’ve got to find the killer internally so we can put the right spin on this. No outside media can be allowed to break the story through a police leak. Our spin must be the one that’s presented to our friends at the Roundhouse, the one they release to the public, the one that makes me out to be a victim whose personal efforts helped avenge a friend’s murder. That’s the way its got to be. You see any difficulties making it happen that way?”
“No, Mitch. No difficulties.”
“Do what you have to do. Spend what you have to spend. Screw who you have to screw. Just do it.”
Mitch Bernstein took another sip of coffee. The murder part of the conversatioin was at an end. He and Joe Connors moved on to a discussion of Nasdaq’s near term prospects, and to a nasty incident involving one the company’s showpiece parrots that also required special handling.
That same morning a work crew from the Philadelphia Department of Water and Sewers shows up on Irving Street. Its responding to a complaint about a leak in one of the hundreds of miles of pipes that run under the city. Rechecking his work order, the foreman of the five-man crew points to a patch of asphalt in the street adjacent to the sidewalk directly in front of my door. There are no cars parked there just now, and the crew is able to began its work immediately after blocking off a six-by-ten-foot square of blacktop. The jackhammers commence.
What the fuck.
I jump from my chair. I’ve been sitting at the tiny table in my trinity’s basement kitchen and suddenly the walls are shaking. I know from his study of local history that although Philadelphia isn’t usually thought of as earthquake prone, there was, in fact, a large and destructive quake here in the eighteenth century that took down a large part of the city.
Mother of God, I’m thinking. Could this be the end of Bernie Kahn?
I’d always been careful to stay clear of the West Coast so as not to get caught in the Big One, and now the Big One appears to have traveled three thousand miles to get me in Philly. In L.A. and San Francisco they build houses to withstand earth shocks. Here, everything is made of brick and plaster and mortared together with Velvetta cheese. A 5.5 would take down the entire city.
The dirty dishes in my sink are humping the dirty glasses. Half the contents of my bowl of Golden Temple granola are suddenly adorning the table’s checkered cloth. Paint pocks appear on the basement walls like instant acne. Then, as suddenly as it starts, the shaking stops, and I hear from somewhere out in the street a person saying: “Take five.”
A minute later I’m outside confronting the foreman. The guy is shorter than me by about three inches but a lot thicker through the chest, and heavily muscled from regular outdoor work. The tattoos not hidden by his soiled Mr. Clean undershirt identify him as someone who once loved Gorgeous Glenda and who also believed that death was preferable to dishonor. He’s holding a lit Lucky Strike in one hand and carrying a pick ax, tomahawk style, in the other.
“Morning.” His greeting is friendly. Unconcerned. The sight of someone with a furious expression barging out the front door of a house whose walls he’d almost deconstructed clearly neither surprises nor upsets him overmuch.
“What the fuck are you doing,” I say. We’re standing by the edge of a chasm the work crew has already brought into being.
“Drilling a hole,” the foreman replies without retreating or raising his voice. “Leaking pipe down there. Gotta fix it.”
He smiles. His teeth have the regularity you see in Fixadent commercials. A guy in his late twenties, early thirties, with a full set of false teeth. Didn’t they teach regular flossing in public schools?
“You’re bringing down my house with those jackhammers.”
“Sorry, Can’t be helped.” The foreman holds up a work order and points to the street address. “Pipe’s leaking right here,” he points downward. “Right in front of your house. Tough break.”
There was a time I would have taken this guy down right then and there, tattoos, pick ax and all, without a moment’s hesitation. These days I pride myself on having a tighter reign on my temper. Besides, there are his four helpers to consider, who have now joined our little discussion group.
Sensing that all parties in attendance now understand who has won this argument, the foreman throws me a bone. “Tell you what, pal. Since you work at home during the day...” He gives a smirk that lets me know he doesn’t think much of whatever work that might be, “...we’ll do as much digging as possible with hand tools instead of the jackers. That sound fair?”
Ah to be twenty-eight again instead of forty-nine, I think, to not give a damn, to send this guy and a couple of his associates in for another round of dental refurbishment. “Appreciate that,” I say, turning and going back through my front door, trying to feel wise and prudent and failing badly at both.
Relocating what remains of my breakfast to the second floor where the noise level is a tad more tolerable, I’m about to resume eating when the phone rings.
“Mr. Kahn?”
Mr. Kahn. Who uses my family name to start a phone conversation? Usually the representative of a bank that’s been kind enough to enhance my standard of living temporarily with credit cards. Or since banks write-off such debts after a few months and then sell them to even lower grade parasites, the representative of one of these second- or third-tier blood suckers.
Most people don’t like these calls. I find them entertaining and a pleasant break from the cares of the day. That’s because I’ve developed a number of sure-fire techniques to turn the tables on these callers and make them as unhappy as they would like to make me.
Before I can launch into one of these verbal gambits, my caller intercedes: “Mr. Kahn. My name’s Connors. Joe Connors. I work for Mitch Bernstein. If you’re not too busy I was hoping we might meet.”
Someone who works for Mitch Bernstein? “You want to get together with me?”
“That’s right. If you’re not too busy doing...doing other freelance intellectual work.” This guy’s a real pro, I’m thinking. He doesn’t snicker when naming my profession.
“What do you want to talk about, Mr. Connors?” As if I didn’t know.
“Please call me Joe.”
“Sure, Joe. Call Me Bernie. What do you want to talk about?”
“Myron Hamish. His murder.”
Joe gets right to the point. This makes a good impression.
“I’ve been questioned by the police about Myron’s death. I don’t know how much I could tell you, or even if I’m allowed to talk to you at all.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about talking to me. I’m sure Frank Ryman would have no objection to our meeting and chatting. In fact, I guarantee it.”
Not Detective Ryman. Frank Ryman. My, my. Joe Connors has been speaking about me with the person in charge of investigating Myron’s murder. His buddy Frank. And Joe works for Mitch Bernstein. Interesting.
“Let me check my calendar.” Using this obvious but acceptable sham gives me
a minute to think. And lo!, I have an inspiration. Something that will not only give me a full afternoon to work up a game plan in a game I’m playing minus a goalie, two infielders and a quarterback, but allow me to do an enormous favor for someone who for better or worse is my best friend.
“Joe. Would you mind meeting me this evening?”
“Not at all. Whatever’s convenient for you.”
“Good. I should have the day’s work wrapped up by dinnertime and we could get together after that at, say, seven o’clock at the Free Library on Logan Square. Something’s happening there I don’t want to miss.”
“No problem. I’ll see you then.”
Before hanging up I add. “Just so you’ll recognize me. I’m about six-two, weigh about two ten. Have thinning hair, a...”
Connors cut me off. “Frank Ryman showed me your picture. I’ll recognize you.”
Good old Frank had taken my picture and showed it to Joe. My, my. What sort of connection might that imply?
In this chapter of Murder At Bernstein’s, we learn more about how Mitch Bernstein’s chief operative is working to protect his boss, and about the curious culture of the company Mitch has created. We’re also introduced to a new effort to force a certain center city homeowner from his property.
