Chicagoans exalt in their city’s office architecture. Philadelphians tend to view office towers as places that just provide office space. These different feelings are largely due to different local histories. Office towers started going up in Chicago in the late nineteenth century, soon after safe mechanical elevators appeared. They didn’t start to get built in Philly for another seven decades because of a long-standing taboo against erecting any building taller than the statue of William Penn that sits atop City Hall. Office towers for Chicago were an assertion that their city had come of age as a major metropolis. For Philadelphia, they were a delayed entry into a realm where the city was badly trailing the early pace-setters and unlikely to ever catch up.

When the needs of commerce finally did trump Philadelphia tradition, developers quickly put up a string of bland glass and steel numbers of middling height with standard facings and the occasional odd-shaped roof. It wasn’t until Mitch Bernstein opted to site his own company’s headquarters in town that a someone made a real personal statement in stone and steel. The Bernstein Building is an architectural gem in an otherwise undistinguished Philadelphia financial district cityscape.

The person waiting for me when I arrive at this building’s ground floor check-in area looks as if he could play Shrek if you gave him a green skin tint and an ear job. Silently sizing me up, he shoots me a don’t-try-anything-cute look and points at a wall mounted camera that takes an instant photo that is then affixed to a guest badge expertly assembled by a seated blond with a smile like a stewardess before the airlines took back all the perks that used to go with the job.

I’m then led through one of those airport security doorway detectors that check for weapons and do God knows what to your reproductive system. After which my silent escort half hauls, half shoves me into a talking elevator that not only reads off each floor as we ascend but provides critical updates about the French CAC and German DAX stock exchanges.

“Making anything on Peugeot today?” I ask to pass the time.

This black-skinned Shrek look-alike doesn’t reply. Just stares straight ahead and fumes.

He’s the Bloomberg security chief, I’m thinking. He knows I’m an outside investigator. He probably takes me for some kind of competitor. He’s making it clear that he doesn’t take kindly to anyone intruding on his private preserve.

It’s barely nine in the morning and I’ve already been intimidated by five baboons armed with picks and shovels, and now by one off-color ogre. This latter intimidator, if the old nose does not deceive, has also consumed some foul milk product in the last day or two, making his presence in this small space even less appealing. You have to wonder what the rest of the day will bring.



We get out at the eighth floor. The half-dozen people standing by the elevator door as we exit part like the Red Sea upon seeing my guide. Where was this guy when the Eagles were drafting blocking tackles? We make a turn and pass
through row after row of desks, lined up like slots in a casino, occupied by mostly young people staring at image flashing television and computer screens with the intensity of new converts to an all-consuming religion.

Given my own past work history, and the naughty Sixties and Seventies when my worldview jelled, the sight of all this youhtful careerism makes me queasy. I have an instant intuition about this not-quite-30 crowd. That they faithfully contribute two thousand a year into IRAs in order to retire as millionaires several decades hence. That they base their future expectations on systematic hard work and playing by the rules in an ever stable social order, instead of on luck fleshed out with the occasional con amid barely veiled social chaos, which is the basis of my own life plan. You picks your vision, you takes your chances.

My trail guide and I finally arrive at a smallish glass-in area. The Fishbowl. Joe Connors is sitting inside talking on the phone. He sees us and flahes a give-me-a-minute hand sign. I nod assent and look around.

I’m only a few feet from one of the famous Bernstein aviaries and walk over to have a better look. It’s a very large, fine-wired bird cage housing several strikingly lovely parrots. I watch as one of these creatures, perched on a wooden swing, excretes onto what appears to be forest foliage on the floor of the cage. This flooring is doubtless well saturated with both disinfectant and odor control agents.

“Polly want a wipie,” I say in a friendly manner to the colorful bird that is in the process of relieving itself. While I don’t expect the bird to understand, I’m hoping it appreciates my good intentions.

“Don’t talk to the parrots,” says his escort, who has played the mute until now. The comment sounds most emphatic.

“You don’t let people talk to your parrots?”

The security chief points to a sign on the cage that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Speaking to birds in cage strictly prohibited. Severe penalties for violators.” The word ‘severe’ is in italics and boldface.

“What happens to violators?” I ask.

“They’re terminated,” replies my minder.

I assume this means they’re fired. Then again, maybe not. Before I can delve further there’s a tapping from inside the glass enclosure where Joe Connors is now off the phone and signaling for me to join him.

My escort nods at Connors. His assignment completed, he turns without a word and stalks off. From the rear his almost nautical rolling gait is more apparant, shoulders hunched, chin jutting well forward.

“Where’d you find that one,” I ask Connors when we’re seated in The Fishbowl.

“He came in a kit. We assembled him on site. He runs on internal fusion. Only shorts out when his knuckles scrape along the floor and hit a phone wire.”

“Nice. Terminator boy almost took me out when I started talking to one of your parrots.”

“That’s not permitted.”

“So I was led to understand. Just out of curiosity...”

Connors gives me his thousand-years-without-sleep look. “You really want to know about my parrot angst?”

“Sure. Why not.” I’m playing on Bernstein’s dime this morning. I’m as ready to sit here and drank the cup of battery acid I’ve been handed, discussing parrots, as meet with four murder suspects.

Connors shrugs. “You know anything about parrots?”

“Not much.”

“Wish I were that lucky. A few years back Mitch fell in love with these dinosaur descendants, don’t ask me why, and decided to make them the symbol of our company. Like the Budweiser clydesdales. Or the postal service eagle.”

“You got the Bernstein parrots.”

“We got the Bernstein fucking parrots. Mitch could have bought a professional football stadium and stuck the company with less maintenance.”

I’d never thought much about parrot keeping or bird maintenance generally. Connors’ obvious immersion in the subject has caught my interest.

“What’s so hard about keeping parrots? You buy one. You stick it in a cage. You feed it birdseed. Once a week you clean the cage.”

Connors shakes his head slowly and gives me his poor-fool look. “Good thing you’re saying that to me and not a real parrot lover.”

“What are the chances of meeting a real parrot-lover? Mitch Bernstein excepted, of course.”

“Better than you think, my friend. Parrot lovers number in the tens of thousands in this country and they’re more cultish and committed than your average al-Qaeda operative. And let me give you a tip. Around here I wouldn’t talk about parrots like there’s only a single kind. It’s best to be more specific so as not to ruffle any feathers.”

I groan. “Joe, please. It’s early.”

Connors chuckles. “O.K. ‘Ruffle feathers’ was a low blow. But hereabouts we’re serious about parrots. There’s about a dozen primary species of various sizes, shapes and colorations. Parakeets, cockatiels, parotlets, conures, macaws, amazons, pionus parrots, cockatoos, caiques. Then there’s the sub-species. Quakers, budgerigars, rignecks....'

“I get the picture.”

“Mostly, Bernie, we stick with amazons. The one you were speaking with is named Hermes. He’s a red lored amazon. A rather fascinating bird, actually. He was badly abused before being rescued.”

“You’re sure about the abuse,” I say smiling, attempting to get into the flow of this conversation. “That Hermes didn’t just manufacture a memory of abuse in order to wrangle himself a good home in the Philadelphia financial district.”

“Bird abuse is no joke. Lots of people don’t know how to care for birds. Just buy them for a lark...”

“Joe.”

“Sorry. But the abuse thing is serious. People don’t feed them right, don’t treat them right, don’t offer them the companionship a parrot needs. The birds sulk. Then they die.”

“You gotta develop a personal relationship with a parrot?”

“The average parrot, my friend, has a lot more personality than the average Bernstein employee. Believe me. I’ve been dealing with both species for years. I know.

“With food,” he continues, “you can’t just stick a parrot with birdseed and expect it to thrive. Your seed should be germinated not dry. You have to have fresh fruit and vegetables in the diet. For the vitamin A. Like they get in the wild. Apples and pears are good. They don’t like avocados.”

“No avocados. Got ya.”

“And food is the easy part. We got a guy who comes in three times a week to service each of our birds individually. He also trains them before they get here. Makes sure we only get birds that are compatible with a sedentary cage lifestyle. Parrots in the wild flock, and most owners tend to give them the run of the house. They get into everything and are hell with wiring so that’s not an option here. But some parrots will adopt well to the cage life if they’re taught early enough. Because parrots are territorial, our birdman also has to make sure the three or four we like to have in each of our cages aren’t attacking each other all the time.”

“And for this, Joe, what’s your return?”

“We get a CEO who is a little less pissy than he otherwise might be. Mitch loves these birds. Thinks they’re a great company symbol. Thinks they are unbelievably beautiful. At least, that’s the way Mitch used to think.”

“Now?”

“Parrots talk.”

“I’ve heard. I mean, heard they talk.”

“Around here we used to think the talking thing was pretty cool. Parrots are really, really smart, you know. Some pick up fifteen or twenty words very quickly. The record holder was a budgerigar that had a thousand word vocabulary.”

This is impressive. Some of my acquaintances haven’t mastered half that many. “I didn’t know that,” I say.

“Wish I didn’t know it. Once upon a time we had a few birds on every floor that had learned to say cute things like ‘Money talks and nobody walks,’ and ‘A bigger fool will always bail you out.’ Things like that.”

“And then?” I know this story has to have an unhappy ending.

“And then,” says Connors, “one of our people with a twisted sense of humor had a brainstorm. He decides to teach one of our birds to say something nasty by whispering the phrase every time he passes its cage.”

“Like ‘Bernstein eats weenies?’”

“If only. That we could have handled. No problem. Just get rid of the bird that
was tainted with such an evil verbal notion. Maybe serve it with wild rice in the company cafeteria. Maybe serve his voice coach, too. Unfortunately, this particular bird was taught something more lethal. A short declaration impugning the integrity of a major brokerage firm. A firm whose chief executive officer just happened to be here on a visit and within hearing range of this declaration when it was being parroted. Ever hear a parrot in full throttle, Bernie?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“They generate a lot of volume. Ever see the reaction of a megalomanic chief executive who is being dissed by a three-pound bird in front of a couple of hundred financial journalists.”

“No, haven’t done that one either.”

“Not a pretty sight. Be thankful you only have a murder to worry about and don’t have to clean up that mess. Oh, by the way. I heard from your pal this morning. Jay Lombardi the financial poet.”

“He called already?”

“Not just called. Faxed me a dozen sample poems.” Connors picks up a stack of faxes, selects a sheet. “This one’s titled ‘Honey, I’m Off To The Futures Pits.’ I think it may be a love poem.” He reads aloud:

Cut me slack, hon, don’t be sharp-edged,
And say you’ll call it quits,
‘Cause I’ve forsaken true loved pledged
To haggle in the pits.

Sure, I live pork belly prices,
Pray juice and grains stay high,
Anguish ‘bout each weather crisis,
Too hot, too cold, too dry.

But let’s be honest, lay it bare,
Before you hit the door:
Though we do love each other dear,
We both love money more.

“Powerful stuff,” I say.

“Care to hear another?”

“Maybe later.”

“You probably want to get back to the murder investigation.”

Well, not really. Plunging further into the Hamish murder rabbit hole, now that I’ve already been paid for my part in this investigation, isn’t my absolute first choice of things to do. On the other hand my curiosity about this case has defintely been peeked. Some things here aren’t playing right. The police should have made an arrest by now. Facts and people—including me—are being manipulated.

My upcoming chats with the Fab Four have already been lucrative. Maybe they will prove instructive as well. Before going there, however, while I still seem to have some clout with Joe Connors, there’s Jay to consider.

“So what are you going to do for this country’s foremost financial poet?” I ask.

“Jay and I worked out something on the phone,” replies Connors. “Involves you, actually. I just have to clear a few things with Mitch. We’ll discuss it when you finish meeting our Fab Four.”

With that Connors gathers up his papers, excuses himself, and hurries off on other business. I get comfortable in this glass walled meeting area, and await the four folks who will shortly be coming my way.

(End of Chapter XVII)