“How long have we known each other, Joe. Ten years? Fifteen?”
Once again Connors and his boss had taken possession of the unmonitored table in the company cafeteria. Though employees drifted in and out for post-lunchtime snacks and drinks, the big mid-day feeding was over. They had the privacy they needed, and Mitch Bernstein didn’t have to settle for the dishwater excuse for real coffee sold at the so-called coffee shop across the street.
“How long have we known each other, Joe,” he repeated.
Connors had felt a confident buzz going into this get-together. Now he just felt burned out. Thank God, one way or another, this horror show would be over by tonight. It took him a considerable effort of will to focus on explaining the mechanism to bring this about to the person who had to approve it all.
“A long time, Mitch. We go back a long ways.”
“And in this time, have we encountered many and varied business and personal obstacles?”
“We have, Mitch. Many, many times.”
“And have you often offered me advice about these problems, offered
suggestions to handle these personal and professional obstacles?”
If he asks me ‘Why is this night different from all other nights?’ I’m going to blow, thought Connors. Though come to think of it, this night would amost certainly be very different from all other nights.
That thought cheered him a bit. He settled in, prepared to weather this latest Mitch Bernstein dialectical buildup. He knew where these things always led, and prepared himself for the inevitable snide closing crack that would precede his own presentation.
“I’ve always given you the best advice I could offer, Mitch,” he said, knowing from long experience this was the required response, the one that would give his boss the appropriate opening. It arrived as expected.
“So how the hell did you come up with this idiotic bit of theater?”
“Can I explain, Mitch? Can I put it into context?”
“Why don’t you do that, Joe. Put it into context for me. And make the context very, very good.”
“Right,” said Connors. “We’re almost positive Ron Pinkman killed Myron. There’s the evidence of our own investigation. There’s the Powelton description the police came up with this afternoon to back it up.”
“Not much of a description,” said Bernstein.”
“Still...”
“All right, all right. So Pinkman killed Myron. He a dumb shit. But why the girl?
“Apparantly, and this is something Clay heard as a rumor when he was asking questions yesterday. Apparantly Pinky was making eyes at her awhile back. And if he was stupier than Myron and actually got it on with her...”
“I would have fired him the minute I found out.”
“Right. You would have fired him in a minute. He wouldn’t be the capo de capos when you move on. He wouldn’t even have a job here.”
“Damn,” said Bernstein, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why couldn’t he just have stuck with the hookers he was screwing on those overseas trips? How could he have been so god-awful stupid?”
Benstein shook his head again in disbelief. Then: “So why don’t we just have your friends at homicide come by here, arrest him and cart him away, so I can get back to making money and running for mayor?”
“Because that could end up making you look bad, Mitch. We both know the kind of person Pinkman is. The first thing he does after some attorney gets him out on bail...”
“They’d do that? Let him our on bail? In a capital case with Pinkman accused of two murders?”
“They’d do that. I checked with our legal people. He could almost certainly raise the bail, no matter how high. His lawyer would say he’s a pillar of the community. They’d take away his passport. Otherwise, he’s out in a day or two after the arrest.”
“So? Why is that going to make me look bad?”
“Because no matter how big a prick Pinky Pinkman happens to be, he’s also one hell of a newsman. You know that. That’s why you’ve let him run our news department all these years. He knows how to play the press. He knows all the key people. Most may not like him, but a fair number owe him big time.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that given the kind of person he is, the trouble he’s in, and the fact that at this juncture he has absolutely nothing to lose, he’s going to unleash all kinds of stories about you, and this company, and lies about your reasons for running for mayor. And they could spread like wildfire.”
“I’m running for mayor because I love Philadelphia and want to make it a better city. Period. ”
“I know that, Mitch. Everyone who knows you personally knows that. But most people, most voters, don’t know you personally. By the time we’re finished straightening out the record....”
“Why would Pinkman go after me? I’m not his problem.”
“No, but in his twisted mind you might seem like the solution. You can’t figure what a guy like that will do when cornered. Look what he did in a crazy bid to advance his career. Just to cover up screwing the help. What I’m thinking is that when he’s sitting around waiting for a trial that’s certain to convict him, given his state of mind, and given the fact that you’re certainly not going to rush to his defense...”
“Defend that bastard? Like hell.”
“Right. So maybe he starts blaming you for his problems. You know the guy. He’s never been big on accepting responsibility for anything that went wrong. Always pointing the finger at someone else. Saying you somehow created an atmosphere that drove people to commit murder to get ahead, maybe even to just keep their job and feed their family, I put that down as something he would definitely consider trying.”
“So he hates me. Like I give a shit.”
“He knows things, too, Mitch. Lots of things. About the business. Things it would
be better if they didn’t came to light. Especially not just before an election.”
Bernstein’s face had gone stony. A slight twitch had appeared on his lower lip. Connors had never seen that twitch before.
“So tell me, Joe, how does your little scheme save me from all this... this inconvenience?”
“Here’s what I’ve put together. We can go with it. Or we can just have Pinkman arrested here within the hour. Your choice.”
“Go on.”
“Bernie Kahn...”
“Your big thinker pal.”
“Right. Bernie Kahn has a friend, Jay Lombardi, who bills himself a poet...”
“Why am I not surprised about such a friendship.”
“A poet of financial markets.”
“That surprises me.”
“I’ve arranged for this Lombardi to do a spot on one of our market commentary segments.”
“Great. Just what my network and the investing public really need.” Bernstein muttered something under his breath that could have an ‘oy.’ Aloud he said: “Continue. You have my full and undivided attention.”
“Instead of taping this poetry reading segment in one of our studios...”
“Much too simple.”
“I asked Lombardi if we could do it at his place.”
“This is where I begin to leave the track, Joe. Why would you do that?”
“Because I wanted a taping location where Pinkman wouldn’t feel too comfortable. Like he would in one of our own studios. Also a place that doesn’t
emphasize more than necessary that he works for us when the actual arrest is made. A place that doesn’t draw unnecessary attention to the company when the arrest is broadcast on TV.”
“We’re going to tape the arrest? And broadcast it?”
“Those are key elements in my thinking.”
Bernstein finished his coffee, got up, refilled his cup from the carafe in a corner table in the cafeteria, resumed his place, looking resigned. “Go on, Joe. I’m listening. But so far you haven’t told me anything I want to hear. So what happens when we start taping this financial poet’s great market insights at the poet’s abode?”
“We’re not actually taping it at Lombardi’s place.”
“I should have guessed.”
“He says he has problems with his landlord.”
“Maybe their relations will improve when I make him a media star. So where are we taping instead?”
“At Bernie Kahn’s place. On Irving Street. Center City. Lombardi says its small but that it provides the right ambiance for his work.”
“Yes, poetry loving investors will certainly want that right ambiance. Don’t want to disappoint our audience. Please continue, Joe. I’m assuming this all has something to do with arresting Ron Pinkman and saving me all sorts of embarrassment.”
“Maybe better than that, Mitch. Make you a hero.”
“Go on.”
“I spoke with Pinkman a little while ago. Told him about this new poetry feature. Emphasized that you love it”
“Can’t get enough of that financial verse.”
“And that you want him to personally preside over the taping to make sure its
done right. That he should show up at Bernie Kahn’s digs at about seven this evening with a sound and camera crew.”
“I hope Pinkman doesn’t kill anyone else in the interim. That would be really embarrassing.”
“Don’t worry, Mitch. I have Clay Mason watching him on a full-time basis while
he’s here. Clay will also be going along with Pinkman and the crew for the taping, the reason being, I told Pinkman, because you’ve decided to be there for the filming and you need the extra security.”
“And the ostensible reason for my being there is...”
“Because you believe so strongly in this Lombardi guy and his work.”
“Oh yeah. That. You think Pinkman bought this cacamammie story?”
“Seemed to. I told him you’re trying to strengthen your ties with the local arts community.”
“All right.” Bernstein was getting impatient. “Wrap it up for me. What happens at this artsy-fartsy poetry reading and how does it work to my advantage?”
Connors took a deep breath and laid it out. “At eight o’clock, while the taping is
going on, the cops arrive to arrest Pinkman. It has to be an extremely stressful thing for the guy, getting arrested. This on top of the stress that goes with knowing what he’s done to Myron and the Powelton girl, and working on a production he certainly knows has no place on our kind of broadcasting but which you insisted he personally supervise.
“To raise his tension level even higher, I’ve told him in passing that Bernie Kahn, who will also be on the premises, this being his house, said some suspicious things about him based on their meeting earlier today. I’ve also instructed Clay Mason that at the critical moment, when the cops arrive and are about to confront Pinkman, to whisper a few obscenities in his ear. Call him ‘Pinky’ and otherwise insult his manhood. You know how sensitive he is about that.”
“Great, Joe. So Pinkman is prepped to soil himself when the cops come by. So what?
“The taping crew, both camera and sound, have secret instructions from me.
When really surprising things start happening tonight, they are to make absolutely certain to record it.”
Bernstein lowered his half-empty cup on a table and appeared to be cogitating behind steepled fingers. “Very entertaining,” he said.” Where do I fit in to all this?”
“This is where you make your entrance, Mitch. Pinkman is cuffed, angry, belittled, being treated like dirt, and you confront him for murdering your dear friend, Myron Hamish. Our taping crew is catching everything that happens next. What they are almost certain to get is a frothing Ron Pinkman shouting all kinds of threats in your direction, and accusing you of all kinds of outrageous things.”
“And this is going to help me win an election?”
“After we edit the tape you’re going to look like a righteous public man facing
down a demented employee who has foully betrayed your trust.”
“Your getting a little purple in the prose here, Joe. Which is not to say that I’m not beginning to like what you’re saying. Continue.”
“Whether or not we can use this fottage during the campaign season, what we’ll almost certainly end up with is protection against any falsehoods— and maybe even a few truths—Pinkman spews after he’s arrested and out on bail.”
Slowly, sipping again from his bottomless cup, Bernstein considered the proposal before him. “So what your telling me is that no matter what Pinkman says about me or the company after tonight, no one will believe him because we have this taped proof of his personal hatred and nuttiness. That’s it?”
“That’s it,” said Connors. Exhausted. Expectant.
The seconds passed. Then: “I like it. Just as long as I don’t have to sit through the poetry shit.”
