My Honorable Brother Page 13

  The two men nodded at each other, and Cardella continued. “If Hardiman stays put and Sacco goes for a second term, would I run on the ticket with him? That’s a definite ‘No,’ even though I might regret it when John’s time is up and he moves on. I’ve already told them that. But if it was the governor’s chair this year, I think I’d have to give it my best shot.”

  Terry stopped long enough to add milk to his coffee and take a first sip. “So let’s assume the scenario in which Hardiman quits, Sacco steps up and you’re the candidate …”

  Cardella answered before Reardon finished reframing the question he asked a few minutes earlier. “I’ve thought about your negotiations with Arena while running all this stuff through my head. If there’s nothing unethical about doing it—you know, in case the Herald planned to endorse me later on—I think I’d have the time. The contract expires at the end of September. That leaves plenty of time after the primary to meet with Arena. If worse comes to worse, I could get someone else in the office to sit at the table with you and I’d call the plays from the locker room. I’m sure it can be worked out. But the odds are we won’t ever get to that bridge, so why don’t we relax for now and wait and see what happens.”

  “That’s okay by me,” Terry said. “But you’re going to know what’s happening before I do, so keep me posted.”

  Richie nodded affirmatively, just as the waitress set down her large server’s tray on a nearby stand and got ready to bring their lunches to the table.

  “Now we can enjoy the best that the Holiday Inn has to offer,” Reardon declared.

  As soon as Mary put their plates in front of them, Terry sampled the fish. “Yup, it’s frozen,” he said, breaking out a smile.

  They both laughed out loud.

  * * *

  Jenna called him in the middle of the afternoon. “Well, was I right?” she asked.

  “It’ll cost you,” Terry said.

  “Cost me what?”

  “About thirty minutes of your undivided passion tonight.” He paused for a moment. “And that’s just the foreplay.”

  Jenna laughed. “No can do, Superman. It’s girls’ night out tonight. Me and Cindy and Annette.”

  “Haven’t the three of you had enough of ‘The Golden Banana’ yet?” Terry asked, a chuckle in his voice. “I hate to see a hard-working girl dropping those dollar bills inside a bunch of strange jockstraps. There’s no redeemable social value in it. Besides, you can’t afford it on what the Herald pays you.”

  She laughed again. “Come on, Terry, tell me. Was I right or not?”

  “You were right on the money,” he answered. “How’d you do it?”

  “Whoopee,” Jenna cried, ignoring the question at first. He could picture the huge grin on her face. “I knew it! I am terrific! How did I do it, the vice president wants to know. Wants me to reveal everything, spill all the beans, let the cat out of the bag. Okay, I will. Are you ready?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

  “It was a little luck, my own brand of chutzpah and some research, all in that order.” She told him how she was able to glimpse just the titles of the two books on Sacco’s desk and how she concocted the idea of the supposed rumor she put to Spence Hardiman. “Once I was convinced Hardiman wasn’t running and that Sacco would go for his Senate seat, the rest was research. I just checked to see which republicans held Statewide office in the past ten years who might be attractive to the Party for the governor’s race. In my opinion, Cardella’s the only one who fits that description.”

  “That’s a hell of a job,” Terry said. “I’d love to see you get a scoop out of it, but I had to give Richie my word it was off the record.”

  “No sweat, lover boy. It’s still awfully thin anyway. Sacco could come up with a half-dozen reasons for having those books in his office, even if he didn’t deny they were there. And Hardiman said he hasn’t made any decision about what he’ll do. If I wrote it up, Cardella would be sure you ran back here and fed me the information, regardless of what you promised. If I know McMurphy, he wouldn’t want to run something based on what we have so far. Right now I’m just pleased that I got my nose into something political for the first time and my instincts were good. But you know what, Terry?”

  “I know, and I don’t blame you. You just changed your mind about tonight.”

  Jenna sparred with him. “Not on your life,” she said, slowly and deliberately. “Nothing gets in the way of another night at the ‘Banana.’”

  It was Terry’s turn to laugh. “Okay then, what?”

  “If Cardella wasn’t contacted by the party, it wouldn’t have surprised me.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because a lot of republicans in Rhode Island might not want to vote for him.”

  “Same question, Jenna. Why not?”

  “Some of the blurbs I read about Richie in the library pointed out that he was very outspoken about the State having a lottery when that first came up as an issue years ago. I mean he was gung ho for the idea. That was the easiest way to raise money, he said. Something that wouldn’t get the taxpayers up in arms. He may feel the same way now about the State getting into casino gambling. I’ve still got a little follow-up to do. I heard something about his law firm being hired to help write some of that legislation for one of the senate committees. If he’s in favor of the State opening up casino parlors, I know one big hurdle he’ll be facing down the line at election time.”

  Reardon didn’t want to try to figure it out. “I give up again. Tell me.”

  “No, mister vice president, I’ll just give you a clue.” Jenna’s voice had a triumphant ring to it. “It’s a certain newspaper in Providence … that signs our paychecks. Big Daddy on Fountain Street has always been dead set against it.”

  He was silent for a few seconds. He was also amazed at how much Jenna learned so quickly. “So how about tomorrow night, Wonder Woman?”

  16

  THEY CAME CLOSE TO having an accident when Fiore swung off Interstate 95 and didn’t pay attention to the YIELD sign at the end of the ramp onto 195 East. He heard the blaring horn of the car whose lane he just entered, and was thankful it had room to swerve to the left. The minivan barely avoided hitting Doug’s black, one-year-old Mercedes, and its driver raised his middle finger in a silent salute as he went past.

  Grace didn’t say a word when it happened. She and Doug weren’t speaking to each other at all since the shouting match they had shortly after leaving East Greenwich. It was Saturday night, and they were on their way to the Valentine’s Day party at the Hanleys. He informed her, much too nonchalantly she thought, that he’d be spending most of Sunday in the office.

  “How come?” she asked.

  “Because I’ve got work to do. That’s why I go to the office,” he answered sarcastically.

  Grace was calm at first. She reminded him that they had tickets for the Providence College performance of Swan Lake, and that they were taking Susan and a friend of hers with them.

  Doug said that they could go without him. “Susan probably has another girlfriend who’d like to see it. It’s not like I really look forward to watching a ballet.”

  Grace’s composure turned quickly to anger. She told him to remember those words when he had to start traveling around the state, making speeches. “If you don’t have time for something like this with your daughter, I’ll be too busy to go traipsing all over Rhode Island whenever you want.”

  Before they were through hollering at each other, he said, “Don’t be an asshole,” and the conversation stopped at that point.

  Fiore turned off the highway at Gano Street and followed it to Waterman. He reached inside the pocket of his sports jacket for the directions he took down over the telephone from Brad Hanley. A series of right and left turns finally brought them to the white Victorian at 37 Orchard Avenue.

  As they approached the front steps, Doug took hold of Grace’s left arm, just below the elbow and squeezed it slightly. “I’m sorry I swore at
you,” he said. “I’ve just been in a crappy mood today. I should have gone to the gym and worked it out. Let’s be civil in there and talk about tomorrow on the way home.” Grace shook her arm so that he would release his hand. She didn’t say anything.

  Pat Hanley greeted them at the door with a big smile. She chatted with Grace a couple of minutes after being introduced and called Brad over to take their coats. Brad shook hands with each of them. “Glad you could make it,” he said.

  “He’ll put your coats upstairs in the bedroom,” Pat said. “It’s a night for lovers, so go meet the other guests and maybe you’ll get lucky.” She smiled broadly at both of them again and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Entering the living room, Fiore saw a table in the far corner with bottles of liquor, soft drinks and mixers. “Let’s have a drink,” he told Grace. He made his way to the table without speaking to anyone. When he turned around, he discovered that his wife wasn’t behind him. He didn’t want to risk any kind of scene with her while they were there, and decided to mingle with those around him on his own. He and Grace could always find each other if the Hanleys intended to play any party games that brought couples together.

  Fiore mixed some dark rum with orange juice, added a single ice cube and sipped his drink while he took in the scene. A number of huge, white paper Cupids, in different poses, hung by strings from the ceiling in both the living room and dining room. Someone had brushed a little red paint on each of them, calling attention to certain details: the puffy cheeks on one, the arrows held by another, a wing on a third. They were suspended low enough to make them part of the crowd in each room.

  Large red valentines were taped onto the walls in the same two rooms. Each had the name of one of the party guests on its top section. Someone used a flair pen to print in poetry form, “Roses are red, Violets are blue” on all of them. Doug noticed one next to the mantle with a completed verse that read, “I’ve got two nuts, And I need a screw.” He laughed and realized that he was supposed to fill in the last two lines of the poem on his own valentine when he found it. An older man standing near him remarked that screwing seemed to be the theme of most of the poetry. The way he said it left no doubt that he wasn’t pleased.

  Fiore moved around slowly. He introduced himself to different guests and tried to find the appropriate small talk pertaining to what they did or where they lived. He was good at that and got most people to open up to him immediately. He also had a talent for remembering names, associating them with something in his mind and linking the two together through a mental repetitive process. When he mentioned his own occupation, several guests asked him whether he’d heard one or another of the latest anti-lawyer jokes that seemed to be springing up every day. Fiore was mindful of the fact that he might be calling on any of these people in the months ahead for money or other support. He let them have the pleasure of framing the riddle and giving the answer, even if it wasn’t new to him. At the punch line, he usually laughed the loudest.

  Between some of the conversations, Doug glanced at several other valentines on the wall. He saw one with Pat Hanley’s name on it in the dining room and went over to read what it said. “Roses are red, Violets are blue, I’m first mate on, A hanky-panky crew.” He smiled and thought that he wouldn’t mind at all if she turned that kind of attention on him.

  Farther down on the same wall Fiore found his own valentine. He thought for a few minutes, picked up a pen from a nearby table and completed the rhyme with, “I charge by the hour, When I’m servicing you.” To make sure everyone understood what he meant, he added an “Esq.” after his name at the top of the large red heart.

  Just as he finished writing, Pat Hanley was standing beside him. He didn’t see her approach. She read the verse out loud and grinned. “Well, they do say some lawyers are forever screwing their clients, and of course they always charge for it. I suppose there’s a double entendre there. Am I right, Doug?”

  “I hadn’t meant it that way,” he answered, “but in either case I guess there are clients who consider it time well spent.” He lingered, with a slight emphasis, on the last word.

  “Touché,” she said. They were both pleased with the repartee. “Are you having a good time?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “You’ve got some nice friends. I’m enjoying myself.”

  “But you’re wondering why we invited you.” She looked directly into his eyes, still smiling.

  Something told him not to deny it. “From the minute I opened your envelope,” he answered. There was a pause before he asked, “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Of course,” she said. “And thank you for being honest. But be patient with me for a little while. I’ve got to put more food out on the tables right now and start the entertainment going.” She took a step away from him and then turned back. “It’s probably a good time for you to go and make up with your wife.” She spoke the words almost in a whisper. He didn’t say anything, and she left. Doug had to admire an unnamed quality in his hostess. He knew that Grace wouldn’t have said a word to anyone about their quarrel.

  Pat found him again later on while some of her guests were still in hysterics at what was taking place. She had removed all the valentines from the walls and put them in a large straw basket. By lot, each person was asked to pick one and read the verse on it. The other guests scored each verse on a scale of 1 to 10. The authors of the three receiving the most points were given large chocolate hearts as a reward.

  Afterwards, each of the men was asked to say whether he’d rather spend some time alone with Princess Diana or Madonna. The women were given a choice between Robert Redford and Joe Montana. When all the answers were submitted, Brad brought out life-sized cardboard-backed photographs of the four celebrities. But the photos had been altered and each of them appeared as a frontal nude. Brad got his camcorder, and one by one the guests were called up to pose with an arm around the personality he or she had chosen. One of the other guests took Polaroid pictures and passed them out.

  “You looked great with Madonna,” Pat told Doug. She joined him near the liquor table where he went to freshen up his drink.

  “Thanks a lot,” he chuckled. “I’m sure Joe Montana would like to see that picture with you on his arm. He might find room for you in his trophy case.” He offered to fix her a drink, but she declined. The smile she was showing him suddenly vanished.

  “Doug, the reason I asked you to come tonight was that I wanted to tell you something in person that I didn’t think I could convey over the phone. I suppose I could have made an appointment to see you in your office, but I thought it would be a little easier to talk this way. Besides, it’s always nice to get to know people on a more personal level. We probably should have invited you and Grace here years ago.”

  Fiore saw that she was tensing up as she spoke. He wanted to say something to get her to relax. “I don’t see ninety percent of my clients on a social basis. I might take them to dinner once in a while, but that’s either to talk about our latest case or see if there’s any more business I can scrape up from them or someone they know. One-on-one marketing they call it. Just take a deep breath and tell me what it is.”

  An outburst of laughter caused Pat to look over at Brad at the other end of the room. One of the men was having his picture taken between Madonna and Princess Di, embracing them both. Brad seemed to be in charge, and was encouraging other guests to come forward for a similar photo.

  She smiled and turned back to Doug. “I’m very worried about Brad,” she began. “He’s been killing himself trying to keep Ocean State Wire going. I’m not sure the owners understand how much he’s been doing, the hours he puts in, or what the Company means to him. I know that the union negotiations are coming up soon and Brad’s very afraid of what might happen as a result.”

  Pat reached for a tissue in the pocket of the red silk jacket she was wearing and dabbed at both eyes. Doug saw the tears coming before she tried to stop them. “If that plant shuts
down, I’m afraid of what it will do to him,” she said. She was crying again, and turned toward the wall so no one else in the room would notice.

  “I guess I picked the wrong occasion for this, after all. Here I am crying, with a house full of friends. I’m sorry, Doug. Can we discuss it another time?”

  He had moved into a position to hide her from the couple closest to them. “Sure we can,” he answered. “Whenever it’s good for you. Just let me know a day ahead. Do you want to come into the office?” He hoped she’d reject that idea and choose to meet him somewhere else where they could have more privacy. His gut told him he would like to get to know this woman a lot better.

  Pat blew her nose and breathed deeply. “No, I’d rather not. I don’t think I’d be comfortable there. We’ll find someplace else. I’m really sorry about this.”

  “Please, don’t say a word.” He tried to be as reassuring as he could. “I understand what you’re probably going through. Maybe I’ll be able to help in some way.” Pat Hanley was already turning him on.

  She recovered enough to give him a modest smile. “Thanks, Doug. I appreciate your feeling. I want you to know I’d do anything in the world for Brad.” Pat looked at him for a few seconds and then smiled again, as if signaling that the difficult part of their conversation was over. “I think it’s time for me to get the coffee and dessert out here.” Turning away, Pat felt relieved and certain that Doug Fiore was the person she could trust to help Brad get both Ocean State Wire and himself through the present crisis.

  Fiore watched her as she walked across the room, stopping briefly to say something to Brad and kiss him on the cheek. Not a bad-looking woman, he thought to himself.