My Honorable Brother Page 22

  Morelli called Hanley’s office at just after three o’clock. “How much longer do you expect to take before you’re ready?” he asked.

  Brad repeated the question out loud and Ryder put up both hands to signal ten minutes. Hanley hung up the phone. “I think we ought to go back in with essentially the same proposal we gave the Union earlier,” he said.

  Ryder disagreed. He felt they had to discuss the primary money issues further among themselves before risking the consequences of answering the committee with a “no change” position.

  “I’ve got to analyze the numbers again, Brad. If you just go in there and offer them the same thing, these guys will march right onto the factory floor with it and production will grind to a halt.” It was the only thing he said that day that made an impression on Hanley.

  When they returned to the conference room, Ryder made a short speech about the fact that the two sides were obviously having a lot of trouble coming together on the main issues. “Let’s put those aside for the time being,” he suggested, “and try and get rid of all the other stuff first. I think it will help to do it that way.”

  Morelli wasn’t happy. It was clear to him that Ryder was stalling. He considered ending the meeting with another tirade, but decided he’d only be hurting himself if he did. He wanted to get the negotiations over with as soon as possible. The other issues needed to be resolved sooner or later anyway, so they might as well get started with them now. Still, he had to say something about the other stuff.

  “You two seem to think that coming together means we crawl on the floor and give you everything you want just for the privilege of working here. Well, that ain’t the way we see it. Let me introduce you to reality. If you expect to get this deal wrapped up without a fight, you’d better think hard about what these guys need to live on.” Morelli dropped his pen on the table in front of him. “Give us ten minutes to talk,” he said. “Then we’ll be ready.”

  When negotiations resumed, the two sides went back and forth. Each took long, relaxed caucuses over the next four hours before submitting its proposals and counterproposals. The Union withdrew a number of its demands in return for the Company taking several of its own off the table. At 7:15, just as Ryder was starting to explain the Company’s position on another matter, Morelli interrupted him.

  “We’ve had enough,” he said. “These guys want to go home and eat dinner. We’ll be ready to pick up from here at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

  Hanley and Ryder returned to the office area. It was deserted, except for the accountant who was working overtime to meet the deadline on all the important numbers for March. They sat down on two well-worn vinyl chairs in the room where job applicants waited when they came to the plant for interviews. Ryder remembered Fiore’s warning about guiding Hanley to an acceptable new agreement. He figured that pressure from the Platts would bring Brad in line as the expiration date got closer. At the moment, he was more concerned about appearing weak to his difficult client at this point in the negotiations. Time was still on their side. Ryder was sure there would be four to six more meetings before all the issues were resolved. And every billable hour was a godsend. But he still felt somewhat apprehensive about the completely intractable stance Hanley showed all along. He would have to bet that if Brad was calling the shots himself, he wouldn’t back down from his position on the big money items, even if the contract terminated the next day.

  They talked for almost an hour. At one point Hanley left the room and returned with a bottle of vodka and two paper cups. He poured until Ryder told him to stop. When the conversation resumed, Hanley surprised him by asking, “Have any of the owners of Ocean State called to discuss the negotiations with you?”

  Ryder assumed that Hanley wanted to find out whether the Platts were looking for a second opinion on how things were going. Or maybe his client wondered whether the Tarantinos had a different view from the Platts of what the ultimate settlement should be. “No, no one’s contacted me, but Doug Fiore wants me to keep him up to date on everything.” The reply pleased Hanley. He figured he had the support of the Platt brothers if their Connecticut office wasn’t ordering him to negotiate differently. He guessed that Fiore was reporting back to the Tarantinos who were most certainly keeping the Platts advised. Since no one in either camp told him to drop any of his economic demands, they must think he was doing the right thing.

  Ryder interrupted his thinking. “I’m going to figure out what it would cost the Company if the freeze was limited to one year and the wage increases in the two remaining years were no more than two percent.”

  “Okay,” Hanley replied. He knew it wouldn’t hurt to have the information in case any of the owners raised the question. His response was reassuring to Ryder, and made him more hopeful for the meetings still to come.

  When they finished working, Brad suggested they meet for breakfast the next morning at a coffee shop located three blocks from the plant. Ryder agreed. “If the Company’s suite at the Biltmore isn’t being used tonight, I’ll stay there again,” he said. “That will give me more time to prepare for tomorrow’s session.”

  “Good idea,” Hanley said. “It’s all yours.”

  At last, George Ryder’s long and difficult twelve hours were at an end.

  35

  OPENING THE DOOR TO Room 606, Ryder was surprised by what he saw. He took an immediate step backwards and looked again at the number on the door to be sure he was in the right place. Lights were on in both the living and bedroom areas of the suite, and in the bathroom as well.

  He closed the door quietly behind him and walked in. A man’s black raincoat was thrown over one of the wing chairs in the living room, close to the large armoire in which the TV was located. Ryder unfolded it just enough to see a Burberry label on its plaid lining. The initials “DF” were inscribed in heavy black ink on the bottom of the label. Two glasses, both empty, were on the coffee table, and an open bucket of ice, half melted, sat on the lower shelf of the armoire. A dark brown briefcase rested on the floor next to the chair holding the raincoat. The initials “D.A.F.” were embossed in gold lettering on its side. Ryder recognized it immediately as belonging to Doug Fiore.

  In the bedroom, the bed was unmade. Both the blanket and bedspread were lying on the floor, at the foot of the king-size bed. The top sheet was pulled back on both sides.

  Ryder walked into the bathroom. He saw two used bath towels on the side of the tub and a tube of lipstick, its cap off, on the vanity. One face towel, still wet, was on the edge of the sink. His eye caught a piece of paper that was thrown into the wastebasket next to the toilet. It stayed near the top where it landed on the plastic liner that was placed inside the receptacle. He picked it up and saw that it was the wrapper from a package of Trojan brand condoms. He bent down again and put it back exactly where he found it.

  When he used the room on an earlier occasion, Ryder left a suit hanging in the hall closet. It was still there. Next to it he saw a woman’s beige raincoat. It had a Saks Fifth Avenue label but no other identification. The toilet kit he put on the closet shelf was there also.

  Ryder was suddenly concerned that Fiore might return to the suite while he was still there. He hurried out and walked to the stairway at the end of the hall. It was closer to Room 606 than the elevator. He opened the fire door, went down two flights of stairs, entered the main corridor on the fourth floor and took the elevator to the lobby.

  When Brad Hanley gave Ryder a key to the suite, he told him to be sure to notify someone at the front desk when he stayed there overnight. “That’s the only way a maid will get instructions to clean up the next day,” Hanley said. “I sure as heck don’t want to bring a customer into a dirty room.”

  Ryder showed his key at the desk and asked if anyone checked into the room that day. The clerk was an athletic-looking young man who appeared to be close to six and a half feet tall. Ryder was tempted to ask him whether he played basketball at one of the area colleges, but didn’t. He watched as the cl
erk went over to a stack of cards that were inserted into separate slots on a rotating column behind him.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, after fingering several of the cards. “Mrs. Hanley is occupying the suite right now.” Ryder thanked him, walked up the lobby staircase to the hotel mezzanine where he could take the crosswalk to the garage, and drove back to West Warwick. His short stay at the Biltmore gave him a lot to think about.

  * * *

  Doug Fiore and Pat Hanley sat in a booth on the far side of the L’Apogee Restaurant. It was across the room from the picturesque view out the eighteenth floor windows of the Biltmore Hotel. Pat’s face was still somewhat flushed, a sign of lovemaking that always stayed with her for at least an hour afterwards, sometimes to her severe embarrassment. They had each finished a cocktail and were sharing a Caesar salad. Doug ordered a small steak while she decided that a cup of clam chowder would be enough for her at that time of night.

  Pat told him what Brad was saying in the past week about the negotiations. She related how pleased he sounded that afternoon when she called him at the plant and learned that the Union committee was probably getting ready to walk out of the meeting. “He’s definitely thinking in terms of a strike, Doug. The deadline is just a few weeks away, but nothing has changed. Brad has programmed himself to win this fight at all costs, and he seems to be getting even further out of control. When I ask him what George Ryder thinks about the Company’s proposals, he says that it makes no difference. Brad’s convinced that Ryder doesn’t have the same feel for Ocean State’s problems that he does.”

  “That doesn’t tell us much,” Fiore said. “Did you try and pin him down on what exactly Ryder was advising?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Once after last week’s meeting and again when I talked to him today. As far as I can tell, Ryder hasn’t warned him that anything he’s pushing for is either outright ridiculous or something the Union would never agree to. He’s only told Brad that what he wants to come out of the negotiations with may be very hard to get. But for God’s sake, that’s just a challenge to Brad in the frame of mind he’s in. If anything, that’s egging him on.”

  Fiore poked at the salad with his fork. “You’re right,” he said.

  “Has Ryder told you what he thinks the Company will have to do for the Union to keep the employees from striking?” she asked.

  “No, Pat, but I haven’t seen him since a week ago Monday. That’s the last time I was in the office. He knows damn well he’s supposed to be keeping a lid on this thing. I told him that I expect him to use his expertise and let Brad know if he’s asking for too much or risking a strike on some proposal the Union would never buy. As soon as I get back in there next week, I’ll find out what the hell’s going on.”

  Pat started to reach for his hand, but remembered where they were, and stopped. Doug caught the movement and they smiled at each other.

  “Trust me,” he said. He was already looking forward to seeing Ryder on Monday.

  36

  “IF NOTHING CHANGES, RICHIE, this campaign could be a breeze.”

  Richie Cardella reached for some nachos and cheese from the large platter sitting on the table. He was sharing the food with Jack Lucas, his campaign manager, and Phil Witts, his best friend, who agreed to handle publicity and media relations. Witts and Cardella were the starting guards on the basketball team for Barrington High School in both their junior and senior years—that’s when his name was still Witkowicz—and they grew closer as the years went by. Their wives became good friends also, as if that were a condition of the two marriages.

  “Murphy’s Law says that something bad will happen, Jack,” Cardella answered.

  They were sitting in Chi-Chi’s Bar & Grille in downtown Providence. It was the same Friday night that Doug Fiore was bringing his two-week road show to a close with several meetings in Woonsocket. Located just two blocks from City Hall, the bar had a fairly regular clientele for the three hours between five and eight o’clock at night. The customers enjoyed the food prepared by Maria Gonsalez, wife of Luis, the owner and bartender. The drinks were honest and priced at the lower end of the scale. Maria chose the name when they purchased the business seven years earlier. She never even hinted to her husband that her first lover, Carlos, was known as Chi-Chi by everyone in their San Juan suburb. By now, Gonsalez was used to everyone calling him by that name.

  It was Cardella’s favorite after-hours watering hole, a place he frequented about twice a week when he needed some transition time between the problems he worked on in the office and the ones he had at home. He and his wife, Anita, weren’t sure whether they had outgrown each other or were both going through a midlife crisis. They had been at each other’s throats for a long time, arguing repeatedly over everything and nothing. Neither of them seemed able to muster enough control to let the things that displeased them just pass without comment. When a truce was declared, they agreed that it would have a better chance of taking hold if, for a while at least, they spoke to each other only when it was necessary.

  The situation was made worse by the fact that Anita’s mother lived with them. She was there more than three years already, ever since her own husband suffered a heart attack shoveling snow and died a week later. He was warned by his doctor at the HMO, as well as by Richie, that it was dangerous for him to be doing that sort of thing at his age. But he continued convincing himself that he had better things to do with twenty-five dollars than pay it to a plow every time snow filled his driveway. Anita’s mother had an advanced form of multiple sclerosis, requiring help from one of them with almost everything she did. Whenever Richie fought with his wife, her mother came into it on Anita’s side. Inevitably, he found himself standing over her wheelchair, telling her to mind her own business and keep out of it.

  At least four months had gone by since Cardella and his wife had sex. Despite the tension, they slept in the same bedroom, in the queen-size bed they purchased at an estate sale just before they got married. It was big enough to let them lie on their own sides, facing away from each other, their bodies not touching. They did it because they knew that if one of them moved into the spare bedroom, Anita’s mother would blab it out to everyone in the family and anyone who came to visit her.

  But it couldn’t continue much longer the way it was. They both knew they had to either get counseling and try to pull the marriage together, or they might as well go their separate ways. He was still virile and was sure Anita missed the sex as much as he did.

  Cardella realized that trying to pick up women in bars was fraught with danger for several reasons. And he was certain that his wife’s strong Catholic upbringing would never let her sleep with any man to whom she wasn’t married. It was ridiculous for them to be wasting away sexually, he thought. But the rift had grown wide enough so that it was still going to take some time, if it happened, before they turned toward each other in bed. Richie could live with the fact that he was going to campaign without Anita at his side. He knew Phil Witts was right when he took the position that there was no sense bringing the matter to a head right now. It wouldn’t help to have word of an impending divorce get into the newspapers just before the election.

  Lucas finished his beer and called out to the waitress who was standing at the end of the bar, across from their table. He held up the empty bottle for her to see.

  “You want a round?” she asked.

  Lucas didn’t bother to check with the others. “You got it,” he answered. He smiled at Cardella and Witts. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see going up against Bruce Singer in the primary than June Bates,” he said. “She’s perfect. She won’t beat him, but she’ll cut him to ribbons in the next five months. Singer will bleed, believe me when I say that. Then, when it’s you against him, the women’s vote will go to you, Richie. I love it.”

  Bates announced her candidacy that morning, and used the occasion in front of the TV cameras to lob her first bomb against Singer. She was serving her sixth term as a State representati
ve from Warwick. Her name was invariably in the forefront on legislation that involved the rights of women and other minorities. She and Singer won their seats in the House as democrats in the same year, but were never particularly friendly toward each other. They served together on a few committees, and she thought of him as a humorless lawyer who couldn’t restrain himself from lecturing everyone whenever he spoke. For his part, Singer saw this former real estate broker as a woman with much more vim than vision.

  During the years in which Singer was lieutenant governor, Bates had several run-ins with him. She felt that he ignored her calls to speak in support of certain issues—both to the governor, whose ear she assumed he had, and in public appearances—because he refused to take her seriously. “That hypocrite keeps putting me down,” she told her husband a number of times. “As far as he’s concerned, nothing’s important unless he’s all for it. Some day I’m going to get even with him.”

  As soon as Singer declared his intention to run for governor, Bates began soliciting her colleagues in the House to see how much support she could get if she opposed him. She also did a lot of telephoning to find out what kind of financial help to expect from women’s groups throughout the State. The results in each case weren’t overwhelming. Still, they were good enough to persuade her that she could put up a decent fight against him. The bonus was in having a terrific forum in which to get attention for the issues she championed. The exposure would give her a golden opportunity to move them into the public’s awareness.

  Bates knew that elections were unpredictable events. Thousands of votes could ride on one wrong answer, one impolite remark, or a single inexplicable goof. Who knows? she told herself, maybe Singer will do something stupid and hand me a victory. After all, she thought, if a nobody like McGurty who sold automobiles could beat him in a primary, Singer was far from invincible.