THE PA-LA-TI-’SHAN
A Novel
Neal Goldstein
Copyright © 2013 Neal Goldstein
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1493748661
ISBN 13: 9781493748662
POLITICIAN noun /pa – la – ‘ti – shan/
Definition of Politician
1: a person experienced in the art or science of government; especially: one actively engaged in conducting the business of government
2 a: a person engaged in party politics as a profession
b: a person primarily interested in political office for selfish or other narrow usually shortsighted reasons
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
Alternative Definition of Politician
People that should never, ever be trusted under any circumstances
Anonymous
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE: Rotten Bestards
CHAPTER TWO: He Never Worked Here
CHAPTER THREE: Politics and Pussy
CHAPTER FOUR: The Tin Angel Tomorrow Night
CHAPTER FIVE: The Honorable Anthony A. Cinaglia
CHAPTER SIX: Don't Wait too Long
CHAPTER SEVEN: You Always Had a Nose For Beautiful Women
CHAPTER EIGHT: Who The Hells Is Dan Gross?
CHAPTER NINE: Send Lawyers, Guns and Money
CHAPTER TEN: That's A Very Brave Thing You Did
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Who's Roscoe Smith?
CHAPTER TWELVE: That Only Happens in the Movies
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: That's A Really Big Box
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Everyone Has A Past
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: So Now It Was Official
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: It's A Good News Bad News Thing
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: The Brinkley Smoot Box
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: You've Got A Real FUTURE In This Game
CHAPTER NINETEEN: One Hundred and Thirteen Counts
CHAPTER TWENTY: The Bris
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: Ashburn Alley
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: Oh What A Night
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: Major Miller
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: Mazel Tov
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE: I Do Solemnly Swear
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: The Harrisburg 7
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN: Don't Ever Do That Again
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT: Nicky's Baby
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: Keeping My Powder Dry
CHAPTER THIRTY: Conflict of Interest
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: Major Miller's Story
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO: But You Told Me My Mommy Died
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE: Congratulations Dad
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR: The Good Samaritan
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE: Toto
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: The Battle of the Budget and Other Things
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN: Thanks For The Ride
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: How About a Misto?
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE: Samantha Binnager
CHAPTER FORTY: The Dirty Low Down
CHAPTER FORTY ONE: You've Been Served
CHAPTER FORTY TWO: Time To Move On
CHAPTER FORTY THREE: Jack Collins Returns!
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR: The Tale Of the Skunk
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE: The Dunlap Holding Group Connection
CHAPTER FORTY SIX: Green For The Defense
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN: The Top 5
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT: The Fishtown Casino
CHAPTER FORTY NINE: The Wallander Trigal Begins
CHAPTER FIFTY: One Question Too Many
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE: The Grand Jury
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO: A Waste of Time
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE: Toto the Wonder Dog
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR: No Random Drive By
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE: Under The Influence
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX: Not Guilty
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN: Bernie's Story
CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT: Grow a Set of Balls
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE: According To Dan Gross
CHAPTER SIXTY: Conrad, Worthington and Samantha Binnager
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE: Court Reconvenes
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO: There's Been a Development
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE: You've Been Subpoenaed (Again)
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR: Blackburn's Full Of Shite
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE: Recsss
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX: Judge Peskin's Chambers
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN: Samantha Binnager Returns
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT: Anthony A. Cinaglia Redux
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE: Mr. White
CHAPTER SEVENTY: Did You Think You Could Just Walk Away?
CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE: The Top of the Hill Motel
CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO: But I'm Not Qualified
CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE: Please Step Back
CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR: There's Been a Major Development
CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE: A Multi-Million Dollars Heiress
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX: Two Phone Calls
CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN: Boy Scout's Honor
CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT: The Campaign Appearance
CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE: The Rest of Major Miller’s Story
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
CHAPTER ONE
Rotten Bastards
APRIL 2008
I could feel Zeebooker standing behind me as I pretended to study something on my monitor screen. I should have known better. I could never outlast Zeebooker. He would stand there until his bladder burst before he would abandon his mission.
“What?” I surrendered to the inevitable, in grudging recognition that it was easier to let him tell me whatever it was that he was fixated on instead of trying to wait him out.
“Did you ever notice that people never call someone a bastard without a qualifying adjective, like stupid, or lazy?”
“What?”
“You know, like, ‘sick bastard’, or ‘fat bastard’, or ‘silly…’”
“Stop! Book, what the hell are you talking about? I mean, where are you going with this?”
“I’m just saying, no one just says, ‘You bastard’ anymore.”
I had over the years grown accustomed to my colleague’s off the wall observations but a riff on ‘bastards’ really? Mike Zeebooker was, in a word, weird. If you were into labels and diagnoses, like everyone seems to be these days, you’d probably consider him to be a candidate for Aspergers, or something more nefarious like borderline psychotic. But as far as I could tell he was completely harmless and just plain weird.
Zeebooker was our resident techno geek. You know the guy who fixed the computers, copiers and fax machines. He fit the description to the tee. It was like he had been sent from central casting, complete with horn-rimmed glasses with super thick lenses that magnified his eyes. The only thing missing is the pocket protector with assorted color pens.
“I really don’t know, and don’t care why people qualify their bastards. Maybe there’s a good explanation for it. But, to tell you the truth, I never gave it any thought, one way or another.”
He looked at me through his coke bottle lenses with no obvious sign of having heard my response. I realized too late that my past attempts to deal with him in a rational manner only encouraged exchanges like this. As the saying goes, “No good deed goes unpunished.” It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. It was just that sometimes Zeebooker didn’t quite grasp that he wasn’t the only person who needed my immediate attention.
I’m Bernard Green. Zeebooker and me, along with about twenty of our coworkers are ‘Constituent Services Representatives’, a fancy title for low level civil servants who field citizen complaints that elected officials are too important, or perhaps too lazy to handle. We work for the Governor of Pennsylv
ania at one of his regional offices. Our region covers the southeast part of the Commonwealth, what we call a state around here. Since our office is located in the Philadelphia State Office Building, six miles from the Governor’s home, the Honorable Ernest P. Slattery is often in residence here instead of at the Governor’s Mansion in Harrisburg, the state capitol, where he is supposed to reside during his term in office.
“Listen to me, the Gov’s here today. I don’t think we should be talking about bastards, regardless of their qualification. I would especially be careful about using the term “fat bastard” since the governor is often referred to in that manner,” I tried in vain to get Zeebooker to drop it.
“That’s what I mean. Everyone knows the governor’s a bastard. Calling him a fat bastard is unnecessary.”
“For Christ’s sake would you keep it down, Earl’s here too; he has supernatural ears. He’ll hear you and rat you out.”
Earl Samson, the Governor’s Chief of Staff, was a pompous, self-serving jerk who never missed an opportunity to remind the staff of his authority, in other words, he was a real prick. Samson got off by firing people, just to show everyone who was really running the state. Samson especially hated the Philadelphia office staff because he lived in Harrisburg and thought the Governor should actually govern from the state capitol. Samson never missed an opportunity to take out his frustration over the governor’s preference for Philly on the staff, which was extremely unfair since we had no say whatsoever in where the governor chose to spend his time.
The Governor considered Harrisburg a sleepy backwater town, too far from the action in Philly and way too far from the casinos in Atlantic City. Slattery would come up with the flimsiest excuses to stay in town and make Samson drive 90 miles from the state capitol to do his bidding. The media market in Harrisburg simply could not compete with the spotlight in Philadelphia and its proximity to New York and Washington DC, the next destination on the Ernie Slattery ‘Next Leader of the Free World Express.’ Slattery also had a jones for the more sophisticated ladies in the big cities.
“We can talk about this some other time, don’t ya think?”
“But you’re the one who told me not to let the bastards get away with anything.”
“Yeah, I know, but do we have to talk about this right now. After all, we’ve got the people’s work to do and if we don’t do it no one else will.” I often resorted to clichés to keep Zeebooker on task.
“Zeebooker’s right,” this from Harry Barlesky who occupied the cubicle next to mine. Barlesky was a shit stirrer and a total screw-up.
“Barlesky why don’t you mind your own business and go back to whatever it was you were doing instead of your job.” I hated the way Barlesky tormented Zeebooker. Barlesky was an untouchable in the office, which meant he hardly showed up to work and when he did, had no real work to do, and yet managed to mess up the handful of assignments he had been given leaving the clean up to the rest of the staff. However, since his uncle was one of the Governor’s major contributors he got away with stealing his pay check and suffered no consequences whatsoever.
“Bernie, the Governor needs to see you,” Nicky Miller, the Governor’s secretary appeared like an angel from heaven to save me from the madness.
Nicole Miller was spectacularly beautiful. She was the all-American girl, a.k.a. shiksa, Jewish boys like me fantasize about. She was tall and blond, with a perfect body. She had crazy green eyes that melted you when she cast them your way. I was so intimidated by her I didn’t even bother to make eye contact when she addressed me.
“Thanks, Nicky, I’ll be right over,” I looked up from my desk and stole a glance, “You know, you could have called me on the intercom. You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”
“I know,” she smiled at me as she turned to walk back to her office.
“Nicky, why don’t you ever come over to tell me when the Governor needs to see me,” Barlesky whined.
She stopped, turned and gave him a withering glance. “Ah, that would be because the Governor never wants to see you,” she said and winked at me as she walked away.
“The Governor’s beckoning. I’ve got to go. Are you cool?” I asked Zeebooker.
He nodded and said, “I think Nicky likes you.”
I blushed at the thought, “Nah, she’s way out of my league. OK, now go back to work and don’t listen to that rotten bastard,” I pointed at Barlesky who was still smarting over Nicole’s put down.
Zeebooker smiled triumphantly as he retreated to his cubicle.
As I made my way to the governor’s office I worried about my impending audience with the boss. In my experience being summoned by the governor was akin to being told to report to the principal’s office, it could only lead to expulsion, suspension, or trouble of some kind. In my few direct exchanges with Slattery I had concluded that the governor was without a doubt the most egocentric person I had ever encountered. It was always about the governor and usually the other person involved, in this case me, would be exposed to consequences or peril that the governor wanted to evade. In short, I was entering a zone of danger and needed to be wary of even the most innocuous of requests the governor may ask of me. Actually, the governor never requested assistance, he issued directives that subordinates like me were required to graciously perform. I would be the fall guy, the patsy. I would be the one to take the hit if things went awry. I searched my memory for recent developments in the news to prepare for the meeting. I realized that I was being paranoid, but sometimes even Zeebooker was right, the rotten bastards were out to get you!
CHAPTER TWO
He Never Worked Here
The Governor’s Regional Office occupied the entire top floor of the Philadelphia State Office Building. The building was an architectural disaster. It had been built in the 1950s, a neo modern monstrosity plunked down on North Broad Street with no regard for its surroundings, an insult to the neighborhood. The building looked like an elongated boat on stilts. The slipshod construction, combined with the absurd design resulted in a building that just didn’t work.
The structure’s limited access and inadequate elevators caused daily bottlenecks in the lobby as workers and citizens attempted to enter and exit the building at the same time. If you actually made it in, your destination was certain to be cold and drafty in the winter, or hot and smelly in the summer.
The Governor’s suite took up one half of the 14th floor on the opposite side of the building from the staff’s cubicles where the CS reps manned our stations. Nicky motioned me in the direction of the Governor’s private office when I entered the suite. “Go right in,” she flashed me a brilliant smile. It was the kind of smile that made you feel special, like she was genuinely happy to see you. I knew it was Nicky’s thing, but it melted me every time she flashed one in my direction anyway.
I knocked and opened the door; the governor looked up and waved me in. Slattery was sitting at his desk, speaking on the telephone. His Chief of Staff was standing behind the Governor with his arms folded across his chest listening to one half of the conversation. Samson looked especially toxic this morning.
“Listen, you tell that greedy bastard I’ll tear his balls off and stuff them up his fat ass, if he tries that,” I could hear whiney noises from the unknown speaker on the other end of the line. The governor smiled, “That’s right. Remind him we have artwork on that perve son of his. He doesn’t want Earl to… well you know.”
The governor listened for a moment, turned and winked at Samson. “Good, keep in touch,” and he hung up the phone.
“Just like I told you Earl, no problem,” Samson unfolded his arms but retained his poisonous grimace leaving me to consider that perhaps Samson was merely constipated.
The governor turned back to me and said, “Bernie, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair directly in front of his desk.
“I hate this job,” he began, obviously still on a high from his telephone conversation with the unknown victim of his ire. “I wish that o
ld bastard Senator Spellman would take his dirt nap so that I can appoint myself to serve the remainder of his term and leave this shit to the lieutenant governor.” He paused, smirked and said, “That stupid bastard would brown his pants if he had to take over.”
I was suddenly aware of the governor’s use of colorful adjectives to describe his bastards, perhaps Mike Zeebooker was on to something after all.
“Earl, how old is that son of a bitch Spellman?”
“He’s 82 he’ll be 83 next month.”
“Remind me to send him a gift. Maybe we can send him one of the girls from that titty bar on Delaware Avenue, you know, Delilah’s Den. She could go down on the old boy and maybe he would stroke out. I bet he hasn’t had a piece of strange since his wife moved in with him in DC.
Bernie, do you have any idea what a tit job United States Senators have? I mean, they don’t do jack shit! Look, even a vegetable like, what’s her name, the Senator from Mississippi,” he turned and asked Samson.
“Lizzie Poole.”
“Yeah Poole, who hadn’t set so much as a foot in Mississippi after the age of 5, can show up out of the blue and get elected senator. Christ, I don’t think she’s even been in that fucking state a dozen times since those rubes elected her. Can you imagine that? And, do you have any idea what a fuck up you have to be to get turned out of office once you hit the senator lottery?” The governor was on a roll.
“Bernie, have you heard from Jack Collins?” As was his custom, the governor often changed topics with rapid speed.
“No sir. I haven’t had any contact with Jack since he stopped working here.”
“He never worked here,” Samson interjected.
I looked at him.
“Well, what Earl means is that Jack was never an employee of the Commonwealth. So technically he never worked here,” the governor gave me one of his patented campaign smiles.
Jack Collins sat in the cubicle next to me for most of the time I worked in the Governor’s Regional Office. I was never exactly clear on Jack’s assignments. Collins was like a CIA operative, always talking on his telephone in a hushed tone. Even though I had no idea what Collins did, I knew he had been employed by the governor because he had been issued a paycheck every other week like the rest of the staff. Now the governor was claiming Collins had never been on the state’s payroll, so who actually employed Collins and what exactly was his role?
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