Phillip Wallander another first term member of the House leaned across the aisle and motioned me over. Wallander was the newly elected representative from a Bucks County district that bordered Philadelphia. He was a Republican who often found himself at odds with his own caucus because of his district’s proximity to the big city. Phil was the son of a prominent republican dynasty in his county. He was ticketed for bigger and grander elective office in the state, or even beyond. He looked the part, he was drop dead handsome. He looked like a movie star, like a young Robert Redford.
Ordinarily I would hate a guy like Phil, but it was impossible not to like him. He was like one of the fraternity brothers in the movie ‘Animal House’, not the Omegas, the Deltas. Phil loved to joke around, and never took either himself or his position seriously.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Repairing to my lonely room at the Hawthorne Suites and returning the calls Carlota tells me I must. You know the normal stuff.”
“You got to be kidding me. This town is going nuts. Bob Worthington is throwing a bash at the Hideaway. Even a stiff like the Honorable Marty McKorkle, the horniest guy from Elk County,” he gestured to the dais where McKorkle was still droning, “can get laid. Between the reporters and the usual talent you have to be a total loser not to get lucky this session.”
“I am not one of Worthington’s favorites. I think I’m on the NRA’s shoot to kill list. Besides, I just don’t go in for that kind of thing.”
Wallander looked at me as if I had two heads.
“OK, but you’ll be missing quite a show. If you change your mind the party’s at the Hideaway it’s off Route 281.”
“Thanks Phil.”
“We saw you on TV. Who’s the speaker, and why are you going to support the governor’s budget?”
“Bobby, it’s a long story. I’ll explain it to you when you and Mommy come up this weekend. OK?”
“OK, we miss you. Toto too.”
“I miss you too honey. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night.”
I had only been away for three nights and I could already feel the walls of my room closing in on me. The republicans were threatening to filibuster in the senate and shut down the state if a compromise was not worked out. The problem, of course, was that a compromise required both sides to come up with positions that could be melded into a solution. So far all the republicans came up with is “No” and nothing else. As the speaker said, “This bargaining against yourself is like masturbation. When you’re finished you got nothing but your you-know-what in your hands.” The speaker had a way with words.
I was half listening to David Letterman’s monologue when the phone rang. I hated late night telephone calls. Was something wrong at home? Were Nicky and Bobby OK?
I picked up before the second ring.
“Bernie?”
“Phil?” It sounded like a very stoned Philip Wallander. “You all right?”
“Yeah man. I’m cool. Think I had a little too much to drink.” He was slurring his words. I wondered how Wallander had dialed my number.
“I was wonderin, if you could do me a favor and come get me.”
“It’s almost mid-night. Why don’t you just ask them to get you a taxi?”
“Come on man. I do that and it’s all over the news tomorrow. C’mon. Do me a solid. I’m at the Hideaway, it’s only 5 miles from your place. Whadda you say?”
Christ, just what I needed, to baby sit a drunk.
“OK, I’ll be there as quick as I can. Get some coffee or something to sober up and wait for me at the bar. OK?”
“Bernie, you’re the best man. Even though you’re one of those tax and spend democrat big city…well you know what the fuck you are.”
The NRA bash at the Hideaway was kicking into full gear by the time I arrived. The place was wall to wall with politicians and hangers on. The women, who outnumbered the men two to one, were all over the place. There were several of my fellow legislators among the throng. This was definitely not my scene.
I made my way to the bar in search of Wallander. I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. I caught the bartender’s eye.
“Get you something?” he asked
“No thanks, I’m looking for Phil Wallander, do you know him?”
He nodded.
“I’m his designated driver. Have you seen him?”
“Yeah, he left about 5 minutes ago.”
The bartender could tell from my reaction that I was pissed.
“Hey Pal, his ride was a lot better looking than you. What can you do?”
I nodded and turned to leave. A beautiful young woman put her arms around me.
“There you are. I thought you’d never get here.” She said as she kissed me.
Before I could say anything she whispered in my ear. “I’m sorry, but that man over there would not leave me alone. I told him I was waiting for my fiancée.”
I looked behind her. It was McKorkle.
“Let’s go home,” she said and took my hand and led me past the Representative from Elk County who gave me the hard stare as we left the bar.
Once we were outside, she turned.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she blushed. “I didn’t know what to do. He was so insistent. When I saw you standing alone at the bar, I just…Well, you looked like I could trust you.”
She was one of those natural beauties. Her hair was dark almost black, cut short, big blue eyes generous lips, not a hint of make-up.
“I’m Samantha Binnager,” she held out her hand.
“Bernie Green.” I shook her hand, and felt the heat like an electric current.
“Bernie, thank you again.”
“You’re welcome. Well good night.”
As I turned to leave she said.
“Do you believe it, there’s not a taxi in sight. My cell phone went dead. I’d go back in there but Mr. Happy Hands. Well you know. Look, I know this is asking a lot, but could you give me a lift? I’m staying at a hotel near here. I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She blushed.
I couldn’t just leave her there, I thought as we stared at one another for an awkward moment.
“Sure. As a matter of fact, I came here to drive a buddy home and he left.”
She hugged me again. “Thank you so much.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Thanks For The Ride
Wallander was a no show at the morning session. I was still pissed off and wanted to give him a piece of my mind. As I half listened to the debate over the budget, I thought about the events of the previous night. What had happened to Wallander? He had never struck me as the kind of person who would call for help and then bailout without at least trying to contact you. And then there was the inexplicable incident with the beautiful and mysterious Samantha Binnager.
I could not reconcile her explanation that she needed me to rescue her from the insistent and unwelcome advances of an over ardent pursuer, with the otherwise competent manner with which she carried herself. She told me she worked for a firm that did the polling for the NRA and that this was her first trip to the state capitol. She claimed she had no idea the party at the Hideaway was going to be so wild. I found it hard to accept that she could be quite that naïve. When I dropped her off at her hotel she offered to buy me a drink for my trouble. I declined. We shook hands goodbye and once again I felt a jolt of electricity.
I really missed Nicky and cursed the republicans again for prolonging my stay in Harrisburg. The budget battle was becoming uglier by the moment. The governor was adamant that he would call in the National Guard if necessary to keep the legislators in the state capitol until a budget was passed. The speaker ordered the sergeant at arms to move cots into the capitol building in the event of all night sessions. The whole scene was beginning to resemble a Monty Python episode, like the Ministry of Silly Walks.
Wallander finally showed up for the afternoon session. He looked like he had been in a bar room brawl.
“What the hel
l happened to you?” I asked.
“Don’t ask. And thanks for driving me home last night.”
“Phil, I didn’t drive you home.”
“You didn’t? Man, I must have been really hammered. Didn’t I call you?”
“Yeah, and I hauled over to the Hideaway. The bartender told me you left with someone who he described as a lot better looking than me. I figured you let little Phil take control of the situation.”
“Man, I am really sorry. I must have passed out. I don’t remember anything after I spoke to you.”
“What happened to your eye?” Wallander was wearing sunglasses but they did not fully hide the shiner.
“I don’t know. I woke up in my room with the worst hangover I ever had in my life.”
As much as I wanted to unload on Wallander, I could see that he was really contrite.
“Go drink some water, lots of water. You’re dehydrated. Whatever you were drinking shrunk your brain. That’s why you have a head ache.”
“No shit?”
“Honest.”
“How’d you know that?”
“One night an old friend of mine, Jack Collins, insisted I have a few pints with him. I told him Jews couldn’t drink. He didn’t believe me, until I gave him a complete demonstration, including hugging the porcelain goddess. It was only then that he told me all about the evils of drink; the curse of the Irish he called it.”
“So, who drove you to your hotel?”
“I’m not sure. Last thing I remember is having a cup of coffee and some girl sat down next to me. I think her name was Mona, or Monica, or something. I was waiting for you. Maybe she drove me back. Now, I don’t know where my truck is. It wasn’t in the parking lot of my hotel, or on the street. I went back to the Hideaway this morning; it wasn’t there either.”
“Maybe it got towed. Did you call the police?”
“Not yet. I was hoping you drove me to my hotel and took care of it. Besides, I was afraid that if I contacted the police it would get back to my wife, and I would have to tell her about Mona, or Monica, or whoever.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t try to drive yourself back to the hotel. The last thing you need is to get caught driving under the influence.”
“Yeah; it’s a good thing.” he agreed.
We listened to the debate. The rhetoric got hotter by the speaker, but there was no substance to the discussion. I found myself fighting to stay awake. I glanced at the newspaper. The front-page story about a fatal hit and run accident in downtown Harrisburg caught my attention.
Phil was sleeping quietly. I reached across the aisle and nudged him awake. “What kind of truck do you drive?”
“An old suburban, you know with the wood panels. Why?”
“Look at this.” I handed him the newspaper and pointed to the article about the fatal hit and run. “Look at the description of the vehicle that was observed leaving the scene.”
“Holy shit!”
It was an old suburban with wood panels.
“You have to contact the police. You got to tell them what happened last night, and that your truck is missing. Are you going to call them?”
Wallander looked pale, like he was about to pass out.
“Are you OK?”
He nodded.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call my dad. He’ll know how to handle this.”
“Phil, I think that’s a bad idea. Call the police.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I think I need to speak with my father,” he said and walked out of the chamber.
Wallander’s father, Phillip Wallander, Junior, former Bucks County District Attorney, retired Common Pleas Court Judge, was a heavy weight in the state republican party. The way I saw it the police might perceive Phil’s calling in his father as an attempt to cover-up his involvement in the accident. If Phil was not driving the vehicle, the fact that his truck was involved, if it was his truck, would be embarrassing and newsworthy, but had no further implications. Of course, if Phil’s story was bullshit, and he was driving the vehicle, well that was a serious problem.
Even though his story was troubling, Wallander just did not strike me as the kind of person who would leave the scene of an accident. Could I be that bad a judge of character?
When the afternoon session had adjourned, I checked my emails. I had the routine messages from Carlota and Mike Zeebooker alerting me to the events back at home, and instructions regarding who needed to be contacted and what to tell them. I had a message from Nicky, and five voicemail messages. Four of them were from a frantic sounding Wallander, and one was from Samantha Binnager, thanking me again for rescuing her and suggesting that we meet for a drink. While it was gratifying to receive such a message, since my cell phone number was unlisted, and I had not given her the number, I wondered how she got it.
As always, my priority was to call my wife.
“Honey what time are you and Bobby planning on arriving on Saturday?”
“Bernie, Bobby’s got some kind of a bug that’s going around. I don’t think we’re going to be able to make it there.”
“Is she all right? I’ll drive home right now.”
“She’ll be fine. Half of her class has the same symptoms. I took her to the pediatrician; he said it’s nothing serious.”
“I’m homesick. I miss you so much.”
“Poor baby; we miss you too; especially…Toto.”
“Thanks.”
“You know I was only teasing. Do you realize that since we’ve been living together, this is the first time we’ve been apart? I miss you very much.”
“OK. Give Bobby a kiss for me.”
“Phil, you ok?”
“Thanks for calling me back. I need to talk to you. Can we meet somewhere?”
“Did you contact the Police?”
“I’ll tell you everything when we get together. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks across the street from your hotel in say 15 minutes. Ok?”
“Sure.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
How About a Misto?
I had never been in a Starbucks. I don’t know why, but for some reason I found them intimidating; probably because they were so hip, and I was not. More likely, I couldn’t see spending $3 or $4 for a cup of coffee. Anyway, when I got to the Starbucks across the street from my hotel, Phil hadn’t arrived so I figured I’d better order something before the staff threw me out for loitering without caffeine, or violating some other Starbucks custom.
“Can I help you?” a young woman wearing a green smock with ‘Barrista’ stitched across her pocket and a way too happy manner, asked as I stood at the counter trying to decipher the poster above her head.
“I’d like a cup of coffee Miss.”
“Most people who come here do. Do you know what kind you want?”
I studied the list of offerings on the wall behind the young woman. “What’s a mocha latte with steamed milk?”
“It’s espresso. It’s very good.”
“Espresso, I don’t know, sounds a bit intense for me.”
“How about a Misto I bet you’ll find that more to your liking.”
“A Misto?”
“Yeah, it’s just like the latte but dialed down a little.”
“OK.”
The young woman yelled a stream of directions to her assistant; I could only make out “that will be $3.95, sir.”
I handed her a $5 dollar bill and she smiled when I put the change in the tip box.
“You can wait over there” she pointed to the end of the counter where there was a sign that read, “Pick Up Orders Here, You Idiot!” except for the ‘you idiot’ part. While I waited I suspected the staff was saying insulting things about me in coffee code.
“Tall Misto!” another person with “Barrista” on her smock yelled out as she placed a cup on the counter. I assumed the two young women were sisters.
“Sir,” the first of the Barrista sisters said. “That’s your
coffee.”
I picked up the cup and hot liquid oozed out of the top of the container burning my hand. So far my first experience at a Starbucks was turning out to be a disaster.
I grabbed a handful of napkins and looked for a place to sit. Just then, Phil came in. “Bernie, I’ll grab a cup and join you.”
Phil spoke in code to one of the Barrista sisters with the ease of a veteran Starbucker and made his way to where I was sitting.
“Bernie thanks for meeting me,” he looked especially tense as he sat down.
“No problem. I figured if you stood me up again, I could get a cup of coffee. At least, that’s what I think this is.” My attempt to lighten Wallander’s mood had no apparent effect.
Wallander bought some time as he took a sip of his coffee and stared out the window.
“I don’t know what to do.” He was still looking at the street as he spoke.
“Did you contact the police?”
He shook his head.
“Phil, if the vehicle involved in the hit and run was your Suburban, the police will trace it to you. I don’t think you want to wait much longer.”
“I know. But my father told me to sit tight until he retains local counsel for me,” he finally turned to face me. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
I didn’t know how to respond. If Wallander had told me the truth, retaining an attorney was unnecessary, or at minimum premature. On the other hand, his story about passing out and not knowing what had happened was awfully thin.
“It’s not up to me. How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “It’s just that my dad was so adamant that I have an attorney. He said the police and the media are always looking to nail politicians. He told me there’s no way I’d get a fair shake. They’d think I made it up.”
To buy some time I took a sip of my Misto. It was so hot I burned my tongue; Christ they must brew this stuff in a blast furnace!
When I was finally able to speak I said, “Look, your father has a point, but, if you walk into a police station all lawyered up, they may think you’re trying to hide something right off the bat.”
The Pa-la-ti-'shan Page 17
