Election Day: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  “And totally bored out of my mind at Sheldrake Associates.”

  Susan had witnessed this mood many times over the course of their relationship. Harry was a man of action, and when he wasn’t in on the action he was not at all happy. She said, “Aren’t there any exciting investigations going on at Sheldrake’s?”

  “Some may think that, if your idea of exciting is ten guys working on an embezzlement case, or tailing some guy to catch him screwing someone other than his wife, or providing bodyguards to rich, obnoxious jerks.”

  “In other words, unless some terrorist is shooting at you, there’s no more fun in your life?”

  Harry smiled and said, “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Well then, stop griping and wallowing in the past and do something about it. Do something exciting that doesn’t involve gunfights at the OK Corral.”

  “I would if I could, but there’s nothing left. Remember when Pop Hunter reached retirement age and hated it?”

  “Of course, and then he wiggled his way back in and the Romen terrorists killed him.”

  “Better than dying in the nursing home, as I’m sure Pop would have agreed.”

  “So nothing comes to mind that you can busy yourself with to get some action into your life?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “You could go to law school.”

  “This is a déjà vu, Susan. Didn’t we have this discussion when I was forced out of the commissioner’s job?”

  “Yes, we did. And, if I remember correctly, you said two lawyers in the family were enough.”

  “Yes, you and Lizzy. And Lizzy is now an FBI agent.”

  “But being a lawyer is a step toward joining a prosecutor’s office and going after the bad guys once more.”

  “It’s a thought, I guess. What else do you have in mind?”

  “How about trying to get your old job back?”

  “Police commissioner? Not possible. This mayor is anti-cop. Charlie Carson told me he’s thinking of resigning as PC. If he does, Mayor Asshole won’t ever consider me. Charlie and I think exactly alike.”

  “Why would Carson resign?”

  “He’s getting absolutely no support from the Mayor. They haven’t hired a rookie class is over a year and the experienced guys are getting out as soon as their twenty years are in.”

  “Why is the Mayor doing this?”

  “To support his liberal agenda. He needs more city money to give away to the takers, so he can get re-elected. And one of his targets to get that money from is the NYMPD. Charlie Carson heard that the Mayor’s budget team is working on a secret proposal to close thirty to forty percent of the precincts and let the Force reduce itself by attrition from 36,000 to 29,000 officers.”

  “And in your professional opinion, ex-commissioner Cassidy, what would be the result of something like that?”

  “Disaster. Crime will shoot up. The squeegee guys will be back in droves. The streets will be unsafe to walk after dark – maybe even during daylight. But worst of all, the terrorists of the world will sit up, take notice and begin to salivate.”

  “Well, there’s your answer. There’s your call to action, my dear husband, Go do it!”

  “Do what?”

  “Run for Mayor, of course. Mount your white stallion Hopalong Cassidy and save our fair city once more.”

  “That would be the last thing I’d want to do with my life. I despise politicians and the political process.”

  “You didn’t despise your former boss, ex-Mayor Phil MacDonald.”

  “No, but he was the exception.”

  “Why not go talk to him? Maybe he wants to run again. Then he can put you back in the police commissioner’s job if he wins.”

  “I wouldn’t want to force Charlie Carson out. I don’t want the job that bad.”

  “Then just what do you want? You are becoming exasperating.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll talk to Phil. Maybe he can point me in the right direction.”

  Chapter Two

  Harry’s call to Phil MacDonald resulted in an invitation to lunch the next day at Phil’s private club – the Winchester – on East 53rd Street. When Harry arrived promptly at one o’clock he was escorted by a smiling, silver-haired uniformed attendant resplendent in burgundy and brass, through the dark-paneled dining room to a corner booth where a smiling Phil rose up to shake his hand enthusiastically. Harry noticed a lo-ball glass on his place mat, and Phil motioned for him to pick up what Harry already knew was a scotch on the rocks. They tapped glasses and sipped a taste and Harry said, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Mayor.”

  “And you too, Harry. How are things going with you and your lovely wife, Susan?”

  “Family and health are fine. And you and yours?”

  “Everything is okay on the home front, but both the commercial and residential real estate markets in our fair city have seen better days.”

  “But not bad enough to stop drinking Blue Label scotch,” he said as he smiled and took another sip of his drink.

  “No, and thank God for that. Do you remember the first time we met?”

  “I believe it was at this very same table, about seven years ago.”

  “And I couldn’t convince you to upgrade from Black Label to the expensive Blue Label scotch, even though I was buying.”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s why I signed with you and Sheldrake Associates to provide my personal protection – because you had character.”

  “Is that why you made me police commissioner, too?”

  “Partly, but mostly because you were obviously the best man for the job. And you did it wonderfully.”

  “But I was only as good as the Mayor who supported me all the way.”

  “Now that we both patted each other on the back and wallowed in our good old days, what is your real purpose in meeting with me?”

  “Can we do it again, Phil? Can we have the good old days back again?”

  “If you mean me running for Mayor again, and winning, and putting you back in the PC seat, the answer is a definite no.”

  “You don’t think you can beat Stanley Miller?”

  “No, he won three years ago because the economy was tanking and the electorate was blaming it on me.”

  “But the economy is worse now.”

  “Don’t I know it, but the people don’t seem to know it. Miller has seen to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has handed out the freebies – paid sick leave, free pre-K for all children, higher welfare payments, and increased rent subsidies in record amounts. Paid for, by the way, by higher income taxes on the rich people, like yours truly. No, Harry, the people will never vote the munificent Mayor Miller – their Santa Claus – out of office.”

  “Yeah, I know some of that, but you paint a very depressing picture. And if you think you can’t win, then I certainly can’t win.”

  “What?”

  “Susan suggested I stop complaining and run for Mayor.”

  “What are you complaining about? You said everything is going fine, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m bored out of my mind. Do you know I arrested a pickpocket duo on the subway yesterday? And I haven’t felt so good – and so useful – since we wrapped up the Apostle Peter and the Romans.”

  “Oh, I read about your little escapade in the papers and saw it all over the TV. I was wondering when you would bring it up. I get it. The old beat cop refuses to die.”

  Harry laughed and said, “Not that a lot of bastards haven’t tried.”

  “Do what I’m going to do – leave New York.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Harry, New York City is in the hands of the receivers and shylocks, as you police types like to say. So is the state. I’m selling as much property as I can and moving all my assets to an income tax free state. I’m not going to give over half my hard-earned money to the politicians, so they can re-distribute it to the undeserving leaches of so
ciety.”

  “Wow!” Harry exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see you bail out, but I’m not going to second guess you, or disagree with you.”

  “You can’t, because I’m right about this and like I said, you should do the same.”

  “I don’t have as much to lose as you by staying, but you’re giving me something to think about. Where are you going to relocate?”

  “Either Florida, Texas, Wyoming or Nevada. And there are hundreds doing as I am doing. The exodus has begun from New York, New Jersey, California, Massachusetts and a few others. Pretty soon the politicians will have no more fat cats to squeeze more money out of, and if they do many of us are prepared to leave the country permanently and take our dough with us. ”

  They finished their sliced steak lunch in silence and went into the cigar lounge for an after-dinner brandy. “Phil, what do you suggest for me if I pick up stakes, too?”

  “Move to a red state – one with a large Republican majority. Run for sheriff in a populous county, or for police chief in a large city when an opening arises. Your experience will be invaluable, and I’m certain you will have a high degree of job satisfaction.”

  “I’ll give serious thought to everything you said, old friend, but I don’t believe I’m ready to throw in the towel just yet.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “I’m very close to sixty, and I know I look older…”

  “You look fine, Phil…”

  “Don’t bullshit me. This whole economy, and the way our great nation is heading rapidly toward socialism and a complete take over by the government of every facet of our lives, has taken its toll on me over the past few years. And I know it shows on my face.”

  Harry remained silent, a bit shocked at his former boss’s sour outlook on life, but Phil was right about one thing. He looked awful and the worry lines in his face and his receding and thinning gray hair were more indicative of a man ten years older.

  Phil smiled and said, “But you still look great. Six-foot two, eyes of blue, no excess weight. Probably the same as when you walked the beat thirty years ago. Well, some gray in that head of brown hair, only a couple of wrinkles in that handsome face…”

  “I’m fifteen pounds heavier, my joints hurt when it rains, the old bullet wounds throb whenever the hell they get a mind too, and I take high blood pressure and high cholesterol meds.”

  Ignoring this, Phil laughed and said, “You know if you had a moustache you’d look just like the real police commissioner, the guy on Blue Bloods.”

  “Tom Selleck?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Selleck’s over seventy year’s old for Pete’s sake!”

  “Could have fooled me. Looks fifty, maybe fifty-two.”

  They parted ways at the front door promising to keep in touch with their prospective plans and wishing each other future success. Despite these promises and their genuine friendship, their parting mood was indeed a somber one.

  * * *

  That night, over cocktails, Harry related his conversation with Phil MacDonald earlier in the day. When Harry finished Susan said, “Phil was wrong, Harry.”

  “You mean his concern about the city and the country is unfounded?”

  “No, I mean you are definitely better looking than Tom Selleck, with or without a mustache.”

  He laughed and said, “Don’t I wish, but as long as you still love me the way I am, or the way I have become, I will be a happy husband. And by the way, you are still as hot as the first day I laid my blue eyes on your emerald-green ones. You made my heart do jumps and rolls, and that thick dark-brown hair still hasn’t one hint of gray. And those great legs…”

  “Yes, I remember that day well in the Internal Affairs reception room as I was about to grill you to a cinder, but Harry you naïve cop, my hair is still dark brown thanks to the magic of Felix the hairdresser. He covers a lot of gray every two weeks.”

  “No kidding!”

  “No kidding, but all kidding aside I tend to strongly agree with Phil’s assessment.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Business is way down at Vasky, Halloran. The managing partners attribute it to the loss of several major clients who have re-located out of the city, and also several who are balking at our hourly rates and threatening to take their business elsewhere. We have already lowered some clients’ rates in order to keep them in the fold. We really can’t afford to lose them.”

  “But that’s less total revenue, right?”

  “Yes, but less revenue is better than no revenue.”

  “And, like Phil, you believe the clients are fleeing from the increases in the city and state income tax rates?”

  “Yes, and the higher corporate tax rate just passed by Congress will hurt even more – and they can’t run away from that one unless they leave the country. This group in power now is definitely anti-business.”

  “How do we change that?”

  “Vote them out of the office,” she said. “The people in this country have to wake up and throw those liberals out.”

  “Why should they when they are getting all these goodies from them? Phil referred to the Mayor as Santa Claus. I think the President could be called that, too. Why get rid of the givers of the golden eggs?”

  “They wouldn’t, I guess. Maybe we’ll need another revolution to accomplish that.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Harry said, “but I’m going to look into this further, and I’m going to look into us getting out of here to a better place. Maybe we need a change.”

  “I love New York, and I know you do. But our New York is changing rapidly. Do your research. I’ll keep an open mind.”

  * * *

  The two principal owners at Sheldrake Associates, Vinny Drake and Bill Shelton, had been gradually easing out of their business for the past few years as they approached seventy years old. They had taken in three minority partners at 15% each and planned to increase that to 30% each in the near future finally yielding control of the company they had built. Harry Cassidy was one of those minority partners, but to his admitted shame he was ignorant of the company’s financial health. The next morning he sat down with Eric Bladen, Sheldrake’s CFO, and asked him for a rundown. “The overall picture is down,” he said. “Our gross business peaked three years ago and we are down about 12% from that now.”

  “What do you attribute the loss of business to, Eric?”

  About halfway through Eric’s explanation Harry realized he was listening to just about the same stuff Susan had told him the night before. When the CFO finished Harry thanked him and sought out Vinny Drake and Bill Shelton who now only came into the office two days a week. They were both out, but would be together on Wednesday. Just as well, he thought. Better to do some research first. He went back to his office and booted up his PC. And what he found out there on the World Wide Web was nothing short of incredulous and downright depressing.

  Being a trained investigator and a natural skeptic, Harry made sure to double check and triple check all the information that the search engine coughed up. He would attempt to verify, via the website devoted to the truth, the separation of fact from fiction, and the providers of the original source of the material. When all these sites verified the veracity and accuracy of the information he accepted it as being true.

  He ordered in a sandwich for lunch and continued tapping away while chewing his roast beef on rye and sipping his diet Pepsi. After four and a half hours, he had compiled several pages of notes and a one-inch thick stack of printed material. He took a coffee break and took a second cup back with him to his desk. He studied the material and made notations in the margins and highlighted the particular interesting or disturbing sections.

  When he finished, it was past five o’clock. He gathered his material, put it in his briefcase and headed for the subway eagerly looking forward to his usual cocktail. This evening he would need at least two.

  * * *


  When Susan arrived shortly after him Harry handed her a cold martini and picked his up.

  She took a sip with him and joined him on the sofa. The TV was tuned to the upcoming evening news broadcast but set at a low volume. Harry said, “I did as you suggested my dear. I did my research.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Disaster for our country in the near future. Certain disaster if we don’t somehow change things.”

  “Okay, Mr. Doom,” she said taking a longer swallow of her drink. “Be specific.”

  “For starters, our elected officials in Washington – the President and all his appointees, and all of the Congress, are living extremely high on the hog. We now are ruled by a King and Queen and a multitude of Princes and Princesses. Last year our President and his entourage spent over one and a half billion dollars on vacations!”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Hell, no. Here’s the proof,” he said digging out the papers from his briefcase. “And look at this. Ever wonder why a senator or congressman spends millions on their campaign to get elected to a $190,000 a year job?”

  Susan smiled knowing her husband was on a roll. “No, my dear. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  Ignoring her comment, Harry bored ahead. “For the perks, for the ability to steer contracts to their friends and families, for the free haircuts and free meals. And all the time they are screwing the middle class workers and business owners with higher and higher taxes and fees and regulations to pay for it.”

  “So, as we said last night, how do we change things?”

  “My research tells me we can’t. Phil MacDonald was right. The people will never vote Santa Claus out of the office. Fifty million on food stamps. Untold millions on welfare and Medicaid. And Obamacare! The program that will finally break our financial back.”

  “Sounds like ancient Rome,” Susan said, “where they partied their asses off at the expense of the citizens.”

  “Yes, while the Huns stood salivating at the gates of the city.”

  “And there is no solution to this?”