My Honorable Brother

by Bob Weintraub

  Reardon wasn’t worried about the apparent conflict of interest that saw Cardella running for public office and still working for the Herald. Jenna convinced him that the paper would never endorse Richie over Doug Fiore in the primary.

  “There’s no way this newspaper will support a candidate that’s pushing for State-operated gambling parlors,” she told him. So Reardon insisted on more meetings in August than Tommy Arena and his committee were ready to handle. The two sides were seeing too much of each other too soon, and tempers were beginning to flare.

  Cardella was present for the first two hours of bargaining on the last Tuesday of August. When the parties reconvened after lunch, Arena learned that Richie had left for some campaign work.

  “Then let’s just quit for the day,” he said.

  “But I wanted to present some counterproposals and get the Union’s response before we adjourned,” Reardon said. “That’s why Mike Donlon’s here.”

  “You give us whatever you want,” Arena shot back, “but don’t tell us when we have to fucking answer you. We may wait until fucking September thirtieth to let you know what we think.” Tommy wanted his two committee members to tell the other drivers how tough he was. Now they could report how he pretty much told Terry Reardon and his lawyer to go fuck themselves.

  Donlan opened his notebook and read the Company’s newest proposals. When he finished, he tried to set the mood for some concessions by the Union, repeating several of the statements Cardella made at earlier meetings about the poor economic climate. “Richie already stressed the importance of the Herald not being pushed into a situation where it would have to save money by requiring some drivers to double up on routes at the same time it laid off some others. The drivers have never struck the Company, and we look forward to another peaceful settlement this time around. But I’d be remiss in not making it perfectly clear that if the drivers did engage in a work stoppage, the Herald would hire other personnel to make the deliveries.”

  Arena didn’t interrupt Donlan’s delivery. He kept busy doodling on a paper in front of him without looking up. Reardon could see the Teamster boss’s cheeks begin to flush. He anticipated the worst. When Donlan stopped talking, Arena politely asked if he was through. As soon as the young lawyer said he was, Tommy proved Reardon’s apprehensions correct.

  The verbal tirade lasted almost ten minutes. Arena stood up and walked back and forth on his side of the table as he shouted and swore at the Herald representatives. He removed his sport jacket early into his diatribe and threw it against the wall behind him to emphasize a point. After a while, Terry saw patches of sweat staining the armpits of Arena’s silk shirt. Still, he continued to wave his arms wildly while denouncing his negotiating opponents in every way.

  Reardon was afraid he’d witness a heart attack before it was over. The two Union committeemen obviously enjoyed Arena’s remarks when he began his wordy assault, unable to hold back their smiles at the start. Now they showed signs of concern as their spokesman continued to hurl invective and criticism across the table.

  “Take it easy, Tommy, take it easy,” Reardon said at several points, trying to get Arena to lower his voice and bring himself under control. But his calls for restraint fell on deaf ears. The sound of Arena’s “fucking this” and “fucking that” continued to reverberate around the room.

  “We don’t need a fucking contract with you guys. We don’t want a fucking contract with this fucking newspaper. You want to try and fucking replace us, huh? Go ahead and try. You won’t get a single fucking paper onto a truck and out of this building. Anyone who tries to take a fucking job away from one of my men will have his goddam head broken. I got friends up on Federal Hill who’ll do whatever I ask, do you fucking understand me? I do favors for them and they’ll do whatever the fuck I want. One fucking hand washes the other. All I have to do is make one goddam phone call and I’ll have whatever help I need to keep your fucking papers off the streets. Don’t forget that.”

  When he finished, Arena slammed his notebook shut and picked his jacket up off the floor. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said to the two drivers who had put their papers away and were ready to leave. As the group reached the door, Arena turned toward Reardon, who hadn’t moved from his chair. He spoke in his normal voice, as if the dressing down he just administered never happened. “Call me when you want another fucking meeting,” he said, and winked.

  * * *

  Terry Reardon believed that if you got thrown from a horse, you got up off the ground and back in the saddle right away. He preached that to his children so they’d understand that it wasn’t a good idea to postpone the inevitable and worry about what would happen the next time. The following morning he telephoned Tommy Arena to schedule another bargaining session. Arena said that he wanted to meet with him and Cardella off the record.

  “Leave your kid lawyer home,” he told Terry.

  They arranged to have dinner at seven o’clock the following Monday night, if Cardella was available. Arena suggested Chi-Chi’s, convenient to everyone, and Reardon agreed. Later that day he called back and confirmed the time and place with Arena’s secretary. He told her to let her boss know that Richie Cardella could stay for just an hour.

  58

  ON SUNDAY MORNING, NINE days before the primary, the Woonsocket Star and the Newport Record endorsed Cardella for governor on the Republican ticket. They split on the Democratic side. The Star came out in favor of Bruce Singer, while the largest newspaper on Aquidneck Island supported June Bates with a strong editorial.

  Cyril Berman called Fiore at home that morning with the news, but told him not to worry about it. “I’ve already spoken to some key people about it. They assured me it won’t make any difference at the ballot box. There was a lot of infighting at both papers and you had your share of editors pushing for you. The mayors in those towns are strong backers of casino gambling. Someone has deluded them into believing they’ll see big bucks flowing back into their treasuries from a State operation. So they lobbied the papers not to support you. It would be good to have them on our side, but you’ll get endorsements from others. Wait and see, it will pretty much balance out.”

  “What about the Herald ?” Fiore asked. “Does anyone know what they’re going to do?”

  “Not yet,” Berman answered, “but I’m getting good vibes from what I’m reading there.” He knew the paper sided with them on the gambling issue but didn’t have any idea whether that was enough to get its endorsement. “I know they’re publishing their choices in all the races next Sunday. That means the forums on Tuesday and Thursday night will be real important, especially the first one. The Providence Organization of Women has a lot of clout. P.O.W.? really stands for pow.” He smiled at his own joke.

  “I’ll be ready,” Doug assured him.

  “Of course you will. See you at 2:30 at the Biltmore.”

  59

  LATER THAT MORNING, AS Fiore was getting dressed to play tennis at a local outdoor court, he received a call from Joe Gaudette. His friend wanted to talk to him, Gaudette said, and would be at a certain pay phone at noon. He gave Doug the telephone number and told him to use a pay phone himself.

  Fiore made the call at the appointed time. Sandy Tarantino answered after four rings. “Sorry for that delay, old buddy, but the sun is really beating down on this AT&T oasis I’m at. I was waiting in the car with the air conditioning on. Where are you calling from?”

  “A wash and dry right next to Walgreen’s.”

  “Good,” Sandy said. He asked a few questions about the campaign and expressed confidence that Doug would win. “Don’t tell Cyril—he’ll think it’s bad luck—but take it from me, you can start writing your victory speech.” Then he inquired as to whether Fiore had any recent contact with Brad Hanley.

  “No, I haven’t. Why do you ask?” As soon as he raised the question, he tensed up, afraid he might hear that Hanley was aware of the ongoing relationship between Doug and his wife.

  T
arantino’s answer came as a relief. “He’s been a regular at one of our clubs for quite a while, Doug, maybe close to a year already. Comes alone, has dinner, and spends some time at the tables. Always had a certain downside limit when he played. If he reached it, he left a tip, said ‘Good night’ and took off. Same thing when he was winning. Didn’t push his luck. Just cashed in his chips and left. In case you’re wondering, he lost more times than he won.”

  The recorded voice of the operator broke into the conversation. Fiore deposited two more coins in the box before she completed her message.

  Sandy continued talking as soon as he heard the money drop. “Anyway, maybe six weeks ago he began betting a little heavier and staying later. I had my guys there keeping an eye on him for me. His luck was about the same so he was losing more money than usual.

  “First he applied for check writing privileges. I had no trouble approving it, just based on what Ocean State pays him. He cashed a couple of checks—one for two thousand, one for three—and they cleared okay, no problem.

  “Then he asked to play on credit. I checked out his bank account and the equity in his house. It was a close call, but there was enough breathing room to let it go through. That was just a couple of weeks ago. The problem is his luck’s been running bad and right now he’s into us for eight grand. I thought you might know if there’s something going on in his life.”

  Fiore recalled that Pat Hanley hadn’t mentioned Brad to him in quite a while. He was with her at the Biltmore a week earlier and she was in terrific spirits the entire time. She apparently had no reason to talk about her husband anymore now that the contract with the Union was ratified.

  “No, I haven’t talked to him at all, Sandy,” he said. “Is he okay at work? Any problems there?”

  “Hang on a second. I just want to get a good look at the guy who got in the phone booth next to me.” After a short pause, he was back on the line, focused on Hanley again. “Not that I can tell, but that’s just from looking at Ocean State’s monthly P&Ls. Business hasn’t improved much over last year. I don’t have any good contacts at the plant. I always figured you could find out what I wanted to know.”

  Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Fiore felt the tension return again. He wasn’t sure whether Sandy was about to bring Pat’s name into the conversation.

  “Let’s leave it at that,” Sandy said. “I won’t get worried as long as he starts paying back what he owes. If he doesn’t, that’s another story. If you hear anything, let me know.” There was another pause before Sandy asked, “Are you on the campaign trail today?”

  “Why not?” Doug wanted to sound facetious. “Two coffee klatches and a dinner, starting at three o’clock in Cranston. This was my big R&R day. Cyril says next weekend will be a killer.”

  “You’ll do fine, old buddy. You’re almost halfway to the Statehouse. Believe me, you’ve got it made. Get that victory speech in shape.”

  60

  IT WAS TEN MINUTES after seven when Richie Cardella heard his name being called from the back end of Chi-Chi’s bar.

  “Cardella, hey, Richie Cardella, you got a phone call.”

  Just a minute earlier he looked at his watch and wondered why Terry Reardon and Tommy Arena hadn’t shown up yet. Reardon knew that Richie had to get out of there by eight and drive out to the Quidnessett Country Club in North Kingstown for a speech. As it was, he was cutting it a little close. Maybe that’s him now, he thought. I wouldn’t mind hearing the meeting’s been put off.

  Cardella walked toward the back, where a pay phone hung from the wall between the doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. He passed a number of booths on his left, most of which were occupied. Several people, whose faces he recognized without knowing their names, greeted him as he went by. Al Niro, a bookie who took football bets at Chi-Chi’s, was sitting by himself in the last booth, almost directly across from the telephone.

  Cardella nodded at Niro. “Thanks, Al,” he said, and reached down for the receiver. “Hello,” he said. There was no answer. “Hello,” he repeated, and was startled by a thump, thump sound he heard behind him. He turned slightly, just enough to see the gun pointing at him before he felt his chest begin to explode.

  * * *

  Terry Reardon was about half the three block distance between the Herald building and Chi-Chi’s when he heard the sound of sirens coming from two directions. Police cars were moving his way from Lasalle Square, diagonally across from the Civic Center, where their headquarters were located. And ambulances, their sirens wailing like the sound of a sickly person’s heavy breathing, were heading toward him from the left, where City Hall sat facing one end of Kennedy Plaza.

  Arena called him just before 6:45 to say he’d be about fifteen or twenty minutes late for their meeting. Reardon tried to reach Cardella at his office, but the lawyer who answered the phone said that Richie was already gone. Now he asked himself why he didn’t call Chi-Chi’s instead and leave a message for Cardella.

  As soon as he began making his way across the intersection at Westminster and Mattewson Streets, Reardon saw the scene ahead of him in front of Chi-Chi’s. Half a dozen police cars, red and blue lights flashing from their roofs, were parked at different angles, blocking the one-way street. An ambulance was backed up onto the sidewalk, close to the entrance to the bar, while two others waited a little farther away. The rear doors of all three were thrown open.

  A crowd of at least fifty people was gathered in the street. They stood in a semicircle facing Chi-Chi’s. Others watched from the opposite sidewalk, in front of Saul’s Delicatessen. The deli was a favorite downtown location because it stayed open every night until midnight and provided delivery service for hungry legislators working late at City Hall or the Statehouse. As he approached, Reardon could hear several police pleading with the onlookers to stand back.

  “What happened?” he asked a young man walking toward him.

  “Someone said two guys got shot in there and one of ’em’s dead.”

  “Anyone know the reason?”

  “Somethin’ to do with gamblin’ is all I heard.”

  Reardon began to walk around the perimeter of the crowd, toward the side nearer the bar. He pulled his Herald ID card out of his wallet as he got closer to one of the police cars. Just then he heard his name called and turned around. Tommy Arena was coming toward him.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Arena asked, almost shouting. “Were you in there?”

  “No, I just got here,” Reardon answered. “A kid told me two guys were shot and that one got killed. I’m going to see what I can find out.”

  “Shit, Terry,” Arena said, “we could’ve been right in the fucking middle of it. Are you gonna look for Cardella?”

  “Yeah, Tommy. But Richie said he could only stay until eight. By the time we find another place and sit down, he may have to take off. He might even be a witness if he was there when it happened. Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  Reardon showed his ID to a husky young officer, still wearing his sunglasses in the dusk, who was standing next to one of the cruisers. “What’s the story?” he asked.

  “Best I know, some crazy bastard walked in the front door, killed one or two guys inside and kept going out the back. He got away in a car waiting for him in the alley.”

  “Any chance of my going in? I’d be covering the story.”

  “Uh, uh. The place is already crawling with paramedics and news guys. A few of them came running over from something going on at City Hall. The Lieutenant said everyone else stays out.”

  Several minutes later Reardon looked toward the door of the bar just as it opened and four police officers came out. They waved their arms and shouted at everyone between themselves and the ambulance to make room. Two paramedics in white uniforms followed, carrying a stretcher. Terry could see that the sheet covering the body was pulled up only as far as its shoulders. The medics quickly loaded the stretcher onto a bed inside the ambulance. One of them began administering to the
victim while his partner ran to the front of the vehicle and climbed into the driver’s seat. A police officer closed the rear door. Two others got into a cruiser to escort the ambulance. Their sirens began sending signals of distress into the air almost simultaneously.

  The scene was repeated several minutes later when two more paramedics emerged from Chi-Chi’s. This time the body on the stretcher was entirely covered except for a pair of dark colored socks that could be seen sticking out at one end. The ambulance crew was slower in transferring the victim to their vehicle.

  Reardon saw Nate Cohen, one of the Herald ’s crime reporters, come out of the bar. He was followed by a young assistant carrying several cameras. Cohen took a quick look around to find the path of least resistance through those gathered outside to watch. Terry was forced to run three quarters of the way around the crowd perimeter to catch up with them. The ranks of onlookers had almost doubled since he first arrived.

  He shouted at Cohen to get his attention. “Nate, hold up a second.”

  The aging reporter was dressed in rumpled khaki slacks and a non-designer long-sleeved red golf shirt. He bent his head slightly forward and looked down over his bifocals before recognizing Reardon. “Oh, Terry. Hi.”

  “What’s the story?” Reardon asked.

  Cohen shook his head from side to side several times and gave a look of disgust.

  “Another sicko,” he said. “It was a bad scene in there. The cops figure the killer was a pro the way he pulled it off. He had a silencer on his gun, probably a nine millimeter. He went in after Al Niro, a bookie who hangs out there a lot, and gave him two holes right above the eyes. Richie probably got a good look at him. He was just a few feet away talking on the phone. So the guy shot him too, point blank in the chest. It was a bloody mess.”

  Reardon’s heart began racing as soon as he heard the name.