Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  Jacobs, realizing he was fighting a losing battle, stepped back and called Brock in Dispatch on his walkie-talkie. He made sure that when the demonstration broke up, anyone wearing a green neckerchief would be detained. He requested ten guards to help him.

  Civichek concluded, “So it looks as though my time is up. You’ll be seeing and hearing a lot more from the Flock as this week goes on. We’re in Hillsdale to gain your support. We need recruits and we need money. Don’t think for a minute that we don’t appreciate hard-earned money. You fine people go home and think about what you’ve heard here today. We can’t do anything without the support of the people. We all want safer streets and a cleaner life. God bless you all.”

  As he climbed down, the large crowd broke into a spontaneous rhythmic applause that lasted nearly a minute. His people helped him off the display case, carried him on their shoulders for a few feet, and then set him down. The crowd was still applauding enthusiastically.

  Jacobs stepped up to Civichek and shouted above the roar, “You and I are going to talk.” He punctuated it with a loud and crisp “Now!”

  ***

  “You’re treading on thin ice.” Jacobs sat in the chair behind his modest desk, Civichek facing him.

  “You rent-a-cops are just like the city boys. You’ve never liked us, never will. What’sa matter? Afraid your union dues are going to go up?”

  “We both have jobs, you and I. Part of my job is to keep soapboxers out. You have to apply for a permit to petition here. Speaking publicly is forbidden for obvious reasons. If you want to speak to the people without going through the proper channels, use the park downtown. This is a shopping complex built with private money. We have rules against public gatherings, demonstrations, and loitering. Yankee Green is not a political arena. It’s a safe place for people to shop. People’s safety, if I heard you right, is what you’re concerned with. That’s fine. Check our record. The Green is safer, per square foot, per acre, than your own living room. And that’s true whether you live in Orlando, Florida, or Bangor, Maine.

  “A crowd, like that one you just had, invites trouble. Too many people, too crowded together. A little confusion, and you have a whole lot of trouble. You want to preach, Civichek, that’s your business. You want to preach here, then that’s my business.”

  Mykos Popolov burst into the room without knocking. The plump Greek waved his half-arm in the air frantically and said, “Arrest him. Arrest the bastard. You hear that? He’s just another Hitler, that’s all he is.”

  Civichek appeared stunned.

  “Mykos Popolov, meet Les Civichek. Mr. Popolov has been following your campaign closely, Mr. Civichek.”

  Popolov blurted out loudly, “I heard you on the radio. I heard you just now. We don’t want you here. Arrest him,” he said, addressing Jacobs.

  “A warning will have to do, Mykos. A man like Civichek can turn an arrest into another chance to soapbox. Isn’t that right?”

  Civichek raised his eyebrows.

  “Mr. Popolov is president of the Retailers’ Association. Any permits that are applied for need his signature to be valid. That should give you an indication of your chances here at the Green.”

  Civichek rose to leave. “Private or not, the streets of a shopping mall are considered public property.”

  “Not in this state.”

  “Not yet. But read the newspapers, Mr. Jacobs. This same thing happened in Maine just last month. And guess who was involved? The only way to effect legislation is to bring people’s awareness level up, to show them areas that need change. It took Maine all of two weeks to change their law. How long do think it will take Massachusetts? Shopping malls are public places, like it or not. It’s only a matter of time, Mr. Jacobs. Only a matter of time.”

  “Sell it somewhere else.”

  Civichek paused by Popolov and stared the man in the eyes. “I hate Hitler as much as you do, old man. My grandparents died in a camp. The name Civichek’s not exactly from the Scottish Highlands, you know.” He passed by and walked through the door.

  “I’ll see he gets out,” Popolov said to Jacobs without waiting for a comment.

  Jacobs looked at the clock on his desk, willing the hands to move faster.

  “You rang?” said the smoky voice of Susan Lyme from the doorway.

  “Hello there,” he said, heart pounding.

  “Hello.”

  “Please come in. I was hoping you might help me out.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Hardly, he thought, standing to seat her as she fought back a smile.

  9

  “You look dazed,” she told him as she sat facing his desk.

  He returned to his chair. She seemed far away over there. “I feel dazed. I was just wondering why some days seem to go so slowly, others so fast.”

  “You phoned the house,” she said, feeling responsible for his fatigue and trying to change the subject. It had been her idea to do something about the fish, a project that went past midnight.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s why there’s a phone.”

  “I wanted to make a proposition.”

  “So you just said.”

  “You’re a free-lance investigative reporter.”

  “Free-lance at the moment.”

  “At the moment, yes. I want to hire you.” He thought back to working with her the night before. It had already brought them closer. His father had been right, you did learn more about people by working with them. It bothered him that his father had been right—for years he’d been creating images of the man as always in the wrong. He wondered if this job offer was rationally based or driven by hormones and curiosity.

  She twisted a lock of sandy hair around her finger and stared at him, somewhat perplexed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I need some research done. It has to be done well, preferably by someone familiar with investigative work. You qualify.”

  “You called me to offer me a job?”

  “You sound offended.”

  “No, I—”

  The look on her face told him she had expected something else. They both began talking at once, he apologizing, she defending her surprise.

  Then they laughed. “You first,” he said.

  “No, you.”

  “I can pay you fifteen dollars an hour and expenses.”

  “You can pay me twenty-five an hour.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty includes drive time, phone time, and an hour for lunch.”

  “I pay you to eat lunch?”

  “I’ll be away from home. Lunch will cost me money. You pay me for lunch.”

  “Lunch comes out of expenses. Work time is work time. Lunch time is on you.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Agreed?”

  “Shake?” She leaned forward and reached her hand across the desk. Her eyes were oval and large, alluring.

  They shook hands. “You’re an unusual woman.”

  “That sounds like a come-on. Is this business or pleasure?”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  “No, it can’t. I draw a sharp line on that point.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it at business. When we’re all done, you owe me a dinner.” She sat back. “Am I to assume this has something to do with the bombing?”

  “You are.”

  “And just what is it I’m supposed to do?”

  “Help me find out who planted the bomb and why.”

  “I thought you might say something like that. You make it sound so simple. What about the police?”

  “They’re working on it too.”

  “We’ll come back to that. What about the story?”

  “The story?”

  “If we solve it, I want the exclusive on the story. I want that up front. If the cops solve it, I need your word that you’ll do everything you can to give me the story before the others. Since my mother’s illness, I’ve bee
n off the wires for some time. This is just the kind of thing I need for a comeback. Twelve-fifty an hour pays the bills. The wire services buy me back a career. How ‘bout it?”

  “I like the way you deal.”

  “You didn’t answer the question. If I’m going to be part of this, I want that exclusive.”

  “I don’t know how these things work. What’s to stop someone else from running the story?”

  “You are. You clam up until my story’s out. Deal?”

  “A slight loss of memory?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I think I can handle that.”

  “Good. You just hired yourself a research assistant. Now, before we get into it, what happened to our fish? I called the trucking company this morning and told them I was with the Globe. I waved a front page in their face. They promised to pick up the fish and to contact your office about reimbursing you for the manpower your people contributed last night. Any results?”

  “You have power, lady. The fish is on its way to wherever. The trucking company is paying all my help at overtime wages. Nice going.”

  “The paper has the power, not me. If I’d been honest and told them I work free-lance, they wouldn’t have given me the time of day. Very few people like the truth printed on page one. It has much more power than television. Sure, television has a more immediate effect, a sensory overload, if you will. But what’s in print stays in print. It’s filed away on microfilm, there forever for everyone to see. It lasts. What’s on television is there one minute, then it’s gone and Road Runner is charging across the screen. The news becomes entertainment, the entertainment becomes news, its power diminished. That’s why I like the printed word.”

  He grinned, nodded his agreement, and stood. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Black with one sugar, please.”

  “No cream?”

  “I’ve hired Leonard Nimoy. He and I are ‘in search of my girlish figure.”

  “Oh, it’s there all right. You just hide it under those baggy clothes.”

  “Baggy? This is what they call fashion.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type to follow the herd. Why have a nice-looking body like yours if no one ever sees it?”

  “How would you know what my body looks like, and just what exactly do I strike you as, Mr. Opinionated?”

  “I saw you in a leotard yesterday, remember? You can call off Mr. Spock. You looked great. I was envious, actually.” He patted his stomach. “I’ve picked up some here I could do without.”

  She blushed. “As long as we’re getting picky about fashion, I might point out that this is the first time I’ve seen you without that silly hat on your head. The thinning hair on top is barely noticeable. You don’t have to hide it.”

  “I’m not hiding it. The hat serves a purpose. It makes me look more like a visitor. I blend in better. At the same time it’s easier for my people to spot me in a crowd. Can you say the same thing about wearing clothes that two of you could fit in?”

  “Enough. How about that coffee?”

  He grinned and left the room.

  She looked down at her clothes and tugged at the extra fabric.

  When he returned he said, “I hired you for research, but it goes beyond that. I need an observer as well. If you talk to people, I need to know more than what they tell you. If you find something in your research, I need you to read between the lines. What I’m interested in is what the people don’t tell you, what the articles don’t tell you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Take you, for example. I know that you’ve already been downtown today. I know that you either woke up in a hurry or you’re having an affair with someone. You have an orange cat, so you’re an animal lover, but I would guess you don’t own a single fur, and wouldn’t keep one if it was given to you.”

  Her face blanched. “You’re having me followed?” she gasped.

  He laughed. “No, I’m not having you followed. Just a little deductive reasoning, that’s all.”

  “I think you’d better explain.”

  “Between last night and today, you’ve had your hair trimmed. The two best salons are downtown—don’t tell our manager I said that—so I assume you’ve already been downtown today.”

  “Right you are. I see. And the affair? You’re way off base there.”

  “I said that ‘either you woke up in a hurry or were having affair.’” He lowered his eyes to her chest. “You missed a button there on your blouse, like you were in too big a hurry getting dressed.”

  She looked down, cross-eyed, and noticed he was right. She corrected the problem as he continued, “Orange cat hair on your shoulder—that one was easy; and you’re not wearing a single piece of leather, a fact I noticed last night as well. Not even leather shoes. No leather: the telltale sign of a person opposed to the killing of animals. Either that or allergies. Thus you probably don’t own any furs.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “It goes with the turf. I need you to see what isn’t mentioned—think of what no one has thought of. Notice what isn’t mentioned as much as what is.”

  “That much I’m familiar with.”

  “In our line of work—yours and mine—you need to notice everything, no? Take Civichek, for example. You passed him on the way in.”

  “I heard the tail end of his speech downstairs. I know something about him, incidentally, if that will help any. And just for the record, I don’t like him either. I interrupted, go ahead.”

  “He wears what might be called street clothes. But the blue jean jacket was new—and from L. L. Bean. I know because I have one just like it. That makes me think he was in Freeport, Maine, recently. He moves around too much to have ordered it through the catalog. So what will I do? I will call the Freeport police and see what, if any, trouble they had while Civichek was up there. That lets me second-guess him here.”

  “He was in Maine recently. Nice going, Sherlock. Is there anything you miss?”

  “Good company,” he said soberly. “But I found some last night. And now again this morning.” He stared into her right eye and held her there.

  “In my business we call those clichés.” She couldn’t take her eyes off his. “Business, remember?”

  “Tell me about Civichek.”

  “He’s an ex-con, a second-story man. I read an interview in The New Paper. He was trying to romanticize his escapades, telling the audience how dangerous it was to climb straight up the face of a building. He even claimed responsibility for the investment company robbery they put him away for. He climbed seventeen stories without a rope, broke in through a window, and cracked a safe. A real jack-of-all-trades. He comes from a family of them. His father and brother are serving time in Arizona and California, I think it was. The man gives me the creeps. He uses his willingness to admit past wrongs to sucker people in. ‘Nothing like a reformed criminal to know how to stop other criminals.’—that’s his angle. He sells it well. There’s something dishonest going on beneath the surface. He’s a complex man trying to simplify an issue. That’s the most dangerous kind. The press seems to love him—they shouldn’t sucker so easily. Hopefully, one of these days he’ll trip on his own laces. If he doesn’t he’ll build a power base, and Lord only knows where that’ll lead.”

  “He’ll be back. I could see it in his eyes. He wants the trouble. Put him on your list, but not at the top.”

  She looked at him curiously. “You don’t think he has anything to do with the bombing, do you?”

  “I’m not a big believer in coincidence. A bomb goes off yesterday. Civichek shows up today claiming to be able to make the Green safer. It’s a little too convenient.”

  She borrowed a pen and some scratch paper. “You said ‘research.’”

  He explained. “I need a list of any and all reported thefts of explosives in the rough radius of Providence, New Haven, Hartford, Springfield, Boston. Chronological order, if possible. Go back as far as you have to.
I need details, so remember, read between the lines. I need that right away.”

  “Can’t the police help you there?”

  “They’re in the habit of deciding who sees what when. I need it sooner than later. Is it a problem?”

  She shrugged. “Straight library stuff. It shouldn’t take long at all.”

  “Good. I also want to know whatever you can find out about Bob Russo—”

  “Robert Russo? The Russo?”

  “I don’t need the front-page material. I know most of that. I need to know what his financial interests are, who he’s seen with, that kind of thing. Maybe you could arrange an interview with him. He likes pretty women. Shleit was going to talk to him, but that won’t do much good. You’d have a better shot at him than I would. I have a few key words I can give you that I think may get a rise out of him. Like we were saying a minute ago, that’s the kind of thing I’m looking for, an unusual reaction, an unexpected response.”

  “Anything else?” she asked eagerly.

  “Anyone else,” he corrected. “I’m not sure what or whom I’m looking for. Your investigative skills will help there. I can come up with some payroll lists of workers who’ve been on this job. I need to know who, if any, were or still are connected with the union.”

  “Sounds like you’re putting a lot of emphasis on Russo and the union.”

  “It’s the one thing that jumps out at me. DeAngelo broke the union in order to build the new pavilion. Hillsdale’s local is suspected of having ties to organized crime, and those in organized crime are famous for paying you back if you mess with them. Russo was the regional boss of the union at the time. He tops my list.”

  “What about the people who were victims of the mall’s expansion? As I recall, some two hundred factory jobs were lost in this area of Hillsdale, and wasn’t it two thousand people displaced from their apartments, mostly minorities?”