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  It was set up.

  With video camera lights blinking, the Mayor, the Chief, and the handpicked cops went nose to nose, belly to belly, and almost baton to baton with the harried security officers and only Tuttle’s quick arrival kept things under control. In minutes, the diminutive, paunchy Sonny and girdle-strapped McCarthy were on Orchard Street strutting for the cameras, giving us a course in politics by media, decrying the ‘riot’ and the Arts Quad’s well-earned reputation as the ‘campus drugstore.’ Over the next several days, video and sound bites aired on local stations and the citizens of Providence saw and heard their mayor and chief of police, righteously cloaked in law and order, decry the ‘druggies,’ ‘trust fund kids’ and ‘Keystone Kops’ of Carter University.

  I remember Tuttle saying, “It’s only a movie.”

  It could have ended then, but it didn’t. The Carter Crier, our student daily newspaper, proclaimed Russo and McCarthy ‘Buffoons of the Year’ and a group of Arts Quad residents picketed the Mayor’s home in Elmhurst, allegedly scaring the rarely visible Mrs. Russo to death, and got arrested for breach of the peace. We got them out on bail which led to an ‘extra’ from the Crier that was over the top: Nazi became short hand for city officials and cops. That gave some of McCarthy’s minions in the FOP license to picket the Arts Quad which brought out tired-of-being-put-down security officers, the tipped-off media, and Arts Quad residents who were, how to put it, none too gracious in their reception. The local television news reveled in the standoff and we barely kept the ugliness from becoming more physical and permanent.

  Unlike prior confrontations, Sonny didn’t overplay his hand. In the days that followed, he used friendly media interviews and talk radio hosts to stress that Police Commissioner Tony Tramonti didn’t back his ‘men’ whenever Carter University was involved because he was too ‘chummy’ with those ‘snobs’ up on the Hill. For Sonny, it was a public relations coup, something to chortle about with his cronies at watering holes where political people appreciate a ‘win.’

  Ugh!

  I put Tuttle’s report and Protocol back in my valise and considered the clear injunction of the Provost at this morning’s senior staff meeting: “We need a truce, Algy, we need cooperation.” The University was most vulnerable to city retribution during Commencement Week. Streets have to be closed, traffic rerouted, VIP’s escorted, the ban on parking overnight not enforced, and a general tolerance of minor offenses, like walking on public streets with ‘open receptacles of alcoholic beverages,’ has to prevail. Otherwise, chaos. With almost two thousand seniors graduating, and two to three times as many parents, relatives, friends and other visitors soon to converge on a ten block circle around The Green, Puppy Dog knew that I had to ‘make the peace.’

  What would he try to extract from me?

  At ten-twenty, Puppy Dog’s office door opened and Chief Daniel Patrick McCarthy, his map of Ireland face looking none too happy, exploded into the reception area. In a dress, dark blue uniform replete with golden shoulder boards and brass buttons, his growing bulk was only somewhat disguised. He had to know I had been kept waiting and that would have pleased him. Curtly, he said, “Gettin’ ready for Commencement?”

  Right on target. I acknowledged we were.

  “Hope the weather holds.” His blue eyes drilled mine; he was close enough for me to get a whiff of Aqua Velva as I focused on his bulbous, roseate nose that operates like a thermometer: the angrier he gets, the deeper the red.

  “It never rains on a Carter commencement,” I smiled. “The President doesn’t permit it.” Ha. Ha.

  No reaction. His steely stare and his lips remained set; then he took a service hat with a scrambled eggs brim from under his arm pit and put it firmly on his square head. The color of his nose seemed darker as he sputtered a ‘see ya’ to all and marched out.

  Puppy Dog had observed the pleasantries. His seersucker suit looked slept in, his faded white shirt and his trademark dark blue tie were rumpled and none too clean. A strand of dyed black hair was slipping from his balding pate. But, in lieu of his usual dour expression, his rodent face was awash in a superior amusement. “Come right in, Alger, come right in,” his thin, oily voice instructed, and I passed by him into a room with red and black flock wallpaper once found in the seventies cocktail lounges and a framed poster of Sonny from his first mayoral campaign. A massive desk and credenza were piled with files, folders and message slips that probably hadn’t moved since my last visit; a high back, black leather executive chair was behind the desk. Dusty looking drapes framed a slice of grimy window with an exceptional view of the scaling concrete of the parking garage behind the Biltmore. Across the room was a door, perhaps to the rumored back stairway to Sonny’s office one flight below.

  Puppy Dog gestured toward a metal chair in front of the desk which I took as he eased into position across from me. With his rat catcher eyes burning bright, he began in the middle of a cackle. “The Chief really has it in for your security people. He doesn’t appreciate the lampoons, the disgusting antics, ….”

  I knew that but that’s why God gave cops like McCarthy tough skins.

  “If it was South Providence, out come the wagons and everybody gets brought in. So why are Carter students any different...?”

  Vulnerable at that jibe, I ignored him by pulling out the Protocol and saying it was clear what was supposed to happen when city cops met campus cops: communication, deference to the force on site, etc. It could use an update, I said, especially on communications, but the basics were there. Puppy Dog, his eyes impatiently wandering around the office, began to wave his hands at me which I took as a signal to stop my defense. “Despite the Chief’s … reluctance, we could all use a breather,” he intoned. “I’m willin’ to look at the Protocol this summer, get past this outrage at that drug house you call a ‘quad.’ The Mayor’s willing to keep the rhetoric down, if we can move on.”

  Huh? Did I have too many espressos this morning?

  “Leon, what’s up?”

  One of Puppy Dog’s many irritating traits is that his face twists into an altar boy’s piousness immediately prior to his message. “It’s gettin’ outta hand! You know that. There are a coupla things I could mention that could … maybe … get us on track.” His snake-like tongue slowly wet his thin lips. “For one, you heard the Mayor created a ‘sister city’ relationship with Verona, …, Verona, Italy? Ever been there?” I had heard and had been there, although Puppy Dog, his face glowing with the transcendence of Sonny’s brilliance, didn’t care. “Wonderful place, arcades, squares, old buildings …, like they have in Italy.”

  Really?

  “Went there for the signing. They loved Sonny!” I bet. “We agreed to sponsor a Verona festival here during the first two weeks in November. Next year, it’s in Verona, with Providence going there! Going to be big, very big, Alger. Lotsa artisans coming over, goldsmiths, silk weavers, painters, great chefs from their restaurants will cook at ours, you name it. They’re gonna make jewelry, sell cheese, the local vino, cook, it will be fantastic! Tourists will love it! The hotels are dizzy with the possibility. So, we’ve been asking ourselves, where can we show’em off? Someplace big enough for the crowds?”

  Rhetorical questions? Hardly.

  He continued. “The Civic Center isn’t the right venue. Got Bruins hockey, PC basketball by then, it’s too far from the river, and anyway, it’s a shit box these days. Forget the Convention Center, that’s the State’s, not ours, and Sonny’s not going to give up jurisdiction. Nothing on Federal Hill’s big enough. We need space downtown….”

  I suggested, half in jest, “WaterPlace Park? Tents?”

  “Tents! Are you shittin’ me?” he shouted, amazed that I still had no appreciation of the magnitude of Sonny’s event. “For maybe the President of Italy?” His arms spread wide. “This is big! We gotta have proper space. And on the river!” His hands went over his head to stretch behind his scrawny neck and his voice lowered to a suggestive tone. “Like those thre
e buildings you just got on South Water. Perfect, I told the Mayor, they’d be perfect! Cleaned up and made available for a couple of weeks, a month, what a goodwill gesture to the city! Of course, they gotta be really cleaned up ….”

  He was referring to a recent donation to the University, three brick faced buildings on the RiverWalk at the Providence River, between Verrazzano Park and the Point Street Bridge, most recently a warehouse, an ill-maintained office building, and a furniture store, all parts of a long defunct costume jewelry factory. And would you believe it, they were built in the 1860’s in an Italianate design, including a connecting colonnade! Cleaned up, they would be perfect for exhibition space for events. But since Puppy Dog suggested it, I shrugged. “Sonny dumped all over us when the gift was announced. ‘More real estate off the tax rolls,’ ….”

  “Oh, c’mon, you probably don’t know what to do with them…”—he happened to be right; the Planning Office was thinking sale rather than reuse by us—“… and if the city could use’em for awhile after you clean’em up, that takes away some of the beef. Right?”

  That meant a tiny concession in our battle with Sonny, so I denigrated the possibility. “I hear they’re in terrible shape. Not up to code. Probably a lot of other issues we ….”

  “Not a problem. We can have the fire marshal and the building inspector down there any day.”

  “I could check with the President’s Office….”

  “Do that, Alger, do that.”

  “And the Protocol?” That was my way of asking, ‘do we have a truce?’

  “We’ll work on it over the summer.”

  “And Commencement Week…?”

  “I don’t see a problem. Want all your folks to have a great time. I spoke to the Chief. All set there, although he’s none too happy. And we can talk some more about a coupla things ….” He let that last comment hang but my mind was on how much more could I wangle.

  “The streets around the campus could use a clean up….”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Okay, streets get swept, potholes fixed, sidewalks patched….”

  “How about the city arborist takes down some of the dead trees and plants some new ones….”

  “Hey!” Puppy Dog replied sharply, warning that I was ungrateful for his largess, “don’t push it! Commencement is a breeze. We work on the goddamn Protocol this summer, if you can keep your druggies off the street that long. You clean up the buildings as a contribution to the Verona event and we use’em for a couple of weeks. Maybe we work out something permanent? Sonny might say something nice about ya for a change.”

  “I’ll do my best to get a quick answer.”

  “Good. Why not enjoy your Commencement? Do your thing and we do our thing.”

  Providence politicians are one in their appreciation of ‘things.’ This ‘thing,’ that ‘thing I told ya about,’ the ‘thing that was taken care of?” And deals. I got ‘dis,’ you got ‘dat,’ I want ‘dis,’ so make a deal. All Puppy Dog and I needed to conclude our arrangement was the ‘hand.’ But I couldn’t make myself do it. No handshake. Puppy Dog stood as I did. He waited long seconds but I kept my fingers on my valise. My hesitation brought out his need to give me a jibe. “I hear our Commissioner’s got family stuff going on.”

  “ ‘Stuff?’ ”

  “His brother-in-law down in Westerly,” he replied snidely and I thought of Ugo Calibrese’s connection to Sonny Russo.

  What to do? I had the deal I needed on Commencement Week, but no ‘hand’ was going to be clasped. Instead, I smiled the widest smile I could manage and heard myself falling into that Bertie Wooster tone of rarified East Side Waspishness that irritated Puppy Dog, as I began to prattle about this year’s chances for the Red Sox, right out into the outer office, and past a surprised Ms. Ciccone. I never stopped talking until the door closed behind me. Puppy Dog never got the ‘hand.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Artemus Vose looks like a Provost: a mane of silver hair, reading glasses affixed to the forehead of a craggy face, a white shirt with bow tie, colorful suspenders and creased dark trousers. He exudes confidence and competence with a kind of world weary, seen-it-all demeanor fitting a former big business executive. All of which he needs as the University’s chief administrator, the iron hand in President Charles Danby’s silk glove. I rapped on the open door to his office and his glasses flipped up as he swung away from his Mac.

  “Good news,” I said brightly. “The truce is on.”

  He blinked in surprise. “What happened?” I summarized the meeting with Puppy Dog and watched suspicion grow in his gray eyes. “I don’t get it,” he responded, a frown crossing his face. “There’s got to be more to it.”

  “Not that I can see,” I replied, brightly although feeling the itch of uncertainty.

  The Provost rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t see a problem with the buildings for his Italian event. But hold off on a response until after Commencement. Keep Puppy Dog dangling during the week. Okay?”

  “Sure”

  He clasped long boney fingers behind his head and turned in his chair toward a window overlooking The Green. “Why,” he intoned, “after beating us up, would Sonny opt for peace?”

  “Must need the buildings,” I said but I then remembered the ‘coupla things.’

  * * *

  University Counsel occupies a tiny suite in College Hall a floor above and down the hall from the Provost’s office. As I entered, I waved at my paralegal Marcie Barrett in her office and seeing the empty desk facing the entryway, was reminded that the formidable Maria Lopes, our shared secretary and receptionist, our pipeline for all University gossip, had Commencement Week off. Inopportune but she had a grandson graduating from Providence College and relatives were coming in from all over, including two sisters from the Azores. Marcie and I would have to survive a week of direct phone calls, mail sorting, calendar juggling, and the like. And importantly, no ‘inside info’ from within College Hall.

  I slipped off my jacket and hung it behind my office door, emptied the Protocol, Arts Quad file, the Journal, and the Crier from my valise on to my desk, plugged my BlackBerry into a charger, and pulled out my desk chair. Although the Provost’s evident doubts had spiked my feeling of accomplishment, I remained ready to accept Marcie’s accolades as she entered my office holding two coffee mugs. Dressed for work, even when College Hall is on a casual wear kick as it is during Commencement Week, she wore a muted red shirt dress accented by a matching belt and buttoned pockets, with modest jewelry. I took an offered mug and she sat in her usual chair across from my desk. “Well, how was Mr. Goldbloom this morning?”

  I took a polite sip, then as I rolled up my shirt sleeves, I recounted my meeting, stressing the truce, the street repairs, and promised negotiations. Could be I embellished my role a tiny bit. Typical of her, her response didn’t mince words. “Something’s going on. You breeze in there and ten minutes later you have cooperation during Commencement Week, negotiations on the Protocol…?”

  “Sonny needs those buildings and made the offer,” I complained, chagrined at her reaction and even more aware of the nagging ‘coupla things.’ That made me boorish enough to add, “I’m good enough to know when I’ve got a deal.”

  Marcie shifted her gaze to the office’s lone window and its view toward Shea Library and downtown, her thin, handsome face registering surprise at my defensiveness. Recovering quickly and meaning to make amends, I suggested we skip our Monday morning review of pending matters in the office, with the comment that most of the student disciplinary cases had been resolved, except those that had been kicked over to September in the hopes that the miscreants would find another school. “After all,” I said, magnanimously, “it’s Commencement Week!”

  Her response, given stiffly, was to ignore my peace offering. “Steve Winter’s memorandum on the Arts Quad Fourth Amendment issues will be e-mailed later today.” Marcie, ACLU to the bone, and Steve Winter, a senior litigation partner at Champlin & Burrill, were sa
livating at the opportunity to brandish the University’s constitutional rights against Sonny’s media driven invasion of our campus. I said smoothly that we would use it if the situation heated up again or as a background piece during the summer’s negotiations on the Protocol. She responded coolly, “Don’t hold your breath.”

  * * *

  Bill Tuttle can get salty when it comes to Sonny, Puppy Dog, and Chief McCarthy but he restrained himself when I explained I had Puppy Dog’s promise of police cooperation during Commencement Week and negotiations to update the Protocol. Still, he was justifiably wary of reliance on Puppy Dog’s promises. I asked him to insure his staff was instructed that there were to be no—I stressed ‘no’—confrontations with the cops during the week unless in dire conditions. Tuttle affirmed he would get the ‘word’ out in the unsettled voice of someone who acknowledged rank and took orders, but wanted to make the point that the likely outcome of my directions would not be as predicted.

  * * *

  So far, the three recipients of my news from City Hall hadn’t reacted according to expectation. Not a word of praise, no ‘good job!,’ only disbelief in the effacy of my negotiation, if that’s what it was. I glanced at a photograph of a radiantly happy Nadie under a red umbrella on the patio of Osteria Panzano in Chianti from our first trip to Italy. What would be her take?

  Undaunted, I considered what I would suggest for a revised Protocol. Better communications? Team investigations? Reasonable notice? With whom, I wondered, would we negotiate? Puppy Dog, for sure, and who else? McCarthy wouldn’t deign to be there….