Killing Time

Six

I went downstairs to Police Headquarters, which, with the town jail, takes up the full basement of City Hall, and asked for Hal Ganz, but he wasn’t around. I had to get on over to the hotel anyway, so I told the desk man not to bother looking for Hal, and I strolled out, around to the front of the building, and through the park to DeWitt Street.

The Winston Hotel is in a compromise location, midway between downtown — three blocks of DeWitt Street, including the Western National Bank and City Hall Park — and the railroad station, down State Street.

I waved at Gar Wycza again, still faking traffic control at the corner of DeWitt and State, and went on down State toward the hotel.

I walked into the lobby a couple of minutes before twelve, and Ron Lascow, looking like a suit ad in Esquire, got up from the lobby sofa and came over. “I think I saw our man go into the bar a couple minutes ago,” he said. “Intense type, carrying a briefcase.”

“God bless reformers,” I said. “The bad people know he’s here.” I filled him in on my conversation with Dan Wanamaker, finishing, “I’m going to their goddam meeting at three.”

“You told Wanamaker you were going to meet Masetti today?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“And did you happen to mention my name in passing?”

“I think so,” I said. “Sure, I did. I told him you and I were going to talk to Masetti.”

“I somehow wish you hadn’t bandied my name about like that, Uncle Timothy,” he said. “If it gets around that little Ronnie is chatting with the enemy, the boys may think I’m no longer trustworthy.”

“If you tell them you’re going to talk with the enemy,” I said, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. But if you don’t tell them, and they should happen to find out later on—”

He nodded. “I learn, Uncle Timothy,” he said. “You are absolutely right.”

“And the Hotel Winston bar isn’t the most private place in the world,” I added.

“True, true,” he said. “And, speaking of the bar, let’s go there.”

We went there. It was practically empty, a few out-of-towners — salesmen, mostly, from the look of them — draped on the bar. Only one booth was occupied, and in it sat our man. He was exactly as Ron had described him. Intense, plus briefcase. He was sharp-nosed and bushy-browed, with deep-set dark eyes and disapproval lines etched into his cheeks. He was maybe thirty-five.

Ron, being gregarious, took over right away. He marched to the booth, put a big smile on his face, stuck out his hand, and said, “Mr. Masetti?”

Masetti looked up, wary and stem. “Yes?”

Ron’s hand was left hanging there. “I’m Ron Lascow,” he said. He used the hand to point to me. “And this is Tim Smith.”

“How do you do.” Masetti started to smile, which would have been something to see, but he frowned instead. To Ron, he said, “I thought I was to see you at one.”

“We decided to save you some time,” said Ron. He slid into the booth, on the side opposite Masetti, and said, “This way, you can double up.”

“I was hoping,” said Masetti sourly, “to have a chance to speak to each of you in private.”

“We hold no secrets from one another,” Ron told him cheerfully. “Timothy and I are blood brothers.”

“We have just about the same attitude toward things,” I said. I slid into the booth beside Ron, and said, “I’ve been hearing about your organization.”

This time, Masetti did smile. It was like a blast of cold air. “What have you heard?” he asked me.

“It’s a reform group,” I said. “A practical and efficient reform group.”

“Which may be a first,” said Ron.

Masetti nodded. “It is a first,” he said. “We have no political ties. We cannot be bought, and we cannot be intimidated. Do you know of our record?”

“It’s impressive,” I admitted.

“It’s frightening,” said Ron candidly.

“You have guessed, I suppose,” said Masetti, “that we intend to investigate Winston next.”

“And you want Ron and me to help,” I said.

He nodded. “I do not come unrecommended,” he told me. He reached into his suit-coat pocket and brought out a batch of business-size envelopes. He leafed through them, handed one to Ron and one to me.

I looked at the envelope he’d given me. Typed on the face of it was my full name, Timothy E. Smith. That was all. The letter inside was signed Terry Samuelson. Terry was a local boy, an old friend of mine, now a criminal lawyer in New York. I’d always respected his judgment, because he was both bright and practical, a combination you don’t run into too often.

The letter was short, and to the point. It said: “Dear Tim, This is to introduce Paul Masetti, a sharp guy and a nice guy. He’s working with the Citizens for Clean Government, and doing a hell of a job. I know you like Winston, and I think you’ll like it even better once Paul and the CCG get through with it. Help him, if you can.”

I read it twice, then folded it, put it back into its envelope, and said to Masetti, “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.” He gave me another of those brief, wintry smiles. “If you decide to work with us,” he said, “you can bill the CCG for the call.”

“Call?”

“To Terry Samuelson.”

Ron said, “Just exactly what is it you want from us, Mr. Masetti?”

“In any city,” Masetti told him, “no matter what its size, there will be dishonesty somewhere in its government. The local people who work in or near the government will know where this dishonesty lies. A stranger will not. If the stranger is to root out the corruption, he must have the assistance of the honest local people.” He looked intensely from Ron to me and back to Ron again. “We are not interested in the whole spectrum of dishonesty,” he said. “We are only interested in dishonesty in government. Take a hypothetical example: The legal closing time for taverns in Winston is one o’clock. Let us assume that there is one tavern which stays open until three o’clock. The proprietor, in order to avoid trouble with the law, pays bribes to the patrolman on that beat and to the precinct captain or chief of police or some other authority. Two crimes are being committed, one, the crime of staying open beyond the legal closing time, and two, the crime of accepting bribes. The CCG is not at all interested in the crime committed by the proprietor of the tavern. The CCG is only interested in the crime committed by the policeman.”

He paused, one finger raised to let us know that he had made only a part of the point. He delivered this little lecture with icy enthusiasm. It was obvious he had memorized it, but it was also obvious that he had memorized it because he liked it.

“We have a definite reason for this limitation,” he went on. “And if we follow our hypothetical example, you will see what that reason is. Let us now assume that the CCG has come into Winston and, with the help of honest local citizens, has rooted out all trace of corruption in government, from the mayor’s office to the cop on the beat.” The way he said “cop on the beat,” with the slight trace of another chilly smile made it plain that he used such slang expressions only rarely, and only for definite stylistic reasons. He didn’t talk, he wrote out loud.

“With corruption rooted out,” he said, “the patrolman who had been accepting bribes is no longer on the police force. An honest patrolman has taken his place. The proprietor of the tavern now must close at one o’clock, or be arrested.” He spread his hands, and smiled once more. “Do you see?” he asked us. “By ending the first crime, we have also ended the second crime.” He pointed a finger at us for emphasis. “A shockingly high percentage of crime,” he told us, “could never be committed without the permission, or even assistance, of the representatives of government. Wipe out governmental crime, and you have swept away a large percentage of all other crime with it.”

“Dandy theory,” said Ron irreverently. “Except that governmental crime keeps coming back. That new cop on the beat is liable to be just as money-hungry as the old one.”

“That is the purpose of the CCG,” Masetti told him. “A permanent, incorruptible, watchful guard against corruption in government at the local level. When we are finished in a particular city or town, we leave behind us an aroused and aware citizenry, determined to keep the crooks out forever.”

“What exactly do you want us to do?” I asked again. I’d had more than enough of the hypothetical example.

Masetti leveled his eyes on me. “A man in your position,” he said, “gradually collects information. Some of it would be more than useful in our fight against corruption in Winston.”

“I see.”

Ron interrupted, saying, “What do you people get out of this? Winston isn’t your town, you don’t intend to live here after the whole thing is finished. What’s in it for you?”

“I am on salary,” Masetti told him, in all seriousness. “I have been hired as a representative of the CCG. I am paid to help in the exposing of the venal. I happen to enjoy the work very much.”

“What does the CCG get out of it?” I asked him.

“Satisfaction,” he told me. “A job well done.” He nodded at Ron. “As Mr. Lascow pointed out,” he said, “I will not be living in Winston after the CCG is finished here. I have no personal or financial or political ties in Winston. Nor has anyone else in the CCG organization. We are totally dispassionate.”

“What do you want from me?” Ron asked him.

“Your public support,” Masetti answered. “The support and well-wishes of responsible local citizens, particularly those near but not connected with the local government, is one of the best assets we can have.”

Apparently, Masetti and his CCG didn’t know about Ron’s tax scheme, a double-shuffle he’d worked out all on his own and was planning on using as an initiation fee to get a place on the City Council next election. Under the table, Ron gave my ankle a slight kick, to ask me if I’d caught the joke. I gave him a kick back, to let him know I had.

Masetti looked at each of us in turn. “Well?” he asked us. “Have I convinced you?”

“There’s only one slight problem in all this,” I told him. “As you said, you aren’t going to be living here after this all blows over. But I am, and so is Ron. Both of us have to live in this town. Both of us need the tolerance and cooperation of the local politicos in order to make a living. If either of us turns against the politicians today, we’re liable to have a tough time surviving tomorrow.”

“Winston is a nervous town,” added Ron. “Tim here hasn’t even said he’d help you, and already he’s been shot at once.”

Masetti nodded. “I heard about that,” he said. “You were very lucky, Mr. Smith.”

“Very fast,” I corrected him.

“But I should think,” he went on, “that that should simply make you want to help us all the more. These political criminals are dangerous to your life, much more than to your livelihood.”

“It’s a poor life without a livelihood,” I told him.

“There hasn’t been the reform group made,” said Ron, “that can get all the crooks. If you people leave even one of them still at his desk in City Hall, and Tim and I helped you get the rest of them, that one will still make life rough for us.”

“As I said before,” Masetti said slowly, “I am on salary. A very good salary, I might add. Local citizens who actively and publicly assist us are also put on salary.”

“Stop right there,” I told him. “Let me give you the facts of life. Do you see this suit I’m wearing?”

He nodded, puzzled.

“It was tailored for me,” I told him. “Ready-mades emphasize my pot.” I stuck one foot out from under the booth. “Thirty-five-dollar shoes,” I said. I fingered my tie. “Imported from France,” I said. “Cost me eight dollars. It’s one of the cheapest ties I own. The only reason I drive a car made in fifty-one is because that’s the last year a sensible car was made in this country. If I wanted, I could have a new car tomorrow, and I could pay cash. I have a nice fat savings account at the Western National, and a checking account almost as fat. I have a guaranteed income, and don’t have to wait for people to come to the office and hire me.”

“I understand all this—” he started, but I interrupted him, saying, “You don’t understand a goddam thing. Now listen to me for a minute, and this isn’t any hypothetical example, this is fact. There’s a balance in a town like this, a balance like one of those mobiles they used to show pictures of in the magazines a few years back. Everybody has a place, and everybody has a weight, and it all balances out. You find yourself a good place, and a heavy weight, and you watch yourself, you’re careful not to throw the whole mobile out of balance, and you can stay. You’ve got position, you’ve got place. As long as you help to keep the mobile balanced, your position is safe. But if you start swinging around, throwing your weight around and kicking the other parts of the mobile, knocking the balance all haywire, you’ll all of a sudden find yourself out on your ear. I’ve got a good position, with all the money I want and all the prestige I need. I’ve got the position, and I’m keeping it, because I’m careful about balance, I don’t throw my weight around. Ron here is just beginning to build himself a position on the mobile. As long as he shows that he respects the balance, that he isn’t going to be grabby or pushy, he’ll be all right. Otherwise, he’s out. He’ll live in this town and maybe make a kind of a living defending drunks and wife-beaters, but he’ll never get onto the mobile.”

“Your analogy isn’t accurate,” said Masetti primly. “The CCG—”

“The CCG,” I interrupted him, “is out to kick the mobile to pieces. And it can’t, it never will. It can maybe clip some of the parts out, disrupt the balance for a while, but the mobile will still be there when it’s finished. Everybody will shift around a bit, until it balances again, and the whole thing will go on the same as before.”

“It’s the way of the world,” said Ron offhandedly.

Masetti studied me with grim disappointment. “I was given to understand,” he said, “that you had a well-formed civic conscience—”

“Hold it,” I said. “Hold it just a second. Do you know anything about this town? Aside from the fact that the politicians are crooked, do you know anything else at all?”

“I was hoping that you—”

“Okay, mister, I will.” I held up one hand, fingers spread, and started counting off. “The people in this town,” I said, “have nothing to bitch about. Not a thing. The schools are some of the best in the state, the streets are kept in good condition, there’s no organized prostitution or narcotics or racketeering, taxes are low—”

“An intelligent criminal,” Masetti interrupted me, “will always cover his crimes with a veneer of good works.”

“That veneer,” I told him, “has made this a goddam nice town to live in.”

“Why Winston, anyway?” Ron asked suddenly. “Why this town?”

“Sooner or later,” said Masetti, “we will have investigated every town in New York State.”

“Why start here?” Ron asked him. “There’s worse places than Winston.”

“Thousands of them,” I added.

“We didn’t start here,” he said. “This is the third town we’ve come to. We began with—”

“What about New York City?” Ron asked him.

I said, “The hell with New York City. What about Albany, the town you people are working out of? They don’t even bother with the veneer in that place. The streets are all potholed—”

“In Albany,” Ron interrupted me, “property assessments are made after elections. That’s control of the voters.”

“We’ll get to Albany eventually,” Masetti said irritably. Albany wasn’t the town he wanted to talk about.

“When?” I asked him.

“I don’t know what the schedule is, I do not run the CCG.”

“Who does?”

“Bruce Wheatley. You may have heard of him. He—”

“Never have,” I said.

“The point,” said Masetti, his irritation growing, “is that we are now interested in Winston—”

“Which happens to be my home,” I told him.

“And have you no interest in making your home a better place to live?”

“It’s a fine place to live,” I said. “The mobile is well balanced, the people are getting a square deal, and the whole place is quiet and pleasant. I like things just the way they are.”

“Then you won’t help us.” A grim sadness colored those words. With them, I had just been excommunicated.

Masetti looked at Ron and said, “And you, Mr. Lascow?”

“Uncle Timothy is my mentor,” said Ron flippantly. “I’ve learned all about life from him.”

The disapproval lines in Masetti’s face deepened. “Then,” he said coldly, “if you’ll excuse me—”

We excused him, with pleasure.

After he left, Ron and I had a beer and talked things over. That mobile I’d been yaking about was already pretty shaky. This town was too fat, too contented. It had been a long time between reformers, and the town wasn’t quite sure what to do with one any more.

Most of the pieces of the mobile would be at the meeting in City Hall at three o’clock. Ron hadn’t been invited, so I told him I’d go up to his office after it was over and let him know what had happened.

“If it looks like they’re going to fall apart,” said Ron thoughtfully, “it might not be a bad idea to be on the side of the angels after all.” He sipped meditatively at his beer. “I understand,” he said, “that this CCG is pretty effective. They just might be able to tear that mobile of yours apart after all.”

“Then a new one will be built,” I told him.

“Sure. And who’ll be on it? The people who helped kick apart the old one.”

“You have a good mind, Ronald my boy,” I said. “Simple but good. I’ll let you know how things look at the meeting this afternoon.” I glanced at my watch and it was five of one. “I’ve got a lunch date,” I said. “I better get going.”

“Me, too,” he said. “Hey, listen. Will you be needing your car this afternoon?”

“Not really. Why?”

“I’m supposed to go out to Hillview, and mine is laid up with that sick carburetor again.”

“Sure thing.” I gave him the key, and said, “That tax deal of yours has something to do with Hillview, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t go rocking the mobile,” he said, grinning.

He went away, and I went off to see what Marvin Reed wanted.