The Key

chapter twenty-seven

I’ d found the key that unlocked the answers-or most of them, at least. But I still needed proof. And I needed it soon, ideally before Thunderbolt’s shareholders agreed to sell their company at an artificially depressed price the next day.

I was so deep in thought that when Peter placed a hand on my shoulder, I gave a startled yelp. A librarian promptly shushed me from her post at the checkout desk, her glare disapproving behind thick glasses. I mouthed a sheepish apology, even as I wondered whether the glasses came with the job or were a prerequisite to getting it. She continued to glare at me for a long moment before returning to stamping whatever she was stamping.

“Read this,” I whispered to Peter, tugging at his sleeve with one hand and pointing with the other to the Washington Post article on the screen before me.

He pulled up a chair and scrolled quickly through the article. It didn’t take him long to put the pieces together. “Unbelievable. They had the entire thing rigged.”

“But we still can’t prove it.”

“There’s got to be a trail, somewhere. Something that will prove what Gallagher and Perry and Brisbane were all up to.”

“They’ve probably covered their tracks pretty well. We really need someone on the inside, somebody at Thunderbolt who can help.”

“Well, if we’re lucky, Man of the People will be that somebody. Assuming we can figure out who he is. Which reminds me-I had an idea while I was on the phone. May I?” he asked, reaching out his hand for the mouse.

“Sure.” He sent a copy of the Washington Post article to the printer and then returned to the search bar. I watched as he typed in “Man of the People” and “Thunderbolt.”

“Oh. I should have thought of that.” Two heads were definitely better than one, especially when that one was mine.

“It probably won’t lead anywhere,” he said, pressing enter. A long list of results filled the screen, but they were for sites about Greek and Norse gods interspersed with a few for evangelical groups. “At least, not anywhere useful. I had a feeling it was a long shot.”

“But it was a good idea.”

He shrugged. “Ready to get going?”

I nodded and reached for my jacket. He moved the mouse to close out of the search engine, but then he hesitated.

“Maybe I’ll just try one more thing.” He added “Industries” to “Thunderbolt” in the search bar, pecking at the letters with his index fingers. Peter’s business revolved around computers, but he had never thought that sufficient reason to learn how to type.

I was expecting that the search engine would return with no results this time, instead of too many about things we didn’t care about, but a short list appeared on the screen. They were all links to the Web site of a Pittsburgh newspaper.

“That’s more like it,” I said approvingly.

“Unless it’s an exposé on Thor.” Peter clicked on one of the links and an article popped up in the browser.

Union Threatens Walk Out at Thunderbolt

Talks continued into the early morning as Thunderbolt Industries management and union officials struggled to reach agreement. At stake are the terms for the new labor contract.

“Management is asking for cuts in health care and pension benefits for our hardworking members. Meanwhile, they reward themselves with big bonuses and fancy cars. I’m going to keep fighting until I have something that I can feel proud to present to our union members,” said union chapter president Frank Kryzluk. “We’re not going to just lie down and let the military-industrial complex steamroll right over us little guys.”

“New union troubles?” I asked, momentarily confused. Then I checked the article’s date-it had been posted weeks ago.

“No, just the same old union troubles, I guess.”

“Well, we know how it ended. Perry and his executive team extracted some concessions on benefits, but not as many as they’d hoped. The union held pretty firm. On Monday Perry said that they’d wrapped up negotiations over the weekend.” I scanned the rest of the article. “I wonder why this even came up in the search results. There’s no ‘man of the people’ reference in here.” I pushed my chair back and stood to put on my coat.

I had collected the Washington Post article from the printer and was stashing it in my pocket when I heard Peter’s shout.

“Aha!”

This time the librarian’s shushing was even more emphatic, but when Peter gave her his own apologetic look, instead of continuing to glare at him she made a “don’t-worry-about-it” face. I knew from experience that Peter’s apologetic look was very convincing, but her easy capitulation seemed unfair. However, I had more important things to worry about than battling the librarian’s double standard.

“Aha what?” I asked.

“Here.” He pointed to the screen. A sidebar ran alongside the main article.

Pittsburgh’s Own Michael Moore

Union president Frank Kryzluk was a local celebrity even before he assumed his prominent role in union affairs. His weekly talk show on public access television, Frank Talk with Frank, is a runaway hit with viewers and has earned him comparisons to activist filmmaker Michael Moore (although critics contend that Kryzluk, like Moore, occasionally lets conspiracy theories get the better of him).

As one fan explains, “Frank’s just a regular guy, you know? A real man of the people-”

“Aha!” I cried.

This time even Peter couldn’t soothe the librarian’s ire.

It was nice to finally know who we were looking for. Unfortunately, while Frank Kryzluk may have been a regular guy and a real man of the people, his democratic leanings didn’t extend to listing his number or address in the local phone book, nor could we find it on the Web. This was probably a wise precaution if he was as much of a local celebrity as the article claimed, but it was a bit frustrating for our purposes.

So we were back to our original plan, albeit with far more focus than we’d had initially. Now we had a name, and even a picture from the paper. It showed a shaggy-looking man in his fifties. His expression was good-humored beneath a trucker’s cap.

“See,” said Peter, pointing to the cap. “Everyone’s wearing them.”

I left him making amends to the librarian and returned to the pay phone to call Luisa.

“Didn’t I just talk to you?”

“Yes, but I have a new assignment for you.”

“Goody,” she said dryly. “What do you want this time? Everything Oprah’s worn in the past month? The personal challenges facing the guests on Dr. Phil? Or how about that Judge Judy person? Do you want me to investigate her?”

“Close. Sort of.”

“You mean, you actually want me to do legal work?” she asked when I’d explained what I needed.

“You are a lawyer,” I pointed out. “If anyone can connect Gallagher and Brisbane to Perry’s investor group, it’s you, right? There have to be legal records of front companies and partnerships and stuff like that.”

“I guess it’s better than watching more television.”

Peter was surprisingly good at chatting up the librarian, and she turned out to be surprisingly useful once she got over the glaring thing.

“The Tick Tock Tavern,” she told us with certainty. “That’s where you want to go. They have a special on Fridays: two-dollar pitchers from five to seven. And it’s practically across the street from the Thunderbolt plant. You can’t miss it.”

Because I had formally relinquished my navigating responsibilities to Peter, we didn’t miss it. At exactly 5:00 p.m., we were standing in front of a low cinder-block building adorned with a neon sign welcoming us to the Ti k ock Tav rn. Another sign, which was either better cared for or more resilient, assured us that we would find Iron City beer on tap at this establishment.

“Ready?” asked Peter, settling his trucker’s cap more firmly on his head.

“I hate that hat.”

“Maybe it’ll grow on you after you have a few brewskies.” He pushed open the outer door.

“Brewskie?” I asked, following him inside.

The interior was dimly lit and furnished with the expected assortment of Formica tables with faux-wood finish and chairs upholstered in cracked and peeling vinyl. A man was perched on a stool behind the bar. He’d been reading but looked up as we approached.

“What can I get you folks?” he asked.

“Iron City?” suggested Peter, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Why not? With a Diet Coke chaser?”

The bartender closed his book and placed it on the rear counter next to the cash register. I made a mental bet-either The DaVinci Code or The Illustrated DaVinci Code-before stealing a glance at the title. It was Edith Wharton, House of Mirth.

“How are you liking Lily Bart?” I asked as the bartender poured our drinks. He glanced over from the tap in surprise. The economics half of my double major may have proved more lucrative over the years, but the literature half occasionally came in handy.

“She’s something,” he said, his tone admiring. “I just hope she ends up with that Selden guy.”

Half an hour later, the bartender and I were debating Wharton’s use of symbolism, we were on our second round of drinks, and the place was starting to fill up.

Half an hour after that, the bartender was our new best friend, we were on our third round of drinks, and the place was packed.

And a half hour after that, our new best friend was personally introducing us to Frank Kryzluk. Apparently, he’d managed to come in and seat himself in the back without us even noticing, probably at some point between rounds three and four.