Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“You get him in on your own?” Ames asked.

“I can walk in on my own,” Trasker said, standing next to the car. The scooter started without trouble and Ames and Snickers got on.

“I still got money coming,” Snickers said.

“You do,” I agreed and went for my wallet.

“Hold it,” said Trasker.

He reached into his back pocket and came out with his wallet. He opened it with shaking fingers and pulled out a handful of bills. He gave them to me. I counted eight hundred and twenty dollars, eight hundreds and one twenty.

“He earned it,” said Trasker.

I handed the bills to Snickers who tucked them into his shirt pocket and tilted his hat back on his head.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said to Ames.

Ames nodded and he and Snickers wheeled off into the night, Snickers clinging to the waist of the tall old man.

When I got into the hearing room, where almost all the faces in the audience were black and many of them vaguely familiar from the funeral service at Fernando Wilken’s church, it was nearly midnight. Reverend Wilkens saw me and came to meet me at the back of the hall while a well-dressed young black man addressed the bored commission members on the need for a library in Newtown.

One of the few white faces in the crowd belonged to John Rubin of the Herald-Tribune. He looked at me, at his watch, and back at me, a question in his eyes.

“You found him?” whispered Wilkens.

Heads were turned toward us.

I said, “He’s in the hall.”

“Bring him through that door in three minutes. Three minutes exactly,” Wilkens said, checking his watch. I checked mine.

Three minutes later, still in need of a shave but wearing the white shirt and slacks and walking on his own, William Trasker shuffled down the carpeted center aisle and into his seat at the table.

The room went silent as they watched Trasker, many, I was sure, wondering if he would drop dead from the effort.

“I think we need an ambulance,” said Mayor Beatrice McElveny.

The speaker rose and returned to his seat. I stood at the rear of the room with Wilkens and Trasker. A uniformed officer with arms folded stood next to us.

“You haul me off in an ambulance, Bea, and I sue your sorry ass,” said Trasker. “Let’s vote.”

A commissioner named Wrightman said, “I propose we hold off the Midnight Pass vote till our next meeting. It’s getting late and-”

“I’ll be dead by the next meeting,” Trasker rattled.

“Do I have a motion to conclude this meeting?” the mayor said.

“I so move,” said Wrightman.

“All those in favor, raise your hands,” said the mayor.

Her hand and Wrightman’s went up.

“Opposed?”

Wilkens, Parenelli, and Trasker all raised their hands.

“I move that no further feasibility study be made about the issue of opening Midnight Pass,” said Wilkens. “And that the issue of Midnight Pass be tabled indefinitely.”

“Second the motion,” said Parenelli.

“Discussion?” said the chair.

“I still think-” Wrightman said.

“Call the question,” said Trasker.

“Bill,” Wrightman said, “you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Call the question,” Trasker repeated. “You haven’t known what you were doing for the past five years and you’ve still voted.”

“Commissioner Trasker,” the mayor said. “Please wait till we’ve heard discussion on the question. Discussion?”

A less than confident Commissioner Wrightman, amid grumbling from the crowd, stood and said, “Logic, plain simple logic says that a hasty decision now could cause environmental damage, long-term environmental damage that none of us want. Let’s go over the history of this controversy-”

“Point of order,” said Wilkens. “I get the distinct impression that my colleague plans to filibuster, to talk until Commissioner Trasker, who is obviously unwell, cannot participate in any debate. I move for cloture.”

“You have no reason to think that Commissioner Wrightman plans-” the mayor began.

“Vote cloture,” said Trasker. “Now. Follow the goddamn rules, Bea.”

Reluctantly, clearly defeated, the mayor called for the vote. Wrightman sat down. Most of the audience applauded.

“Call the question,” Parenelli said.

“Call the question,” Wilkens added.

“Call the question,” most of those in the audience repeated.

“All in favor of tabling the Midnight Pass study, respond by saying ‘Aye,’” Beatrice McElveny said reluctantly.

“With all due respect,” said Wilkens, “that was not the motion. The motion was to have no study and to keep the Pass closed. That was my motion.”

The audience applauded again.

The mayor called for the vote.

There were three ayes and one nay. The mayor chose to abstain rather than suffer defeat.

The crowd went wild. The mayor found her gavel and pounded for quiet.

“Quiet, please,” Reverend Wilkens said.

Parenelli the radical was grinning and shaking his head. Wilkens raised his hands. The audience went silent.

“Madame Mayor,” said Parenelli, “I believe we just passed a motion.”

The mayor looked confused.

“You hit the gavel,” said the old man. “And then you say, ‘The motion carries.’ You’ve been doing that for almost a year. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

The mayor tapped the gavel and, voice breaking, said, “The motion carries.”

There was handshaking all around, but a small cluster of well-dressed men and women gathered in the corner with Commissioner Wrightman. Someone called the mayor to join the group. She gathered her papers and bypassed the gathering.

“Bea knows which side her ballot is buttered on,” Parenelli said.

“It’s not over,” said Wilkens. “William, are you all right?”

“No, but thanks to you, I’m conscious and I got to do something for the right reasons for a change. Not enough to get me into heaven, if there is one, but maybe I’ll get a cushy job in hell making cold stale coffee when the damned come off of their one-minute break every millennium.”

“Mr. Fonesca,” Wilkens said, taking my hand, “thank you. If there is ever anything…”

“You know Jerry Robins?”

“Downtown Association, yes,” said Wilkens.

“You know the Texas Bar and Grill on Second?”

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a connection?”

“Robins and some others want the Texas to go upscale or move out,” I said. “A friend of mine owns it, another friend who helped me get Trasker here tonight lives and works there.”

“And you want me to…”

“Talk to Robins,” I said.

“He doesn’t necessarily represent the feelings of the majority of members of the association,” Wilkens said. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m sure reason will prevail.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’ll have to excuse me now,” Wilkens said, touching my shoulder.

John Rubin was at my side, notepad out.

“What happened here tonight?” he said. “I mean, what really happened?”

“Someone’s been shot at Kevin Hoffmann’s house.”

“Who?” Rubin asked.

“A man named Stanley LaPrince,” I said.

“Is he dead?”

“He’s dead,” I said.

“This have something to do with the vote here?”

“Might,” I said.

“Details?” asked Rubin.

“Ask the police,” I said.

“Thanks, Fonesca.”

He tapped his notebook with his pen, looked at Wilkens and Trasker, and I could see that he had decided that a murder in the home of a rich citizen was more important news than the aftermath of the outcome of a commission vote. Besides, he had his notes. He’d probably be up the rest of the night.