Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“Can you give me the name of the union official who represented your work force?”

“Not off-hand, I couldn’t.”

“But it’ll be in your records?”

“I should think so.”

“Were you satisfied that the arbitration was properly done?”

Haig shrugged. “I’ve no idea whether it was properly done or not. The company were satisfied with the outcome.”

“From the press reports I gather that Powell received no fee for his work?”

“That’s true.”

“But you gave a substantial sum to his campaign fund? Was that you personally or the company?”

Haig’s face was grim. He thrust down the letter-opener and, with his elbows on the desk, he leaned forwards towards Nolan.

“What’s that got to do with a union investigation, Mr. Nolan?”

“There’s no trace of the union chipping into the campaign fund a similar amount.”

“So what?”

“So I’d be grateful for an answer to my question. Was the contribution yours or the company’s?”

“Mine.”

“Was it registered?”

“I’ve no idea. I assume it was.”

Nolan shifted in his chair as if he were making himself comfortable.

“I’d be glad if you could check the union man’s name and number, Mr. Haig.”

Haig put his hand on a single sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. It said “SIWECKI TADEUSZ 770431/1 Electrical workers 95.”

Nolan picked up the paper and stood up.

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Haig.”

Haig looked surprised.

“Is that all?”

Nolan gave him a long, hard look.

“Unless there’s anything else you’d care to tell me.”

Haig shook his head slowly.

“No, Mr. Nolan. There’s nothing else.”

Pinto’s Place was about what he expected. The electricity bill wasn’t going to be high because of the lighting. It was pink-shaded everywhere, and faces were only recognizable close-to. An ideal set-up, he thought, for those meetings after office hours before the tired businessman faces the rigours of his home. Gary Baker was sitting with a girl in one of the curved booths that were built up on a dais so that the occupants were almost out of the line of sight.

The young man introduced Nolan, finished his drink, and left Nolan to take his place opposite the girl.

As Gary Baker had said, she was gorgeous. Big brown eyes, a neat nose and a wide mouth with healthy teeth. The tight-fitting dress had a V-neck that revealed a lot of bosom but, somehow, the effect was not of deliberate provocation but more an indifference or acceptance of the fact that men would look at the lush mounds anyway. The amused smile as his eyes went back to her face was more of an invitation than the cleavage.

“Gary says you’re interested in some of our local brass?”

“One or two. Tell me about you.”

The big brown eyes looked at him shrewdly. “Whatever it is you want you don’t have to go through that jazz.”

“What jazz is that?”

“My life story, and what a nice girl like me is doing in a dump like this.”

Nolan smiled, waved over the waiter and ordered drinks for them both.

“I was genuinely interested, Miss Angelo. I’m sorry if I sounded impertinent.”

“What were you interested in?”

“Well, you’re very beautiful, very lively, very…” He hesitated for a word and she said, “Sexy?”

“No,” he said. “Well, yes… but the word I would have used was vital.”

She was smiling and it was a genuine smile.

“My Momma came from Laredo and my Daddy was from Acapulco. He was a lawyer. A very handsome man, and Momma was very pretty. When they were married they moved to New York. Daddy was crazy about girls and they fought like tigers. He couldn’t help it, it was all that inbred Mexican machismo. Finally Momma had had enough and she threw him out. He lived happy ever after, collecting teenage blondes, and Momma was desperately unhappy for twenty years. She died two years ago.”

“And your father?”

“Still happy. He’s raised the age limit to twenty, now.”

“You sound as if you like him.”

“I liked them both. I understood them both. He didn’t want to marry them. He thought he was happily married. He would visit Momma long after they were divorced. Big white smile, bunches of roses, invitations to dinner. He never understood.” She looked at him smiling. “So that mixture is me. Brown skin, white smile and unmarried because I’m still not sure who was right.” He looked at the lovely face and found her strangely, exotically attractive. It was like the fascination of reaching out to touch two bare electric wires.

“Would you stay for a meal?”

For a moment she hesitated, then she nodded. “Thanks. That would be nice.”

When the waitress had brought the main course he looked over at her.

“D’you mind if we talk business while we eat?”

“No. Go ahead. It’s Oakes, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Tell me about him.”

The big brown eyes looked at his face.

“You’re not IRS are you?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “No. What made you doubt it?”

She shrugged. “For one, I see plenty of IRS guys and you don’t fit. For two, there was an IRS senior man down here a month ago just before the election, sniffing around Oakes. Some Democrat had put the pressure on Washington to check out the possible new Senator. Both parties do it, it’s routine. For three, I’d guess you’d never catch Jim Oakes on tax. It’s his speciality, and he’s good at it. For four, I rather like you, and that means you couldn’t possibly be IRS.”

Nolan smiled slowly. “Sounds a pretty shrewd list.”

“So what are you?”

“If it’s the only way you would help me I’ll tell you, but I’d rather not.”

She waited while he poured her a coffee.

“What is it you want to know about Jim Oakes?”

“I don’t know. Just tell me about him.”

“He’s just short of fifty. Married. Senior partner in a respected law firm that’s not as financially successful as he gives out. Owns 40 per cent of a real-estate development by the river. Leading political figure for years. Was Chairman of Connecticut Republican Party before the election. Newly elected Junior Senator.”

She smiled as she finished, and Nolan nodded.

“That’s the image. What’s behind it?”

“He was desperately short of money until this real-estate deal came up. Now he’s got plenty. He’s a man with money. And he’s a randy bastard.”

“Where did he raise the money for the real-estate deal?”

“A New York outfit called Gramercy Realtors. The guy he writes to is named de Jong. He also gets separate payments from an outfit called the Halpern Trust.”

“What amounts are we talking about?”

“He’s got two New York accounts, both at least a hundred grand. And the payment from Halpern Trust is a thousand a month.”

“What account is that paid into?”

“At First National here in Hartford.”

“How d’you know this, Maria?”

She looked at him calmly. “You know how I know. I’m sure Gary told you that Oakes screws me.”

He looked down to avoid her eyes and stirred his coffee. Then he looked back at her face.

“D’you know a guy named Siwecki?”

“Yeah. I know the family.”

“Tell me about the union one.”

“That’s the father—Tad Siwecki. He was union organizer at Haig Electronics. There was a strike and a few months afterwards he left to run the AFL-CIO local. He retired about a couple of years ago. He lives in one of the houses on Oakes’s development.”

“Must have a pretty good pension.”

“He gets a monthly payment from Oakes.”

“How much?”

“Last time I heard it was five hundred a month.”