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  “Senator Cinaglia’s office.”

  “Hi Rose, it’s Bernie Green from the Governor’s Office.”

  “Hi Bernie. You don’t have to tell me where you’re from. All the girls here know who you are. What can I do for you sweetie?”

  Rose Quintone was Cinaglia’s equivalent of the governor’s chief of staff. She was hard as a day old loaf of Italian bread from Sarcone’s, the best bread bakery in South Philadelphia. Rose was someone you should never cross; she would hold a grudge forever, even longer. But if she liked you, there was absolutely no better ally in your dealings with her boss. At sixty-something, she was still a stunner. Back in the day she was the Senator’s “Goomah”, his ‘on the side,’ when he was married to wife number one. Now she was his trusted aide.

  As one of the governor’s troubleshooters I had worked with Rose on a number of constituent related problems Cinaglia should have handled himself. Through this process I had earned her respect, and perhaps a modicum of her trust.

  “Is the bossman in?”

  She laughed, “Bernie, it’s Friday afternoon. You know the senator. He convenes court with his cronies at La Veranda at 12:30 and then heads to the mansion. Why don’t you come over to the office? I’ll let the girls go home early. We can do some Limoncello shots and see how things go from there.”

  “Rose, you don’t know how much I’d like to take you up on that. But, duty calls. I have to dig your boss out of a mess.”

  “In that case, you’d better bring a big shovel. I’ll give his personal a call and let him know you’re on your way. This way no one will shoot you when you ring his doorbell. And Bernie, remember there’s some Limoncello waiting for you when you finish your business with the big cheese.”

  “Oh, stop it. You’re making me crazy.”

  “Liar,” she laughed again and hung up.

  As I made my way up Spring Garden to 19th Street I imagined what could happen if only I could kibbutz with Nicky like I had with Rose Quintone. I was suddenly aware that I had not been out on a date since I had returned from Iraq. Could it really have been that long? How much longer could I get away with just living on the surface?

  The Senator’s house at the corner of 19th and Green was truly an imposing structure. It stood on a double lot, four stories high and was set back from the rest of the houses on both streets. A six foot high wrought iron fence surrounded the entire lot sealing the house off from its neighbors.

  I looked up the tree shaded street and admired the stately homes on both sides of the block. The 1900 block of Green Street may be one of the most beautiful in the city. I had been told that location scouts from Hollywood always asked the city for permission to use this location for their movies and television shows. The neighbors blocked all such requests preserving their privacy at the cost of civic pride.

  When the senator first moved to the neighborhood he was hailed as a conquering hero. He had promised to rehabilitate the vacant convent on the corner that had fallen into disrepair. He also hinted at his authority to declare the entire block a private street. Kind of like Downing Street, with State Police Officers stationed around the clock at both ends of the block, limiting ingress and egress to the select families who lived there and their guests.

  Cinaglia’s bold pronouncement to his neighbors, much like the serenity of his third marriage, quickly exploded in acrimony and hostility. According to the gossip mongers the senator tried to poison one of his neighbors’ pets for leaving droppings on his sidewalk. Or perhaps he tried to poison his wife and her contractor lover for leaving the evidence of their love-making all over one of his oriental carpets. I could not quite keep up with the senator’s many vendettas.

  I pressed the button on the speaker at the main gate to Cinaglia’s mansion. The guard buzzed me in without any inquiry. The front door opened as I limped up the path to the marble steps that had been so skillfully restored before the contractor and the third Mrs. Cinaglia had betrayed their benefactor.

  “The senator is expecting you. He’s in the East Sitting room, this way.” Cinaglia’s personal aide, a giant with no neck dressed in official South Philly attire, a Nike sweat suit with a heavy gold chain around his neck, said and pointed me to the double doors to his right. The aide knocked and opened the door, gesturing for me to enter.

  The Honorable Anthony A. Cinaglia was seated on what must be an authentic Queen Anne sofa. He looked like Marlon Brando in the death scene in ‘The Godfather’, kind of grandfatherly with only a hint of lethality. Cinaglia was still wearing the three-piece black mohair undertaker suit he wore every day, his senator uniform. He had unbuttoned the vest, and his silk tie was partially untied. There were red flecks from his spaghetti dinner or from Chianti on his stark white shirt. Cinaglia waived a handkerchief at me to approach. I thought for a moment the senator would extend his hand for me to kiss his ring.

  “Those dirty rotten sons of bitches!” he blurted out.

  There was no one else in the room. “Senator?”

  “Them,” he said as he pointed out the window at a Comcast truck that was parked across the street from his house.

  “Comcast?”

  Cinaglia laughed, “That’s not Comcast.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. It’s the FBI.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know it’s not Comcast?”

  The senator looked at me as if I was some kind of idiot. “Today it’s Comcast, yesterday it was PECO, and tomorrow it will be Verizon. They park there all day. It’s the FBI, those rotten bastards.”

  I took a careful look at the truck. It looked like an ordinary cable company van. To appease him I said, “Ok senator, but what are they doing? I mean, what are they accomplishing by sitting out in the open in a truck across the street from your house?”

  “They’re spying on me. They have some kind of parabolic bullshit. They’re probably listening to our conversation, those motherless fucks.”

  I was becoming concerned that the senator would burst a blood vessel. Cinaglia continued his rant. “I know my house isn’t bugged. I have it swept every day. You know they tried to bug the mayor’s office.”

  “No sir, I did not know that.”

  “You didn’t? Don’t you read Dan Gross?”

  I had no idea who Dan Gross was. “No sir. I’ll have to add that to my required reading.”

  He shook his head again in apparent disappointment with my complete lack of savy. “Anyways, they did a sloppy job and got caught. Those worthless pricks! Their fuck up probably got that asshole reelected,” he laughed. “You know, they make a transcript of everyone I talk to. You’ll be on it now, so you better be careful.”

  The senator stared at me for a moment and then asked. “You’re not wearing an FBI wire, are you Bernie?”

  “No sir.”

  “Good. I mean, you could record anything we talk about. I wouldn’t care, because I wouldn’t think of doing anything illegal,” he said and winked at me and gave the Comcast truck the finger.

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Where’s that shit Samson? The governor always sends that scumbag to do his dirty work.”

  I was relieved the senator had apparently exhausted the previous subject.

  “Senator, the governor asked me to meet with you.”

  “You’re a good kid. You always work with me and my staff to help us out. I think Rose has the hots for you.” Cinaglia gave me another wink.

  I ignored the senator’s leer and said, “That’s probably why the governor asked me to discuss this problem you’re having with your neighbors.”

  “It must be that lesbian bitch lawyer, lives up the street. She is the ugliest dyke I’ve ever seen. You should see her wife; I think that’s what she is. I’m talking tattas that defy gravity. She parades around the block in shorts so tight, Madonna, what I would do to show her what a real man…”he sighed as if exhausted by the very thought of defiling his neighbor’s significant ot
her.

  “Senator, it’s about the pistol range. You know, it’s against a least 10 city ordinances.”

  “Come with me.” Cinaglia jumped up and ran out of the room. I followed. The senator led me to an elevator; the house had an elevator complete with an elaborate iron lattice surrounding the contraption. It looked like something from an 18th century château in Paris.

  We rode down to the sub basement. The elevator opened to a well-stocked wine cellar. There were probably more bottles of wine there than in the wine cellars of most of the restaurants in Center City.

  We walked across the length of the cellar to a set of massive oak doors. The Senator unlocked the doors and we entered the armory. Along the far wall was a collection of pistols and weaponry that could easily equip an invading army. There must have been a hundred pistols and other weapons.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Cinaglia spoke with reverence normally reserved for more solemn occasions like the christening of a granddaughter, or the bris of Jew’s first born son.

  He selected one of the pistols from the wall. “Look at this. It’s a Walther; you know the gun James Bond used. Come here. Do you want to hold my gun?”

  This was getting beyond bizarre. “No thank you senator.”

  He looked at me as if I was insane. “But you were in the military, weren’t you. You’re some kind of hero. You know how to handle a weapon, don’t you?”

  “Senator, you know you can’t install a practice range here. Besides, the vibrations would disturb your wine collection. It’s just a bad idea.”

  Cinaglia sighed.

  I continued, “I do have a suggestion. You own a farm near the State Capitol in Dauphin County. In that county there are no laws restricting the use of your licensed guns on your own property. These weapons are all licensed, aren’t they?”

  Cinaglia smiled. “Absolutely! You know I would never violate the law.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Don’t Wait too Long

  Of course Nicky lived on Rittenhouse Square, I thought as I drove up to her apartment building. Rittenhouse Square was perhaps the most prestigious neighborhood in Philadelphia. It was historic, one of the five original open-space parks planned by William Penn during the late 17th century. It had almost always been recognized as a highly desirable address, like Central Park East, or Gramercy Park in New York, but more subdued, more quintessentially Philadelphia.

  I stopped in the no stopping zone in front of Nicky’s building, the Parc on Rittenhouse Square. The doorman frowned at my beat up Chevy Cobalt. When you lived in Northern Liberties and parked on the street like I did, anything that looked new or expensive would either be broken into or boosted. The doorman’s look of disapproval further fed my feelings of insecurity. I watched as Nicky reassured the doorman that he did not need to summon the police.

  The doorman reluctantly held open the door still glaring at me. Nicky looked like she had just stepped off the set of a Ralph Lauren commercial, that almost effortless sophisticated air that most women try for but never quite achieve, as she walked towards me.

  “What?” She said, in response to my gaping expression.

  “It’s just, I mean, this is the first time I’ve seen you outside the office. You look…different.” I was still unable to speak in coherent sentences.

  “Do I look OK?”

  “Yes, of course. You look great,” I said as I stood by the door staring at her.

  “Look what a girl has to do to get a compliment out of you. Well, are you going to let me in the car?”

  God, I’m such a loser I thought as I got back in the car.

  “Thanks for being on time. I wanted to be sure to get to the Angel before Serge starts his set. I think you’ll like him. He sounds a little like Jobim, when he was young. You know that jazzy Brazilian sound.”

  I liked listening to Nicky describe the subtle differences of the various musical genres we would be listening to at this evening’s performance. She could have embarked on a discourse on the mating habits of fruit flies for all I cared. I just liked the sound of her voice.

  “Bernie, what kind of music do you like?”

  “What?” Once again I was so smooth.

  “You know, I was going on and on about what I like. I realized I really don’t know anything about you; do you even like to listen to music? Who do you see, that kind of thing.”

  I looked at her for a moment. I didn’t want to blow my very first opportunity to impress her. I took a deep breath and began.

  “Well, I guess you’d say my musical taste is…eclectic. I like bebop jazz, early Coltrane, Miles Davis, Dizzy and Bird. I like the old standards, especially when Ella, Chris Connor, Chet Baker, do them, and Mel Torme too. You know, I think I like everybody who’s dead. But I also like Elvis Costello and Morrisey and even Elvis and Johnny Cash, the last two are dead, I think. I like the classics, and opera too, like I said, eclectic”

  I stopped for air and peeked at Nicky. “What?” it was my turn to question her reaction to my exposition on the state of things musical in ‘Bernie Green land.’ I hope I hadn’t blown it.

  “That’s very impressive. I had no idea. Know what? I like all of the performers you just mentioned too. I really do.” She smiled, “This is so surprising; it’s going to be a lot of fun.”

  I lucked out and found an open spot a half block away from the Tin Angel. Nicky grabbed my arm as we walked past the line to the entrance. “Hey Nicky,” the bouncer smiled, as he waved us through.

  The Tin Angel was one of the hot spots in Philly that served as a live venue for both established musicians and new talent. We were greeted warmly; rather the staff and even some of the patrons greeted Nicky, as we entered the room.

  “Never been here before, I see,” I said and she gave me a what-can-you-say kind of shrug.

  We took two open stools at the end of the bar. The bartender an austere punked-up young woman with numerous face piercings approached. “Cosmo for you Nicky?” Nicky nodded, “He with you?”

  “Cessi, this is Bernie. Be nice girl.”

  “So handsome, what are you havin?”

  “I’ll have a beer,” I paused and looked at the list on the wall behind the bar. Apparently I studied the list longer than the allotted time and the bartender quipped, “Want to give me some clue as to your preference, or should I just try and guess. Nicky, where’d you find this guy, I mean I wouldn’t throw him outta bed, but he ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  This got a rise out of the bar crowd.

  I placed a fifty dollar bill on the bar and said, “Why don’t you go ahead and pick one out and surprise me, and give yourself a generous tip for your trouble.”

  She stared at the fifty and said, “Yes sir. Nicky, I guess there’s more to this guy than I thought.”

  The stage at the front of the room had been set up with a keyboard and drums. The lights dimmed and over the sound system someone announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm welcome to the Serge Paullo Trio.”

  A tall handsome man wearing a tight black tee shirt that showed off his cut physique took the stage. His piercing blue eyes contrasted with his dark complexion. He was carrying an acoustic guitar in one hand and an electric guitar in the other. The drummer and keyboard player, who were dressed similarly and looked like his twins followed him to the stage. They waved to the crowd took their places and without a word began the set. Paullo’s music quickly cast a spell over the room as he and his mates moved between Brazilian standards like, “Desdifinado, and the “Girl from Ipanema” to new age Latin jazz.

  As they approached the end of their set, Serge finally spoke. He introduced his companions each of whom was acknowledged with prolonged applause from the audience. Serge looked directly at Nicky and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen a Tin Angel favorite has graced us with her beautiful presence this evening. Perhaps, with some encouragement, she would favor us with a song. What do you say Ms Nicky Miller?”

  The crowd started to cha
nt, “Nicky, Nicky.” She looked at me and gave me another what can I say shrug. As she made her way to the stage the crowd clapped and whistled.

  She whispered something to Serge. He smiled and turned to the keyboard player and drummer and told them something. He counted off, nodding his head and stomping his foot to the beat. The crowd settled down and Serge began with three bars of a familiar sounding riff. Nicky stepped up to the microphone. The crowd cheered as Nicky sang “Don’t Wait Too Long.” She sounded just like the original Madeline Peyroux version, and yet different.

  The audience whooped it up as she finished the tune.

  “Hey Einstein, I think she’s giving you a signal,” Cessi said as she set out another round. “It’s from the girls over there,” she nodded her head in the direction of two women with matching face piercings who were sitting at the other end of the bar. “They got the hots for Nicky too.” I looked up and smiled at them.

  Nicky made her way back. “So, what’s the verdict? Should I keep my day job?”

  “That was, I had no idea. I mean… you sounded just like the record.” Cessi was right; I was an idiot.

  Nicky told me that she had come to Philadelphia from Wilkes-Barre to study voice at the Curtis Institute. After a semester she discovered the local music scene and with that her classical training abruptly ended. Her father agreed to allow her to remain in Philly, provided she got a real job. Through his political connections her father hooked her up as the governor’s regional secretary.

  For the past two years or so, she had developed a following in the local clubs. She cut a few demo videos and was waiting for her big break. Serge and his mates joined us and I nursed my beer and mostly listened while Nicky and her friends discussed the who’s who of the Philly music scene.

  I pulled up to the Parc dreading the awkward end of the night thing that was about to unfold.

  “I had a great time tonight,” I said. “Look, the doorman is giving me the hard stare again.” Nicky laughed, she flashed the doorman one of her smiles and he retreated.