Roscoe (2 page)

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Cutie said to Roscoe.

“I don’t even know what you look like,” Roscoe said.

“I heard it from Scully’s office this afternoon. Straight stuff, Roscoe. I kid you not.”

“Are you just talking, Cute, or are you trying to say something?”

“They want to nail you.”

“This is very big news, Cute. I wish you could stay longer.”

“They have stuff they can use.”

“Like that missing forty thou when they subpoenaed our books? That money is not missing,” Roscoe said.

“They’re tapping your lines, reading your mail, watching your wild girlfriend, Trish Cooney.”

“She’s easy to watch. Also, she leaves the shades up.”

“They know all your moves with women.”

“They get paid for this?”

“You got a reputation. You know how they like scandal.”

“I wish my life was that interesting. But thanks, Cute. Is that it?”

“They’re on you full-time. I heard Scully himself say nailing you was as good as nailing Patsy.”

“I appreciate this news.”

“You know what I’m looking for, Roscoe.”

“Yes, I do. A courtroom you can call home.”

“It’s not asking a lot. I’m not talking Supreme Court. Small Claims Court, maybe. Or Traffic Court. I’d make a hell of a judge.”

Roscoe considered that: The Cute Judge. Cute the Judge. Judge Cutie. Cutie Judgie. Jurors in his court would do Cutie Duty.

“A hell of a judge,” Roscoe said. “It goes without saying.”

Roscoe put on his blue seersucker suit coat, waved farewell to the boys, took the elevator down, and went out and up State Street hill. The day was August 14, 1945. Roscoe wore
a full beard, going gray, but his mustache was mostly black. Trust no man, not even your brother, if his beard is one color, his mustache another. He was fat but looked only burly, thinking about
developing an ulcer but seemed fit. He was burning up but looked cool in his seersucker.

He went into the State Street entrance of the Ten Eyck and up the stairs to the lobby, which was also cool and busy with people checking in—three soldiers, two WACs, a sailor and a girl,
rooms scarce tonight if the Japs surrendered. He crossed the marble floor of the lobby and sat where he always sat, precisely where Felix Conway, his father, had sat, this corner known then and now
as the Conway corner. He signaled silently to Whitey the bellhop to send a waiter with a gin and quinine water, his daily ritual at this hour. He looked across the lobby, trying to see his father.
I’m looking for advice, he told the old man.

Roscoe’s condition had become so confounding that he had asked Patsy McCall and Elisha Fitzgibbon, his two great friends, with whom he formed the triaxial brain trust of the Albany
Democratic Party, to come to the hotel and talk to him, away from all other ears. Roscoe, at this moment staring across time, finds his father sitting in this corner. It is a chilly spring
afternoon in 1917, the first Great War is ongoing in Europe, and Roscoe, twenty-seven, will soon be in that war. He’s clean-shaven, a lawyer whose chief client is the Fitzgibbon Steel mill,
and he also has an eye on politics.

Felix Conway is a man of sixty-five, with a full, gray beard down to his chest, hiding his necktie. He’s wearing a waistcoat, suit coat, overcoat, and cap, but also covers himself with a
blanket to fend off the deadly springtime drafts in the Ten Eyck Hotel lobby. Felix is a hotel-dweller and will remain one for the rest of his days, which are not many. He had been the
thrice-elected, once-ejected Mayor of Albany, and made a sizable fortune brewing ale and lager. He was ousted from City Hall in 1893 after a lawsuit over voting fraud, but his Democrats regained
City Hall in the next election and kept it for five years. In those years Felix was the Party’s elder statesman, with an office next to the new Mayor, and a luncheon table at the Sadler Room
in Keeler’s Restaurant, where he held court for Democrats and influence salesmen of all varieties. This lush period for Felix ended in 1899.

In that year the Republicans took City Hall and also found they could afford lunch at Keeler’s great restaurant. But Felix could not bear the effluvia they gave off, so he went home for
lunch. It took him six months to admit he was not suited to living full-time among his wife, two sons, and three daughters. And when he did admit it, he betook himself to the brand-new Ten Eyck
Hotel and told the folks, Goodbye, dear family, I’ll be home Saturday afternoons and stay till Sunday tea. We’ll have a fine time going to mass, eating the home-cooked meal, won’t
it be grand? Yes, it will, and then I’ll be done with you for a week.

The Republicans of 1917 are secure in their power, and the Democrats no longer even try to win, for it is more profitable to play the loser and take Republican handouts for assuming this pose.
Yet Democratic reform elements endure, and there sits Roscoe beside his father, eavesdropping as the old man holds court for a steady, life-giving flow of pols, pals, has-beens, and would-bes.
Bellhops daily place “reserved” signs on the marble tea table, the Empire armchair and sofa, in the Felix Conway corner. At the moment, Felix is in his chair, giving an audience to
Eddie McDermott, leader of yet another reform faction that hopes to challenge Packy McCabe’s useless but invulnerable Albany Democratic Party organization in the 1917 primary.

Eddie stares into Felix’s eye, revealing his plans to reform the Party if he wins the primary, and reform the city if he wins the election. He leans farther and farther forward as he
speaks ever-so-softly to Felix, finally rolling off the sofa onto one knee to make his message not only sincere but genuflectional, and he whispers to the Solomon of Albany politics: “You do
want the Democrats to make a comeback and take City Hall again, don’t you, sir?”

“Oh, I do, I do,” says Felix. And he truly does.

“I have much to learn, Mr. Conway, but there’s one thing I can learn only from you, for nobody else has an answer, and I’ve asked them all.”

“What might that be, Mr. McDermott?”

“Once we take over the Party, how do we get the money to run it?”

Felix Conway throws his arms wide, kiting his blanket toward the outer lobby, startling Roscoe. He opens both his coats, pulls off his muffler, the better to breathe, and begins to laugh.

“He wants to know how you get the money,” Felix says to Roscoe, and then his laughter roars out of control, he rises from his chair, and shouts out, “How do you get the money?
Oh my Jesus, how do you get the money!”

Then the laughter, paroxysmal now, seals Felix’s throat and bloats him with its containment. He floats up from his chair, still with a smile as wide as his head, and he rises like a
hot-air balloon, caroming off the balustrade of the Tennessee-marble stairway, and he keeps rising on up to collide with the lobby’s French chandelier, where he explodes in a final
thunderclap of a laugh, sending crystal shards raining down onto Eddie McDermott, the terrified reformer below.

Felix Declares His Principles to Roscoe

“How do you get the money, boy? If you run ’em for office and they win, you charge ’em a year’s wages. Keep taxes low, but if you have to raise
’em, call it something else. The city can’t do without vice, so pinch the pimps and milk the madams. Anybody that sells the flesh, tax ’em. If anybody wants city business, thirty
percent back to us. Maintain the streets and sewers, but don’t overdo it. Well-lit streets discourage sin, but don’t overdo it. If they play craps, poker, or blackjack, cut the game. If
they play faro or roulette, cut it double. Opium is the opiate of the depraved, but if they want it, see that they get it, and tax those lowlife bastards. If they keep their dance halls open
twenty-four hours, tax ’em twice. If they run a gyp joint, tax ’em triple. If they send prisoners to our jail, charge ’em rent, at hotel prices. Keep the cops happy and let
’em have a piece of the pie. A small piece. Never buy anything that you can rent forever. If you pave a street, a three-cent brick should be worth thirty cents to the city. Pave every street
with a church on it. Cultivate priests and acquire the bishop. Encourage parents to send their kids to Catholic schools; it lowers the public-school budget. When in doubt, appoint another judge,
and pay him enough so’s he don’t have to shake down the lawyers. Cultivate lawyers. They know how it is done and will do it. Control the district attorney and
never let him go
;
for he controls the grand juries. Make friends with millionaires and give ’em what they need. Any traction company is a good traction company, and the same goes for electricity. If you build
a viaduct, make the contractor your partner. Whenever you confront a monopoly, acquire it. Open an insurance company and make sure anybody doing city business buys a nice policy. If you don’t
know diddle about insurance, open a brewery and make ’em buy your beer. Give your friends jobs, but at a price, and make new friends every day. Let the sheriff buy anything he wants for the
jail. Never stop a ward leader from stealing; it’s what keeps him honest. Keep your plumbers and electricians working, and remember it takes three men to change a wire. Republicans are all
right as long as they’re on our payroll. A city job should raise a man’s dignity but not his wages. Anybody on our payroll pays us dues, three percent of the yearly salary, which is
nice. But if they’re on that new civil service and won’t pay and you can’t fire ’em, transfer ’em to the dump. If you find people who like to vote, let ’em.
Don’t be afraid to spend money for votes on Election Day. It’s a godsend to the poor, and good for business; but make it old bills, ones and twos, or they get suspicious. And only give
’em out in the river wards, never uptown. If an uptown voter won’t register Democrat, raise his taxes. If he fights the raise, make him hire one of our lawyers to reduce it in court.
Once it’s lowered, raise it again next year. Knock on every door and find out if they’re sick or pregnant or simpleminded, and vote ’em. If they’re breathing, take ’em
to the polls. If they won’t go, threaten ’em. Find out who’s dead and who’s dying, which is as good as dead, and vote ’em. There’s a hell of a lot of dead and
they never complain. The opposition might cry fraud but let ’em prove it after the election. People say voting the dead is immoral, but what the hell, if they were alive they’d all be
Democrats. Just because they’re dead don’t mean they’re Republicans.”

The 1945 election was twelve weeks away, the Governor’s three-year-old investigation was intensifying if you believed Cutie, and who knew what they might come up with?
The Republicans, because of the Governor’s pressure, were running Jason (Jay) Farley for mayor, an intelligent Irish Catholic businessman who made smart speeches, their strongest candidate in
years. And the absence of Alex, the city’s soldier-boy Mayor, who was still somewhere in Europe, was a factor to be determined. Patsy had decided that, not only would we win this election, we
would also humiliate the Governor for trying to destroy us, and his secret weapon was an old one: a third-party candidate who would dilute the Republican vote, the same ploy Felix Conway had used
repeatedly in the 1880s and ’90s.

Roscoe, working on his second gin and quinine, sat facing Patsy, who was having his usual: Old Overholt neat. Patsy sat here often, but he was out of place amid the gilded rococo furniture and
Oriental rugs of the lobby, and looked as if he’d be more at ease at a clambake. But despite the August heat, there he was under his trademark fedora, sitting where Felix Conway had received
visitors a quarter-century ago, looking not at all like a man of power, yet with far greater power than Felix could have imagined having. For Patsy now, as leader of the Albany Democratic Party for
twenty-four heady years, was everybody’s father, Roscoe included. Patsy, five years Roscoe’s senior, was the main man, the man who forked the lightning, the boss.

“What’s so urgent?” Patsy asked Roscoe.

“It’s not urgent to anybody but me, but it is important. I have to retire.”

Patsy screwed up his face.

“Say it again?”

“I’ve got to get out. Do something else. Go someplace else. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“What I do.”

“You do everything.”

“That’s part of it.”

“You gettin’ bored?”

“No.”

“You need money?”

“I’ve got more money than I can use.”

“You have another bad love affair?”

“When did I ever have a good one?”

“Then what is it?”

“You know what it’s like when you come to the end of something, Pat?”

“Not yet I don’t.”

“Of course. You’ll go on forever. But it’s over for me and I don’t know why. It may seem sudden to you, but it’s been on the way a long time. There’s nothing
I can do about it. It’s just over.”

“The organization can’t get along without you. You’re half of everything I do. More than half.”

“Nonsense. You can get twenty guys this afternoon.”

“Counting all my life,” Patsy said, “I never knew three, let alone twenty, I trusted the way I trust you.”

“That’s why I’m giving you plenty of notice. I’ll ride out the election, but then I have to quit.”

“It’s this goddamned investigation. Did they come up with something on you?”

“Cutie LaRue says they’re hot to get me, but we all know that, and that’s not it. I’m fifty-five years old and going noplace. But now I’ve got to go someplace.
Anyplace. I need more room in my head.”

“You’re leaving Albany?”

“Maybe. If I can convince my head to leave town.”

“You’re sick from that ulcer. That’s it.”

“My gut hurts, but I’ve never felt better. Don’t look for a reason. There’s twenty, fifty. If I could figure it out I’d tell you.”

“We gotta talk about this.”

“We are talking about it.”

“What about the third-party candidate? You got one?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Did you tell Elisha about this plan of yours?”

“He’s due here for dinner. I’ll tell him then.”

“This is a disaster.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Goddamn it, if I say it’s a disaster it’s a disaster. This is a goddamn disaster. What the hell’s got into you?”