CONTINENTAL PATRIOT PRINTING said the old-fashioned shield-shaped sign hanging over the entry door. The shop was one of several in a long one-story fake-Colonial commercial building in a faded suburb of Pittsburgh, built not long after the Second World War and long since overwhelmed by the more modern malls. A few of the shops were vacant and for rent, and several of the remainder continued the Colonial theme: Paul Revere Video Rental down at the corner, Valley Forge Pizza next to the print shop. The plate-glass display window of the print shop was crammed with multicolored posters describing the services available within: “Wedding Invitations Business Cards Yearbooks Letterheads Newsletters Announcements.” The one thing not mentioned was the service that had brought Parker here.
There was angled parking in front of the shops. Parker left the Subaru in front of Valley Forge Pizza and went into Continental Patriot Printing, where a bell rang when he opened the door, and rang again when he shut it.
The interior of this shop had been truncated, cut to a stub of a room by a hastily constructed cheap panel wall with an unpainted hollow-core door in it. The remaining space was divided by a chest-high counter facing the front door, again quickly made, and with cheap materials. The paneling across the front of the counter and the paneling of the partition itself were heavy with more posters promoting the services available here, with examples of the work that could be done. The general air was of a competent craftsman with too few customers.
The inner door opened, in response to that double bell, and an Asian man came out, in work shirt and jeans and black apron. He was around forty years of age, short and narrow-shouldered, with a heavy forward-thrusting head, and eyes that squinted with deep suspicion and skepticism through round glasses. His name; Parker knew, was Kim Toe Kwai, and he was Korean.
He and Parker met at the counter, where Kim said, “Yes? May I help you?” But beneath that professional courtesy was an undisguisable skepticism, the belief that this new person could not possibly help because nobody could.
“A fellow named Pete Rudd told me I should get in touch with you,” Parker said.
The suspicious eyes grew narrower, the mouth became a slit. “I do not know such a man,” he said.
“That’s okay,” Parker told him. “I’ll tell you what I need, and after I leave you can look in your address book or wherever and see do you know a Pete Rudd and call him and ask him if you should do business with Mr. Lynch. You see what I mean?”
Kim took an order form out from under the counter and picked up a pen held there with a piece of cord tied around it and thumbtacked to the counter. He wrote “Lynch” on the order form. He said, “You have brochures you want made?”
“That’s right,” Parker said, and while Kim wrote “brochures” on the order form Parker took a laminated card out of his pocket, plus two small headshot photos, one of himself and the other of Wycza. The laminated card was a legitimate identification card for a New York State trooper. Putting it on the counter for Kim to see, but holding one finger on it, Parker said, “At the end, I need the original back. Undamaged.”
Kim squinted at the ID, then frowned at Parker. “This is actual,” he said.
“That’s right. That’s why I got to get it back.”
This was what Cathman had come up with, out of the state files; a solidly legitimate ID taken from a trooper currently on suspension for charges involving faked evidence against defendants. Whether the trooper was exonerated or not, Cathman needed to be able to put that ID back in the files, and soon.
Kim pointed at the photo of Parker and then at the ID. “You want this,” he said, and then pointed at the photo of Wycza and again” at the ID, “and this.”
“Right.”
Kim wrote some scribbles on the order form, and then, in the right-hand charge column, he wrote, “$500 each.”
Parker put his hand palm down on the form. When Kim looked at him, waiting, Parker took the pen from him, and with the form upside down, he crossed out “each.” Putting the pen down, reaching for his wallet, he said, “Pete told me your price structure, and said you were fair in your charges.”
Kim gave a sour look, and a shrug. “No doubt,” he said, as Parker slid five one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and put them on the counter, “he also told you I do very fast work.”
“You’re right, he did.”
“This is complex, this brochure.” Kim thought about it. “Three days.”
“Thursday. I’ll be here Thursday afternoon.”
“I close at five.”
“I’ll be here,” Parker said.
Kim peeled off one copy of the order form and pushed it across the counter toward Parker, but Parker shook his head, not taking it. “We’ll remember each other,” he said.
10
On Assemblyman Morton Kotkind’s letterhead stationery, Lou Sternberg addressed Andrew Hamilton, New York State Gaming Commissioner, and wrote as follows:
As you know, I have been opposed to the further legalization of gambling in New York State, beyond the lottery and the bingo for tax-exempts already existing. I have been in particular opposition to the installation of a gambling ship on the Hudson River, worldwide symbol of the Empire State, site of the first inland European exploration, by famed Henry Hudson in his ship the Half Moon,of what was to become the United States of America.
The will of the people’s representatives, at this time, has seen fit to look the other way at the potential for abuse in this introduction of casino gambling into the very heart of our state, where our children can actually stand on the riverbank and see this floating casino, and judge thereby that such activity has the blessing of their elders.
Other esteemed members of the Assembly have assured me that the operation of this floating casino is utterly reputable, that the potential for corruption has been minimized, and that the anticipated tax revenues and economic benefits to the depressed areas of the Hudson River Valley far outweigh any potential for mischief or malfeasance. I am far from changing my attitude in this matter, but even my most severest critics have always had to acknowledge my open-mindedness. I am prepared to listen and to observe.
In this regard, I have decided to undertake a factfinding tour of inspection of the floating casino on Friday, May 23, this year, on the eight P.M. sailing from Albany. I wish this mission to be as low-key as possible, with no excess attention paid to me and my two aides who will accompany me. I would ask merely for one escort from the ship’s complement to conduct me on my tour. I will expect, of course, to see every part of the ship.
At this point, I would take strong exception to this tour of inspection being used for publicity purposes to suggest that my opposition to casino gambling in New York State has altered or diminished in any way. I shall myself make no contact with the press, and I would ask that your office and the operators of the floating casino do not alert the press to this tour of inspection. After the event, if you wish, we may make a joint public announcement.
My assistant, Dianne Weatherwax, will telephone your office from my constituent office in my district in Brooklyn on Wednesday, May 21, to finalize the details. Any questions you may have should be raised through her, at that office.
May I say that, although I do not expect to have my opinions on this issue changed, I would welcome convincing evidence that casino gambling is not the scourge I have long believed it to be.
Yours sincerely,
Morton Kotkind
Sternberg was proud of this letter. “It sounds like him,” he said. “Some of it is even from his speeches, like the children on the riverbank. And besides that, it’s the way he talks.”
It had been part of Sternberg’s job to meet Kotkind, study him, get to know him, befriend him. There was a bar near Kotkind’s Brooklyn law offices on Court Street where lawyers went to unwind after their hard days, and it had not been difficult for Sternberg, short and stout and sour-looking, to blend in among them, cull Kotkind from the herd, and share a scotch and soda with the man from time to time.