"You gonna turn it down?"
She nodded. "I'm afraid so."
"Don't worry. You'll get lots of others."
"I hope so. God, I hope so." She patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway. I hope you're not too broken up."
"I'll live," said Chico.
"Okay," smiled Gwen. "Good night, then, boys." She turned and walked off into the night.
Groucho slammed Chico in the shoulder. "That was close! Idiot! What if she'd taken you up on it?"
Chico shrugged, massaging his hurt shoulder. "She never would have. Pm Jewish. She's not." He sighed. "It'd never have worked."
Chaptre the Fifteenth
Bernie Bittberg had been made the official Democratic candidate for mayor of New York City. The decision from the primary voting had been overwhelmingly in his favor, due to endorsements from the two New York newspapers, namely the Times and the Daily News-no one counted the Post-and from a concentrated media blitz that had effectively destroyed the credibility of his opponents' records.
So now, several weeks after that primary, and several weeks before the election, Bernie should have been happy. He was, in fact, anything but.
It was past midnight as he huddled with his staff in a classic smoke-filled room. Bernie sat forward, rubbing his eyes, his still-knotted necktie draped over the back of his chair, his vest open to allow for his considerable girth. Moe Dredd sat to his immediate right. The various officials who ran his campaign were also there, in varying degrees of wakefulness.
Bernie looked around and slammed his open hand on the table, effectively rousing everyone. "What the hell are we going to do about this Arthur Penn character?" he demanded.
Effecting a gangland tone, his treasurer said, "You want we should rub him out, boss? I'll go round up Rico and the boys and-"
"Shut up, Charlie," said Bernie tiredly. "Now dammit, Pm serious. You know my philosophy about political opponents." He paused expectantly,
Moe filled the void, reluctantly. "Stick it to 'em."
"Stick it to 'em. That's right. Except what the hell are we supposed to do about this Penn guy? He's got no political record to speak of. For most people that would be a detriment, but he makes it work to his advantage. The voters see him as a fresh face in a jaded political arena, and it gives us absolutely zilch to work with. His business practices? Squeaky clean.
Hell, the man's never been investigated. All of his investments are sound and aboveboard.
He's hardly been involved in running the day-to-day business of anything, so although there's virtually no one to vouch for him, there's no one to say anything bad against him either.
"And if that's not enough for you," said Bernie with genuine indignation, "the guy has to go and save kids from a flaming building. Kids! Isn't that just friggin' fabulous! With TV news crews there to tape him." A sudden thought struck him. "Hey, maybe he started it. Stan, you're the press liaison. You have the contacts. Anyone looking into that possibility?"
Stan shook his head. "Police looked into it for weeks and still aren't sure what caused it. It seems like some sort of spontaneous combustion. Either way, certainly no sign of any incendiary device."
The head of clerical, Marcia, put in, "That whole thing gets bigger with every retelling. The children were telling reporters that our Mr. Penn, before the fire started, was fighting a man with a sword, and the man supposedly turned into some sort of creature and then crumbled away once Penn defeated him."
Bernie moaned. "Just what we need. Folk legends arising from this clown. So where does this leave us?"
Moe shook his head. "In a couple of days there's that televised debate. It's going to be you, the Republican candidate, and Arthur Penn. Now-"
Bernie hauled his carcass to his feet. "Penn's in the debate? Since when?"
"Since the TV stations became interested in ratings," said Moe sourly. "Since Penn won that citation from the Fire Department for gallantry. Since New York magazine put him on their Most Eligible Bachelor Politician List. Penn was amassing a following before, but that whole fire business made him really hot, so to speak. They decided that a debate would not really reflect the voters' interest in the candidates unless Penn was present. Frankly I can't blame them."
"Well, that's just wonderful, Moe," retorted Bernie. "And you won't blame the voters when they elect Arthur Penn instead of me or even the Republican candidate . . . uh, what's his name anyway?"
Everyone at the table looked at each other. Stan shrugged. "Who cares?"
"Yeah, you're right. Look, what it boils down to is this-I don't want to lose this race. I really don't. But the key to this is, I suspect, bringing down Arthur Penn."
"For what it's worth," said Marcia, "I think Penn's worst enemy right now is himself."
"Come again?"
"He was on a local news interview program the other day. He was snappish, irritable. Short with the interviewer. It's as if his mind is a million miles away."
"You know," said Stan, "come to think of it, he's been like that ever since the whole fire thing.
Maybe it shook him more than he lets on. He could hurt his image if he keeps it up. Because it's starting to look as if he can't stand pressure."
"Yeah, well, it's looking that way to us, but not to the general public. Not yet at any rate. So we're going to have to bring it to their attention."
He looked around the table. "We're going to have to start playing hardball, ladies and gentlemen. I hope that we have a clear understanding of this. Because if we don't win . . ."
his voice rose dramatically, and then he paused.
"Then we lose?" suggested Marcia helpfully.
Bernie covered his face and said quietly, "Meeting adjourned. Go home. Get some sleep.
See you all tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Sorry, make that later this morning."
Bernie himself started to rise, but he felt the gentle pressure of Moe's hand on his arm. He looked at Moe Dredd with curiosity, but Moe said nothing, didn't even look his way. Bernie lowered himself back into his seat, and they waited until the rest of the room had cleared out amidst tired choruses of "Good-byes" and "See you later."
"Nu?" said Bernie, once the room was empty. "What is it?" His voice dropped to a confidential level. "You got something on Penn? Please, say you've got something on him."
"Oh, I've got something on him, all right," said Mae slowly. "But you're not going to like it."
"How can I not like it?" He frowned. "Is he a fag? Don't tell me he's a fag. Not that I wouldn't use it," he added quickly, "it's just that I find that whole thing so, I don't know ... yuucchh."
"No. It's nothing like that." Moe took a deep breath. "You're going to have to be prepared to do something a little unorthodox. At the debate this Friday I want you to ask Mr. Penn something-''
"But we're not supposed to be talking directly to each other. Questions are being posed by moderators, and we're supposed to answer them."
Moe laughed curtly. He leaned back in his chair and said, "You telling me you're reluctant to start breaking rules?"
"Only if it's going to net me something big."
"It should."
"Only should?"
"All right, will, then. I want you to ask Arthur Penn who he is."
Bernie looked at him blankly. "What?"
Moe repeated it, and Bernie paused a moment, stroking his chin. "Moe, you know what the first rule is that a lawyer learns in the study of cross-examination? Never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer. So am I correct in assuming that the answer is going to be something other than the obvious?"
"Arthur Penn," said Moe, "is not his real name. At least, so he believes."
"What, he changed his name? Look, they made a big deal of that with Gary Hart, but I never thought much of it." He shook his head. "I'm not following you, Moe."