He had attacked the Mob at the Jacob Javits Center, forcing out illegal activities. He had flooded sections of New York with police, dramatically reducing certain types of street crime. Briefly, he had even scored points with the rightbashing media by endorsing a candidate for governor who was not of his own political party. And that was only in his first term.
Hated by men on both sides of the political aisle, loved by as many on either side, Randolph Gillotti was the king of controversy in a city that thrived on conflict.
However, on this day, as the mayor of New York fidgeted in his seat behind his city-hall desk in lower Manhattan, Randolph Gillotti felt like anything other than controversy.
The Loonies were back in town.
It seemed like only yesterday when the crackpot cultists were harassing everyone at airports around the country. But after the Reverend Sun's run-in with the IRS, they had all but disappeared. Gillotti-like most reasonable Americans-hoped that they were gone for good. It turned out that they had only been dormant all this time.
The return of the Loonies to active life meant a fresh headache for the mayor of New York.
He frowned as he looked over the latest manpower reports sent by the police commissioner's office on the event Sun had scheduled for noon today.
It was ridiculous. The expenditure of time and manpower was absolutely crazy. Insane beyond belief. The cost to the city was astronomical. And worst of all, it was not anything that could possibly be twisted into good press.
A mass wedding. According to the documents forwarded by the Washington headquarters of the Grand Unification Church-as Sun's bogus religion was officially called-there would be nearly fifteen hundred couples tying the knot today.
Gillotti was not unlike most good New Yorkers. Most days he blamed the Yankee organization for everything-from the weather to the potholes in the Bronx. But today, it really was their fault. The Yankee people were the ones who had rented their stadium out to the crackpot cult leader and his tambourine-banging minions.
The leather padding beneath him crackled as Gillotti tossed the police reports aside. Moaning wearily, he dug at his eyes with the palms of his hands. As if responding to his cue, his desk intercom buzzed efficiently.
"Governor Princippi to see you, Mr. Mayor," his secretary announced.
Gillotti removed his hands from his eyes. Briefly, he considered letting the former Massachusetts governor stew in his outer office for an hour or two, but decided against it. Better to get this whatever-it-was-about meeting over with.
"Send him in," Gillotti lisped tiredly.
Princippi was ushered into the room a moment later. After exchanging polite handshakes, the exgovernor took a seat in front of the mayor's desk. Princippi noted with distaste that the mayor had not bothered to put on a jacket for the meeting. His Honor sat in shirtsleeves, hands cradled on his broad polished desk.
"What can I do for you, Mike?" Gillotti asked. "May I call you Mike?" he added. His smile was that of a cartoon squirrel, so, too, his sibilant S-filled speech.
"I suppose," Princippi said, clearly unhappy with the familiarity. "May I call you Randy?"
"My people tell me you said this was urgent, Mike," the mayor said, dodging the question. "What's up?"
The tone was set. Though Princippi frowned, he pressed on. "You know about the Sunnie ceremony today." It was a statement, not a question.
"The Loonie ceremony, yes," the mayor said.
"A bunch of middle-class whack job kids trying to get even with their parents for not buying them that Porsche when they turned sweet sixteen. Frankly, Mike, I'm surprised to see you mixed up in all this."
Princippi cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, the Reverend Sun has sent me here as his emissary."
"Is that a step up or down from running for President?" Gillotti laughed. "Sorry," he said instantly, raising an apologetic hand. "We've all got to make a buck somehow."
Princippi's bushy eyebrows furrowed. His embarrassment at the infomercial he had cut for Sun was rapidly turning to annoyance. "You know about the ad," he said flatly.
Gillotti leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I've heard something about it. Brainwashing wasn't good enough for Sun. He's branched out into fortune-telling, right?"
"In a sense," Princippi agreed. "But he doesn't just see the future. He sees the past and present, as well."
"What is he," the mayor scoffed, "some kind of Korean Magic Eight Ball?"
"It's not a question of whether you believe it or not," Princippi said with a displeased frown. "It's the truth. As much as I hate to admit it."
"Come on, Mike. Don't tell me you buy that bullshit?" the mayor taunted.
Princippi forged ahead. "Can we get back on topic? The ceremony?" he pressed.
Gillotti sighed. "What is it, Mike? Cops? You've got a ton of them. Uniforms on foot in the stands and on the field. I've even got you horses in the parking lot. It may bankrupt the city of New York, but you can go back and tell that halfcrazy millionaire boss of yours that his ass is safe for his marriage-a-thon, or whatever the hell you Loonies call those sham wedding things."
Princippi pursed his lips. "You are correct," he admitted, thinly hiding his displeasure. "This is about the police."
"I figured as much."
"However, the specific numbers faxed to Sunnie headquarters are unacceptable to Reverend Sun."
"Geez, come on," Gillotti complained, his lisp becoming more pronounced. "You've been around a few crowds in your life, Mike. You know we can't have an equal cop-to-spectator ratio. I can't believe he'd send you here to try and strong-arm me. You go back and tell that old fraud he doesn't get a single blue-suit more than the commissioner has allocated."
Princippi smiled. It was an oily expression devoid of mirth. "You don't understand," he said evenly, "we do not want more police. We want less. Specifically, none."
Gillotti had been readying another mild diatribe but paused in midbreath. He blinked once. "Come again?"
"Sunnie security can handle the day's events. Reverend Sun wishes for this to be a private ceremony. A police presence will only interfere with the solemnness of the occasion."
"Private?" Gillotti said, dully. "With three thousand candy brides and grooms propped on top of the cake?"
"This is what Reverend Sun wishes."
"No way," Gillotti said. "If something goes wrong, Sun will be the first one screaming bloody murder."
"Nothing will go wrong," Princippi assured him.
"Who told you that?" Gillotti snorted. "Your buddy the soothsayer? Tell him I am not letting a bunch of frolicking, robe-wearing, head-shaving psychos loose in the Bronx without an armed escort. The cops are there," he added firmly. "Whether the Loonie leader wants them there or not."
Gillotti crossed his arms determinedly. On the far side of the mayor's desk, Mike Princippi allowed himself a small smile. This one genuine.
"I can't tell you how he gets his powers of divination," the former governor said. "But they really are remarkable. Always right on the money. And speaking of money, he told me a little something this morning about the way you financed your first campaign for mayor."
A tiny squeak came from the mayor's chair. His eyes were dead, unreadable. "I conform to all of the rules of New York's election commission," he said.
"Of course you do."
"The finances are all out there for everyone to see. Even you. And I resent you coming into this office proxying for a thief like Sun and suggesting that anything I've done isn't aboveboard. This meeting is over."
Rather than buzz his secretary, Mayor Gillotti stood abruptly. Sweeping around the desk, he stepped briskly across the wide room, flinging open the door. In the outer office, the eyes of aides and secretaries looked up at the mayor in surprise.
Back near Gillotti's desk, Princippi stood. Slowly, he stepped across the room to the door.