Star Chamber Brotherhood (10 page)

Recently, however, the expansion of his building materials business had made it difficult for Hagopian to keep up with his working capital needs. To raise capital, he had already sold off two small commodities trading businesses and was evaluating whether to sell the Somerset Club as well. He hoped to sell it to Werner, but Werner never took the bait.

“You steer a hard bargain, Frank. How can we come to an agreement if you won’t even name your terms?”

“We can’t, Jake. I couldn’t own the Somerset Club if you gave it to me. I’m not even allowed to be in Boston, legally speaking. I can continue to live off the grid if I don’t make trouble, but I have no legal right to own property here or to register a business because I have no residence permit for Boston. And they will never give me one. Period.”

“For the right sum, any permit can be obtained,” Hagopian asserted.

“Not this one. Not for me,” Werner declared. “I was amnestied in Utah and Utah is where they want me to stay. And to be honest, I’d rather be in Utah. The only reason I stay in Boston is to find my daughter, so she’ll know that I’m alive. Once I do that, I plan to cash in my chips and find a place out west where I can be myself again, and where nobody cares what I’ve done or where I’ve been.”

“Well, I still think you underestimate my ability to fix that permit problem of yours, but let’s put that aside for the moment,” Jake offered. “If you do go back west, Frank, I’d like you to consider working for me there. With your contacts, we could get first crackle at any of the recycled materials coming out of those western worksites. Our profit margin would nearly double. How about it, Frank? Partners?”

Frank Werner shook his head. He thought it a terrible idea but he couldn’t fault Jake Hagopian for asking. Their values were wildly different, but he had grown too fond of the old man to be angry with him over his worldview. And he loved the malapropisms that peppered Jake’s Russian-accented speech.

“Thanks, Jake, but I’d rather stick to dealing in liquor and wine. It’s an honest trade giving good value at a fair price and I’m pretty good at it. I could never be a party to any business that profited from forced labor or supported the labor camp system. I don’t mean to tell you how to run your business, Jake, but once you’ve been in one of those camps, things look very, very different.”

“Okay, okay, I read you free and clear,” Hagopian replied holding his palms up in mock surrender. “We go on just as before, no changes, right?”

“Right, Jake. For as long as we possibly can.”

“But you don’t mind, do you, if I do some checking into that residence permit thing?”
 

“I most certainly do mind!” Werner exclaimed, raising his palms to his temples in exasperation. “Didn’t you hear a word…”

Then he saw the mischievous grin creep across Hagopian’s face and could not help laughing along with him.

Chapter 6

Saturday, April 14, 2029
Waltham, Massachusetts

Entering the industrial district of old Waltham, Werner turned off Crescent Street and parked the delivery van two blocks east of the Charles River among a block of vacant warehouses. Here, in the early nineteenth century, the first integrated textile mill went into operation, giving birth to the American Industrial Revolution. Today, except for the string of bars, flophouses, gambling dens, and storefront missions lining lower Moody Street, the district lay largely in ruins. Werner locked the truck, scanned the street in both directions and walked around the corner to a waiting Mercedes station wagon.

The driver was a man of medium height and build, a few years past fifty, with a fringe of neatly trimmed gray hair reaching his collar. His pinstriped shirt, black cashmere sweater, and sharply creased wool gabardine trousers conveyed an air of casual elegance not often seen in Waltham. In his day, the driver had played varsity soccer at Princeton and still possessed the fast reflexes, high energy and quick wits that had served him well on the soccer field. The man observed Werner’s approach in the rearview mirror and waved him forward without turning his head.

Werner noticed the wave and returned to the van, where he removed a two-wheeled hand truck and loaded it high with five cases of liquor. He locked the van and wheeled the hand truck around the corner without wasting a moment. As Werner approached, the driver released the tailgate electronically and continued watching through the mirror while Werner loaded the station wagon’s cargo area. Upon finishing, Werner opened the front passenger door and took a seat next to his favorite liquor customer, Harry Kendall.
 

The two men had met through Kendall’s caterer, Franz Meier, who had recommended Werner for his ability to procure case quantities of top-quality, pre-Events wines and spirits for Kendall’s active schedule of business entertaining. Kendall, a graduate of both Harvard Business School and Harvard Law School, had been an investment banker before the Events, specializing in corporate turnarounds. As the economy collapsed and clients grew scarce, Kendall devoted himself to studying economic history and emerged a few months later, prepared for what he called the inevitable pendulum swing from state-owned enterprise back to privatization.
 

Kendall promptly offered his services to the newly elected governor of Massachusetts as a $1-a-year man with a mandate to draft a privatization plan for the Commonwealth’s overabundant stock of state-owned financial institutions, commercial and industrial companies, and real estate holdings. His civic-minded offer was accepted without hesitation, in view of the dazzling prospects for wealth generation that his plan offered to the Governor and his circle of intimate associates.

“Going any place in particular today?” he asked Werner once the car was underway.

“No, let’s just drive around a bit. When we’re done, you can drop me off on Crescent Street and I’ll walk back to the van.”

 
Werner found Kendall’s personality both fascinating and alarming. He was an intelligent, educated, accomplished business leader in post-industrial Boston without evident ethical or moral scruples. The man was pure pragmatism mixed with ample measures of ego, animal spirits, self-interest, and curiosity. Yet, apart from an occasional off-putting intensity, Kendall could be as affable and smooth a character as ever graced a Beacon Hill drawing room.

“You’re single-handedly depleting my inventory of single malt Scotch, Harry,” Werner opened, slipping into the casual banter of their easy relationship. “You might consider giving gin a try this summer.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Kendall replied. “The Scotch is for my health, you see. A couple of years ago my doctor told me I had a whiskey deficiency, and I’ve been treating it as best I can ever since.”
 

“Well, since all the alcohol I sell is pharmaceutical grade, you’re in good hands. And by the way, I’ll leave your prescription under the visor.”

Werner tucked an invoice for the liquor under the visor. The document was carefully itemized but showed no company name or address. Kendall could be relied upon to deliver an envelope with cash to the Club on Monday.
 

“What else is happening in your world these days, Harry? If you’re planning any events this summer, I hope you give me enough warning so I can keep you supplied with Mount Gay. And if you haven’t already bought the company that makes it, you should, because the stuff’s getting harder and harder to find.”

“Actually, it might be smart to stock up again,” Kendall noted as he braked for a traffic signal. “I’m planning a big outdoor reception at my place in a few weeks and I doubt if I have enough booze to cover it, even with what you brought today.”

“What’s the occasion?” Werner inquired.

“Well, it’s been a secret for months, but since we announced it to the press yesterday, I suppose I can tell you. It’s what I’ve been working on ever since I joined the Governor’s staff. We’ve launched a new privatization initiative involving the Boston Housing Authority, the Commonwealth, and the federal government. I’m hosting a reception for the various stakeholders so that we can put all the pieces together.”

“Harry, if you’re able to loosen the Housing Authority’s death-grip on even a fraction of the apartments it controls in Boston, you’ll be a hero.”

Kendall flashed a self-satisfied grin.

“We not only can, we will, and a lot sooner than you expect,” he answered with his usual confidence.

“Lots of luck, Harry. From what I can see, trying to deal with the BHA is like dealing with a Harlem slumlord or the Soviet Ministry of Housing. Those people don’t give a damn about the properties or the tenants. They just collect rent until the building collapses. And lately, I hear, the BHA won’t even bother to keep the squatters out.”

“All that’s going to change very soon,” Kendall insisted. “It’s what our project is all about. Privatizing will allow us to stabilize the buildings so the squatters won’t be able to get a foothold. And we’ll make money for the state and the city in the bargain.”

“Sounds like a win-win if you can pull it off,” Werner conceded.

“It’s a win-win-win when you consider the fees it will generate for the private partners. And you’ll be getting a piece of that action, too, my friend, because you’ll be supplying the liquor for the kickoff reception.

“Terrific!” Werner agreed, concealing his misgivings. “How many people are you expecting and what sort of drinks do you intend to serve?” Werner inquired.

“We’ll be inviting at least a couple hundred people. There’s the Treasury team, the Undersecretary and his people from Washington, the BHA people, the Mayor and all the city government people, the FEMA folks, and some local law enforcement and security types. But one thing is for sure: these guys are not white wine drinkers. They swill booze and not just any booze, either. They’ll want the best and you’re the best at supplying it.”

“Yes, that would be me, all right,” Werner concurred. “And who will be your caterer for the event?

“Franz, as usual.”

“Excellent. I’ll write up some serving instructions for Franz’s people, just to make sure everything’s done just right. Do you know yet when you might place your order? I’ll need a list so I can source what you want and write up a quote.”

“Certainly,” Kendall agreed. “I’ll have it sent to you at the club on Monday or Tuesday with payment for today’s delivery. The event will be a month from Saturday, which should give you plenty of time. Now, do I take good care of you or what?”

“You’re the best, Harry. I’ve never had cause to complain. But I do have one more request, if you don’t mind my asking. Could you possibly offer an idea of how soon your new privatization project will be up and running? You see, we’ve already had squatter problems at our building and it gives my girlfriend the creeps. The police won’t lift a finger.”

“I can’t really give a date,” Kendall responded, “but the good news is that BHA has brought in FEMA and the DSS to begin securing the first buildings slated for privatization. Rest assured, their first order of business will be to deal firmly with any squatters.”

“Why FEMA?” Werner inquired. “And why the DSS? Is there a security connection?”

“It’s the refugees. Some of them are officials and party members from neighboring states who need to be taken care of. Flooding and refugees come under FEMA’s mandate, so they’re funding a lot of this. Just don’t tell anyone I said so, okay? Only the top people at the local FEMA office are in on it right now.”

Kendall flashed a boyish grin.

“And what about the current tenants?” Werner followed up. “Will they get to stay in their apartments after their building has been privatized?”

“Interesting question. It all depends. You see, the way it worked when the Russians and Eastern Europeans tried this sort of thing back in the ‘90s was that each tenant would get a voucher for the value of his flat and then the privatization authority or other private parties could make him a cash offer for it. The tenant then had the choice of selling or holding, knowing that he would pay a higher rent after privatization. But, just between you and me, Frank, if the BHA makes you an offer for your apartment, just take the money.”

“And if I don’t?” Werner challenged.

“Believe me, just take the money.”

“And run?” Werner asked with a conspiratorial smile.

“You said it, not me,” Kendall laughed.

Before Werner could think of a response, the Mercedes pulled to the curb. They were back where they had started.

****

Frank Werner rolled the empty hand truck around the corner to the delivery van and returned it to its place before driving north toward Concord. The news of Harry Kendall’s planned reception came as a welcome surprise, not only for the additional business it would bring, but also for the prospect that senior FEMA officials would attend. But the information by itself did not amount to a plan, as he could not be certain that Fred Rocco would be among those invited or, if he was, that he would attend. Werner mentally filed the information in his “operational leads” file for consideration at another time.
 

Even more interesting, however, was Kendall’s uncharacteristic disclosure of confidential information about the BHA’s privatization plan. A man of Kendall’s stature had nothing to gain by disclosing this to his bootlegger and could not possibly have known the information’s relevance to Werner. So Werner had no reason to doubt it. But the information confirmed his worst suspicions about Harriet Waterman and explained them in a way he could not have guessed on his own.