actors and criminals, sports heroes and politicians, authors, rock stars, the silly little guy who sells suits on South Street. It is the names who rule the world, the Tina Browns, the Jerry Browns, the Jim Browns. They are the aristocracy of America and whatever their rank, and there is a ranking, from the national to the local to the almost obscure, it is the names who attend the best parties, screw the prettiest people, drink the finest champagne, laugh loudest and longest. Jimmy Moore was a local name, a businessman turned politician, a city councilman with a populist, anti-drug agenda that bridged the lower and middle classes. He was a name with aspirations and a loyal following. A name who would be mayor.
I spent the better part of Monday in the offices of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase listening to Jimmy Moore on the telephone. He wasn’t on the telephone with me, of course, as I was not a name and thus not worth talking to. Instead he was on the phone with Michael Ruffing, a restaurateur whose flashy enterprises in the city had made him a local name among the city’s well-cultured and whose phone at his nightclub, Bissonette’s, named after his partner Zack Bissonette, the currently comatose former second baseman, happened to have been tapped by the FBI. I sat alone at the foot of a long marble table in a huge conference room. Fine antique prints of Old Philadelphialined the walls: Independence Hall, Carpenters Hall, Christ Church, the Second Bank of the United States. The carpet was thick and blue. A tray of soft drinks lay on a credenza behind me and I didn’t have to pay six bits to open one, they were just there, for me. I can’t help but admit that sitting in that room like an invited guest, sitting there like a colleague, gave me a thrill. I was in the very heart of success, someone else’s success maybe, but still the closest I had ever come to the real thing. And there was a dark joy in my heart the whole of my time there because I knew that if all went right this could be my success, too. So I couldn’t help smiling every now and then as I sat in that conference room with earphones on and a yellow pad before me, listening to a score of cassettes holding Jimmy Moore’s taped conversations with Michael Ruffing.
Moore: Your plan for the riverfront is brilliant. Prescient. But I see problems in council.
Ruffing: Uh, like, what kinds of…
Moore: Jesus, Mikey, you got problems.
Ruffing: I don’t need no more problems.
Moore: Every damn councilman gets a take out of the water going a certain way. That’s why it still looks like the Bronx down there. What you need is a champion. What you need is a Joe Frazier.
Ruffing: Okay. I see that. That’s who I need then, what I’m looking for.
Moore: Take Fontelli. Part of the waterfront’s in his district, so he thinks the whole damn river’s his pisspot.
Ruffing: I don’t want Fontelli, you know. I’ve heard things.
Moore: They’re all true. What have you heard?
Ruffing: He’s, you know. What I heard. Connected.
Moore: Of course he is, Mikey. You know who he’s married to.
Ruffing: I don’t want them.
Moore: Of course not. Of course not. In for an inch and they’re screwing your sister. Now I like your place, you know that. I’m in there almost every week, you know that.
Ruffing: And you don’t stint on the Dom, either.
[laughter]
Moore: Fuck no, you’re either class or you’re shit. Now I could help with this. We could help each other, Mikey.
Ruffing: Okay, yeah.
Moore: But the kind of influence you’re talking about here, well, you know.
Ruffing: Of course. That’s, uh, assumed.
Moore: But I’ll be your Joe Frazier.
Ruffing: What exactly are we talking about here?
Moore: I’ll send my man Concannon over to discuss arrangements.
Ruffing: Give me an idea.
Moore: He’ll call you. You’ll deal with him on everything.
Ruffing: Sure, then.
Moore: This is going to work out for everybody, Mikey. For everybody. Trust me. This
I spent the better part of Monday in the offices of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase listening to Jimmy Moore on the telephone. He wasn’t on the telephone with me, of course, as I was not a name and thus not worth talking to. Instead he was on the phone with Michael Ruffing, a restaurateur whose flashy enterprises in the city had made him a local name among the city’s well-cultured and whose phone at his nightclub, Bissonette’s, named after his partner Zack Bissonette, the currently comatose former second baseman, happened to have been tapped by the FBI. I sat alone at the foot of a long marble table in a huge conference room. Fine antique prints of Old Philadelphialined the walls: Independence Hall, Carpenters Hall, Christ Church, the Second Bank of the United States. The carpet was thick and blue. A tray of soft drinks lay on a credenza behind me and I didn’t have to pay six bits to open one, they were just there, for me. I can’t help but admit that sitting in that room like an invited guest, sitting there like a colleague, gave me a thrill. I was in the very heart of success, someone else’s success maybe, but still the closest I had ever come to the real thing. And there was a dark joy in my heart the whole of my time there because I knew that if all went right this could be my success, too. So I couldn’t help smiling every now and then as I sat in that conference room with earphones on and a yellow pad before me, listening to a score of cassettes holding Jimmy Moore’s taped conversations with Michael Ruffing.
Moore: Your plan for the riverfront is brilliant. Prescient. But I see problems in council.
Ruffing: Uh, like, what kinds of…
Moore: Jesus, Mikey, you got problems.
Ruffing: I don’t need no more problems.
Moore: Every damn councilman gets a take out of the water going a certain way. That’s why it still looks like the Bronx down there. What you need is a champion. What you need is a Joe Frazier.
Ruffing: Okay. I see that. That’s who I need then, what I’m looking for.
Moore: Take Fontelli. Part of the waterfront’s in his district, so he thinks the whole damn river’s his pisspot.
Ruffing: I don’t want Fontelli, you know. I’ve heard things.
Moore: They’re all true. What have you heard?
Ruffing: He’s, you know. What I heard. Connected.
Moore: Of course he is, Mikey. You know who he’s married to.
Ruffing: I don’t want them.
Moore: Of course not. Of course not. In for an inch and they’re screwing your sister. Now I like your place, you know that. I’m in there almost every week, you know that.
Ruffing: And you don’t stint on the Dom, either.
[laughter]
Moore: Fuck no, you’re either class or you’re shit. Now I could help with this. We could help each other, Mikey.
Ruffing: Okay, yeah.
Moore: But the kind of influence you’re talking about here, well, you know.
Ruffing: Of course. That’s, uh, assumed.
Moore: But I’ll be your Joe Frazier.
Ruffing: What exactly are we talking about here?
Moore: I’ll send my man Concannon over to discuss arrangements.
Ruffing: Give me an idea.
Moore: He’ll call you. You’ll deal with him on everything.
Ruffing: Sure, then.
Moore: This is going to work out for everybody, Mikey. For everybody. Trust me. This
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