self-righteous and
fearful of
change as to make one wonder if perhaps he didn't protest just a bit
too much.
Although
always
a staunch defender of the status quo, Peerless didn't truly hit his
stride
until he encountered the proper enemy. Sure, he was a Red-baiter second
only to
Joe. McCarthy. Sure he could find the makings for a Communist
conspiracy at a
PTA bake sale. Here was a guy who orchestrated a massive bonfire of
rock and
roll records, which were, he claimed, a cleverly disguised Russian
mind-control
technique intended to compromise the virtue of America's youth. All of
that,
however, was merely the pre-game warmup for the sixties.
As
luck would
have it, Tyler K. Price died in the spring of nineteen sixty-two
leaving the
family business to Peerless and his three younger sisters, Emily,
Justine and
Elizabeth. Having neither the necessary business acumen nor the
slightest
inclination to run a manufacturing operation, the children quickly sold
out to
a British firm. Each of the children received, after taxes, slightly
less than
three million dollars.
While
his
sisters used their wealth to ascend to the very apex of Seattle high
society, Peerless lived simply.
He had no interest in fast cars or fancy houses. Yachts held no
fascination. He
never married, or, for that matter, showed any interest whatsoever in
the
opposite sex. What fascinated Peerless Price was power, and toward that
end, he
invested his newfound fortune.
Although
in
most things an arch-traditionalist, Peerless Price was in one respect a
forward
thinker. Much like his avowed hero J. Edgar Hoover, Price realized
early on
that information was power and set about making sure that he always had
more
information than the next guy. Seattle
in the early sixties was a city in a state of flux. The old-time
systems of
police payoffs and governmental influence pedaling were coming to an
end. All
aspects of the public sector had come under ever-increasing media
scrutiny and
were responding by mutating into the well-meaning but mostly
incompetent
organizations we've all come to know and distrust.
Peerless
Price
filled the graft vacuum. Every cop in town knew that a few extra bucks
would
miraculously appear every time he shared what he knew with Peerless
Price.
Every clerk in every city and county office knew where that new winter
coat
could be had. Every hooker, doorman, valet, bellhop, bartender, cabby
and
parking attendant knew exactly where talk wasn't cheap. And you didn't
have to
look the other way or drop your pants, either. All you had to look for
was a
phone booth, and all you had to drop was a dime.
The
Vietnam War
provided Peerless with precisely the sort of simpleminded dilemma best
suited
for his politics.
He
became the
hawk's hawk and began a systematic character assassination of any
public figure
who dared express opposition to the conflict. To incur the wrath of
Peerless
Price was to have that long-ago affair with your secretary plastered
all over
the Thursday edition, or to find an exhaustive interview with your
step-grandfather Ned, retired now and dabbling in bondage down in
Scottsdale, Arizona.
To some, Peerless Price became the last true defender of the faith. To
others,
he became the most feared and hated man in Seattle.
To
his lasting
consternation, the one guy Peerless Price could never make a dent in
was my old
man. By the time Peerless hit his stride, Wild Bill Waterman had been
in office
for sixteen years and twice run for mayor. Plenty of time for a man
with Bill's
nepotistic inclinations to have salted the bureaucratic mine with vast
numbers
of his family nuggets. While the rest of Seattle's movers and shakers
cowered
under a deluge of audits and investigations, the old man went about
business as
usual, just keeping it in the family, so to speak. Not only was he
insulated
from the nitpicking of Peerless Price, but he was also Seattle's most
visible and insistent antiwar
advocate. For most of the sixties, Peerless Price seldom referred
fearful of
change as to make one wonder if perhaps he didn't protest just a bit
too much.
Although
always
a staunch defender of the status quo, Peerless didn't truly hit his
stride
until he encountered the proper enemy. Sure, he was a Red-baiter second
only to
Joe. McCarthy. Sure he could find the makings for a Communist
conspiracy at a
PTA bake sale. Here was a guy who orchestrated a massive bonfire of
rock and
roll records, which were, he claimed, a cleverly disguised Russian
mind-control
technique intended to compromise the virtue of America's youth. All of
that,
however, was merely the pre-game warmup for the sixties.
As
luck would
have it, Tyler K. Price died in the spring of nineteen sixty-two
leaving the
family business to Peerless and his three younger sisters, Emily,
Justine and
Elizabeth. Having neither the necessary business acumen nor the
slightest
inclination to run a manufacturing operation, the children quickly sold
out to
a British firm. Each of the children received, after taxes, slightly
less than
three million dollars.
While
his
sisters used their wealth to ascend to the very apex of Seattle high
society, Peerless lived simply.
He had no interest in fast cars or fancy houses. Yachts held no
fascination. He
never married, or, for that matter, showed any interest whatsoever in
the
opposite sex. What fascinated Peerless Price was power, and toward that
end, he
invested his newfound fortune.
Although
in
most things an arch-traditionalist, Peerless Price was in one respect a
forward
thinker. Much like his avowed hero J. Edgar Hoover, Price realized
early on
that information was power and set about making sure that he always had
more
information than the next guy. Seattle
in the early sixties was a city in a state of flux. The old-time
systems of
police payoffs and governmental influence pedaling were coming to an
end. All
aspects of the public sector had come under ever-increasing media
scrutiny and
were responding by mutating into the well-meaning but mostly
incompetent
organizations we've all come to know and distrust.
Peerless
Price
filled the graft vacuum. Every cop in town knew that a few extra bucks
would
miraculously appear every time he shared what he knew with Peerless
Price.
Every clerk in every city and county office knew where that new winter
coat
could be had. Every hooker, doorman, valet, bellhop, bartender, cabby
and
parking attendant knew exactly where talk wasn't cheap. And you didn't
have to
look the other way or drop your pants, either. All you had to look for
was a
phone booth, and all you had to drop was a dime.
The
Vietnam War
provided Peerless with precisely the sort of simpleminded dilemma best
suited
for his politics.
He
became the
hawk's hawk and began a systematic character assassination of any
public figure
who dared express opposition to the conflict. To incur the wrath of
Peerless
Price was to have that long-ago affair with your secretary plastered
all over
the Thursday edition, or to find an exhaustive interview with your
step-grandfather Ned, retired now and dabbling in bondage down in
Scottsdale, Arizona.
To some, Peerless Price became the last true defender of the faith. To
others,
he became the most feared and hated man in Seattle.
To
his lasting
consternation, the one guy Peerless Price could never make a dent in
was my old
man. By the time Peerless hit his stride, Wild Bill Waterman had been
in office
for sixteen years and twice run for mayor. Plenty of time for a man
with Bill's
nepotistic inclinations to have salted the bureaucratic mine with vast
numbers
of his family nuggets. While the rest of Seattle's movers and shakers
cowered
under a deluge of audits and investigations, the old man went about
business as
usual, just keeping it in the family, so to speak. Not only was he
insulated
from the nitpicking of Peerless Price, but he was also Seattle's most
visible and insistent antiwar
advocate. For most of the sixties, Peerless Price seldom referred
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