tax.”
“So what?” Speigel said. “Jonathan’s supposed to bring business into the borough. All you’re telling me is that he’s good at his job.”
“He good at something. But I’m sure you’re right, Artie. Jonathan’s personal ties to Rencorp have nothing to do with the company’s good fortune.”
There was a long pause. When Speigel spoke, his voice was hollow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know he’s the company legal adviser?”
“That’s no business of mine.”
Barnaby didn’t speak.
“You’re barking up a bad tree. If ever there was a right guy, Fleishman is it.”
“Did he ask for your help on the Rencorp lease?”
“I don’t remember. What if he did? That’s his job. If he pulled a few strings, he did it for Eastborough. Hell, you ought to give him a medal.”
Barnaby said, “Quite a guy, Jonathan.” He thanked Speigel and hung up, rubbing his hands together. The morning’s unpleasantness was wholly subsumed by glee. He was onto Fleishman now. He knew the man’s spoor, recognized his signature, that overlay of altruism. Rencorp was the paradigm, the case that would blow the lid off Fleishman’s scam.
The company fitted the profile precisely: it was a legitimate, minority-owned company that met all the criteria of Eastborough’s set-aside program and had done spectacularly well since moving onto Fleishman’s turf. In 1984 Rencorp was a small electrical contracting firm with billings of about $300,000, located in the Bronx. In 1985 the company moved to Eastborough and was awarded, through the set-aside program, a federally funded subcontract for city rehab projects. Between 1985 and 1986 their billings shot up to 1.7 million.
In 1987, two years after moving to Eastborough, Rencorp expanded into electrical supply. Despite competitive bids from two veteran minority-owned supply houses, it received another set-aside contract to supply lighting and cables to Eastborough’s subway stations. The company seemed extraordinarily lucky. They had only to wish for a job and it was theirs. Their requests for variances met with sweet understanding; and when they outgrew their parking lot, the city conveniently put in a municipal lot next door. Blessed with either a potent guardian angel or an earthly facilitator, Rencorp was currently grossing over seven million.
Barnaby had pored over all the company’s public filings and literature, but found Jonathan Fleishman’s name in only one: a 1984 press release in which he was named as the company’s legal adviser. By the time Rencorp got its first city contract, Fleishman’s name was nowhere to be found. On the list of shareholders, Barnaby found something interesting: one Solomon Lebenthal, whose name had cropped up during his investigation of Michael Kavin. He was a partner of Kavin’s in a print shop that did work for Eastborough. Barnaby made a note to follow up on Lebenthal.
It was long past dark by the time he walked home through a light drizzle. On the stoop of his building, a man lay sleeping in a foul- smelling cardboard nest, a blanket wrapped around him. Barnaby stepped over him and climbed four flights to his studio, unlocked three bolts, and went inside, locking the door behind him. He showered, then sat naked on his bed and rolled a joint. The red message light on his answering machine was flashing, and he played back an incoherent message from Ronnie Neidelman. Drunk again, he thought disapprovingly. He smoked a couple of joints in quick succession. He was horny, but it wasn’t Neidelman he wanted. When he closed his eyes, visions of Gracie danced through his head.
He didn’t like it. Barnaby wasn’t the kind of man to chase schoolgirls. But he had a yen for Gracie, a wicked desire, light- years from the tepid attractions of recent years. Seeing her accosted by that low-life scum had aroused in him something very far from paternalism. Touching her on the carousel made it worse, and then
“So what?” Speigel said. “Jonathan’s supposed to bring business into the borough. All you’re telling me is that he’s good at his job.”
“He good at something. But I’m sure you’re right, Artie. Jonathan’s personal ties to Rencorp have nothing to do with the company’s good fortune.”
There was a long pause. When Speigel spoke, his voice was hollow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know he’s the company legal adviser?”
“That’s no business of mine.”
Barnaby didn’t speak.
“You’re barking up a bad tree. If ever there was a right guy, Fleishman is it.”
“Did he ask for your help on the Rencorp lease?”
“I don’t remember. What if he did? That’s his job. If he pulled a few strings, he did it for Eastborough. Hell, you ought to give him a medal.”
Barnaby said, “Quite a guy, Jonathan.” He thanked Speigel and hung up, rubbing his hands together. The morning’s unpleasantness was wholly subsumed by glee. He was onto Fleishman now. He knew the man’s spoor, recognized his signature, that overlay of altruism. Rencorp was the paradigm, the case that would blow the lid off Fleishman’s scam.
The company fitted the profile precisely: it was a legitimate, minority-owned company that met all the criteria of Eastborough’s set-aside program and had done spectacularly well since moving onto Fleishman’s turf. In 1984 Rencorp was a small electrical contracting firm with billings of about $300,000, located in the Bronx. In 1985 the company moved to Eastborough and was awarded, through the set-aside program, a federally funded subcontract for city rehab projects. Between 1985 and 1986 their billings shot up to 1.7 million.
In 1987, two years after moving to Eastborough, Rencorp expanded into electrical supply. Despite competitive bids from two veteran minority-owned supply houses, it received another set-aside contract to supply lighting and cables to Eastborough’s subway stations. The company seemed extraordinarily lucky. They had only to wish for a job and it was theirs. Their requests for variances met with sweet understanding; and when they outgrew their parking lot, the city conveniently put in a municipal lot next door. Blessed with either a potent guardian angel or an earthly facilitator, Rencorp was currently grossing over seven million.
Barnaby had pored over all the company’s public filings and literature, but found Jonathan Fleishman’s name in only one: a 1984 press release in which he was named as the company’s legal adviser. By the time Rencorp got its first city contract, Fleishman’s name was nowhere to be found. On the list of shareholders, Barnaby found something interesting: one Solomon Lebenthal, whose name had cropped up during his investigation of Michael Kavin. He was a partner of Kavin’s in a print shop that did work for Eastborough. Barnaby made a note to follow up on Lebenthal.
It was long past dark by the time he walked home through a light drizzle. On the stoop of his building, a man lay sleeping in a foul- smelling cardboard nest, a blanket wrapped around him. Barnaby stepped over him and climbed four flights to his studio, unlocked three bolts, and went inside, locking the door behind him. He showered, then sat naked on his bed and rolled a joint. The red message light on his answering machine was flashing, and he played back an incoherent message from Ronnie Neidelman. Drunk again, he thought disapprovingly. He smoked a couple of joints in quick succession. He was horny, but it wasn’t Neidelman he wanted. When he closed his eyes, visions of Gracie danced through his head.
He didn’t like it. Barnaby wasn’t the kind of man to chase schoolgirls. But he had a yen for Gracie, a wicked desire, light- years from the tepid attractions of recent years. Seeing her accosted by that low-life scum had aroused in him something very far from paternalism. Touching her on the carousel made it worse, and then
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