phone.
“Too bad about Gallardi.”
Quinn was sitting in the middle rear seat of his black SUV. “For sure.”
“Where are you?”
“Heading to Langley.”
“Looks like a hit, but I just talked to Fullwood at the Bureau. He says Frank wasn’t involved with the mafia.”
“Could be anybody. You know, big loser at the tables. Somebody Gallardi fired,” Quinn said.
“They’ll look at that.”
“Right.”
“Listen, Austin, hate to ask this but someone needs to represent me at Gallardi’s service. He did a lot for me, others in the party. You being from Jersey—”
Quinn interrupted. “Be glad to, Garrison.”
* * *
The CIA’s Security Protective Service met Quinn at the Atlantic City airport with three cars and a dozen security officers for the trip to the chapel. Even though going to a memorial service in Quinn’s home state didn’t seem to be particularly risky, Quinn didn’t mind the highly visible security. He was a career politician and to be seen surrounded by men whose job it was to protect his life with theirs did nothing to detract from an image of power. Especially in his home state, thought Washington newspaper reporter Tommy Phelps, usually soft on Quinn in his articles, who was ushered into Quinn’s vehicle for the ride to the memorial.
The tree-lined boulevard curved in a way that afforded a view of the Gothic architecture of The Cathedral of the Good Shepherd several blocks before they got there. Quinn instructed that the government cars were to wait in a remote corner of the parking area to leave space for others to park closer to the building.
The bright, sunny day with birds chirping all around seemed determined to belie the occasion, Phelps thought. Reverent mourners in black, some blotting their eyes, crossed the exquisitely manicured church grounds in silence as they approached the tall stone entrance. Even the city streets were empty, as if the citizens of Atlantic City took time from daily routines to pay their respects to Frank Gallardi, a home-town boy who grew up poor, pulled himself up by sheer determination and will, fought a long but not universally popular battle to bring in casinos, risked everything he had before it bore fruit, and then returned so much of it to the people: New symphony center, children’s hospital, the new park, endless funding for the homeless shelter, and the list went on. Even casino critics could find nothing negative to say about Frank Gallardi.
The live acoustics inside the old church were excellent for music but the echoing words of the speakers lost the glue that held them together before reaching straining ears. Gallardi’s widow Rose, their grown children, and Frank’s sister Molly sat in the first row. Molly’s son and Frank Gallardi’s nephew Lenny Magliacci sat in the second with other family members, and Quinn was escorted to the reserved third row. Phelps noticed two or three U.S. Congressmen, several military officers in uniform and a few show business personalities he recognized. Not present was Ana Koronis.
* * *
After the service, Quinn spoke with Rose Gallardi and told her the president sent his personal condolences. They hugged each other before Quinn moved on.
Quinn stopped along the way to his car to shake hands with a few of the dozens of supporters who had gathered. Minutes later he was ready to return to the airport.
* * *
Leonard Antonio Magliacci had tuned out the eulogies and prayers and remained in his seat when the service was over as his mother Molly, Rose Gallardi and the others emptied out. In the days since Gallardi’s murder Magliacci had dwelled on a phone conversation that took place in Frank’s office one early evening several years ago and now possibly held some potential for Magliacci. Magliacci had been in his cubicle near Gallardi’s office that night and heard Frank get upset with a caller. A few minutes later, Frank had summoned someone to his office. When he came, Lenny couldn’t hear
“Too bad about Gallardi.”
Quinn was sitting in the middle rear seat of his black SUV. “For sure.”
“Where are you?”
“Heading to Langley.”
“Looks like a hit, but I just talked to Fullwood at the Bureau. He says Frank wasn’t involved with the mafia.”
“Could be anybody. You know, big loser at the tables. Somebody Gallardi fired,” Quinn said.
“They’ll look at that.”
“Right.”
“Listen, Austin, hate to ask this but someone needs to represent me at Gallardi’s service. He did a lot for me, others in the party. You being from Jersey—”
Quinn interrupted. “Be glad to, Garrison.”
* * *
The CIA’s Security Protective Service met Quinn at the Atlantic City airport with three cars and a dozen security officers for the trip to the chapel. Even though going to a memorial service in Quinn’s home state didn’t seem to be particularly risky, Quinn didn’t mind the highly visible security. He was a career politician and to be seen surrounded by men whose job it was to protect his life with theirs did nothing to detract from an image of power. Especially in his home state, thought Washington newspaper reporter Tommy Phelps, usually soft on Quinn in his articles, who was ushered into Quinn’s vehicle for the ride to the memorial.
The tree-lined boulevard curved in a way that afforded a view of the Gothic architecture of The Cathedral of the Good Shepherd several blocks before they got there. Quinn instructed that the government cars were to wait in a remote corner of the parking area to leave space for others to park closer to the building.
The bright, sunny day with birds chirping all around seemed determined to belie the occasion, Phelps thought. Reverent mourners in black, some blotting their eyes, crossed the exquisitely manicured church grounds in silence as they approached the tall stone entrance. Even the city streets were empty, as if the citizens of Atlantic City took time from daily routines to pay their respects to Frank Gallardi, a home-town boy who grew up poor, pulled himself up by sheer determination and will, fought a long but not universally popular battle to bring in casinos, risked everything he had before it bore fruit, and then returned so much of it to the people: New symphony center, children’s hospital, the new park, endless funding for the homeless shelter, and the list went on. Even casino critics could find nothing negative to say about Frank Gallardi.
The live acoustics inside the old church were excellent for music but the echoing words of the speakers lost the glue that held them together before reaching straining ears. Gallardi’s widow Rose, their grown children, and Frank’s sister Molly sat in the first row. Molly’s son and Frank Gallardi’s nephew Lenny Magliacci sat in the second with other family members, and Quinn was escorted to the reserved third row. Phelps noticed two or three U.S. Congressmen, several military officers in uniform and a few show business personalities he recognized. Not present was Ana Koronis.
* * *
After the service, Quinn spoke with Rose Gallardi and told her the president sent his personal condolences. They hugged each other before Quinn moved on.
Quinn stopped along the way to his car to shake hands with a few of the dozens of supporters who had gathered. Minutes later he was ready to return to the airport.
* * *
Leonard Antonio Magliacci had tuned out the eulogies and prayers and remained in his seat when the service was over as his mother Molly, Rose Gallardi and the others emptied out. In the days since Gallardi’s murder Magliacci had dwelled on a phone conversation that took place in Frank’s office one early evening several years ago and now possibly held some potential for Magliacci. Magliacci had been in his cubicle near Gallardi’s office that night and heard Frank get upset with a caller. A few minutes later, Frank had summoned someone to his office. When he came, Lenny couldn’t hear
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