The Mayor of Polk Street by Jim Fusilli

Author:Jim Fusilli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2022-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Leo Bell rapped a knuckle on Ed Walters’ open door. At a few minutes after eight o’clock, pale morning sunlight streamed into the vice president’s office.

“Come,” shouted Walters.

When Bell entered, he found Walters staring at a chalkboard. The days of the week were printed across the top, the evening hours along the left side. Otherwise, it was empty.

“How’s it going?” Bell asked lightly.

A half-eaten egg sandwich sat on a napkin on Walters’ desk. He had a cigarette going in an ashtray and another between his fingers. “It’s not good, Leo.”

Bell had reminded himself that Walters might not be privy to CBS’s plan to recruit him to join Corporate Practices. He also told himself that only an idiot would discount completely the idea that Walters had hired him to appease the corporation from which he sought millions in programming dollars.

“It’s also not bad,” Bell said. He was wearing his suit jacket. Walters was, as usual, in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.

“Well, yes. It’s neither bad nor good. Because it’s nothing.”

“What happened to Toast of the Town?”

Walters picked up the chalk and added “Toast of the Town” to the Sunday schedule.

“Ford Theatre?”

“OK. That’s two.” Walters turned. “We’re still eighty percent local programming. Ninety.” He retrieved his paper cup of coffee. “What’s on your mind, Leo?”

“I’d like to attend the weekly radio meeting.”

“Interesting,” Walters said. “Why?”

Bell pointed to the chalkboard. “Let’s at least see what’s possible.”

Walters took another sip. “I told you we can’t raid radio, Leo.”

“No, I know,” Bell said quickly. “But look at the Ford program. It began on radio and now you’re moving it to TV. Let’s see what’s in the pipeline.”

“Fly on the wall?”

“Fly on the wall.”

Walters said he’d get back to Bell.

Twenty minutes later, Bell’s phone rang. “You’re in,” Walters said. “Don’t steal the chairman’s fountain pen.”

Standing behind his desk, Bell returned the handset to the cradle. He swore under his breath. They folded too soon, he thought.

Sharp-dressed in gray, leather briefcase in hand, Vittorio Cotta stepped out of the U.S. Court House at lunch hour to find one of Gigenti’s men waiting at the curb. Aldo Zizi told Cotta they were going for a ride. Cotta smiled at the euphemism.

Ten minutes later, Zizi pulled the car in front of an old-style Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. Cotta was greeted by Little Mo Moroni, who led him to the door.

Bruno Gigenti was at a table halfway toward the kitchen, his back to the wall. Next to him was a blond, blue-eyed man Cotta took to be an attorney or a business acquaintance. The man stood to shake Cotta’s hand. “Silvio Garza, Mr. Cotta,” he said.

Gigenti told them to sit down.

Cotta edged his chair toward the table. “What is this place, Bruno?”

“You sent your daughter to me,” Gigenti said. With his elbows on the checkerboard tablecloth, he looked like he was about to shoot out of his seat.

“I think of her as my partner, Bruno. But you’re right,” he added quickly. “I apologize. I should have told you I would be stuck in Albany.

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