 
## THE TRUCKERS

### KENNETH C. CROWE

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Kenneth C. Crowe

Books by Kenneth C. Crowe

AMERICA FOR SALE

COLLISION

THE JYNX

THE DREAM DANCER

OOOEELIE

THE HERO

THE TRUCKERS

This book is dedicated to

Ken Paff

of

Teamsters for a Democratic Union

CHAPTER ONE

DECEMBER, 1990

Tommy Kerrigan stood on the Greenpoint Avenue Bridge looking down on the Newtown Creek and thought something he would never say aloud to anyone but Cobb Wowka for fear of Jonahing himself: He was going to win.

A bitter December breeze, following the crooked path of the polluted creek between banks lined with drab warehouses and oil depots, seared his face. Behind him the heavy flow of tractor trailers and cars filled the roadway with an ugly roar and the stink of diesel. He scanned the Manhattan skyline, lingering on the art deco Chrysler Building. He was turning his gaze onto the Citibank Tower in Long Island City with the Queensboro Bridge on its horizon when a trucker blasted his horn. Tommy swung around smiling, his right thumb up. Another trucker, following, sounded his horn, and another, and another as they roared past.

Billy Hurley and Mario Cresci were stationed with big placards: HONK FOR TOMMY K on either side of the bridge, Billy in his trench coat and fedora on the Blissville side, Mario, with his green and white Truckers for Tommy Kerrigan windbreaker and blue and red Truckers union ball cap on the Greenpoint approach.

On almost every Tuesday morning for the past 20 years, Tommy had spent about 15 minutes alone on the hump of the bridge as a prelude to stopping in at the huge Review Avenue Grocery Warehouse. He stood with rain whipping across him, in the heat of July and August, stomping through deep snow, and often on perfect days with gentle breezes and soft suns. Ideas and solutions to the endless problems of running Local 1890 poured into his head unbidden in these moments alone. He looked at his Timex watch, then signaled Mario with a wave to come along. He set out at a brisk pace for the warehouse a block away in Blissville. An ache pierced his back and slid into his right thigh as he walked. Billy, leaving the placard leaning against the rail for Mario to fetch, fell in just a step behind Tommy, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes flickering along the parked trucks and cars on the street. Out of a habit, picked up from 20 years on the NYPD, Billy pressed his upper arm against the 9mm in the shoulder holster on his right side, a reassurance it was there. Tommy stopped outside the gate security shack just long enough to flash his ID card as president and business agent of Grocery Warehouse Workers and Drivers Local 1890 of the Truckers International Union. He strode onto the property, ignoring the uniformed guard's familiar plea for him to wait until the front office cleared his visit.

Tommy and Billy went into the cavernous warehouse filled with the thunder of the steel wheels of the electric jacks on the concrete aisles. The pallets carried on the forks of the jacks were stacked high with cases of dog food and beans, detergents, pastas, crushed tomatoes, canned fruits, topped with big boxes of toilet paper and Kleenex--whatever a corner grocery store or a supermarket needed. The selectors, pressed by quotas and straw bosses, were totally focused on rushing to fill orders for stores in Brooklyn and Queens and the western Long Island suburbs. Trucks were waiting to be filled at the loading docks. There were screams of 'fuck it' and 'come on' in the traffic jams of the busiest aisles. 'Move it. Move it. I'm gonna write you up.'

They went directly to the break room, whose dull green walls were covered with Elect Tommy K campaign posters. Warehouse workers were hunched over heavy, worn wooden picnic tables, eating lunch at 8 o'clock in the morning, playing chess or cards, reading newspapers. The chatter stopped when they realized Tommy had arrived. "Hey Tommy," they shouted in greeting. He went to the center of the room, shaking hands and bantering with the men he knew so well. Tommy, whose short wavy hair was more blond than grey, slipped out of his hooded parka, dropping it on a bench. He climbed stiffly onto the table, a slight, not very tall man in a brown Irish tweed sports jacket and slacks. He put up one of his broad hands in greeting.

"Good morning brothers and sisters." There were two women among the 40 selectors and loaders. "This is where I began and maybe this is where I'll end up if I lose this election." He spoke with a distinct, nasal New York accent.

"You're gonna win Tommy," a shop steward shouted.

"Today, the count begins down in Washington. I came here today to thank you for everything you've done for me. I couldn't have come this far without the support of the brothers and sisters of Local 1890. What you guys and gals here and throughout the local gave me in money and time in this election was unbelievable. Local 1890 is the greatest. You're the greatest."

They whistled and cheered.

"Hey Tommy," a bearded member in a plaid shirt and dirty union cap shouted, "You gonna invite us to the TAGOF, you win?"

Tommy smiled. "I'm going to tell you what I told Matty Krause back in 1970 when he was national director of the Freight and Warehouse Division. Some of the old timers can tell you the whole story, but I'll give you the short version. After we took the local from the Belinskys and I was elected president, the company was testing us, violating the contract left and right, the way they still do if you give 'em a chance." They laughed in acknowledgement. "I came here for one last meeting to tell them to either back down or we were walking right out the door. Guess who is waiting for me that morning? Big Bernie Soloway, who was a little boss in those days running the Review Avenue Warehouse, Gerry Kennedy, director of labor relations for the Delivery Company, and our own Matty Krause.

"Kennedy says he picked up Matty in Washington that morning in a Delivery Company corporate jet intending to head straight down to Miami for the TAGOF when they decided they better detour to New York to nip this little problem in Review Avenue in the bud. TAGOF? I said, `what's that? Matty Krause thought that was hilarious. He says to me, Kid you are still so wet behind the ears. TAGOF is The Truckers Annual Golf Outing and Feast. Knowing Gerry, next year you'll be his guest. I told Matty, I don't play golf and I don't sleep with the boss."

The roars of laughter and the broad smiles that filled the break room exhilarated Tommy. He laughed with them. As the merriment of his audience began to fade, Tommy, exercising a timing learned in two years of campaigning, turned his voice fierce: "Today twenty years later, Matty Krause is the international president of the greatest union in the world and Bernie Soloway is the big boss, chairman of the Delivery Company. I'm promising you brothers and sisters, when the count is in this weekend, Matty Krause will be out on the street with all the time in the world to play golf with the bosses and his mob friends and there won't be any TAGOF anymore. The members' dues are gonna be spent on the members. And, I'm gonna treat Bernie Soloway the way I did years ago when he was a little boss and we made him back down. He's not pushing Truckers around any more. The party's over. He's gonna give us a share of the pie we baked and stop changing good full time jobs into part-time jobs or he's gonna have a national strike on his hands."

"Tommy K, Tommy K all the way," they chanted.

He stepped lightly off the table onto the bench and the floor, the pain in his back gone. Billy picked up his coat, following Tommy through the crowd of his excited, happy supporters, watching the faces. Billy's eyes never stopped working.

Tommy went out onto the loading dock with the chief shop steward and the morning steward flanking him, Billy was the rearguard. There was more shaking of hands and wishes for good luck from drivers and loaders.

The warehouse manager, in rolled up shirt sleeves and a tie, stepped into the cold from the security shack with a clipboard in hand. "Good luck, Tommy," he said, extending his hand.

"Yeah," Tommy said, keeping his hands in the pockets of his parka, looking straight ahead past the man. He shook hands with management only at the opening of negotiations and to seal a deal.

Outside, Mario waited leaning against Tommy's Four by Four. Tommy slipped into the driver's seat. He dropped Mario and Billy at the Neptune Diner near Local 1890's union hall on 31st Street in Astoria. Then he drove to his mother's house on 48th Street, a two-family brick that he and Alice had shared with his parents for almost ten years until they moved to Melville out on Long Island.

***

He went in the back door of the house that opened into his boyhood bedroom, just a long step away from the kitchen. His mother, Mamie, was standing by the stove with a heavy iron grill straddling two burners and a tea kettle on another. Tommy went directly to her kissing her on the cheek. Henri Maitlin Serre, a New York Daily Globe reporter, rose from his chair at the kitchen table to shake Tommy's hand. Mamie put two more pieces of rye bread with cheese and barely-fried onions on the grill while Tommy hung up his parka in the front hallway closet. He came back into the kitchen still in his sports jacket, a signal that Serre's presence meant he was on the job.

"Never had a grilled cheese and onion sandwich before," Serre said, holding up the remains of a half.

"Cures depression. Lifts the spirits," Tommy said, watching Serre write those words in his notebook. He had learned on the campaign trail to entertain reporters with pithy quotes and anecdotes that portrayed him as a unique union everyman from the industrial wasteland of Queens on a quest to transform the notoriously corrupt Truckers International Union.

Serre told him how Mamie described Tommy's vision of a buffet: grilled cheese on white, grilled cheese on rye, grilled cheese on pumpernickel, grilled cheese with ham, grilled cheese with bacon, grilled cheese with tomato, and especially grilled cheese with barely-fried onions. And big kosher dills. And a pot of tea. She told him she used to pack three cheese sandwiches every day for Tommy's lunch in high school, that his only complaint about the Army was that they didn't serve grilled cheese every day.

Tommy smiled. Reporters invariably were delighted by his simple tastes, an anomaly in the Truckers. His mother slid his grilled cheese from a worn spatula onto his dish. He ostentatiously sniffed the sandwich with the care and drama of a Frenchman dealing with a red wine. He bit into it, sighing with exaggerated pleasure. "The very, very best."

Serre made more notes. They bantered about the art of making great grilled cheese sandwiches, while Tommy finished his usual lunch of grilled cheese, a dill pickle, and hot tea--made with rapidly boiling water and steeped for four minutes. At his mother's he drank Lipton's. At home, Irish or English Breakfast tea.

Serre asked, "Who is that pug-faced character who usually walks around with you? Your bodyguard?"

Tommy was irritated by Serre's description of Billy. He telegraphed his displeasure with a stern expression and a long pause before responding. "Billy Hurley. He's an old friend from the neighborhood. He's a retired New York cop. Detective. He's not a bodyguard. He's doing me a favor, watching my back, liaison to the cops, that sort of thing."

"You need someone to watch your back?" Serre asked, delighted.

"There's a lot of wise guys and just plain tough guys in the Truckers. They've never liked me. I don't play the game their way."

"Well that's why you're running, aren't you. Now could you tell me about Alice Carroll?"

"That one," Mamie said softly. Serre perked up.

"What's there to tell?" Tommy asked parrying for a moment to find a seemingly casual answer to a question never before asked. He knew he should smile, but couldn't. "I like to leave my family out of stories about me and the union. Neither my wife nor my kids are involved in the Truckers. This is my life. Their lives are separate."

Serre smiled. He was peeved by the assignment to follow Tommy around this week for a big story if he won and a modest one if he lost. He expected him to lose. After the results were in, no one would care that an obscure Trucker from Queens was married to the nouveau celebre, high-priced photographer Alice Carroll. Tommy K would continue to be a curio in stories about her. Serre decided to chide his subject. "That's not a very good answer Tommy. I'll be honest with you. I'm not going to press you on Alice Carroll, unless you win. I'm told by a source who knows the Truckers inside and out that you don't have much of a chance. But if you win, you're automatically a public figure, the head of the biggest and baddest union in the United States, and then the public has a right to know all about you and your family."

Tommy shoved the remains of his sandwich into his mouth. As soon as he swallowed, he said with an anger he couldn't keep out of his voice: "Your inside source doesn't know shit from shinola. I'll tell you something, if I surprise you and everyone else by winning this election, don't bet on me telling you anything more about my wife than I told you today."

CHAPTER TWO

Cobb Wowka looked self-satisfied, but old and tired, out of place in the Washington Hilton bar crowded with men in pin-striped suits and yuppies of both sexes laughing and talking. He was leaning over a pile of French fries, dipping one at a time into ketchup and into his mouth with his left hand. His right hand was locked around a double Jack Daniels on the rocks.

"Am I interrupting an intimate moment, a man and his food?" Tommy asked.

Haw, haw, haw, Cobb roared. "Come ere, little buddy."

He was a hugger. He stood, towering over Tommy. He wrapped his arms around Tommy pulling him across his distended belly, wheezing from the effort. He held Tommy at arms' length, a shoulder in either of his big hands, worker's hands. "You got it buddy. The way the votes are coming in, old Matty can't catch up. It's all over, but the official announcement."

"Hey!" Tommy said jubilantly, knowing a happy reaction was expected. His Irish roots made him quick to laugh at witty remarks, but often the joy soaring through his inner being in moments of triumph emerged as a small, reserved smile, puzzling himself and those around him. He had learned to produce elation as needed. 'Thank you God,' Tommy said to himself. He gripped his campaign manager's right hand, shaking it, "Cobb, this couldn't have happened without you."

The people on either side were caught by Cobb and Tommy's exuberance, tuning out their companions' chatter to eavesdrop and surreptitiously examine the pair.

"The right candidate, the right campaign, the right time. We did it together buddy." Cobb hugged him again sobbing. His emotions weren't sealed under any kind of ethnic reserve. He waved come on over across the room to Billy Hurley, who hesitated reluctant to leave a spot near the door nicely positioned to watch the flow of people into the bar. Tommy waved too, drawing Billy, to join them. A young man in an impeccable suit and regimental tie moved a seat over to open a space for Billy, who took a Black Bush on the rocks to join the celebration, but still alert sat with his back to the bar.

"To the Truckers," Tommy said raising his glass.

"To the rebirth of the American Labor Movement," Cobb said. The three touched glasses and drank.

Cobb and Tommy quickly fell into a dialogue filled with glee over the local by local, region by region results of the count over the past three days in which the incumbent International President Matty Krause had been left behind from the outset. The colloquy on obscure numbers and bits of names bored those around them, who returned to their own conversations about football and office politics. Billy wasn't listening and had no interest in the pattern of victory they chuckled over. He sipped his whiskey, running his eyes over the bar's patrons, searching for the slightest signal of tension or danger.

Leaning close, almost touching Tommy's ear, Cobb whispered that Fred Laughton, the court-appointed Election Officer, had pulled him aside for an off-the-record conversation, telling him what he already knew, that Matty Krause didn't have the chance of a snowball in hell unless he got every vote counted on Friday. But the tally would go on until next Tuesday. "Buddy, you got to declare victory on Saturday morning so we make the front pages of the Sunday papers. Anyone who knows simple arithmetic can see the race is over."

"I'm going to call New York get the guys from my local down here to stand with us when we make the announcement."

"Right on, buddy. Just tell them to keep their mouths shut. Not even tell their wives. Then we got the problem of Helmut Knall and TFOCC. How do you want to handle that?"

Tommy knew from the question that Cobb had a solution in mind. "Tell me?"

"We invite him to the press conference. He sits in the audience with everybody else. You thank him graciously for backing you. We're booking a party for the entire slate and key campaign workers and of course the guys from Local 1890 in a nice little bar in Georgetown. We're not going to invite Helmut. Eleven of your vice presidents are TFOCCers. If one of them invites him, there's not much we can do about it. If he's rude enough to ask why you didn't invite him, you say, I assumed one of the TFOCCers on the slate would call you."

"TFOCC did a lot for us."

"Not for us. For their agenda. Never forget that. We happen to be for the same things so they backed you. I've been giving this a lot of thought. Now that you won, Helmut and crew might get a little hungry for a piece of the action, which is okay, but we want to keep them at a certain distance. Don't let them get the notion they're gonna run this union instead of you."

"I'll give `em a couple of jobs. I'm sure we can find an opening for Helmut in Alaska or Hawaii."

"Right on, buddy." They slapped palms in a high five.

Tommy took this as an opportunity to say goodnight. The drive from New York was catching up to him. He and Billy had taken turns at the wheel, enduring a fierce sleet storm on the Jersey Turnpike and an hour in bumper to bumper traffic outside of Baltimore because of an overturned tractor trailer.

"Hey, almost forgot. I met an old buddy of yours, Iggy O'Hara. Says he knew you way back when. Said he was over at Matty Krause's headquarters and it was like being at a funeral. He gave me his numbers. Said he'd love to come to our victory party. Want to invite him?"

"No," said Tommy. He left Cobb still sipping Jack Daniels at the bar with a fresh order of French fries coming.

***

Later that night, Cobb brought Matty Krause to Tommy's room at the Hilton. "President Krause wanted a few minutes alone with you Tommy," he said respectfully.

They shook hands solemnly, the slight, energetic challenger and the worn incumbent, who had a cigaret in hand and a hacking cough. Krause, whose thick black dyed hair was a grotesque mismatch with his heavily wrinkled face, exuded the melancholy of defeat. Tommy signaled Cobb and Billy out of the room with a nod of his head. "We'll be in Billy's room," Cobb said.

Tommy asked Krause to sit down offering him a beer or Irish whiskey, perhaps a soft drink. There was a bowl of pretzels and a cutting board with cheddar cheese and crackers. Krause asked for a whiskey, straight. He took his drink to the couch by the window of the smallish room, walking with some difficulty, breathing hard. He sat with his head bowed over the drink he held in two hands, like a priest at the moment of sacrifice.

"I probably don't have to tell you, but you got it locked," Krause said looking up, tears involuntarily rolling out of his baggy eyes. "I've heard people talk about rejection, and how it just takes the spirit out of a man. I thought that was all bullshit until tonight. They came out of the woodwork for you Kerrigan, and my guys sat on their asses." He couldn't go on, the words faltering under the heave of a barely suppressed sob.

Tommy experienced a surge of pity for the man he was tumbling from the highest, most powerful office in the union. He knew Krause's history. From dock worker at 15 loading freight in the wind-swept Cleveland train yards, harshly cold in winter, murderously hot in summer; two years later, the year was 1937, he was the first one on the dock to sign a Truckers card. Krause fought as an infantryman with the Third Infantry Division in World War II, was wounded and won a Silver Star in Italy. After the war he became an interstate driver in Cleveland Truckers Local 2407. At 28, with the blessings of the Cleveland mob, he was made a business agent. The happiest day of his life, he always said, was when Steamer Staski called him to the Marble Palace in 1960 to make him an international rep. Five years of proven loyalty later, he ran on Steamer's ticket and was elected as an international vice president. Steamer appointed him national director of the Warehouse & Freight Division, considered the most important post in the union after international president.

Matty Krause was at his peak, a powerful, overbearing man on the day he traveled to New York in 1971 to order Tommy to give the Delivery Company the contract it wanted. Usually when Krause showed up a rebellious local leader backed down quickly. Tommy looked him in the eye and said, "No way." Krause said to Tommy: "You just shot your wad kid. You'll never be anything in this union." Yet the wily Krause sensed this kid was the dangerous kind, a thick-headed upstart with balls, who was in the right--and knew it. And he was backed by a bunch of true believers. Krause told Gerald Kennedy, director of labor relations for the Delivery Company that the company would have to fold on this one.

Tommy watched Krause swallow his whiskey in a gulp.

"Let me have another one Kerrigan," the old man said sounding more like himself.

Tommy poured the drink, resisting a temptation to throw back at Krause his remark that had welled up so often in his memory over the past 20 years: 'You'll never be anything in this union.' Instead Tommy said, "President Krause, I appreciate you coming tonight. Shows what a standup man you are."

"Yeah," Krause said. "What's done is done. I'm here to talk to you about the future of the union. You're going to find out running the international is a hell of a lot more complicated than running a little local."

"I'm up to the job."

"Maybe. Anyhow, I'm here to offer my help. I ran a pretty good international, so if you're smart you'll talk to me about who should be kept on and who can be dumped without causing waves."

"Are you shitting me," Tommy said coldly. "You think I'm gonna be some puppet on a string? I'm gonna do what I did at Local 1890. I'm gonna get rid of all the bums and make this into a real union that stands up for the members instead of playing footsie with the bosses."

Anger brought Krause to his feet with a resurrected fierceness: "You got elected on a lucky fluke, only you don't know it. You haven't changed from when you were a kid Kerrigan. You still don't know your ass from your elbow."

CHAPTER THREE

The silvery tinkle of the door bells announced Tommy's arrival in Lucien's, Bibi Goldman's restaurant on Madison Avenue with the eclectic menu: 'a little French, a little Italian, a little American, a dab of Jewish, and steaks from the Argentine. Some restaurants have a core menu. We serve only specials. But there's always hamburgers and patatas fritas for kids and broiled fish with lemon for those who don't or can't relish the specials.' Bibi, who was sitting alone in her white chef's uniform at the copper-faced bar, sipping her favorite Sicilian red wine and paging languidly through the New York Globe's Sunday magazine, bounced off her chair. "Ohhhh," she sang, leaping across the space between them. She wrapped her arms around him.

She led him by the hand through the swinging door into the kitchen, where she turned to embrace him again, drawing him down to her lips for a deep, lingering kiss. "I'm so proud of you. I wish my grandfather could be here." Lucien's was named for Lucien Goldberg, the labor poet, who wrote the epic poem, The Zealots, still read by the Lefties, about the Truckers Uprising in Minneapolis in 1934. "The Sunday Globe had a wonderful story about you on the front page today. They mentioned Alice." She watched him, waiting for a reaction.

"I love you," he said.

She smirked. Bibi had a soft, round face, deep set eyes and snowy hair. Tommy wasn't certain the first time he saw her whether she was young with prematurely white hair or an older woman in beautiful shape who looked younger than her years. She had just turned 44, a volatile woman who could move from an affectionate gentleness, reminding him of a spring dawn, into a foul-mouth fury. He could see jealousy over Alice bubbling into her eyes although she had a husband of her own in Argentina, and she knew Alice came in contact with Tommy rarely other than at family gatherings for Christmas and birthdays. She resented his silence about his relationship with Alice, responding to her probes with an infuriating crypticness. Bibi talked freely of her husband, Jerome, and the sexual desert of their marriage. They married the day after she graduated from Vassar, and he stopped fucking her within the year, in the seventh month of her pregnancy with her son, Peter. She abhorred Jerome.

"I hope you haven't eaten, lover, because I've got a celebration dinner planned upstairs: lamb chops and Merlot and strawberry apricot tart, then some magic time in bed and champagne and chocolates. Can you spare a few minutes for that now that you're Mister President."

They took the small lift in the hall behind the kitchen to the fourth floor, Bibi's pied-a-terre, whose walls were decorated with photos of chefs and framed menus from their restaurants in cities throughout France and Italy and the United States.

He opened the wine, pouring each a glass, while she prepared dinner, pressing him all the while for details about his victory party.

There had been a live band and lots of booze and joy. He had sailed through the night on Irish whiskey, glorying in the flow of old friends from Local 1890 and the volunteers and even Helmut Knall shaking his hand and bear-hugging him, genuinely overjoyed at his triumph. He had danced with Carolyn Gordon, who was a Truckers union shop steward in a slaughterhouse south of Denver. She was a laughing feather on the dance floor with bouncing breasts in a muscle shirt. They did everything from the foxtrot to the hip-twisting, arm waving undulations to the hard sexual beats of rock. She was tall, taller than him, a lithe woman with long black hair pulled back in a pony tail, with olive skin and a blue cherub sitting on a fluffy cloud tattooed on her right deltoid muscle. She came and left with her husband, Chick, who looked like a member of a motorcycle gang.

"Ohh, I wish I could have been there to dance with you," she said, slipping onto his lap.

After dinner, Tommy put on a Tony Bennett CD while Bibi fetched a small box wrapped in shiny red paper with a white ribbon. He opened it to find a card: "Lucien would have been so happy, and so am I, Love Bibi." The box held a leather-bound copy of Lucien Goldberg's The Zealots, inscribed "To my Bibi. Love, Poppy Goldberg."

"What a wonderful gift. I'll keep it on my desk in Washington. I might even try to read it."

"It should be required reading for every Trucker," she said seriously.

He opened the little volume randomly and read aloud:

They came to kill us

And they died instead

They said we were fanatics

In the hapless workers' cause.

"The book is to celebrate your victory. The dinner, champagne, chocolates and a roll in the hay with Bibi Goldman are my anniversary gifts to you," she said with a forced smile, disappointed that he apparently had forgotten that they had met exactly a year ago at a fundraiser in Doris Harian's brownstone on the West Side. Doris was Local 1890's lawyer.

***

Bibi had come to the fundraiser with a date, a chef recently returned from a stint in a Paris restaurant, who had been a classmate of her's in the early `80s at the Culinary Institute of America. Tommy and Bibi were enthralled from the moment they shook hands. She proudly told him she was the granddaughter of Lucien Goldberg, discovering much to her surprise that Tommy had never heard of Lucien. She told him how Lucien envisioned in one of his poems an unstained hero, emerging like the young Arthur, from the rank and file to transform the Truckers into the union it should be. "Doris tells me you could be the one," Bibi said.

The chef, realizing he was an unnecessary presence, drifted away in search of more satisfying conversations with restaurant aficionados who would be thrilled to meet him.

The hum of banter that echoed through the house was silenced by the ringing of a bell. Doris Harian stood on a wooden box, painted red with white lettering: soap box. "Everyone into the living room," she shouted. "Time to give and eat." The clutches of men and women who had spread throughout the first two floors of the brownstone in the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the hallways, the stairs leading upward, the balcony overlooking the living room and even the bedrooms gathered with beer or wine and whiskey in clear plastic cups into the living room, overflowing the space up the two stairways and onto the balcony. "Hear ye, hear ye," she said ringing the bell with giddy enthusiasm, "we're gathered here tonight for the purpose of digging into our pockets to come up with the sheckles to help launch Tommy Kerrigan on his campaign to rescue the Truckers from the mob and business unionism. No one likes the idea of the government interfering with the operations of a free trade union, but we all know the Truckers aren't a free trade union. In New York and Chicago and St. Louis and Kansas City and certainly at the international level, most of the locals are dominated by organized crime. With a federal court overseeing this election, we've got a chance to help make a difference, but we've got to come up with some serious money to help launch Tommy Kerrigan's campaign for the presidency of the Truckers. I want you to hear from a man who knows Tommy K, as they say, better than anyone, even me. The man in the shabby old fedora, Happy Koenig everyone."

Happy helped Doris down, then climbed up on the soap box. "Hey, I'm finally getting to stand on the Cadillac of soap boxes. Most of the ones I stood on in my life were so rickety I was forced to cut to the quick in my speeches or risk falling on my ass." The audience laughed and applauded. "A word about my fedora, and I'll get right to the nub." He took the worn, grey hat from his head, holding it above him, speaking to it. "I picked this baby up on a dusty street in a little village in Spain when I was passing through with Abraham Lincoln Brigade in `37, the year Tommy K was born. Didn't take me long to realize this was a magic hat. I came through some pretty harrowing scrapes without a scratch when everyone around me was getting blown in half in Spain and then in the U.S. Army, the Rangers, in World War II. I wore it under my helmet then."

"You look too young to have been in the Lincoln Brigade," a woman called out.

"Thank you young lady. I was 19 in `37, and I'm 72 now. I keep my hat and myself in tip top shape. The hat's been blocked and cleaned, many a time. And, I exercise and bathe regularly. I was wearing this fedora, the night Tommy K went to his first union meeting 32 years ago at Truckers Local 1890. He was 21, fresh out of the U.S. Army, Airborne, and learning to be a selector in the Review Avenue Warehouse in Blissville. A good looking, cocky kid ready to take on the world. We each had more than a couple of belts under our belts and I'm standing at the bar and I said to him, `Tommy, you're at a crossroads in life. You can be a flunky for the bosses or you can aspire to be a working class hero. Your choice. I warned him becoming a champion for the rank and file is committing yourself to a thankless lifetime of climbing slippery slopes. Oh, but what a feeling of satisfaction you get out of the climb.

"I'm going to tell you something you probably don't know. Local 1890 was chartered by Meyer Lansky who gave it to Izzy Belinsky after he got his leg shot off in a gun battle on the Lower East Side. Izzy was one tough piece of work, and his son, Bull, was even tougher. I've seen a lot of brave men in my life, who were heroes for a moment. I can tell you from standing at his side through the years and the battles, Tommy K fits my definition of a working class hero, a stand up guy who has had to put himself on the line again and again, not for a moment but for day in and day out for years. He took on the Belinskys and beat them. No small potatoes. And he's had to look over his shoulder ever since. They're the kind of guys who get even no matter how long it takes. Now he's taking on the whole mob and their corporate buddies. With Tommy K as president, Local 1890 won the highest wages, the best pension plan, the best health insurance, the best working conditions in the Truckers. Imagine what he could do for the American labor movement as the international president of the Truckers union. He could raise it from the dead. So dig deep. This is one election we've got to win."

Afterwards, Tommy introduced Happy to Bibi. He was delighted to discover she was the granddaughter of Lucien Goldberg, whom he had met after his return from Spain. He told her he had a well worn copy of The Zealots in his bookcase at home.

As the crowd began dwindling, Tommy and Bibi slipped from the brownstone to find a taxi on West End Avenue. They embraced the moment they entered the cab and were locked in a passionate kiss for the entire journey across the West Side through Central Park to her doorstep on Madison Avenue.

She led him by the hand into a wrought iron European-style lift to her flat on the fourth floor and into her bed. Tommy had never fucked a woman on first meeting, just as he had never been so enraptured before. They dozed afterwards. Tommy awoke to find Bibi on an elbow watching him. "Let's do it again," she said.

***

Tommy smiled at her chagrin a year later, knowing that she was jumping to the conclusion he had forgotten the significance of the date. He took a slim package of his own from his inner jacket pocket.

"My victory prize?"

"No."

She opened the gift, a silver necklace of stars with a matching bracelet. She read the card aloud, 'Dec. 16, 1990. Happy first anniversary to the love of my life who has given me that happiest year of my life.' "Oh, I love you," she said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Joe Furioso walked at a hurried burlesque lean across the breakfast room to Alice's table by the window overlooking le Loiret, barely stirring under a soft December breeze. Joe bore the International Herald Tribune aloft on his five fingers. "Madame," he said with a slight bow, serving her from his makeshift newspaper tray a package of perfumed French cigarets and a tiny box of wooden matches. Then he placed the newspaper on the table opened to a three-paragraph story, circled with a red marking pen:

KERRIGAN WINS.

Alice read the story without comment. As Joe anticipated, she took a cigaret from the package. She smoked only on grand occasions. This certainly was one. Tommy Kerrigan, president of the Truckers International Union. She lit the cigaret sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. She wished she could skip Christmas in Melville, but she couldn't do that to the kids. They would pressure her, at his instigation, to be at his side for his swearing in ceremony. She couldn't deny herself the pleasure of being enveloped in the holiday with her children and grandchildren as much as she wanted to deny Tommy her presence while the glow of triumph was hovering round him.

She tore off pieces of the chocolate pastry, savoring the strong black coffee against the subtle sweetness. A bird with a long, sharp beak swept across the surface of the river's dark waters and desolate shore. The perfect image to illustrate the bleakness of their marriage. Click, she said to herself.

"Don't be concerned about me," Joe said in his mocking, self-pitying voice. "I don't mind you being absent from the breakfast table even though you're sitting across from me."

She smirked. "A considerate man would have shown me this on the plane back to the States."

"Forgive my candor," he said teasingly, always ready to test or provoke, "I thought you left him behind. Long ago." All women were worthless bitches except this one. She was 51 years old, with undyed gray hair pulled back in an unstylish bun, taller than he, and could burst into sweat anytime with a hot flash. Her talent was her raving beauty, and he loved her. That was a strange feeling for Joe, who relished his reputation as a blistering cynic, a user and shatterer of women.

"I did leave him behind in the dust. Now he's passing me and I resent it," she said.

"Please. A little union boss bloated a little larger."

"The president of the Truckers is a very big man indeed. My children will be very impressed."

Now he understood her discomfort. Competition for the audience she really valued. "He's a bug, an insignificant life form, beside the artist."

She smiled genuinely. "Thank you for trying to comfort me," she said reaching across to touch his hand.

He was silent, enjoying her public display of affection.

"Go for a walk. I'll be ready to make love in the mid-morning light by the time you return," she said. Joe had favorite places all over France and Ireland he wanted to share with her. The view, the food, and if they were lucky the light. So they came to spend their last few days before returning home in this quiet hotel on the bank of the Loiret in Olivet just south of Orleans across the River Loire for the winter sun dappling the dark river.

The owner of the hotel approached when she got up from the breakfast table. "Good Morning, Madame."

"Bon jour Monsieur. Je voudrais une table pour le dîner," she said.

"For two persons at 8."

"Oui." She told him they would be leaving after breakfast tomorrow.

In their room, she settled into a bath of flower scented water. As the liquid warmth enveloped her, she resisted an impulse to conjure up the photos she had taken of Mont San Michel for a private portfolio ordered by a nouveau riche entrepreneur. She had done a lot of good work, but the premier shot, the one with the right lighting, the precise angle, the texture of the air and clouds, eluded her for six weeks of long days, sometimes in rain and snow and cutting winds. Voila, the moment. Click. It was her's, forever.

She settled herself provocatively on the bed in her short, silk, lavender robe, anticipating Joe's return by sorting through her favorite images of him, real and fantasied, in her mind. After a while, she picked up a book of nude photos by a young French woman, a friend of Joe's in Normandy. She was good. Her subjects were young and old, men and women, some in artificial poses in classical settings or with the accouterments of their callings. A lawyer in his library, an actress applying make up. Joe sunbathing, his eyes closed, relaxed on a blue blanket with a sketch pad and pencils beside him. Alice examined Joe in the photo as she had done a half dozen times before, feeling pleasantly aroused. She had her own collection of Joe nudes in her studio in New York.

Alice, who was proud of her small, still inviting breasts and her thick pubic hair posed for the young woman too, both in the photographer's studio in Normandy and on a wind-swept beach, with Mont Saint Michel as a distant backdrop.

When Joe returned with a little bouquet of blue flowers and a bottle of cold wine with a plate of cheese and apples for their waking, they made love and fell into a slumber.

***

Alice carried images in her memory of hundreds of photos she didn't take with a camera. They welled out of her mind from time to time, provoked by a word or an event. They began in Las Vegas almost 15 years ago at the 1975 Truckers International Union Convention. Tommy didn't want to take her, but she had insisted, expecting this first trip of her marriage aside from the week spent every summer in her in-law's bungalow in the Catskills to be a romantic reencounter with Tommy, dining across candlelit tables, dancing in the evening gown she had made herself. But Tommy spent all day from early in the morning to late in the evening in the convention center. At night, he went to meetings. The local had sent him to Las Vegas to do union business, not for a vacation, and that's what he was doing. She went to the opening day's morning session, passing the ominously-huge sergeants at arms in bright green blazers, men with hard, staring eyes. Still, she was thrilled to be wearing the special guest badge issued to the wives of delegates along with an elaborately-decorated container of gifts: An expensive perfume. A box of hand-dipped chocolate cherries that brought knowing laughter from the other wives. Half a dozen postcards with stamps. A nice pen. A pair of opera binoculars. And a small, wooden baseball bat with Wally Banger in black on the handle. This must have cost a fortune, woman after woman said gleefully.

Alice sat in the balcony using her binoculars to scan the vast auditorium picking out Tommy and the other guys from Local 1890 among the hundreds of delegates and alternates, whole sections of them wearing matching yellow or blue or red sports jackets emblematic of their regions, laughing, waving, yelling to one another, talking, their collective voices a roar. Tommy refused to wear the yellow blazer and white slacks distributed by the New York Region. He and the other delegates from Local 1890 wore their usual blue windbreakers with the local's number in big red letters. There were pockets of men and a few women wearing windbreakers spotted throughout the floor, so Tommy wasn't the only dissident in the union.

A huge banner covered almost the entire backdrop of the stage:

TRUCKERS ON A ROLL

2-MILLION STRONG

Other banners were strung from the balconies: In Union There Is Power; Wally Bangers; Organize the Unorganized

The live band on stage right played a fanfare and the lights dimmed slowly into darkness. The hall fell into silence. A blue spotlight shown onto a red-curtained doorway at the back of the hall. The band swung into When the Saints Come Marching In as the international president of the Truckers, Wally McShane, a huge barrel-bellied Chicago Irishman, strode through the doorway, down the center aisle followed by the 20 members of the Truckers International Union Executive Board, separate spotlights shining on each man. The crowd clapped rhythmically to the music, cheering wildly when McShane climbed up a center stairway to the stage. The loudspeakers boomed: "Wally McShane, the great international president of the largest and greatest union in the free world, the Truckers International Union of North America." The cheers grew louder. Alice, although she knew Tommy considered McShane a dumb lush and an embarrassment to the union, was caught by the frenzy of the women around her. She shouted, clapped and smiled along with them.

Alice captured the instant of McShane's huge backside turned to the 3,000 delegates as he climbed up the high step to his throne. Click, she said, smiling in satisfaction.

McShane turned to face the audience, shaking the hand of each member of the board, mostly white-haired, thick-bodied men, who walked past him as their names were announced, a secretary-treasurer followed by 19 international vice presidents. McShane took his seat in the high-backed chair at stage center with 10 board members seated on either side at long clothe-covered tables. Alice experienced a surge of pleasure, taking photographs with her eyes and mind, the Zen of Photography her adult-ed teacher at Half Hollow Hills High School called it. He urged his students to practice grabbing the moment of a photo wherever they were, every day with the mind's eye. Capture a happening, a telling action, the essence of the person or the scene. "Don't be a tourist, be the artist," the teacher said during the course of every class.

The band switched to the Marine hymn as the spotlights played on the American flag carried along with the Truckers banner by a Marine color guard. Click, she said as the flags hung limp in the grips of the intense young men in their dress blues.

A Jesuit priest from Denver delivered an invocation that told of the benefits the mighty Truckers union had brought to the workers of America under Wally McShane's leadership. Click. A famous country singer belted out the new union anthem, Truckers Rolling Across America. Click. The mayor of Las Vegas and the governor of Nevada welcomed the Truckers, speaking over the buzz of conversation from the delegates. The chairman of the Republican National Committee was followed by the chairman of the Democratic National Committee each speaking similar words of praise for McShane. A Republican senator spoke at length about the role of great unions and great corporations cooperating to keep America rolling along as the greatest country in the world. A black Congressman from Detroit howled and ranted, pounding the podium, in a speech urging the Truckers to take up the cause of the helpless folks of the inner cities. Click.

McShane stepped to the podium holding a small paperback book above his head. Click. "I suppose you all got copies of this piece of you know what under the door of your room last night. Let me read you the title: Blueprint for an Honest and Democratic Union by Truckers Fighting Organized Crime and Corruption. That's a long name for a bunch of doodoo from a bunch of Lefties--ladies cover your ears--that every real Trucker calls the T-Fuckers. Excuse me your eminence," he said to the Jesuit who had returned to the distinguished guest section in front of the stage. "They say in this Commie diatribe that our contracts are no good, our officers have sold out the rank and file, that the leaders of the greatest union in the western world are in bed with the mob. I don't need to write a book to say what I got to say to the T-Fuckers: Go to hell!"

The delegates rose to their feet cheering, taking out their little wooden baseball bats, shouting, "Bang! Bang! Bang!"

McShane, laughing, produced a full-sized bat that he thumped on the podium, yelling, "Order. Order. Now quiet down." He held the bat above his head. "Some people say in the old days I sent more than one Leftie to hell with one of these pacifiers. I'm not admitting anything now."

The delegates laughed and cheered. Click, Alice said capturing the gleeful expression on McShane's face waving the baseball bat above his head.

Reports from the credentials and rules committees were delivered, followed by a filmed greeting from Gerald Ford, the President of the United States in which he expressed his affection for McShane and his admiration for the noble work of the Truckers union on behalf of its 2 million members. Alice almost forgot to click the blocks of delegates who didn't clap.

The afternoon session was unbearably boring with delegates making arcane motions to change sections and paragraphs and sentences of the constitution; rising on obscure points of order; every issue brought to a vote passed unanimously; other matters were tabled or sent to committees to be studied; or withdrawn when McShane indicated he was irritated by them.

She ate dinner alone in her room that night, watching TV until Tommy returned from his meeting. They had sex even though she didn't feel like it. He didn't grasp that she needed a romantic gesture or activity or setting as a prelude to really making love. In the morning, half the delegates were missing from their seats on the floor of the convention hall. She found Tommy with the binoculars. He was following the proceedings with a copy of the constitution. Every once in a while someone would lean over him, whispering something in his ear. He never took his eyes off the podium and Wally McShane. She lasted just an hour, went back to their room in Caesar's Palace, and put on her new bathing suit, the one with the skirt that hid her widening behind and growing belly. She had a roll of fat around her middle. She put on a short robe to camouflage her body.

Alice was reading Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique with a half-eaten Italian hero in her hand by the pool when a startlingly shapely, tanned woman in a white bikini with just the suggestion of a roundness to her tummy and beautiful long blonde hair took the neighboring chaise lounge. As soon as the pool boy set her up with a cushion and towel and she slipped him a bill, she raised her right index finger and the boy who served drinks came at a run. She ordered a pitcher of frozen Margaritas. She looked at the book that Alice had laid across her own gut rising under her modestly-skirted swim suit. "Are you a Trucker's wife?" she asked with theatrical surprise. The poolside was filled with lumpy Trucker's wives.

"I'm Tommy Kerrigan's wife, from 1890 in New York."

"Hot damn. I find an interesting woman, probably worth talking to, in this sea of cows and she's married to the infamous Tommy K."

Alice flushed with anger. Tommy annoyed her in so many ways. But she loved him. She said that to him almost every morning when the alarm went off, and at night if she were awake when he came home.

"No offense, honest. I'm from the other side. I'm Daniella Bell, Bobby Bell's wife." She said it with an assurance that Alice would immediately understand. Realizing she didn't, Daniella said, "Izzy Belinsky is Bobby's grandfather."

"Ahhh," said Alice.

Daniella laughed. She held up the book she was reading, A.H. Maslow's The Farther Reaches of Human Nature. "If you haven't read this, you must," she said.

Alice shook her head. She hadn't.

"Give me your address in New York. I'll send you a copy. When I like a book, everyone should read it."

The pitcher of Margaritas arrived with two salt-rimmed glasses and a bowl of corn chips and salsa. Daniella handed a glass to Alice.

"I'm Alice," she said.

"To Alice." They touched glasses.

The Margarita was tangy and cold, exciting, an adventure for Alice. Tommy drank beer, and she usually had cola, sometimes with rum, preferably Coca Cola or Pepsi Cola, and at times a Dr. Pepper. After her third Margarita from their second pitcher, Alice confided that the trip was a disappointment. Instead of romance she was confronted by her usual loneliness, eating her second hero of the day by the pool, because she was in Las Vegas, instead of in front of the TV as she would at home. She knew she was getting fatter and fatter and was doomed to have a square body like her mother and her grandmother and every middle-aged woman in her memory.

Daniella asked her age?

Thirty-seven, almost 38.

"I'm 39," Daniella said, standing. "Q.E.D."

"I have three children," Alice said.

"So do I," Daniella said. She suggested that Alice envision the Truckers International Union as a seductress who mesmerizes ordinary men with the illusion of macho-ness. "She is a flowsy dame in the raw with rough skin and sagging breasts and the tatoo of a tractor trailer on her fat derriere, smoking a black, leafy cigar, with hair on her legs, bad breathe and scratching her crotch That's your competition. So you have to decide whether to believe in the double standard or tell him right out, What's good for you is good for me."

Alice was puzzled.

"I mean find something in life that delights you. Another man, a career, hiking, shopping, whatever, and dive into it into it like your husband indulges himself with Truckers Local 1890. I'll bet he tells you the men need him, their families need him. He's telling you he's doing God's work, and it takes a God-awful amount of his time. Don't kid yourself. The ego massage the union gives him is better than sex with you." She smiled at her own words.

This woman was crude and shocking and entrancing. Alice almost told her that Tommy was terrific in bed, even though she wasn't getting enough of that with his hours and the demands of running a house with three teenagers and working part time in the photo store. "I love Tommy," she said.

"I love my Bobby too. Let's read a little. Take a swim, then have a great evening together. I have tickets for the dinner show tonight, Alonzo the Great, the magician, and a lot of naked ladies and scantily-dressed well-hung men with beautiful buns. Bobby was supposed to take me, but there's something going on, so I'll take you unless you and hubby are doing something better together."

Tommy was going to a fund raiser for the TFOCCers, a buffet dinner with beer and dreary speeches.

She went to the show with Daniella. She wore her gown, feeling sexy and beautiful in spike heels and a barish bosom, but Daniella was stunning and slender, turning the heads of the men and the women in the vast tiered room. They sat at a prime table, sipping champagne. An elaborate flaming French duck, ordered by Bobby Bell as a surprise for Daniella, was prepared by a chef and two assistants at their table. Alice was thrilled. Just before the show began, a big bouquet of cut flowers from Bobby Bell was delivered to Daniella with a note expressing his sorrow at being taken from her by business. "He's so full of shit," Daniella said.

In the morning they had a late breakfast after Daniella ran and did her weights in the hotel gym. Alice watched. They spent most of the day by the pool, drinking Margaritas and talking. Daniella confided that her Bobby considered Tommy Kerrigan a cancer. The only person who hated Tommy more since Bobby's father, Bull Belinsky, had died was old Izzy Belinsky. Izzy had had had a dream that with a carefully nurtured career his Bobby could someday have been international president of the Truckers. Bobby had degrees from the University of Virginia and NYU, culture, the right connections, and no baggage, meaning rap sheets like Izzy and Bull. All of that ended when Tommy took Local 1890 from Izzy and the newspapers printed the stories about his ancient connections to Murder Inc. ignoring his philanthropies, the money raised for children who had lost limbs and the construction of the old age home in Israel. Izzy had been honored as the Labor Statesman of the Year twice over the years at Israel bond dinners in New York and Miami. Worse, and most galling, the members of Local 1890 rejected him in favor of a know-nothing radical who treated the bosses as adversaries instead of partners in looking out for the welfare of the workers.

Daniella said that Bobby had adjusted to life without the power base of Local 1890. He put in some time as an assistant to the Truckers New York Region president and as a special assistant to the International president of the Truckers, and now he had a consulting business doing marketing, politics, public relations, newsletters, whatever services Truckers needed. The leaders of the Truckers were an amazingly insecure collection of ruthless dimwits with muscles, who needed Bobby for his calculating mind and his political connections. Izzy's grandson had a chauffer-driven Lincoln Town Car, a fabulous house in Cold Spring Harbor right on the water, an apartment on East 78th Street right off Fifth Avenue, near all the museums, and a camp on a lake in the Adirondacks. Sometimes Bobby chartered a seaplane to take them directly from Cold Spring Harbor to their place in the Adirondacks.

Unfortunately, the Truckers union consumed Bobby's life. He was always scheming with someone in the Golden Terminal, politicking, cutting business deals. Pictures of Bobby with national and local Truckers leaders, with the Speaker of the House of Representatives, with President Nixon, with President Ford, with Governor Rockefeller, with Mayor Wagner, with Mayor Lindsay filled his office walls. One was from an Israel Bonds fund raiser with Robert Briscoe, the Jewish Lord Mayor of Dublin. There was a message there that she hadn't missed. "He spends more time at City Hall, in Albany, in Washington than he does with me, but I don't have to tell you about it. Your Tommy is the same on a smaller scale. That's where their passion is. Sometime, we'll talk about fidelity and the modern marriage in the context of the hierarchy of needs." She held up Maslow's book. "But let's concentrate on enjoying right now. Look where we are."

They swam and lunched. Alice rubbed coconut oil on Daniella's back, listening with amusement and embarrassment as she purred with pleasure. The women on the other chaises stared disapprovingly. "That was wonderful. Now your turn," Daniella said brightly in an exaggerated little-girl voice. Her hand moved lightly, sensuously across Alice. "I was taught by a master, a guy named Joe, " she whispered in Alice's ear." When you're ready, I'll introduce you to him."

CHAPTER FIVE

Just before noon on Christmas Eve, Alice arrived at their home in Melville with the trunk of her car filled with boxes of hearth-baked bread, semolina rolls, a heavy cheese cake, and three dozen cream puffs from her favorite Italian bakery on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village; a mixed case of white and red wine along with a bottle of Grand Marnier and three bottles of champagne; several six packs of coke and ginger ale; squid for fried calamari, four pounds of shrimp, and two dozen large crab cakes; brown grocery bags carried fresh butter, cheeses, cartons of crackers, potato chips, pretzels, apples, strawberries, oranges, onions, a bag of flour, Crisco, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, and gifts wrapped in red and green paper with big silver or gold bows.

Her youngest, Roger, came down the front steps followed by Ellie, his live-in girlfriend of the moment, a skinny Chinese-American from Rochester. Pepper, Tommy's yellow Lab barking excitedly, charged past them, leaping in greeting at Alice. Roger wrapped his arms around his mother, kissing her on the cheek. "The mother of the feast has arrived from France. Merry Christmas, Mom."

"I got back Friday on a nightmare flight. I'll never fly Air France again," she said.

A beaming Ellie stepped into her arms, giving her a polite peck on the cheek, lips barely brushing skin.

The lights on the porch and the pine tree in the front yard flashed on. Tommy, glowing, emerged from the house. They kissed, a friendly touching of lips. "Welcome home for the holidays."

"Congratulations," she said, squeezing his right hand.

They carried the contents of the car into the house, placing the presents around the Christmas tree, a Douglas fir hung with lights, silver chains, and an array of gaily painted balls and wooden figures--Santas, angels, toy soldiers. Nat King Cole was singing carols on the stereo. Roger, as usual, had picked out the tree, which he, Ellie and Tommy had decorated the night before. Tommy had strung the outside lights along the porch and on the little pine on the front lawn.

When they settled down to wine and beer and cheese with crackers and apples, Alice expressed surprise that Ellie hadn't gone home for the holidays.

"We're flying up first thing in the morning. Mr. Kerrigan is going to drop us off at LaGuardia."

"What about Mass?" Alice asked, peeved, assuming that Tommy was abandoning another of their traditional celebrations. Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, their wedding anniversary, and her birthday had been junked as the abyss between them grew so obvious that those observances became embarrassingly empty. "I just don't want to make a big Christmas breakfast with no one to share it with me," she said. After ten o'clock mass on Christmas, the family had always had pancakes, sausage, coffee, orange juice and champagne. Over the years, the other kids, Alicia and Emmett, came to the house for a Christmas Eve feast with an exchange of presents, and spent Christmas morning in their own homes, later in the day eating dinner at their in-laws. Sometimes Roger was there for Christmas, or spent the holiday with his girlfriend-in-residence at his place in Keene, N.H. or with her family. In his 10 years away, first in Boston, and then in New Hampshire, Roger had been through five women, an average of two years each, celebrating Christmas at times in Austin, Seattle, Chicago, San Francisco, and Keene. And tomorrow in Rochester. When Roger was absent, she and Tommy would take the champagne to the bedroom, and make love, a joining made lustful by its novelty and remembered familiarity.

Tommy put on the smile he had learned on the campaign trail. "Hey. The plane leaves at 7. I'll be into LaGuardia and back in no time at all." He had warned Bibi that Alice would expect him to spend part of the day with her and the children. He didn't risk telling Bibi that he might end up alone and in bed with Alice. He asked her to understand that the carols, the decorations, the family together as always for a Christmas Eve feast, the traditional breakfast, and their annual return to church for Christmas Mass tended to mellow Alice. She expected him to join her in pretending they were still the center of a happy family. He went along with her in the past for the sake of the children and to avoid a resurgence of the old anger. This year, he had the added incentive of wanting to obligate her so she would agree to be present at his inauguration. The Truckers membership expected the wife, children and grandchildren to be standing in the background as their international president took his oath of office on the steps of the Golden Terminal.

Just after 5 o'clock, Emmett Kerrigan holding two-year old James by the hand, and his wife, Freddi, carrying the baby, Tara, walked in the front door followed within minutes by Alicia with her husband, Charlie, and their seven-year-old son, Ronald.

The Kerrigan family sat in the living room with beer and wine and snacks, soft drinks for Ronald and James, followed by shrimp cocktails and champagne. They laughed, repeated favorite family stories, sang Christmas carols, listened to CDs of carols by Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, the Canadian Brass, and a Russian choral. They ate the fried calamari and crab cakes with rolls and salads and more wine and beer and conversation. Alice described the mystical setting of Mont Saint- Michel and the wonderful meals she ate at The Rivage, a little hotel on the Loiret just south of Orleans and the memorable duck washed down with champagne at the Hotel Dieppe in Rouen. Tommy to gales of laughter said the best grilled cheese sandwich he sever had was with great French fries at a truck stop north of San Francisco in the wine country. He told them that Judge Curtin, the court-appointed Overseer of the Truckers election, was rushing his takeover of the union, directing him to be sworn in by Jan. 16 at the latest to prevent the old guard from draining the union treasury.

"This is a miracle, isn't it, Dad? Did you ever seriously think you would win this election?" Roger said.

Before Tommy could respond, Alice said, "You don't know your father. He thinks God put him on earth to save the Truckers."

"All I'll say is there is some truth in what your mother says. Since we're together for God's birthday, I'm hoping we can all be together for the inauguration of God's chosen union leader."

"In Washington!" his daughter Alicia squealed. "Charlie and I will be there, Daddy." Roger and Emmett said they certainly would.

Tommy looked at Alice, afloat in the pleasure of her family and the champagne and wine. "A family reunion," he said.

"I'll think about it," Alice replied.

CHAPTER SIX

Local 1890's three-story building on 31st Street had the dim, lifeless look of the day after Christmas. The prime parking spaces reserved for union business agents were empty. Only two cars were in the staff and visitors lot on the north side of the building. Tommy smiled as he pulled into his spot. Someone had put a cardboard placard, Reserved/Truckers International President, at the head of his space. Probably Muriel.

Muriel, the receptionist who sat behind a thick plate glass window reinforced with steel mesh, buzzed Tommy through the heavy door leading from the dark, grimy foyer into a large waiting room. A big, soft-looking guy wearing wire-rim glasses, in a pin-striped suit, a navy-blue overcoat over his arm rose as Tommy entered. Muriel came to the counter with a bakery bag of corn muffins and Danish pastries, a stack of phone messages and mail. "Late today," she said. Muriel was the mother hen of the building.

"I have a one o'clock with Cobb. He here yet?"

Muriel nodded to the stranger. "No but that's what he's here for, and you got a message from Mrs. Wowka to give her a call."

"Mrs. Wowka?" Tommy said, wondering what that was about.

"You want sandwiches?" Muriel asked.

"We better eat this, or it'll get stale," he said holding up the white bakery bag. He had just come from a long, lingering breakfast that lasted until noon with Bibi. Her restaurant was closed today.

The man in the pin-striped suit rose, reaching out to shake Tommy's hand. "I'm Jack Egan. I'm honored to meet you and be on your team, Mr. Kerrigan." In response to the questioning look on Tommy's face, he said, "Mr. Wowka asked me to be here for a meeting with you at one o'clock."

"Okay. Come on up to the penthouse. Cobb's not here yet," Tommy said. Muriel buzzed them into the hallway leading to the offices spread throughout the building. Tommy led the way up a flight of stairs to his office on the second floor. "Have a seat, Jack. And, call me Tommy." He went into the kitchenette that linked his office to the executive board meeting room. He measured coffee and water into an electric percolator, laid out the muffins and pastries on a large paper plate, and got plastic knives, napkins and smaller paper plates from a cupboard. He checked the date on the milk container. Still good. He sifted through the mail, stiffening when he came across the postcard, addressed to him in block letters. The message side began Kerrigan and was followed by three lines of punched holes, brail. It ended with more block letters, Watching + Waiting, Stanley O. Sheill. He tore the postcard in half throwing the pieces into a wastebasket. He hadn't heard from Sheill in years. Watching! He must have developed a sense of humor. He had hoped the kid finally would have let go. That was the best advice anyone could offer: Let it go and move on with your life.

He returned to his office. "Tell me about yourself, Jack, while we're waiting for Cobb and the coffee. And what job did he hire you for?"

"I have a political consulting business in Connecticut. A small shop. Just me. I've developed a nice reputation up there, but I'd like to spread my wings. Someone who knows my work told Cobb about me. He called me at home around midnight on Friday, told me he was in a hell of a bind. He said needed help right away simultaneously putting together your inauguration and all the pieces that go into the administration of a major international union. Sounded like fun. He hired me over the phone sight unseen as his deputy for the transition team. So here I am."

"Ever work for a union?"

Egan chuckled. "Never. Frankly, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have accepted this job. I can't tell you how much I admire what you've accomplished, running against an entrenched incumbent with all of the resources in the world and winning. Do you know what odds against that are? I would be proud to make even a small contribution to making your reform of the Truckers union happen. I want you to know I'll give 110 percent in this job, and in whatever you ask me to do."

"I smell the coffee," Tommy said. He fetched the pot and baked goods on a big round gaily-painted tray that Truckers in Oakland had given him as a memento. "Keep talking, Jack."

"I was born in Brooklyn, but I grew up in Connecticut. Still live in my home town, Litchfield. I've got a wife, a little girl, and a horse," Egan said with enthusiasm.

Tommy's private line rang. "I better get that. It might be Cobb."

"Mr. Kerrigan," a woman said her voice quavering over a sob. "This is Nan Wowka."

Tommy tightened, anticipating something awful. He spoke, hoping he was wrong. "I'm sorry I haven't called you Mrs. Wowka. I just got in the office and I was waiting until Cobb got here in case you were trying to reach him."

"Cobb suffered a massive heart attack yesterday just as we were sitting down to eat. He's been under so much stress lately, I just can't tell you Mr. Kerrigan. The election. Then trying to find people he can trust to hire, and no one available because Christmas was coming up. And no time at all. It was just terrible on him."

"Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Wowka?"

She wept as she spoke, "The older you get the less you can take the pressure, Mr. Kerrigan. I don't want to put it on you, Mr. Kerrigan, but Cobb is 66 and I hardly ever saw him when he was with the Oil Workers. Always on the road, always involved with other people's troubles. I knew you were going to say, what can I do to help. And, I'm supposed to say, Everything's dandy. Well it isn't Mr. Kerrigan. I'll tell you, find someone else to help run your union. I'd like Cobb to spend some time with me and our grandchildren for a change if he lives through this."

"I couldn't have won without him. You're married to a great man. And you're right. He's given his life to the labor movement."

She interrupted him. "He was supposed to fly home Friday. He told me he was on the phone from nine in the morning until after midnight finding someone to hire. Then he can't get on a plane until almost nine o'clock Saturday night. He sits in the airport until almost two o'clock in the morning till the plane finally takes off. He thought he had heartburn." She couldn't go on. She cried and cried.

"Let me say, Mrs. Wowka, I'm here for Cobb and you. I can understand why you're upset. I'll be praying for him. I'll give you a call in a couple of days, say Friday. I'm so sorry about all this Mrs. Wowka."

Tommy sat for a minute with his hand on the cradled phone. Less than three weeks to the inauguration. "We're in a bind. Cobb is out of the game. Be straight with me. Can you take over or do I have to find somebody else? Cobb and I had a deal that worked very well for us. I focused on the big picture. The grand strategy. I left the details to Cobb. I mean I want someone who will do the job without bothering me with the ditsy stuff. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm going to tell you right from my heart Tommy, this is the greatest opportunity of my life, and I'm going to grab it and run with it. You can count on me, Tommy."

***

Tommy spent the evening with Bibi, making love, having dinner in her flat on the fourth floor of the building that housed Lucien's, going for a long walk with her past the museums on Fifth Avenue, returning to her place to make love again. Bibi's enthusiastic conversation about cooking, the strawberry and pear tarts her grandfather, Lucien Goldberg, baked especially for her in the big kitchen of his old summer house overlooking the Hudson near West Point, and the dullness of her husband now living in Buenos Aires with his teeny bopper girlfriend did little to distract Tommy from his guilt over Cobb. She urged him to unburden himself, to tell her why he felt in any way responsible.

"Mrs. Wowka made me feel so lousy. She figures Cobb's heart attack was my fault, that I shouldn't have let it happen."

"She's overwrought. I don't want to sound callous, but I know what my grandfather would say. Your victory was worth Cobb Wowka's sacrifice. Heroic sacrifice."

Cobb's heroic sacrifice haunted Tommy as he drifted into sleep that night pressed against the pleasant warmth of Bibi's body. He dreamt he was walking past a playground filled with children laughing and running, on swings and seesaws. A somber little boy with a Yankees baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes rose from a park bench. Tap, tap, tap. The boy came towards him feeling his way with a long white cane. Tommy lunged away, startling himself into wakefulness and a long wait for the first light of morning.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JANUARY, 1991

They filled the street outside the Golden Terminal, the Truckers International Union headquarters on 16th Street NW in Washington, D.C. Almost everyone, men and women, and some children, wore the distinctive blue and red Truckers' windbreakers or TFOCC jackets. Hundreds carried placards, handed out that morning, with red lettering against blue backgrounds saying: Truckers for Truckers or Truckers for Tommy K or A Union Once Again. The four dozen folding chairs off to the left of the stage, reserved for the big oomphas of organized labor and government and the families of the Tommy K Rank and File Slate members, were filled. Mamie Kerrigan, Tommy's three children and grandchildren --Alice didn't show--were seated among the other families of the victors on his ticket along with the president of the AFL-CIO, the Secretary of Labor, both Senators from New York, the Speaker of the House, Sen. Ted Kennedy, and five Democratic congressmen from New York City. The rest of the crowd stood on the cold sidewalk and roadbed under an overcast sky.

Jack Egan came onto the wooden stage, blue jeans too tight for his soft, thickening body and a washed-out blue work shirt under his new royal-blue Truckers jacket with his name ringed by a circle of crisp red letters saying: Truckers Changing Gears.

Jack held up a big guitar. "We're here celebrating history," he yelled, strumming the instrument. The crowd fell silent. He took off his jacket with a theatrical gesture, throwing it off to the side of the stage without looking at where it landed. He strummed the guitar. "Hey that's a grim sky up there," he shouted pointing to the icy, threatening clouds. "We're gonna make our own sunshine. Let Washington know we're happy and we're here." He strummed again. "Everybody here knows this song. So sing along."

The truck drivers and warehouse workers who had come from Dallas and New York and Los Angeles and Seattle and Chicago and Orlando, and Phoenix, and Omaha, and Boston, and Miami and Philadelphia, and New Orleans and dozens of shipping depots in obscure country towns near big interstates followed his lead bellowing the words with the enthusiasm of winners who had risked everything never expecting to win.

"We're gonna roll

"We're gonna roll

"Gonna roll Tommy K on.

"We're gonna roll

"We're gonna roll

"Gonna roll Tommy K on.

"If the mob gets in the way

"We're gonna roll right over them

"Gonna roll right over them"

The singing dropped away, replaced by cheers. Tommy Kerrigan in a new gray suit with a red tie came onto the stage with his hands raised to quiet the crowd. "Hold it," Tommy shouted. "We're keeping the song, but we're changing a couple of the words. From now on it's `Roll the Truckers on.' Not Tommy K, but the Truckers. That's the first change I'm making as your international president."

He told them that the day was so cold and the wind so piercing he had decided to hurry through the ceremony. They could do their celebrating inside at the party. He asked Judge David Stone III, who was seated among the dignitaries to come up on the stage for the swearing in ceremony. The judge, tall and lean with a face weathered as grey as his hair by age and long days sailing Long Island Sound, shrugged off the heavy overcoat over his shoulders and the blanket on his knees. He climbed the steps in his black judicial robes, which covered a heavy Irish fisherman's sweater. His court was in Manhattan, where he spent most of his time presiding over the government's racketeering cases that forced the mob to ease its hold over the union and the Truckers to hold one-member one-vote elections for the union's international officers.

Judge Stone read the oath of office--with Tommy repeating the words, his right hand held high. He swore to uphold the United States Constitution and the Truckers' Constitution with added promises to do everything in his power to rid the union of the last vestiges of organized crime and corruption of any sort.

Tommy shook the judge's hand, then turned right into his speech, ordering the new international secretary-treasurer, elected on his ticket, to sell the Truckers' four corporate jets and the palatial presidential summer residence on Martha's Vineyard to the highest bidders.

They cheered and applauded. "Changing gears," Jack Egan shouted with his fist clenched high above him. "Changing gears," the crowd chanted.

Tommy continued: "No more long black limousines with dark-grey windows."

"Changing gears," they chanted.

"No more house accounts in fancy French restaurants in Washington and New York and Chicago."

"Changing gears!"

"I prefer greasy spoons and grilled cheese sandwiches anyhow."

The crowd roared with laughter and cheers.

"No more Truckers Annual Golf Outing and Feast down in Bal Harbour with the corporate and the mob bosses. I don't play golf and I'm not gonna learn."

The audience was on its feet, hooting, cheering, laughing, then chanting "Changing gears!" like a locomotive, a dozen times until Tommy held up his hands for quiet. He looked at the VIP section. "I don't see Matt Krause or anyone from his slate. I guess they don't like to be reminded that they lost." Cheers. "Not a single old guard leader from the international, from the sections, from the regional councils has called me to say congratulations, we're ready to join you in reforming this union. I can't say I'm sorry." He took a long sheet of paper from his inside pocket. "I have in my hand a list of international organizers who never organized anything and a list of international representatives who did nothing for their pay. Every one of them has two or three or four jobs. Most of them are sons or brothers, or cousins or barroom buddies of the old guard. Well they're not collecting extra paychecks from the international for no-show or do-little jobs any more. Tomorrow morning, I'm sending them notices that their free ride is over."

They chanted, stomped their feet, yelled themselves hoarse.

"Let's go inside now and eat. There's coffee and cake and grilled cheese sandwiches and salads and hamburgers and hot dogs and soda and beer inside. Let's party."

Tommy stood at the door of the cafeteria signing autographs on caps and programs, shaking hands, calling many supporters by name, kissing women he recognized on the cheek, hugging Truckers who campaigned hard for him. Couldn't have done it without you' Doug or Harry or occasionally Buddy for the forgotten or unknown name. Repeating over and over, we're gonna change the Truckers and the whole damn American labor movement--I need your support. He basked in their looks of adoration, and their pleasure in being given credit for delivering his incredible victory. The VIPs stood on line with the rest.

Tommy listened with total focus to those with tales of woe, turning to Jack Egan with instructions to write down the complaint, the request, the idea with the Brother or Sister's phone number for a follow up. The tables of the cafeteria were filled when he moved to the short order station to ask for a grilled Swiss with Black Forest Ham on rye bread with a big helping of the chef's own potato salad. Eyes followed his every move. Tommy could feel their joy and their pride in having a president who wasn't swollen with power and self importance. He took a Bud without a glass from an ice-packed tub to the approving nods of Truckers who preferred their beer from the bottle. Mamie and the kids were eating hamburgers with French fries. They were sharing a long table with families from Georgia. "Goddamn, you remind me of Steamer Staski," one weathered Georgian said.

Tommy felt the flush cross his face. "I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn't the kind of a president I want to be."

The Georgian had a slightly pained, serious expression on his face. He pointed a thumb at the woman next to him: "Betty and me met the Steamer years ago. He showed up at five in the morning at the barn where I was working in Athens. Betty was just dropping me off for work. The Steamer says, You and the Missus got time for a cup of coffee. I'll never forget that."

"The reason Vern voted for you Mr. Kerrigan was you were the only one since the Steamer to take time out to talk to us in Athens."

Vern spoke quickly, "Hell, I never even saw a business agent from my own local no less a candidate for the international president. I spent my two weeks vacation handbilling for you across Georgia, Mr. Kerrigan, telling anyone who would listen what kind of man you are."

"None of that Mr. Kerrigan stuff. We're both Truckers. If I remember right, you and Betty called me Tommy down in Athens, and that's what I want you to call me now, and especially when I come back to visit you. Give Jack Egan here your phone number. I'll give you a call next time I'm down that way. We'll have a beer or a cup of coffee."

"A beer would be great, Tommy," Betty said holding up her bottle.

After the last celebrant had been ushered out the door, and Mamie and rest of the family had gone back to the hotel, Tommy took the elevator to the fifth floor for a meeting with Helmut Knall in the Stefan Z. Staski Memorial Executive Board Room. He turned to Jack Egan as they were about to enter the room. "The day has been picture perfect Jack. I'd like you to stay on." They shook hands. "Now let's talk to sourpuss."

Knall lived with a monk's devotion to the cause of forging the Truckers into a progressive union and a powerful political instrument to benefit both the members and all workers. Tommy coincidentally shared Knall's vision, but was wary of his Lefty politics. Knall was a self-announced Global Socialist, which the old guard seized upon as a threat to the traditional bedrock patriotism of the Truckers Union, many of whose members were conservative Republicans who voted for Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon before him. The old guard hated the TFOCCers, and Knall in particular.

Helmut Knall was waiting, leaning against the wall under the 12-foot-long painting of the assassination of Steamer Staski on a Chicago picket line in 1967. Knall was wearing his old Truckers Local 2714 jacket, the one awkwardly stitched where a knife had slashed through it into his flesh on the last day of the 1975 Truckers convention when he rose to criticize International President Wally McShane. A florid-faced Frank O'Toole, who ran the Truckers' Los Angeles movie drivers local, had screamed, "I'm not gonna let a fucken Commie pull down our union." He rushed across the auditorium, stumbling and bumping into chairs and delegates, drawing with him a bevy of willing head crackers to join an attack on Knall, who stood unmoving, poised to take them on alone. There were only three other TFOCCers among the 2,000 elected delegates. Tommy K reacted quickly, leading his delegation from Local 1890 into the fight on Knall's side. The press corps which had been exiled to a balcony to keep them away from the delegates on the floor had a panoramic view of the battle. A free lance photographer shot Tommy K knocking over a monstrously-big character, wearing a white cowboy hat, whose size-15 high-heeled right boot was cocked back to smash Knall's head. A whispered warning from the Truckers General Counsel prompted McShane to hammer his gavel, ordering the sergeants at arms, some of whom were flailing away at Knall and the Local 1890 delegates, to separate the antagonists.

In the morning, the free lancer's photo of Tommy K saving Helmut Knall was on the front page of newspapers across the country. The New York Daily Reporter had the headline that caught on: THE BRAWL of LAS VEGAS.

Tommy K, followed by Jack Egan and Billy Hurley, strode into the board room, around the big conference table, to grasp Knall's hand with both of his for a warm handshake. "Thanks buddy," he said, "for all you have done for the members of this union. You'll never be forgotten." After seating himself at the head of the table and said to Knall, "Now what's the agenda? You asked for the meeting."

Knall handed him a thick stack of pages stapled together.

Tommy glanced at Jack Egan. Jack had told him, "All politics is patronage. He'll come to you with a list with his own name on top. You'll see."

"You have a list for me?" Tommy said taking the packet from Knall. He glanced down the first sheet: the names of 25 large locals, whose officers would be running for reelection next fall. He turned the pages, one for each local with an assessment of the incumbent officer's strengths and weaknesses, the odds of ousting him. In one case, her. "What is this?" Tommy asked, shoving the offering across the table to Jack.

"It's the beginning of stage two in the struggle to return this union to the members. By June at the very latest, you should begin campaigning with reform candidates against the old guard officers in those locals. We'll win some and at least frighten the others."

"Hey, I didn't come to Washington to start a war."

"The war started two years ago when you decided to run for president. It isn't over just because you won control of the international. That's only the top of the union. The old guard still controls the area councils, the regional councils and 85 percent of the locals. The union is the locals, the locals are the union. You should know. You were the president of a local."

'You condescending prick,' Tommy said to himself, containing the fury that roiled his insides. His face reddened. He saw that reflected in Helmut's challenging eyes. "I have no intention of getting involved in local union politics."

"Didn't you get the message today?" Knall asked. "There wasn't a single old guard official of any significance in that crowd out there. You think that was a coincidence?"

"They'll come around as soon as they get used to the idea that I really won the election."

Knall stood. "Save that list. When the momentum you're riding fades, see how many of those old guarders are sticking knives in your back."

"My administration isn't going to fade."

"Read the history of the Paris Commune. Then you might understand what I'm saying." Helmut left without a handshake or goodbye.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MARCH, 1991

Mickey Sullivan was sipping a Jack Daniels, studying the menu, when Bobby Bell arrived at La Petite Auberge, a quiet, charming bistro with good food on the East Side. Bobby ordered a bottle of mineral water and asked to see the wine list.

"You catching the last shuttle back to DC tonight?" Bobby asked in a small talk prelude to the purpose of the meeting.

"I'm staying over for a couple of days at your expense. There's a lot of research to be done in New York and I want to catch the St. Patrick's Day Parade." He looked mirthlessly into Bobby's eyes. Most men, who were being paid as handsomely as Sullivan, in Bobby's experience, would have smiled, either nervously or in amusement, in delivering those lines. Bobby wondered if the pinch-faced Sullivan ever grinned or laughed with pleasure.

"Where are you staying?" More small talk, out of habit.

"You'll see when you get my expense account."

This guy was too much. Walking through life on guard. "Why the secrecy?"

Sullivan glanced around the room. He leaned forward. "I don't have to tell you Tommy K has a lot of friends who would do anything for him. They go back a long way, and they're still with him."

Bobby knew from his 20 years of dealing with Sullivan that he was so intense in his pursuit of the enemy that he was borderline crazy. Sullivan had spent his career as a Red hunter for the FBI, and his failure to nail down Tommy K was one of his great frustrations. Sullivan had retired from the bureau in 1981, then spent five years with a Congressional committee investigating security breaches before going on his own as a free-lance investigator. He had kept tabs on Tommy K through all those years, enjoying a spark of hope when Helmut Knall and TFOCC popped up. He failed, though he tried again and again, to muddy Tommy K's reputation. His superiors on the Congressional committee and his contacts on the major newspapers couldn't or wouldn't understand Tommy's connections to the Reds that he saw so clearly. Bobby was offering him a fresh opportunity to bring down Tommy K.

The waiter came. Bobby ordered the mushroom Napoleon appetizer and the monk fish, both on the list of daily specials, and a half bottle of a very nice white wine recommended by the waiter. Sullivan took the onion soup and steak au poivre with frites and another Jack Daniels on the rocks.

"Do you have any leads or know what direction you're going to go at this point?" Bobby asked.

"I'm going back to the moment Tommy Kerrigan was born and going over his life with a fine toothcomb. In an investigation, you make breakthroughs because you do the groundwork."

"I hope you're going beyond the Communist connections because that's a dead horse."

"Everything is what I'm looking at. What he owns, what he owes, who he played with growing up, who are his current connections."

"How far along are you?"

"I closed out a major case last Wednesday freeing me up to turn my full attention to Tommy K. The first step is gathering all the data, all the documents, reading them again."

"Here's something for your file. Did you see this in The Sunday Globe?" He passed him a clipping of a photo from the paper's society section about a charity auction for the Homeless Children Fund. The picture showed the co-sponsors society hostess, Mrs. Arthur (Merry) Young, financier Ignatius M. O'Hara and noted photographer Alice Carroll. O'Hara had donated a panoramic view of Mont San Michel, the French monastery fortress by Carroll from a portfolio commissioned by him.

"Noted photographer Alice Carroll also known as Mrs. Tommy K."

"Precisely."

"I didn't know you read the society pages, Bobby," he said sarcastically.

"My wife does. She's known Alice Carroll for a long time." He took a white envelope, a small dossier on Carroll, from the inside pocket of his suit. He gave it to Sullivan. "Add this to your file too. My wife's told me a lot about Alice Carroll over the years."

"That could be fertile ground."

Sullivan had the chocolate mousse and tea. Bobby took a double brandy and espresso.

CHAPTER NINE

The lean and muscular Steve Staski, in shorts and a tank top, a beer dangling casually from his right hand, his small haunches leaning against the railing of his deck overlooking the vast blue Pacific made Bobby Bell uncomfortably conscious of the blob of fat resting on his own lap, his falling chin. Frank O'Toole from the Los Angeles movie drivers local, who had known Steve all his life, was slouched in the cedar chair next to him. He brought O'Toole along as a token of his credibility. Bobby had met Steve only once before, one of the many who had shaken his hand at the 1980 Truckers convention at the party celebrating the premiere of his film, 'The Trucker.' Steamer Staski was built like a bull and had the personality to go with it. Steve had burst out of the screen in the role of his father, just as fierce, just as charismatic, just like everyone remembered him. Today, Bobby experienced a flash of doubt as he watched the actor kiss his pretty wife, Audrey, and his mother, Violet, goodbye on their way out the door for lunch at the Laguna Beach Inn. Steve had the black hair, the darkish skin, the piercing eyes of his father, but he seemed almost frail, too soft with his perfect, extra-white, capped teeth and his ready laugh.

Steve knew why Bobby was here. Violet had prepped him. But they went through the dance of small talk, chatting about Over the Road, his weekly TV series about a cross-country truck driver. Steve spent five years in the role, from 1982 to 1987, and it was still running in syndication. Every truck driver in the country, union or not, loved the show. Steve said the part was marvelous, because there were so many facets to the character: serious, funny, inspirational, a decent hard-working American, a good guy who loved helping people out of scrapes. He pulled a baby from a burning wreck while the child's overwrought parents watched; he taught a priest the real meaning of Christmas; he risked his life to rescue a bald eagle from a predatory hunter; he helped farm workers win a strike for a living wage and protections against insecticides; and as a favor to an old girlfriend from Chicago, he filled in for a drunken clown in her circus in a role so hilarious that surprised viewers rolled out of their livingroom chairs in laughter. He put pieces of his father into the repertoire, drawing on his childhood memories, reviewing home movies and television clips for inspiration. He sometimes had to leave the set when overwhelmed by emotion over the loss of Steamer, his boyhood hero as well as the father he loved.

Bobby didn't have to ask Steve why he gave up the role. A researcher had popped up The Rise and Fall and Restoration of Steve Staski, last summer on the Entertainment Channel's FALLING STARS show. Steve's life was a copycat of dozens of other actors and singers: meager pickings at first, then a big role, a series, boredom, type-casting, insecurity a flop into drugs and booze. Steve had gone through two wives and two divorces before meeting his current wife, Audrey, at the community playhouse she ran and they now operated together in Laguna Beach.

Bobby stood so he could look Steve in the eye. "I'll come right to the point, Steve. The Truckers union needs you. This half-wit Tommy Kerrigan got elected by accident and he's running a great union into the ground. Just what the government wants him to do. They don't want a strong Truckers union."

"My Mom told me he's making a mess of things."

O'Toole said, "Steve, you can't believe what this shithead is doing. I'm out as the Film Division Director. Can you believe that? Your old man gave me the job. I was president of the Truckers West Coast Section for 20 years. It's gone. Wiped out. The fucken Commies put him in so he could destroy the strongest union in the Western world. I was gonna retire on my 75th birthday in September, but not any more. I got to stay on the job until we get rid of him and his T-fuckers. I'm with Bobby and his team all the way."

"Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought they just elected him president, and he's going to be in office for the next five years," Steve said.

Bobby gripped Steve by his left bicep. "I'm going to be frank. We need to start now or this guy is going to be in for the next 10 or 15 years. I know this union inside and out. My family is as much a part of it as yours. I said to myself, Bobby find somebody now and start running or it's all gone. Then I see 'The Trucker' is on cable. I sit down to watch it for the first time in ten years, and it becomes a conscious-raising session. I looked at the screen and saw the man who made the Truckers the most powerful union in the world come to life. I saw beyond Steamer Staski, the legend, to you. I saw a candidate with instant name recognition who could beat Tommy K in the 1995 election. You were your father in 'The Trucker.' You could be the Trucker in real life."

Steve turned towards the ocean for a dramatic pause. Since his mother had told him Bobby Bell would be coming to ask him to run for the presidency in 1995, images had churned through his mind of himself on picket lines bolstering strikers, standing in front of the cheering convention with his hands raised high wallowing in their admiration, of sitting in the president's big chair in the Golden Terminal. He came back to Bobby and Frank, who were leaning forward just a bit, anxiously awaiting his response. Steve told them: "A real actor doesn't just go through the motions of a character, he is the character. He thinks with the character's mind, he feels with the character's soul. I told an AP reporter once in an interview that I sometimes regretted not following Dad into the Truckers, because I knew from playing him what it would take to lead the union back to the pinnacle of power. I became Dad in 'The Trucker' so I knew." He didn't tell them of the inner ache that awoke him so many nights at 3 AM. That he really missed playing the Steamer."

"That's a yes?" Bobby asked rhetorically.

Steve's face changed, becoming harder with a touch of a sneer, just like his Dad's: "We're gonna take this union back from the fucken Commies and their front man from Queens."

CHAPTER TEN

APRIL, 1991

Tommy arrived at the Golden Terminal at 7 in the morning, as usual, with Billy Hurley a step behind him. They entered the building through the president's door, opening from the underground garage, from a stark concrete bunker, into a carpeted vestibule with stairs and an express elevator leading to the fourth floor. Tommy fetched his daily agenda, prepared last night by Jack Egan, now his chief of staff, from the lockbox in the bottom drawer of his desk, while Billy turned on the coffee machine.

Tommy sat to do his morning read at the huge presidential desk facing a broad, floor-to-ceiling window with a view across Lafayette Park of the White House. The arrangement was a whimsy of the architect, a subtle reminder to Steamer Staski, who built the Golden Terminal, that there was at least one man in Washington more powerful than he. Tommy enjoyed the reactions of visitors, the heads of Truckers locals from the far reaches of the country, sometimes reporters or Senators or House members, and, rarely, so far, business executives, to the famous view. Then he would deliver his pat line: "President Bush is doing a wonderful job for Corporate America. I'm here to do something for working America."

At the top of the agenda in black letters was April 26, 1991, the 97th day of the Truckers Changing Gears. The first item on the list was press conference scheduled for 11 AM in the first floor auditorium. The private phone rang. He ignored it. Too many people, including reporters, had gotten hold of his supposedly super-secret private number. There were so many people, local officers, members, politicians, journalists, clawing for pieces of his time that he had quickly adopted a policy of taking only the most important calls, attending the most important meetings. Martha Nez, his new executive secretary, and Jack were his gatekeepers. They sorted through the daily bevy of crises--strikes, union scandals, contracts disputes, failing trucking companies, jurisdictional conflicts with other unions, organizing elections, and individual horror stories over jobs lost because of vicious supervisors or betrayal by management-oriented old guard local union leaders. And on top of that was politics--strategy sessions with his own government affairs staff and other international presidents at the AFL-CIO to counter anti-union and anti-worker moves by the White House or the conservatives in Congress. And, the appeals to make speeches, accept awards, for meetings with politicians, unionists, and community activists pressing good causes and to raise money for charities.

Billy brought in their coffee and warm corn muffins, zapped in the toaster oven, as Tommy was reading the long press release that was to be distributed today announcing the reforms instituted and underway to reshape the Truckers into a cutting-edge, progressive union. No more no-show jobs at the union's international level, the hiring of dedicated international representatives and international organizers to replace the old guarders, the creation of a corporate strategies staff to bring the fight against nasty employers beyond the picket lines into their boardrooms, their banks and their communities, and programs to involve the rank and file in national contract campaigns and politics. A thick bundle of documents accompanied the release providing details of the multiple salaries and lucrative perks enjoyed by old guard leaders, their allies and relatives. Billy looked through the sports sections of the New York newspapers, having learned Tommy wasn't interested in small talk. He moved to the outer office as soon as Tommy finished his coffee.

Martha and her two assistants arrived at 8:30. Jack had hired her, telling Tommy she was a twofer: not only efficient, but a French Canadian. The Canadians, who resented the American domination of the hierarchy of the Truckers, liked the idea of one of their own in the president's office. She had lived in Washington since graduating from college a decade ago, had married and divorced a Congressional staffer. "Morning. Do you need anything?" she said to Tommy delivering a stack of papers including the morning list of calls to be returned in order of importance from 9 AM to 10 AM. "More coffee?" she asked, knowing he would say no. He watched her as she walked out of the room. She wore a tan suit, a different-colored suit each day, and matching high heels that emphasized her narrow ankles and nicely-muscled legs that rose under her skirt to invitingly-shaped haunches. Martha was a good-looking woman, an impression enhanced by carefully-applied makeup. The women in Local 1890's office were thick-bodied and styleless, and sexless.

At 10:45, Tommy went to the auditorium to his first press conference since being elected president. He read his statement, answered perfunctory queries about his reforms and more piercing questions about the sagging economy and the reluctance of workers to join unions. The three television crews collected their lights and cameras, leaving in the midst of the questions and answers. Afterwards, Sylvia Baya, the prwoman assigned to him from the Truckers public affairs office, told him not to be bothered by the TV crews; they got what they wanted and were moving on to their next assignment.

"How did I do?" he asked.

"You were great," Sylvia said with some hesitancy. She was Mexican-American with her Indian heritage displayed on her copper-skinned face with a double chin over a figure lost to fat.

"Then what's the problem?" Tommy asked.

She seemed to steel herself: "Don't expect this to be front page news. That's all. It was important to have this press conference, but there was nothing earth shattering about it."

"You're telling me I'll have to get myself indicted to get back on the front pages."

Sylvia laughed. Nervously.

The next morning, shortly after 8, a hundred beefy men in sports jackets or Truckers Union windbreakers, some obviously truck drivers or warehouse workers, demonstrated outside the front door of the Golden Terminal to protest the dismissal of the old guard international reps and organizers. Several television crews and some reporters showed up to record the event. The demonstrators chanted "Tommy K will pay" and handed out leaflets with a cartoon of him in a boss' back pocket. Under a heading of thick block letters saying "True Truckers," the leaflet contended that Tommy Kerrigan was undermining the union by firing experienced, dedicated staffers to replace them with nobodies, who knew nothing about the Truckers. By 9 o'clock, they were gone.

Jack Egan brought a copy of the leaflet to the daily afternoon briefing with Tommy that included the various department heads as well as Martha who took notes. "I don't know what's going on yet, but this is a professional job. The press doesn't show up by accident. Someone has got to call them. The leaflet is too well done for any of those cretins to have come up with it so quickly," Jack said holding up the leaflet. He asked everyone to check with their sources in the building and around Washington to find out who was behind the demonstration and the leaflet. He suggested the communications staff might casually inquire of friendly reporters who had called them to turn them out for the demonstration.

"The old guard," Tommy said vehemently. "We're the Truckers Changing Gears, so they're the True Truckers. Everyone knows what they're all about. No one is going to pay attention to any of this bullshit." The cartoon, which pictured him as a long-armed monkey, enraged him.

Jack Egan called that night to tell Tommy that Bobby Bell, a mover and shaker in union and political circles in New York and Washington, had talked to at least one reporter, telling him the demonstration was to show that Tommy K didn't have the support of the rank and file. His election was an accident.

"I know Bobby Bell," Tommy said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MAY, 1991

Tommy roared with laughter when he opened the lockbox to find the white leather binder with a roadrunner in the union colors on the cover and in large gold lettering, The ROAD SHOW. Inside was a single page with three items listed: a meeting of brewery workers in St. Louis to discuss upcoming contract negotiations; a strike by 100 sheet metal factory workers near Minneapolis; and a union recognition election for 35 waterfront dock workers in Jacksonville, Fla. Included was a memo with a brief description of each local, and a warning that the leaders of the three locals involved were hostiles from the old guard camp. Hostiles! Jack didn't understand how pliant most local Truckers leaders could be. Literally 85 percent of the locals had aligned themselves against him in the last election, but Tommy was confident, despite Helmut Knall's misgivings, that the majority would accept his presidency without question.

Jack expected him to pick one. Tommy decided to visit all three, a grand opportunity to mingle with the rank and file, to fulfill his campaign promise to stay in touch, to include the members in running the union. He missed his drives through Queens and Brooklyn hitting the factories and grocery warehouses and trucking terminals, kidding with the members, listening to their gripes, solving their problems with the bosses.

As soon as he finished his coffee and corn muffin, Tommy told Billy Hurley they would be going out of town for a least a week to St. Louis, Jacksonville, and Minneapolis. Billy looked at him across his newspaper, he was reading The New York Account, and grunted. Tommy had expected a witty riposte. Billy seemed unusually subdued. "I'll let the wife know," Billy said.

When Martha arrived, Tommy sensed she was distracted, but gratuitous probing would have been out of character for him. He instructed her to make arrangements for plane tickets and hotels for the trip.

At 9 o'clock, he turned back to the Road Show folder, fetching the phone number of the Truckers Brewery local in St. Louis. A woman clerk answered. "This is Tommy Kerrigan. Let me talk to Lou Ramiglia."

"The international president?"

"Himself," Tommy replied.

She said she would see if Mr. Ramiglia, the local president, was in. Tommy smirked at that.

"Hey macho man," Lou Ramiglia said in greeting.

"What's this macho man shit?" Tommy asked

"You read the papers?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Something in the St. Louis papers."

"New York. Now what's this about?"

He told Ramiglia he would be coming to his local's contract meeting tomorrow night. He said he wanted to get to know Ramiglia better and to use the meeting as an opportunity to tell the members about the new direction of the Truckers.

Ramiglia paused. He was an old hand at taking the shock of new information and sifting through his options before responding. "I don't think this would be a good time," he said.

Tommy was prepared. "This is a national contract. The Truckers are going to have a national, coordinated strategy for this one. No more letting the big beer companies dominate the talks and getting whatever they want out of us."

"I've been on the negotiating committee for the national brewery agreement for 20 years. We get along pretty good with those companies. I'll concede you know the warehouse business, Tommy, but this is another ballgame. Don't wade into water over your head with new fishing boots on."

Tommy flushed. Etiquette demanded Ramiglia call him President Kerrigan unless Tommy told him otherwise. "Thanks for the advice. I'm the international president of the Truckers. I'll be there tomorrow night."

"You're not invited, Tommy. I don't invite nobody, not even the international president to my local's meetings. But I'd make an exception if the request down came through the president's office at the Midwest States Section and then the St. Louis Region office."

"I abolished the sections the week after I got in office. You know that. And, I don't have to go through anybody to talk to the membership of the Truckers."

"Hey, this ain't a dictatorship, Tommy. I been in this union 40 years and the word from the international always went through the section and region to the locals. You chopped up the line of communications, Tommy, I didn't."

"I'll be there tomorrow night."

"I don't know how the members are gonna feel about that, Tommy."

Tommy slammed down the phone. That son of a bitch. Talking to the international president like that. He couldn't believe it. He had carried Ramiglia's local by a nice margin in the election. He knew building bridges to the old guard might be difficult in some cases but he never expected outright disrespect. He went to his bookcase, pulling the volume on multiple salaries. Ramiglia collected $80,000 as the St. Louis Brewery local president, another $40,000 as St. Louis Region president, another $50,000 as an organizer for the Midwest States Section, and another $75,000 as an international rep. He got a per diem fee of $300 a day as a Brewery Division Assistant whenever he worked on national negotiations or was involved in grievances. The Brewery Division job gave him around $30,000 more a year. He was also one of the three union trustees on the Midwest Truckers Pension and Welfare Fund. That added up to $275,000 a year, not counting expenses. But Tommy had trimmed the total down by terminating Ramiglia's no-show job as an international rep and by ending the Midwest States Section and with it his job as an organizer. He probably never organized anything, Tommy mused. Now he understood Ramiglia's antagonism, but he was still stung by it. He didn't like Ramiglia calling him macho man either.

Tommy buzzed Billy at his desk in the anteroom. "Something about me in the New York papers?"

"Yeah," Billy said.

"Bring it in."

Billy came into Tommy office with The New York Account folded open to the Bohemian Bits column on page six.

He handed it to Tommy. "Sorry, Tommy," he said.

He read the item:

'Alice Carroll, the famed photographer of New York's foremost phallic symbol, the one with the art deco helmet, was in France for a month recently on a wonderful assignment shooting Mont San Michel for a private collector.

'Frolicking in France with Alice was the fabulous and furiously furry painter Joe Furioso, who has a loft in Soho and a get-away pad in Normandy.

'Alice obviously has a penchant for macho men. She's married to Tommy K, the biggest Trucker of them all. Watch out crossing streets Joe.'

Tommy crumpled the tabloid into a lump, firing it into a wastepaper basket. "What kind of crap is this? Why would they print something like this?" he shouted.

"It's a fucking rag, Tommy. Everybody knows that. They make up half the stuff."

While Billy stood uncomfortably before him, Tommy, burning with embarrassment, stared for minutes down at his desk. As he calmed down, he realized the piece was packed with implications, nothing solid. Alice was in France, so was this guy Furioso. That son of a bitch in St. Louis took it as something dirty. His mother would see it for sure. She read the Account. Maybe the kids wouldn't see it. God. The paper came out this morning, probably on the newsstands last night, and Ramiglia had seen it. Some old guarder in New York probably faxed it to him. All over the union by now. He remembered Billy was still there. "Okay."

Billy slipped away.

Last October on one of their rare nights home together without emergency phone calls or dissatisfaction over some small slight, Tommy and Alice had tuna with a French sauce and a bottle of cold Italian white wine. They sipped the last of the wine in bed, watching a film on the VCR in which a beautiful, shapely, young woman with a luscious body rises from a bed where she had made wild love to go to a hot tub. She is seen from behind: tall, long brown hair, a slender body with finely-toned haunches. She climbs into the tub near perfect breasts revealed, and leans back thinking of her evening.

Afterwards, they made love. Alice was aggressive and unusually abandoned. They lay back groggily sated, and Alice said in the darkness that she wished when she was young, like the woman in the film, she had been uninhibited about sex. Tommy wondered then, but didn't ask what was that to mean? That she wished she had been freer, less restrained, more licentious in their love life--or had had a broader sexual, or romantic, experience with other men? Perhaps both. Now he knew. He had suspected her for a long time. The item in the Account humiliated him.

***

Two sergeants at arms, huge men with big bellies and reputations, blocked the entrance to the union hall in St. Louis. They asked Tommy and Billy with exaggerated politeness to see their union cards.

"Tell Lou Ramiglia, President Kerrigan is here," Tommy said.

"I can't leave the door. No one comes in who's not a member of this local," one said.

"I'm the international president of your union. Step aside."

"Sorry, Tommy. Mr. Ramiglia said no one."

Tommy and Billy turned away. They stepped across the narrow span of walkway to the van that had delivered them. Tommy banged on the side. The doors slid open, with six burly international reps and organizers in Truckers windbreakers hopped out. Three formed a wedge in front of Tommy and Billy with a towering, meaty, former pro football tackle at the point. The other three stepped behind them as a rearguard. "Let's go," Tommy said.

"Tommy K All the Way!" the football player shouted, surging up the steps, he slammed into the guards throwing them back. "Tommy K All the Way," the six chanted as they passed into the building through a small lobby into the crowded meeting room. With the others barring the sergeants at arms from pursuit, Tommy strode up the center aisle, waving, shaking hands thrust at him.

On the stage, Ramiglia was pounding his gavel. He shouted. "You're not allowed in here Kerrigan."

"He's the international president," members screamed.

Tommy vaulted onto the stage. He turned to the members.

"Whose your ol' lady fucking tonight, Tommy," someone shouted from the back.

"Macho, macho, macho man," a gang clustered together sang.

Another group, Tommy's supporters in the local, tried to drown them out, chanting: "Tomm-y Tomm-y."

A chair was thrown at Tommy on the stage and a brawl broke out along the edge of the two factions. The fighters stopped trading punches after a few minutes, worn by the exertion. Faces had been bloodied and knuckles swollen, but no serious injuries had been inflicted.

Ramiglia, a little compact man in his 60s with shoe-black hair, pounded the podium with his gavel. "This meeting is adjourned," he shouted. "Sergeants at arms clear the hall." Ramiglia threw his hands in the air. "Satisfied?" he asked Tommy.

Tommy went out into the parking, climbed on top of the van, and speaking through a battery-powered bullhorn held an impromptu meeting until the police arrived. An international union lawyer, who had been in the van, talked to the cops; he showed them a copy of the union constitution empowering the international president to call an emergency meeting of the members of any local on union property at any time. Tommy left while the fine points of the union constitution were being argued with the police.

In the morning, Sylvia Baya read Tommy the story over the telephone from the front page of the Washington Globe saying his presence started a riot at the St. Louis union meeting after he forced himself into the building with coterie of armed thugs. Ramiglia was quoted saying: "I warned President Kerrigan the rank and file in this local just have no use for him and his strange ideas on how to run the union."

CHAPTER TWELVE

SEPTEMBER, 1991

Tommy was drinking spring water from a plastic bottle, chatting about the dangers of dehydration on a hot day like this with two milk truck drivers on Vanderbilt Avenue near the Yale Club, when Sylvia Baya interrupted them. "I just got a call. Barry Moore is on his way over with a camera crew," she said excitedly.

"Wow," one of the drivers said.

"He's never done a piece on labor," Sylvia said.

"What's he going to ask me about?"

"Who knows. Remember you can control the interview. Whatever he asks, just give the pitch you want."

"I'll talk about the organizing drive at the Big TIT."

"Whatever you say don't call it that. Make sure you say Titus Interstate Transportation."

The milk drivers laughed. "Don't worry, Barry will call it the Big TIT," one of them said. Barry Moore was notorious for spicing risqué remarks and double entendres into his dialogues with guests.

A few minutes later, the band from Musicians Local 802 swung into Barry Moore's theme song, Hail to the Chief, as he walked along waving and shaking hands with Truckers packing the narrow street waiting for the parade to begin. With the camera rolling, Moore paused to shake Tommy's hand and give him his trade-mark hug, then swept past him to touch and shake the hands of the union members pressing against a line of New York police. He moved into the throbbing crowd of smiling and excited Truckers in their blue baseball caps and blue T-shirts with their locals' numbers emblazoned in crisp red letters. He kissed the cheek of a slender young woman in a Truckers for Tommy K shirt, giving her a quick hug.

Moore came back to Tommy and the milk drivers. Sylvia stood next to the camera crew to make certain she wasn't in the shot. "I was hoping Alice Carroll, the great photographer, would be here. A lot of people don't know you're a couple. Married I mean." He spoke in profile so the camera would pick up Tommy beyond him. Tommy's smile fell away. He grunted, self-consciously.

"I'm crazy about her Chrysler Buildings. I wish I had a Chrysler." Moore guffawed. "I mean a photo, folks," he said to the camera. "But we're not here to talk about my dreams on Labor Day. Tommy make believe I'm a genie that just popped out of a beer bottle. Surprise! Make a wish on this Labor Day. Wish big!"

"I wish Titus Interstate would obey the law and let its 35,000 hard-working drivers and dock workers join the Truckers International Union."

"Look out Titus. Maybe this guy's got some fire in his belly," Moore said jovially. "Okay. I got to run now. The camera crew is gonna shoot a little more of you. Okay." He shook Tommy's hand. Waved at the lens and walked away.

Sylvia told the producer with the crew he could get some wonderful color. Thousands of rank and file Truckers would be marching down Fifth Avenue with Tommy leading the way. They had 25 tractor trailers, half a dozen marching bands, and a team of Clydesdales pulling a long, old fashioned wagon filled with barrels of beer to be tapped at the Truckers locals' picnics in Central Park after the parade.

"You fellas are welcome to come to our picnic, Local 1890. Got to go," Tommy said. A sparkling white tractor and trailer, whose sides were covered with huge banners proclaiming TRUCKERS CHANGING GEARS, blasted its horns, the sound banging off the brick and concrete surfaces of the buildings. The Truckers roared "Roll! Roll! Roll!" The tractor-trailer started forward and after a minute, the band stepped off playing the Truckers Anthem followed by Tommy K with Butch O'Brien, secretary-treasurer of Local 1890 on his right, Happy Koenig on his left, and 30,000 Truckers from dozens of locals in New York and New Jersey marching behind singing:

"Roll on Truckers

"We got the boss on the run.

"Roll on Truckers

"The union's only begun."

They punched the air with their fists shouting the chorus:

"Roll! Roll! Roll!"

They marched onto Fifth Avenue heading north through nearly empty streets with windblown newspapers and a sprinkling of black grit. A few tourists came away from bookstore windows to stare in silence. Occasionally watchers shouted, "Union!" or clapped bringing rousing cheers from the marchers.

Each bloc of a thousand or so members walked behind large men carrying banners that stretched almost the width of Fifth Avenue:

NO NAFTA

RAISE THE MINIMUM WAGE

LABOR LAW REFORM

ORGANIZE the Big TIT

TRUCKERS CHANGING GEARS

The parade ended at 72nd Street, where Tommy turned into the park. His mother, Mamie, and Doris Harian, general counsel of the international, were standing with plastic cups of beer in hand by the blue and red-striped caterer's tent waving and beaming as he approached. Hamburgers and hot dog were cooking on long grills tended by volunteers from Local 1890. Truckers with their spouses and children came streaming past him in a rush to get to the food and drinks before the lines strung out across the park. "The kids are here, but she isn't," Mamie said kissing him. Doris rolled her eyes behind Mamie. They went over to the lawn to join Tommy's family. His three grandchildren, Ronnie, James, and Tara, rushed happily into his embrace.

"Mom said she couldn't make it," his daughter, Alicia, whispered into Tommy's ear as she kissed him. Big surprise. He shook hands with his son-in-law and sons, Emmett and Roger, and kissed Emmett's wife and Ellie, Roger's girlfriend.

After the initial hugs and kisses, and a beer and two hot dogs with the family, Tommy spent hours shaking hands with Truckers from locals throughout the metropolitan area who had come to softly make requests, to warn him he was being bad-mouthed for mob connections or his alliance with the T-Fuckers. He spoke to many one-on-one and to others in small groups with Sylvia and Billy Hurley controlling the flow, making sure no one stayed too long.

Emmett and his family slipped away early. Alicia and her husband, Charlie, drove Mamie back to Woodside. Ellie told Tommy in parting that she and Roger were going to Soho to have dinner with Alice, and to meet the famous artist, Joe Furioso. Tommy grimaced, embarrassed again as he had been so many times over the past months. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Kerrigan," Ellie said realizing her faux pas from the expression on his face. Roger drew her away to end her apologies within the hearing of other Truckers, which added to Tommy's discomfort. He continued greeting and listening to union members but with disinterest for another half hour, then signaled Billy to follow him.

They walked to Central Park West, where Billy had parked Tommy's union car, a black Buick LeSabre. He directed Billy to cross the park at 96th Street en route to the Triborough Bridge. At Park Avenue, Tommy told Billy to pull over. Before he got out of the car, he reminded Billy to meet him tomorrow at the American Airlines terminal at Kennedy Airport for the 8 AM flight to Dallas-Fort Worth.

Tommy walked down Park Avenue, stifling in the late afternoon heat, turning west on 92nd Street. He stopped midway down the block and wheeled around. No one was following him. He continued on to Lucien's on Madison Avenue. Bibi let him into the cool, darkened restaurant, closed for the holiday. She raised her lips to his, and without embracing, they lingered through a kiss until she moved back. "That was lovely," she said softly, taking him by the hand. "Have you eaten?" He answered yes, and she led him through the dining room into the kitchen with its long counters and stove glistening, and the pots and pans hanging from hooks, awaiting the Tuesday luncheon onslaught. They took the lift up four floors to Bibi's pied-a-terre. She turned on the CD. They danced slowly, Tommy's favorite foreplay, made love and fell into a deep sleep.

They awoke in time for a light dinner of shrimp, beans and broccoli with a dry white wine. Tommy, thinking of Joe Furioso, turned their conversation to artists and what drives them.

"It started with God," Bibi said. "He created the universe, and human beings have been emulating him ever since."

"Not me."

"Oh yes. We all are consciously or not."

"I don't paint, cook, or take pictures."

"You're a performance artist Tommy."

He lay back thinking about that. She had struck a chord. Tommy often felt as though he were on camera even in the privacy of his bed or car, his actions observed and recorded--winning the Truckers presidency, marching at the head of thousands of Truckers in the Labor Day Parade. Sometimes he wondered if his father were watching him from the other side.

Just before nine, they turned on All News Cable, sitting through promos and commercials until the trumpets blared, clouds parted, and the camera zoomed from a vast height onto an ancient cobbled street filled with men and women in togas streaming towards a towering Roman amphitheater. The watchers were propelled through a long, dark tunnel opening into a brightly-lit modern studio where a grinning Barry Moore was seated at a broad round table. BARRY MOORE'S ARENA flashed across the screen.

"This is Labor Day, 1991. I want to take you back to March 7, 1967, an unforgettable day for organized labor. Watch this:"

The screen was filled with the famous film clip, caught by a camera crew from a Chicago television station, of Steamer Staski on the picket line waving a fist, shouting, "Truckers" and suddenly being propelled forward onto the ground. Screams and pandemonium. Shouts of "he's shot." Big hands pushing into the camera, still recording, the lifeless Steamer in the arms of a rank and filer, his jacket stained with blood, wailing, "He's dead."

Next was the scene from the film, 'The Trucker' in which a bloodied, dying Steamer Staski, whispers to the sobbing, heavily muscled truck driver holding him in his arms: "Keep the Truckers rolling, brother."

Then Barry Moore appeared--not at his usual place at his interview table--but standing in a spotlight. "Almost 25 years ago, ladies and gentlemen, the Steamer, a great man, died for the union. We all know that story. Bear with me, I have another film clip to show you:"

Steve Staski, wearing a Truckers' windbreaker, was shown surrounded by grizzled truck drivers, young and old, outside a Delivery Company terminal. Barry Moore in a voice over said: "Steve Staski at 3:30 PM today stood on the very spot where his father, the Steamer, was murdered by the mob. Steve in his modest way told those union members today that he was declaring for the presidency of the Truckers even though the next election is four years away. Because the union is in trouble and the members need hope. Staski is back!"

Then as the stirring music from the film 'The Trucker' played, Steve Staski walked onto the set in front of huge photos of his father and him as a boy warming their hands at a picket line fire in a barrel on a snowy, icy-cold day in Chicago. "Staski is back!" he shouted. The packed audience cheered.

"My God, I thought it was the Steamer himself come back," Barry said.

The audiences howled and chanted, "Steamer! Steamer!" They slammed fists on the backs of chairs, and stomped on the floor, cheered and whistled, filling the studio with raw noise.

"Take it easy with the furniture," Barry said. He turned with a helpless look to Steve. "Steamer, I mean Steve," he said, laughing.

Steve raised his fist, a favorite gesture of his father's. "Enough," he roared just as his father would have. They fell silent. The camera panned across the audience, stopping on a tear streaked face.

"Marty, put a mike down there. I want to ask that gent a question." The old man stood, brushing his eyes with the back of left hand. "Why were you crying, sir?" Barry asked

"I was there in `67. That was me with Steamer. I saw our union die. And I cried for the foist time my life. So help me tonight, I see our union resurrected again, and I'm crying like a baby for the second time in my life." He shook his fist, "Stevie, we need you."

"I promise you brother, when I'm elected president in '95 I'm going to put the fire back in the belly of the Truckers. We're gonna shake the earth again."

Once more, the crowd erupted.

"Please Steve," a grinning Barry pleaded theatrically.

"Enough," Steve says shaking that fist.

Silence fell.

"Boy they listen to you. That's what leadership is all about," Barry said moving to his interview table. Steve sat across from him.

"You got a good life, Steve. A home on the water in Laguna Beach; beautiful wife and child you're crazy about (the camera panned to his smiling wife and his cute little boy in the audience); so why take the chance on antagonizing the old enemies? Let me be frank, the mob?"

Steve responded that while he had a wonderful life, while there was a constant flow of wonderful scripts with terrific parts for him, while he and his wife loved running their little theater, he could never be comfortable watching the deterioration of the union his father died for.

"This guy, Tommy Kerrigan, isn't he a reformer?"

"He's a well-meaning nobody, the government and the Lefties and maybe the mob, got together to put him in to make sure the Truckers continued to slide towards oblivion."

"Two million members," Barry said with emphasis.

Steve responded with sadness and sincerity that the union's membership had dropped to 1.6 million members with more being lost every day. He said he almost felt sorry for Tommy Kerrigan, because he was in over his head and didn't have a clue on how to turn the union around. He said he was tired of the lies spread by the TFOCCers, who back Kerrigan, that Steamer Staski was somehow tied to the Chicago outfit. "They killed the Steamer, because he stood up to them; he fought for the members. I'm going to make sure organized crime and corruption is wiped out of the Truckers forever. We need a leader with guts and without mob or Commie connections. I owe it to my father to return the Truckers to power."

Barry Moore reached across to grip Steve's hand. He told him how he met the Steamer as a young journalist and how he admired him. "I saw what he did for the little guys."

"He was one of them," Steve interjected.

"I ran across Tommy Kerrigan today at the Labor Day Parade in New York. I wanted to get a handle on his vision for the Truckers. Let's watch this clip."

Barry Moore was shown saying, "Tommy make believe I'm a genie that just popped out of a beer bottle. Surprise! Make a wish on this Labor Day. Wish big!"

Tommy K with a disagreeable expression on his face responded "I wish Titus Interstate would obey the law and let its 35,000 hard-working drivers and dock workers join the Truckers International Union."

Moore turned to Steve. "What is your vision for the Truckers?"

Steve snickered. "For starters in my first year as president, I'm going to organize 200,000 new members to bring the membership back towards two million. Then I'm going to do just what my Dad did. Over the next five years, I'm going to bring another million members into this union. This country, the world is going to know the Truckers are back."

The audience howled and applauded and pounded the chairs.

"That's thinking big. Just like your old man," Barry Moore said shaking Steve Staski's hand. "I want you back on the show again."

"Staski is back, I assure you," Steve said as the picture swirled away with credits being run over Steamer's death scene.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tommy didn't sleep that night. Steamer Staski was on his mind. He considered the son a joke, but was tortured by the attention Barry Moore paid him. It was so stupid. He lay awake next to Bibi until three o'clock, then got up quietly. He had a cigaret on the balcony overlooking Madison Avenue. A few cars went by. No pedestrians. Standing still was almost unbearable. Moore had made him look like a mediocrity, a little man with a nasty expression. He was exploding from mortification. He slipped out of the apartment onto Madison Avenue, walking through the soothing quiet to 81st Street and over to the Central Park side of Fifth Avenue. He passed the Metropolitan Museum going as far as the Plaza Hotel before returning to Madison Avenue to trek back to Bibi's.

Later at Kennedy Airport, just after 7 AM, he called the Truckers' new organizing director Stu Bluh at home in Virginia. His girlfriend answered. She said Stu had left for the Golden Terminal about a half hour ago. Sorry to have bothered you, Tommy said. He was impressed. He had hired Stu because of his reputation as an organizing dynamo for the Service Employees on the West Coast and for the Oil Workers Union in the Southwest in local and regional campaigns. Small stuff alongside the chance he offered him as director of organizing for the Truckers. Stu seized the opportunity, making Titus Interstate his first big target. The union hadn't had a successful national organizing drive since Steamer Staski was president. They hadn't even tried.

He dialed Stu's direct line. "This is Tommy Kerrigan," he said when Stu answered.

"No we can't," Stu said without greeting. He knew why Tommy was calling. He had seen the Barry Moore show. He said anyone who knew anything about organizing would realize Steve Staski, who certainly knew nothing, had made a fool of himself. The reality was that in 1991, no union could organize 200,000 net members a year unless employers rolled over, and he hadn't noticed any doing that. He told Tommy what he knew: that the Truckers 750 locals organized 80,000 new members a year--with the union consistently losing 100,000 to 150,000 to plant closings and the bankruptcies of unionized freight companies that couldn't compete against non-union operations.

"How soon can we organize the Big TIT?"

"Five years. Maybe."

"I want them now," Tommy said.

"So do I."

"Draw up a plan of action to go to a vote in three months, six months at the outside. This is our top priority. We'll buy TV time, radio time, put on as many organizers as we have to."

"I'm an optimist, but it would take a miracle to pull off what you're talking about."

"I'm living proof miracles happen. Now I've got to catch a plane."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

OCTOBER, 1991

Tommy arrived in the public parking lot outside the big Titus Interstate warehouse in San Francisco at 4 AM with a convoy of cars and a tractor-trailer with TRUCKERS on a ROLL! banners strung on either side. A columnist from the San Francisco Chronicle and two camera crews, one hired by the Truckers Communications Department and the other from a local television station, accompanied the Big TIT organizing task force. The tractor-trailer, with a spotlight playing across the banner, was lodged just inside the parking lot entrance so the drivers and dock workers arriving for the first shift would be confronted by it. Volunteers, most of them from Local 3408, headed by Sylvester Timony, big, burley, and bearded—and one of Tommy K's most enthusiastic supporters, spread through the parking lot putting Be a Trucker Not a Sucker leaflets on every windshield, and handed them to people getting out of their cars. "Tommy Kerrigan, our president is here to meet you today," Timony told the surprised workers.

Tommy and a half dozen organizers handed out small blue and red boxes, each containing fresh hot coffee, two donuts and an organizing leaflet. A production line of volunteers, men and women with new windbreakers with Truckers on a Roll emblazoned across the back, poured the coffee out of urns and slipped the containers into the boxes.

"That's more than the company ever gave you. And you get a pay raise, a pension, and real health insurance to go with it when you go union," Tommy told those taking the boxes. A few people walked by, eyes straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the Truckers leader. Stu Bluh quickly wrote down the names and phone numbers of those who had the guts to stop to shake Tommy's hand.

A company rent-a-cop demanded to know what they were doing, but backed away from the hard-eyed Billy Hurley, who told him: "Don't get in the way."

At Stu's insistence, Billy was dressed in a Truckers' windbreaker and baseball cap instead of his usual business suit or sports jacket. He had leaflets in his hands for show. They were 15 minutes into the operation when the warehouse manager appeared with a fierce expression on his face. "We don't need your free coffee and donuts," he bellowed. "Get the hell out of here." Billy positioned himself between the manager and Tommy.

"These people have a right to join the union," Tommy said over his shoulder and turned back to thrust a box at a worker, who said no thanks under the stare of the boss. "Play it Stu," Tommy said.

Stu Bluh signaled an assistant who turned on the sound system:

"Down the Union-Free Way, written specially for the suckers at the Big TIT," Scotty Fruhstone, the popular blue-collar country rock singer, roared in his distinctive voice, with a strum of his signature guitar.

You're lucky you gotta job

You helpless slob.

Low pay, no say

The union-free way.

Free for the boss.

You gotta pay.

The boss has a Beemer

You gotta bug.

He drives like a rabbit.

You're justta slug.

Low pay, no say.

The union-free way.

Free for the boss

You gotta pay.

The warehouse manager and the security guard stood inside the gate on company property taking the boxes out of people's hands, throwing them into a steel refuse barrel. A broad-backed bearded man with long hair and the scruffy look of the 60s, raised his fist high in salute, laughing. He refused to surrender his box. The boss noted his name with a flourish. The camera crews kept recording.

"Boy. That guy had balls," Stu told Tommy. "He won't have a job for long."

"Find out his name. They fire him, for whatever reason, file charges with the labor board. Get him a job."

Tommy and his organizing entourage including Stu, Billy, Sylvia Baya, and four Truckers International organizers moved up the coast to Portland, then Seattle, inland to Boise south to Phoenix and over to the web of cities in Texas. An advance team of half a dozen International organizers, joined at times by International Vice Presidents, stayed a week ahead of Tommy rousing union activists, whether Truckers or not, and members of Truckers locals to turn out to support the campaign. The campaign song, Down the Union-Free Way, had become a hot number on radio throughout the West, and then across the country. Scotty Fruhstone, proclaimed as the worker's poet, landed on the cover of People and was profiled on All News Cable. The network late-night talk shows had a ball doing parodies of the song.

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, dozens of Truckers chanted "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy K," and cheered as the organizing team's bus rolled up to the parking lot outside the huge Titus Interstate facility in St. Louis. Lou Ramiglia stepped forward to shake Tommy's hand and grip him in a bear hug when he stepped from the bus. "We're all on a roll together, Tommy," Ramiglia whispered in his ear. "I don't agree with everything you're doing Tommy, but it's better to bend than break." The Truckers standing around them broke into cheers. Everyone smiling.

"Glad to have you aboard, Lou," Tommy said with a sense of discomfort. He had marked Ramiglia as an enemy to be destroyed after their confrontation last May.

Ramiglia drew him aside, out of earshot of the others. "Maybe we can have dinner tonight Tommy. A little celebration."

"I'd love to, but I'm flying back to New York tonight. Taking a couple of days off."

"You can use it. You're doing one helluva a job. You going commercial or corporate?"

"United."

"That's smart. Looks good."

Tommy called Jack Egan from a pay phone in the airport. "What's the status of the audit on the St. Louis brewery local? Lou Ramiglia's local?"

"Passed with flying colors," Jack responded without hesitation.

"How come I wasn't told."

'You were. In June. You were on the road, and I ran through the list of audits we had done. Ramiglia's local was in there."

Tommy didn't remember that at all. Ramiglia seemed like the arrogant type, who was so used to treating the union treasury as his personal bank account that he could never pass a real audit. Tommy had misjudged. Well, he needed all the allies he could get. "Believe it or not, you can take Ramiglia off the hostiles list."

"Whatever you say, Tommy."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sweat was beaded on the Rev. Jesse Jackson's head at the lunch-time rally for dock workers in Jacksonville across the road from the Titus Regional Center. "You know what the song says: Low pay! No say! I say, Be union and be free! Now I want you to repeat after me. Be Union and be free!" he shouted in his rhythmic delivery. Words that hung round and rich in the humid air.

The crowd, mostly black, chanted back: "Be union and be free."

"The boss, who's dipping in our pockets, says the Truckers are crooked. And we say:"

"Be union and be free!" they chanted along with him.

"The boss, who don't give you that hospital insurance you and your loved ones need, says Tommy K just wants your dues. And we say:"

"Be union and be free."

"The boss says, you don't need no outsider getting you more money in your paycheck, hang with him and be happy with a nickel raise. And we say:"

"Be union and be free."

"I got Tommy K with me today. And he's going to say a few words."

"Thank you Rev. Jackson. You can say more in five minutes than I can say in an hour." Jesse Jackson gave him a big grin and nodded. Tommy continued: "Brothers and sisters, we know you don't have much time for lunch so I'll get right to the point. We're distributing union cards with pens. So you can join right now. You join the Truckers and you become the union. You want a raise and if the boss can afford it, we'll get it together. If he won't give it willingly, we'll take it through the power of workers united. Now there's sandwiches and bottled water and coffee for the folks who want it. Sign those union cards. Be union and be free, brothers and sisters."

Jesse Jackson stepped forward. "Sign those cards. Be union, be free," his voice resonated over the parking lot.

Sylvia Baya waited until the last of the workers drained from the lot and Tommy had seen Jesse Jackson to his car. She handed him the cell phone. "Martha Nez called. Your daughter wants you to call her at her house right away. An emergency."

Alicia had never called him on the road. Tommy knew something terrible was wrong. "I need her phone number." Sylvia presented it to him written on the back of an organizing flyer. He punched in the numbers.

Through sobs, Alicia told him that Mamie had been walking along 48th Street, across from the old Schirmer's music factory, when a Latino jumped at a run out of a moving car, ripped her big black pocketbook from her shoulder, throwing her down, and was back in the car and gone in seconds. A retired fireman, who knew Mamie, saw the whole thing. She was dead on arrival at Elmhurst Medical Center. Fractured skull.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," Tommy said. He hung up before his daughter could hear his sob. He handed the phone Sylvia. "Get me on the next plane to New York," he said. Stu Bluh and one of the Southern States international vice presidents stood at a distance waiting to do a critique of the rally and to go over the remainder of the Florida schedule, with stops in Orlando and Miami before Tommy went to Bal Harbour for the AFL-CIO's executive council's winter meeting. Tommy stayed rooted, head bowed, breathing down his sorrow, thinking of Mamie, probably wearing one of her flowered house dresses under a long heavy coat, being slammed onto the gritty winter sidewalk.

"There's a four o'clock flight with a stopover in Pittsburgh. You get into LaGuardia at 8."

"Right," he said, barely able to speak. He went over to the others telling them cryptically that he was heading back to New York. He would talk to them tomorrow.

***

Tommy was standing on the steps of St. Teresa's with Alice watching their children and grandchildren being loaded into the undertaker's black limos when a stooped, old man, an Italian, in a cloth peaked cap and a tired tweed jacket, a bit of tobacco leaf in the corner of his mouth, his breath heavy with the smell of cigars, came up beside him. He took Tommy's hand in both of his. "I knew your mother when she was a girl, a beautiful girl." He paused, a sad expression on his jowly face. "Things turned out different, you could have been my son. I'm sorry for your loss Tommy." He let Tommy's hand slip from his, as though parting with reluctance.

Tommy, curious, considered fetching the old man back to invite him to the house for the lunch after the burial, but the undertaker called out, "Mr. and Mrs. Kerrigan." Alice touched his arm, and they went down the steps to the car and the funereal journey behind the hearse through 47th Street past the three-story walkup where Mamie and John Kerrigan lived in the early days of their marriage and moved onto 48th Street and the two-family house, where they raised their two sons, where Mamie her hair in curlers, a cigaret in her hand, received the Army officer who brought the sad tidings of Johnny Jr.'s death in Korea. The Latino kids, hanging out on the corner in front of the bodega where the Kerrigan brothers and their friends hung out when the market was owned by an Irishman from the other side catering to an Irish-American clientele, glanced with curiosity at the hearse and long line of cars. When he was a boy growing up in Woodside, Tommy would have paused to face the passing hearses and would have crossed himself, a sign of respect and connection. The entourage went on to First Calvary to drop Mamie's coffin into the grave with John and Johnny Jr. Tommy often recalled with some pleasure, experiencing again the scent of the food, Saturday lunchtimes eating Campbell's tomato soup with Oysterettes with Johnny Jr. in their kitchen on 48th Street; his mother was making them grilled cheese sandwiches. Johnny died in Korea on his 20th birthday.

Alice had arranged a catered buffet luncheon, cold cuts and salads with beer, soft drinks and Irish whisky, for the family and close friends in the house on 48th Street. She sat with Tommy through the three days and nights of the wake in Bergan's Funeral Home, overflowing with floral arrangements from unions and family, and was at his side for the Mass. She was the good hostess today, shaking hands, kissing the cheeks of sympathetic men and women. She wasn't here for him, nor out of respect for Mamie, whom she never liked. This was her children's grandmother, and her grandchildren's great-grandmother. After the last guest had been eased out the door, and Emmett and Alicia and their spouses and children had gathered their things, Alice and Tommy brushed one another's cheeks with the parting kisses of acquaintances. "Thank you so very much," he said squeezing her hand. She walked weeping to Roger's car with the New Hampshire plates. Her sorrow was not for Mamie, but a realization of the parting of yet another of the thin strands of attachment in her marriage.

***

Tommy flew to Boston that night and was outside a Big Tit freight terminal at 4 AM for a shift-change rally, then moved from terminal to terminal in a wide circle of the suburbs surrounding the city. He was back in his hotel room late in the afternoon slipping into a hot bath to soften the ache in his back when the phone rang. Sylvia Baya was on the line. She said Gary Seegar, a reporter for the New York Account, had tracked her down. He wanted to talk to Tommy, no one else would do. He refused to ask his questions through her.

"Tell him to go to hell," Tommy said with irritation. The Account was a tabloid rag capable of printing anything as long as it grabbed readers. If he spoke to the reporter, the Account would twist his words to suit the paper's fancy not the facts or the truth. He hung up, irritated. He had been smeared by the New York tabloids many times through the years. He tried not to wonder what they would go with tomorrow, but he called Sylvia back ordering her to have a copy of the paper for him first thing in the morning.

He slept late, until 8 AM. He had a breakfast meeting scheduled for 9 with Stu Bluh to discuss increasing the pressure on the Big TIT with a corporate campaign to start isolating the company from the financial community combined with a grass roots lobbying effort aimed at Congressmen, mostly Republicans, aligned with the corporation. Six more days of stops, in Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland, Williamsport, Peoria, and Chicago, ending with a huge, multi-union rally including the four candidates for the 1992 Democratic presidential nomination. Through Jack Egan, Tommy had told the four candidates, to be there or be without the Truckers' support in the November election. Egan said that was bad politics. Tommy said good politics had the American labor movement in a sinkhole so there was nothing to lose by being rough or taking risks. They can retaliate, Jack said. So can the Truckers, Tommy replied. The four agreed to come.

He was almost out the door when Sylvia brought the paper. The front page of the tabloid was filled with a grainy picture of Tommy and the hunched old man on the steps of St. Teresa's with a big question mark imposed on it. In thick, blue and red letters, the headline said:

YOUSE ARE

WATCHED

WHY?

The text under the photo said: Tête-à-tête on the church steps recorded by a police surveillance camera. An exclusive by Gary Seegar. See Page 7. Inside was a smaller version of the front-page photo over a block of type:

"Truckers Union President Tommy Kerrigan whispers with longtime pal, mob capo Anthony (Tony Two Pots) Siciliano outside St. Teresa's RC Church in Woodside after a funeral Mass two weeks ago for Tommy's mom, Mamie Kerrigan. If Tommy K is the reformer he claims he is, why wouldn't he talk to the New York Account about his tête-à-tête with Tony Two Pots, the mob boss who tells the city's construction and trucking union bosses what to do."

"What bullshit. How can they print this?" Tommy said.

"What do you want me to tell other reporters when they call?"

"That I don't know who this Tony Two Pots is? I don't remember talking to him on the church steps," Tommy said, lying, looking her in the eye.

Three television crews and eight newspaper reporters, including, New York Globe labor reporter Henri Maitlin Serre, Long Island World labor reporter Howard Bowles, and Gary Seegar of the New York Account, were waiting for Tommy at the Albany Airport. He was furious. "How did they know I was coming," he snarled at Sylvia when he saw the pack.

"The Big TIT press packet we sent out. Got your whole itinerary," she said, her voice quavering, nervous.

"I'm going into the John. You hold them off for a minute."

She grabbed his arm. "You can't look like you're running away. Just tell them the truth."

Tommy, forcing a smile, walked with her to confront the press. He took a light approach, thanking them for covering the Truckers campaign to organize the exploited workers at Titus Interstate. Everyone laughed. He said he would answer all questions as soon as he told them why he was in Albany, and had been traveling across the country the past six months visiting trucking terminals at 4 in the morning and meeting Titus Interstate employees in their homes at night, listening to their stories of unfair treatment, of working while injured, about their long hours, low pay and pitiful fringe benefits. "They really need union representation," he said.

A pretty young television reporter, heavily made up and dressed in a nicely-cut suit, asked him what he and Tony Two Pots were talking about?

Tommy responded that he didn't remember speaking to this man, whoever he was, but he must have because there was the picture.

"Come on Tommy, what were you talking about?" Gary Seegar from the Account shouted over the mellow-voiced television reporter.

"I assume he expressed sympathy over the loss of my mother. That's what human beings do, Lou. I tell you honestly I don't know this man. I never saw him before. I don't even remember speaking to him."

Seegar expressed open skepticism that Tommy had never heard of the mob boss who ran the construction and waterfront union rackets in New York City with his name appearing in dozens of newspaper stories. Tommy said he read about him, but never had anything to do with him. The print reporters challenged him on that statement, asking about Tony Two Pots relationship to his mother, Mamie Kerrigan, and what role he played in resolving the city-wide grocery warehousing strike in 1971.

"None," said Tommy.

Bowles, the World reporter, said, "Some sources say Tony Two Pots ended the strike as a favor to your mother."

"What kind of craziness are you guys swallowing," Tommy said, trembling with rage, his face flushed. "Some anonymous scumbag tells you stuff like that about my dead mother and you believe it? That strike ended because Local 1890's rank and file stuck together. End of story. Nothing else. This sounds to me like Titus Interstate or somebody connected to them is trying to sink our organizing drive, and you're helping them out."

"It came from a union source that has never been wrong," Serre from the Globe said.

Tommy looked at Serre in his three-piece suit, dressed more like an ambitious corporate careerist than a newspaper reporter. "Sounds to me like there's the truth and there's what you're gonna print to sell papers. We have a schedule to keep," he said with obvious irritation, walking away from the reporters.

In the morning, on the plane to Buffalo, Tommy read the stories saying a former FBI agent, whose name was being withheld, said that as a favor to his alleged former sweetheart, Mamie Kerrigan, Anthony (Tony Two Pots) Siciliano ended the city-wide warehouse strike in 1971, boosting the budding union career of Tommy Kerrigan, then president of Truckers Local 1890, now international president of the Truckers International Union of North America. Bobby Bell, spokesman for Steve Staski, demanded an investigation into Tommy K's mob connections. "He's not fit to be president of the greatest union in the world," Bell said.

The World had the most comprehensive account that included an ancient black and white snapshot of 20-year-old Mamie Halloran, her maiden name, and 25-year-old Anthony Siciliano in bathing suits, his arm encircling her narrow waist, sitting on the fender of a Desoto sedan.

The story said that mob-turncoat Sonny Spiaggia, the son of Two Pot's life-long sidekick, Joey the Monster Spiaggia, had provided the photo from a family album through his lawyer. Monster Spiaggia took the picture, gave Tony Two Pots a copy and put one in his own album with a caption underneath: "Anthony and Red, Long Beach, August, 1931." In a telephone interview, Sonny told the World that Tony Two Pots kept his copy of the picture in a frame on the wall opposite his desk in his private office at the Sunset Walking Association, his storefront club off Steinway Street in Astoria. "Everyone knew Red was the love of his life," Sonny said.

Tony Two Pots was the nickname attached to him after a police detective testifying at his trial on murder charges recounted seeing Anthony Siciliano kill three Irish thugs in Greenwich Village on May 22, 1931 in what the tabloids called the Battle of Horatio Street. "They swung by him in an open car blazing away with Tommy guns, but the street was rough and the car bounced and nothing touched Mr. Siciliano. He drew a pistol and pot, pot, he hits the driver as the car turns the corner; the car crashes. I'm yelling, Police! Put down that weapon. He runs around the corner and pot, pot down goes victim number two who was running down the street; then pot, pot, he nails victim number three trying to climb out of the car." The prosecutor asked with a smile, "Two pots each?" "Yessir," the detective replied.

Free on bail and awaiting trial, Siciliano met Mamie Halloran on a Hudson Day Liner boat ride to Bear Mountain, according to Sonny. They had a brief romance that lasted until his trial that September. He was found guilty and sentenced to 20 years to life. The sentence was later overturned, and in a plea-bargaining deal, he served five years in prison.

Sonny told the World that during the big strike, the home of a warehouse owner, who fell under "the family's" umbrella, had been bombed, but instead of ordering Tommy whacked, Tony Two Pots ordered Neil (The Corker) Corso, the mob soldier in charge of Local 1890, to back off Tommy K after his old love, Mamie interceded on her son's behalf.

Tommy stared at the photo of his pretty, smiling mother and the lithe, handsome Anthony Siciliano. You couldn't tell the color of her hair from the photo, but everyone said Mamie had startlingly beautiful red hair as a girl. She dyed it varying shades of red till the day she died. Mamie married Johnny Kerrigan on Oct. 12, 1931, just three weeks after they met. Siciliano had just been sentenced to 20 years in prison. He wondered if the marriage to Johnny Kerrigan had been on the rebound? His parents had never been very happy. That was obvious.

Tommy wished he could call a press conference to tell the real story, but that would just complicate his life.

***

On Aug. 1, 1971, the contracts at 40 different warehouses and factories ran out. Tommy had called a meeting of the entire membership, including the blacks and Puerto Ricans from the Bronx and Brooklyn, telling them that they were going to strike the next morning and stay out until they got a city-wide, region-wide master agreement in place of the existing mishmash of excellent and sell-out contracts. He told them some members of Local 1890--mostly the blacks and Puerto Ricans--were working under inferior contracts making just 10 cents more than the minimum wage without health insurance or pensions. He wasn't going to stand for that. They shouldn't endure their union brothers being screwed to enrich greedy bosses. "We're bringing the floor up to the prime contracts; we're getting everybody in the health and pension plan; and on top of that we are getting a six percent raise each year," Tommy shouted, and the members stood and cheered. That was a relief. He was concerned the Irish and Italians would say fuck the niggers and the spics, but they understood. They were willing to fight for them.

In the second week of the strike, Butch O'Brien, a truck driver and one of Local 1890's trustees, brought Neil Corso to meet with Tommy about the possibility of Sunshiners Groceries Inc.'s two warehouses signing separate agreements with Local 1890. Corso said the warehouses, one in the Bronx, one in Westchester, were owned by a good friend, who just couldn't afford to pay the wages and fringes in the proposed master contract. Tommy looked at his shaved head, his thick muscular body, and sensed this man was danger personified. He said as politely as he could that everyone was going to be covered by the master contract. Corso's face became a sneer. "You're a new guy on the block. So I'll give you some free advice. Don't get your tit in a ringer for a bunch of coons and spics." "Get out of my office," Tommy said. Tommy called an immediate meeting of the local's executive board to warn everyone of the heavy hitter who had visited him.

The rough stuff began within days. Two Local 1890 pickets were beaten in the middle of the night when no cops were around. The next day Happy Koenig, who had been sent to the Bronx with a contingent of members from the Review Avenue Warehouse, to reinforce the picket line at the Sunshiners' warehouse was run down by a car, driven by Arnold Sheill, president of Sunshiners Groceries. Pickets said Sheill swerved to hit Koenig, who was heavily bruised, but the police refused to arrest Sheill.

A week later around 4 AM, a small incendiary bomb exploded shattering the front door and all of the windows on the second floor of the Sheill home in Westchester, sending shards of glass flying, blinding and disfiguring nine-year-old Stanley Sheill.

Months later, long after the strike was over, The World ran a story that an unnamed investigator revealed that among the remnants of the bomb recovered from the Sheill home was a bit of wire twisted into TT. The source said that a similar "signature" was found in the bombing of a cafe in Guatemala in which three CIA agents were killed in 1968. He said the double "T" was believed to stand for La Tempestad Trabajadores, a terrorist group in Guatemala. The Account reported that the Manhattan District Attorney was investigating whether a Cuban-backed Communist cell in league with Local 1890 planted the bombs. Tommy was livid. He called the Account reporter to ask him who in the DA's office told him that? The reporter said he couldn't reveal his source. He called the district attorney, who didn't respond himself. A public relations person called back to say that his office, which deals with the press, never released such information.

Tommy called a press conference in front of City Hall in Manhattan. He told the reporters that he was heartbroken over the terrible injuries suffered by little Stanley Sheill. Neither he nor Local 1890 had anything to do with the bombing. Obviously, Arnold Sheill's mistreatment of his workers, and his refusal to sign a fair contract had provoked someone into this horrible action. As for the Communist connection, Tommy said he had been in the Airborne, where he was trained to fight Communists. He demanded a Congressional investigation into who was spreading these lies. He said the leading suspects were the bosses who didn't want to give their workers decent wages. A reporter asked him whether he had a sit-down with Neil The Corker to arrange a settlement? "I don't know who the hell Neil The Corker is," Tommy said, knowing he must be talking about Neil Corso, but not willing to say so. Another reporter asked if Happy were a Communist. Tommy stormed away saying, "Oh, what's the use."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

NOVEMBER, 1991

Despite the chilling drizzle, five-thousand truckers filled the vast front lawn of Chicago's Bishop McCormick High School. The buzzing crowd fell silent when Tommy K climbed to the top of a McSweeney Transportation tractor-trailer, decorated with bunting in the union colors and banners proclaiming, "Organize the Big TIT."

A lone heckler called into the silence: "Pot, Pot," and immediately was beaten to the ground. Sergeants at arms rushed to his rescue. "I have a right to speak," the man shouted.

"Speak to your buddies in the old guard and the bosses they're in bed with. We're here to organize," Tommy yelled back.

Stu Bluh stepped up to the mike: "Union Way!" he shouted. The crowd took up the chant, "Union Way! Union Way!" Keeping it up until the troublemaker was hustled to the edge of the gathering and shoved on his way.

Tommy held up his arms. "We're on a roll, brothers and sisters, but your union needs you to keep it going." He told them that instead of the pledge cards usually signed by Truckers to volunteer in the organizing campaign, he was going to ask those really committed to unionism and a decent standard of living for all to step forward into an inner circle to take an oath to do what had to be done to unionize the workers at Titus Interstate. He said this was right out of the Trucker history book. Steamer Staski had used the same tactic of drawing the rank and file into the stew the year he organized 200,000 new members. Tommy told them to consider what stepping forward meant. He didn't want the half-hearted. He wanted soldiers of the union movement, willing to spend time, leave behind their family cookouts and even holiday gatherings if necessary, and to spend money, to dig into their own pockets, to give their all to this cause. The international organizers stretched a thick blue and red rope across the front of the crowd. The first ones to slip under the line wore TFOCC jackets. That annoyed Tommy. But men and women in windbreakers from Chicago locals followed until about a thousand had moved within the rope.

Tommy led them through a brief pledge. He told them how proud they should be of themselves as elite Truckers union activists. They were the first contingent of shock troops. Others would be formed in every town where Titus Interstate had a terminal. The volunteers were led to a big tent where staffers took their names, addresses, phone numbers and locals' numbers. They were given blue caps with "Elite Truckers" woven in red letters and packets of information on the history of the organizing drive and the Truckers union.

The long day, beginning at 4 AM, in the persistent chilling drizzle had exhausted Tommy. His bones, his legs, his back ached. As he made the awkward descent from the truck, he slipped, falling at least two feet through the air, landing hard on the side of his left foot and plopping onto his backside into a deep, muddy puddle. A newspaper photographer snapped him as he flopped, arms and legs flung wide, the water and mud splashing around him. The camera captured the twisted expression on Tommy face as he was drenched by the pain in his back. A brawny international organizer stepped into the photographer, as though accidentally, knocking him and his camera backwards.

Others reached for Tommy, who winced at their touch and every movement of his own body. He pushed them away, paying careful attention to the pain, trying to determine whether he was seriously injured. Stu watching him take tortured steps, said, "We better get a doctor."

"No," Tommy rasped. He walked to the car, trying as best he could to hold his body upright and to move naturally, a task that was beyond him. Billy Hurley had the car door open, waiting. Tommy eased himself into the passenger seat, his lips set from the effort. Billy dropped two double strength Tylenol into his hand. "Can you get them down without water?" he asked. Tommy nodded sucking spit into the center of his mouth to ease the way. He took one pill at a time. He lay against the seat with his eyes closed.

He stayed in his hotel room, for two days, taking Extra Strength Doan's pills, sleeping, and applying damp, warm compresses to his back. The Chicago Tribune ran the pictures of him atop the trailer and on the bounce in the puddle over a bold-faced caption saying The High and The Muddy along with a long story by labor reporter Steve Benjamin about the Truckers' aggressive organizing campaign and Titus Interstate Trucking's sophisticated strategy of fighting a delaying action through charges and challenges filed with the National Labor Relations Board. A union-busting consultant hired by Titus had put together a program of exhorting the employees to remain loyal to company, courting them with company picnics, raising the hourly and mileage rates on which their incomes were based, schooling supervisors on a positive approach to employee relations, and building a corps of pro-Titus employees to press the company line and to sniff out union sympathizers. The Truckers organizers complained that the company was firing union supporters on trumped up charges of tardiness, insubordination, and the like to instill fear into the remainder of the workforce. Allegations that a company spokesman said were nonsense. A Titus executive predicted the labor board proceedings would drag on for years, and if the union did win a recognition election, there was no way of forcing the company to sign a contract. "Unions have been toothless tigers for a long time," the executive said.

With time to focus on Benjamin's story, Tommy dropped from exuberance into a black mood. So many organizing campaigns faltered under the labor board processes with union supporters being weeded out of their jobs, frightening the ordinary, passive workers who forgot their grievances when the smiling company president came around to serve them free hot dogs and all the lemonade they could drink at ad hoc cookouts.

The only call he took over the two days was from Jack Egan, who was gleeful over the inner circle tactic. Egan said the names collected around the country could also be used to form a nucleus of volunteers for Tommy's reelection campaign in 1995, enabling him to move further away from the TFOCCers. That suggestion made Tommy feel better.

On his return to Washington, short tempered and still stiff from the lingering pain, Tommy was surprised to find Helmut Knall sitting in the anteroom of his office with Stu Bluh. "Come on in," Tommy said curtly without shaking hands.

A silent Helmut, carrying a thick, three-foot long cardboard tube and a worn briefcase, walked directly to the nook where Tommy hosted guests. Helmut removed a small vase with its bouquet of fresh flowers and the leather-bound history of the union The Truckers 1885-1985 from the coffee table, putting them on the window sill. He spread a map of the United States showing Titus Interstate's terminals linked by a web of trucking routes. On top of that he placed three thick folders. Tommy, annoyance playing across his face, sat watching.

Helmut said, "I'll make this fast. Since I couldn't get through to you, I dealt with Stu." He handed folders to Tommy and Stu. He turned to Stu. "How long will it take to organize the Big TIT through the labor board?"

"If we agree to a company-wide national election, I assume that will take three years and we'll lose. If we go after them terminal by terminal. Maybe after six or seven years, we'll win a majority, but not all the terminals. Then we'll still have the problem of getting a contract. We'll end up having to strike the company."

"I have a plan, Tommy, to save three to seven years on resolving the Big TIT problem." He paused as Martha Nez led an assistant, a young black woman, into the room carrying a tray of coffee and raspberry cheese Danish. Helmut stepped between her and the coffee table. "Put it on Tommy's desk."

She glanced at Tommy, who nodded.

After they left the room, Helmut continued, noting that the Truckers had run a brilliant campaign, spending millions on television and radio spots as well as getting lots of free media coverage, and reaching even kids with the song Down the Union-Free Way. At the moment support among the Titus workers was at a peak and the public was sympathetic to the union, because everyone knew how greedy their own employers were. In his analysis, based on reports from TFOCC members and Stu's organizing summaries, the Truckers had overwhelming majorities in the key metropolitan areas in California and along the East Coast. "Strike Titus. Not the whole company just in the areas where the union is strong, enough places to throw them into turmoil making operations impossible. Pay strike benefits to anyone who walks out the door before getting laid off. You got $40 million in the strike fund. I figure strike pay of $250 a week for a maximum of 15,000 strikers; that's $3,750,000 a week. You can go for 10 weeks. I don't think the company can. I figure Titus will lose roughly $100 million a week in sales, maybe more, but certainly not less. That's a billion dollar in lost income after 10 weeks. On top of that the customers they lose to the competition who never come back."

"And if only a handful of people walk out the door?"

"Then you've still saved three to seven years, and you put your resources into another campaign, and you go back to Titus in a year."

"You know they've fired 34 union supporters, and they've scared the shit out everyone else."

"That's the trigger point for this campaign," Helmut said. He slid a document from the tube, unrolling it across the map. Across the top in large black letters were: "TV spots, radio spots, newspaper ads, leaflets, internet."

On the left was a numbered list of the names of the fired Titus employees. Taking up the balance of the sheet were pictures and brief biographies of the workers. Helmut said, "The next time Titus fires someone, you say, `Enough is enough, and we're striking until we get a contract. Then you go with the media campaign on the fired workers. You beat the shit out of Titus with the growing list. You do a follow up every time another worker gets fired."

"It's a great idea, but if it comes from TFOCC, the old guard would never support it," Tommy said.

"It's your idea," Helmut said.

"No credit at all?"

"We're not in this for 15 seconds of fame."

Tommy smiled. "Okay. I appreciate this brother." He stood, an indication the meeting was over. He shook Helmut's hand. "Stu and I have some things to discuss."

After Helmut left, Tommy called Jack Egan into the office. He told him and Stu to work out the details of staging a strike against the Big TIT. He wanted to be ready to go as soon as possible with tens of thousands of Truckers members involved as volunteers, helping to picket, feed the strikers, and going door to door to talk to their neighbors to build public support. "We just need the right incident," Tommy said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JUNE, 1992

Bruce Adams got the telephone call while he was posing for a photograph with his daughter, Penny, in her wedding gown on a glorious June day just before leaving for St. Mary's Cathedral in Cheyenne. His wife, Celia, said it was the Titus dispatcher in Denver.

"Hello buddy," Bruce said into the phone with the good humor that marked his passage through life. The dispatcher said there was an emergency load in Mitchell, Nebraska, that had to be in Kansas City as soon possible. "Any day, but today buddy. My little girl is getting married, and we're on our way to the church." The dispatcher said he was sorry, but the order came down from Ted Sabine, the district manager. "I'm off today and tomorrow. I cleared it with Mr. Sabine a long time ago. It's my daughter's wedding. You're going to have to get someone else." Suddenly another voice came on the line. "This is Mr. Sabine. Get your ass up to Mitchell or get another job."

Bruce gasped. "It's my daughter's wedding," he said weakly.

"Tell me right now are you going to Mitchell?"

"No," Bruce said slamming down the phone.

Through the rest of the day, in the moments between the action of the wedding--walking down the aisle with Penny, dancing with Celia, and then Penny, then the mother of the groom--Bruce replayed the conversation with Mr. Sabine in his head. He was always too quick to react, then tortured by regret. He was tempted to call Mr. Sabine back to apologize. He would be gone by now. The crisis over. By morning, he was sure Mr. Sabine would have realized the foolishness of asking the father of the bride to skip out of the wedding.

"What's wrong?" Celia asked during the reception.

"I've been driving for Titus for 15 years, how long has Ted Sabine been on the job. A couple of months?" he said speaking out of context.

"Are you in trouble at work?"

Bruce recounted what happened. Celia patted his arm and assured him with a comforting, motherly kiss on the cheek that everything would be okay in the morning.

Bruce didn't enjoy the wedding and he couldn't sleep that night. Sunday seemed like it would never end. He couldn't read the paper or focus on TV. And suddenly the day was over and he lay in bed, seemingly wide awake, until the alarm ripped him from sleep at 4:30 AM. He drove to the Titus barn, waving to the guard standing outside his shack with a clipboard.

"Hold it," he called after Bruce.

Bruce stopped his pickup. "Yeah?" he said.

"I'm sorry Bruce. I got instructions not to let you park here anymore. You're off the sheet."

"What the hell!"

The guard was an ex-cop. His face hardened from sympathy to authority. "Turn your car around and leave." Bruce hesitated. "You don't leave this minute. I'll have you arrested for trespass," the guard said.

He turned around, his heart throbbing, and drove home.

At 8 o'clock, Bruce called the office. He opened by saying, "Mr. Sabine I'm sorry." Sabine didn't let him go any further, telling him that Titus ran a tight ship and didn't brook insubordination and didn't appreciate disloyalty. The company that put bread on his table needed him Saturday and he didn't come through. Bruce tried to respond, but his voice faltered.

"But you don't need to worry. Your pal Carlisle Manx will take care of you," Sabine said, hanging up the phone.

Celia watched Bruce sitting at the kitchen table, trembling in the shock of how easily his life had been shattered. Then the realization came to him. He told Celia, "Sabine figures that because I'm friends with Carlisle, I'm pushing the union." Bruce grunted, a hollow sound conveying irony. He had grown up with Carlisle Manx, president of Truckers Local 3037 in Cheyenne, which covered the entire state of Wyoming. He seemed to run into Carlisle more often lately, having a beer with him, sitting for a few minutes with him and his wife at Molly's Steak House, the night he and Celia had a get-acquainted dinner with the parent's of Penny's fiancé. The Truckers' organizing drive at Titus didn't come up. They talked football and the weather and Penny's wedding.

He called Carlisle at the union hall.

Manx listened to Bruce's sad story with a sympathy that belied his mountainous body topped by a pock-marked face and thick, tattooed arms. Speaking softly, Manx said he would do everything in his power to help Bruce, but he had to be frank. Jobs were scarce at the moment. It might be some time before he could land Bruce a slot with a union company. In the meantime, he would file charges with the National Labor Relations Board accusing Titus Interstate of illegally firing Bruce for union activities.

"But they'll say it was because I wouldn't work."

"That son of a bitch fired you, because he assumed you had come over to the union. So he's hooked on firing you for union activities. What you were doing for the union is between you and me from now on. Eventually, an NLRB judge will order them to take you back to work and make up any lost salary."

"How long will that take?"

Manx paused, then told him the truth, "Anywhere from a year, if the company settles, to five years." He almost added, "or more."

Bruce took a long walk down the road in the warm sunshine, kicking an occasional stone, agonizing over the debt he had been plunged into by his daughter's wedding. Thank God the wife was still teaching. Next year, his eldest son would be going to college and he had three more in steps two years apart behind him. He owned a little hunting camp in Colorado, his father-in-law had left him. He would sell that when the boy started college. He loved the place, but there was no other way. Bruce had another restless sleep that night. In the morning, he searched the paper for drivers' jobs. Titus Interstate was running an ad. For his job? The one place he put in an application treated him like dirt. They didn't want any union people around.

On Wednesday evening, his 11-year-old answered a knock on the front door. "Is your dad home? Tell him Tommy Kerrigan is here to see him." The kid ran through the house and out the kitchen door to the back steps where Bruce was sitting, drinking beer from a small stein and thinking about bills. He handed him the business card:

Thomas R. Kerrigan

International President

THE TRUCKERS INTERNATIONAL UNION OF NORTH AMERICA

Is this a joke? Bruce wondered. He wiped the back of his hand across his handle-bar mustache to cleanse it of any droplets of the beer. He showed the card to his wife, Celia, who was in the kitchen getting dinner ready. They went to the front door together.

Tommy extended his hand, "Brother Adams, I heard you got fired for union activity."

They sat at the picnic table in the backyard, drinking cold beer from stone steins, while Celia continued making supper and Bruce's four boys hung around the back porch, watching from a short distance. Tommy told Bruce that he was the forty-second union supporter fired by Titus Interstate over the past year. The Truckers had had enough of the company's viciousness. "This is supposed to be a democracy," Tommy said. "The law says you're supposed to be able to become a member of a union if you want to. This has got to end, and we're ending it with you." Tommy told him that in the morning, he would accompany Bruce to the Titus Interstate barn to ask the management to reinstate him on the spot. "If they don't?" Tommy took a card from his wallet. He handed it to Bruce. "You're the first official member of the National Titus Truckers Organizing Local. The Truckers Constitution says you have to be a member to collect strike pay. This entitles you to strike pay, $250 a week. Medical coverage, too, for you and your dependents. A very basic plan, but better than nothing."

Bruce studied the card. "I get nothing from Titus. My wife's plan covers us, but I don't want a handout from the union. I want a job." Bruce said.

"And we're going to give Titus every opportunity to give you back your job. We'll go down there tomorrow and offer to let by-gones be by-gones, if they'll take you back on the truck."

The security guard stopped Tommy and Bruce at the gate. He called the front office. Mr. Sabine came out in shirt sleeves a little while later. He recognized Tommy from his pictures in the newspapers and on television, and from the company's anti-union propaganda. "Are you really Tommy Kerrigan?" he asked anyhow.

"You've fired Mr. Adams illegally, and I've come here to demand his reinstatement."

"He was dismissed for just cause, insubordination, not that it's any business of yours. It had nothing to do with the union."

"It had everything to do with the Truckers, and we both know it. We've had enough of Titus treating workers like shit. You're on strike. The Truckers are striking Titus Interstate as of this moment for unfair labor practices."

"You can't do that," Sabine said, his stomach swirling in fear.

Tommy led Bruce Adams back to his car to fetch leaflets and signs, Locked Out and Fired for Being A Man.

Carlisle Manx and three volunteers from his local came out of their cars to join Tommy and Bruce in front of the gate.

The strike was on.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Within an hour, reporters from a local paper and television station showed up to interview the pickets outside the Titus Interstate terminal. Sylvia called Tommy on his cell phone to tell him that CNN and All News Cable had camera crews on the way. The journalists who knew anything about labor saw history being made in this story. What made the happening even more startling was the traditionally corrupt Truckers Union doing it. An excited Sylvia told Tommy to be sure to call the Associated Press' Washington, D.C.-based labor reporter to give him a first-hand account from the picket line.

Some drivers going into the terminal stopped to take flyers from Bruce, expressing their sympathy for his predicament. Most looked straight ahead as they drove by. One young man with a barrel chest and muscles that filled his shirtsleeves rammed the middle finger of his right hand in the air, and mouthed "fuck you" to the pickets. Tommy shouted, "When you change your mind brother, we'll welcome you into the Truckers." His heart fluttered at the prospect of the bully hopping from his truck with smashing fists, but the truck drove on.

Two members of Cheyenne Local 3037 showed up at lunchtime with sandwiches and coffee for Tommy and Bruce Adams, and the others. They shook hands all around, and told Tommy how awesome it was to see the international president of the Truckers carrying a picket sign. He asked if the local sent them. Hell, the volunteers said, they heard about the strike on the radio. That made Tommy feel even better. Rank and filers coming out on their own! The Truckers were stirring.

The ANC camera crew serendipitously arrived as a tractor trailer with a stiff-necked, union-oriented driver stopped at the entrance. Ignoring the guard who was frantically waving him in, the driver asked, "Is Tommy Kerrigan really here?"

"That's me," Tommy said.

"Get that truck moving," the guard shouted.

The driver put the truck in neutral with the brakes on and jumped down to the ground to shake Tommy's hand. "Anybody with half a mind knows we need a union, Mr. Kerrigan. I signed a union card in Omaha three months ago." The camera crew was recording the whole scene.

"Sometimes you got to take risks to get a union. The Truckers went on strike this morning against Titus. We're asking guys like you to go on strike until you get a contract, nationwide. We're not going to let them rabbit bite us to death."

"I'm with you Mr. Kerrigan."

Tommy took another union card from his pocket, signing the man's name to his list, telling him that he was the second member of the new nationwide Titus Truckers local that began with Bruce Adams this morning. The driver asked what he should do with the truck. Tommy told him to leave it where it was. The union would get him home. To where? he was asked. Omaha, Nebraska.

That night, the two new Truckers members flew to Washington in a chartered jet with Tommy for a press conference the following afternoon at the National Press Club. CNN, ANC and C-Span carried the event live. The three major networks and the Fox News Network sent camera crews. Newspaper reporters who couldn't get to Washington were able to listen and ask questions through a telephone hookup.

Tommy outlined the campaign, stressing that success was dependent on the Titus workers coming out on strike and the American public supporting the action. He said that thousands of Truckers members had signed pledges to volunteer their free time going door to door in their communities urging their neighbors to back the strikers as well as helping on the picket lines.

He was pressed on how many of the Truckers' 1.6 million members had volunteered?

"Twenty-five hundred, and they'll be more now that the strike is on."

Henri Maitlin Serre, the New York Globe reporter, said Titus Interstate had told him there were picket lines at only six facilities and the flow of goods wasn't being impeded.

"There's more than that," Tommy responded. "What do you expect the company to say, Henry. Corporations lie all the time. Ask Ralph Nader."

"How many then?" Serre asked.

Stu Bluh, who was standing nearby, said, "Eleven."

"That's less than 10 percent of their terminals," Serre said.

"There'll be more. These workers are sick and tired of being kicked around and treated like morons by Titus," Tommy said.

A Washington Post reporter asked how many of the 35,000 Titus employees were on the picket lines?

"About 75. Don't forget this thing has just started. The Titus workers didn't know about the strike until yesterday on the radio and TV, and in this morning's papers.

We'll have a lot more tomorrow and more the day after once they know they can win."

A voice from the telephone hookup said, "Tommy, this is Gary Seegar of the Account in New York. I understand the Truckers' old guard is saying this is an illegal strike. The reason the numbers are so low is that they're not backing you. They're calling you the Pied Piper of Disaster."

"Hey, if I remember the fairy tale, the Pied Piper got rid of the rats. If I was a Pied Piper, the old guard, what do they call themselves, the True Truckers, would be following me down the street." Everyone laughed.

Seegar interjected, "In their press release, the True Truckers define a modern Pied Piper as a clown who leads people to disaster with extravagant promises."

Tommy experienced a surge of venom, his face felt hot with anger. He took a deep breath to contain himself. He waved his finger at the speaker carrying Seegar's voice: "The old guard led this union into the arms of the mob. They took care of themselves and their cronies. They were a disgrace to the labor movement. I'm putting the members first and I'm involving the members like no international president before me has done." When Seegar tried to ask another question, Tommy cut him off. "Let's give somebody else a chance." He pointed to a perfectly groomed television reporter, who glanced at her notes as she rose.

She asked, "Do you agree with the True Truckers assessment that the money you are spending on the Titus campaign is a waste of precious union resources."

Tommy shook his head. "Ask the old guard if playing golf at fancy resorts with the bosses was a waste of the union treasury. The first thing I did when I came into office was end the TAGOF. You probably don't know what that means. It's the Truckers Annual Golf Outing and Feast, where the good old boys from the Truckers got together in the Miami sunshine with the good old boys from the big trucking corporations, with some Republican politicians and wise guys mixed in. Meanwhile, the people paying the bills, the rank and file were loading and unloading trucks up to their you-know-whats in snow and ice in Detroit and Cleveland and Chicago. No drinks by the pool for them. Next question."

Tommy came out of the press conference feeling inadequate. He failed to seize the opportunity to tell the reporters that old guard was willing to undermine the biggest organizing campaign undertaken since the 30's just to sink him. Tommy refused to see anyone for the rest of the day, ignoring repeated requests from Sylvia for a few minutes of his time to discuss a response to questions raised by a Washington Globe reporter for an article he was writing about Steve Staski.

***

The Washington Globe carried two articles: A long news story in which Titus Interstate executives demanded a Congressional investigation of Truckers Union President Thomas Kerrigan's reported ties to New York mob capo Anthony (Tony Two Pots) Siciliano--with Bobby Bell being quoted as saying that many Truckers leaders were concerned about the shady roots of Tommy K's rise to power. Bell wondered if the organizing drive against Titus were undertaken at the bidding of organized crime. Tommy was depicted as flustered and openly angry when reporters at the press conference asked him pointed questions about how badly the organizing drive was going and about his growing isolation from the mass of the Truckers' local and regional leaders, who were the backbone of the union.

The sidebar focused on Steve Staski's return to work as a driver in Hollywood's film industry. The writer described catching up to a sweaty, muscular Steve loading his truck at the end of a 14-hour day of shooting a Vietnam-era thriller in the mountains east of Los Angeles. Steve's day wasn't over yet, but he was gracious enough to discuss the predicament of the Truckers union, which his father, Steamer Staski, led to unprecedented heights in the 1960s. Staski expressed concern that after a year in office, Kerrigan was allowing the union to drift and the membership to continue dwindling. He said something had to be done to turn the union around, perhaps Kerrigan should consider resigning to make way for a stronger leader. He portrayed the call for a strike against Titus as embarrassing and an illustration to the business community of how desperate Kerrigan was to give the impression he was doing something instead of just collecting his enormous salary for traveling around the country staying in fancy hotels and eating in exclusive restaurants at union expense. "His wife must never see him," Steve said as he lashed a crate in place. He said he was enraged by the millions being spent from the Trucker's treasury on a foolish campaign that would wind up with the union supporters at Titus losing their jobs. What was worse, he said, the strike was illegal. "Kerrigan has created a phony national local, because he knows local union presidents, many of them members of the True Truckers Caucus, wouldn't support this wild scheme," Steve said.

Sylvia Baya assumed from Tommy's pained expression and the droop of his shoulders as he approached her and the two Titus strikers at the crowded air shuttle waiting area in National Airport that he had read the Washington Globe stories.

"Good morning, brothers," Tommy said shaking hands with the strikers. He apologized for taking them on the road right away instead of giving them time to enjoy the nation's capital.

Sylvia briefed them on the trip ahead, starting this afternoon with a strike rally at the big Titus Interstate regional terminal about 60 miles north of New York City near Newburgh in the Hudson Valley. The Truckers had commitments from 100 of the terminal's 1,600 drivers, mechanics, and warehouse workers to come out on strike during the rally. The terminal was the linchpin of Titus' northeastern operations. Next on the schedule was Orlando and Miami followed by Dallas, then Chicago, and finally Los Angeles. Expect to be exhausted, she said.

Alongside of being behind the wheel or unloading heavy boxes on some dreary platform, seeing the country on a union expense account with nice restaurant meals and extraordinarily comfortable hotels rooms was a piece of cake, Bruce Adams told her.

Sylvia assumed her bright look as she handed Tommy a folder with tear sheets of faxed copies of stories from the New York papers. "Read the piece in the World's New York City edition. That will lift your spirits," she said.

Tommy's eyes flashed across the sheet then smiled a bit as he read the first few paragraphs aloud:

"Tommy Kerrigan, the reform-minded Truckers president, yesterday went on stage before a national audience in Washington, D.C. to in effect declare the American labor movement was making a comeback, willing to take unprecedented risks to win new members.

"Kerrigan, a resident of Melville, L.I., scored a public relations victory for organized labor by focusing the attention of the mass media, which generally ignores unions, on the Truckers' organizing drive against Titus Interstate Trucking Inc., the nation's largest nonunion trucking company. Titus has 40,000 employees, 35,000 of them eligible for union membership.

"Titus spokesman Mark Ford said, 'We are confident the unionization drive will falter when the Truckers realize our employees don't want an historically corrupt organization taking their money and doing nothing for them but cause trouble.'

"The stakes are high for the $5-billion-a-year company as well as the union--if the surprise strike Kerrigan declared on Wednesday spreads. Analysts say it won't. The union admits only 75 Titus employees joined the picket lines in the first two days of the strike, but spokeswoman Sylvia Baya predicted many more, dissatisfied with pay and working conditions, would come out.

"Truckers strategists contend that support for the strike by as little as 2,000 workers in key hubs across the country could plunge Titus' famously efficient delivery system into turmoil. 'We're betting millions of dollars on that,' said a high-ranking union staffer who asked not to be identified."

"You can read the rest yourselves," Tommy said with verve in his voice, handing Bruce the fax from New York. "You guys want some coffee and Danish. We got some time before the plane takes off." Sylvia beamed.

Billy Hurley met them at LaGuardia Airport in Queens with a Ford Explorer for the trip upstate. Tommy took the front passenger seat for the journey that carried them across the Whitestone Bridge to the Cross Bronx Expressway, then north via the dingy, congested Bronx River Parkway and the scenic, woods-bordered Taconic State Parkway to Route 84, the east-west corridor feeding trucks in and out of New England. They crossed the Hudson River to Newburgh, and a few minutes later on a country road bordering Titus Interstate's New York/New England Freight Terminal came across a mass of about 800 men and women, some in Truckers windbreakers, most in visor caps and plain short jackets with a few NY Yankees and high school letter jackets sprinkled among them. The crowd flowed, chanting and pumping picket signs, along a 100-foot stretch of road crossing both the trucking and employees entrance. Tommy directed Billy to park in a farmer's field across the road next to a flatbed truck set up as a platform with bunting in the union colors, with loudspeakers blaring the Truckers Anthem, and big American flags on either end.

Happy Koenig gripped Tommy's hand as he emerged from the Explorer: "It's unbelievable. It's the 30s all over again." Koenig had recruited 200 union members and retirees to demonstrate, gathering them at Local 1890 at 5 AM, then ferrying them upstate in four chartered buses that carried box lunches and coolers with beer and soft drinks.

"Where are they from? Tommy asked pointing at the horde of demonstrators.

"Tommy, believe it or not, 600 Titus workers walked out the door, right here, to join us."

Stu Bluh silenced the music and roared through the loudspeakers: "Sisters and brothers gather round, Tommy K is here. We're on a roll!"

They streamed across the road chanting, "We're on a roll!"

"We're making history brothers and sisters," Tommy shouted once they had gathered. "I got two brave guys with me from Wyoming and Nebraska, the first two Titus workers to stand up to the boss. And I'm looking at another 600 brave men and women. Give these guys and yourselves a hand." He applauded.

At breakfast in the hotel in Miami two days later, Stu Bluh handed Tommy the Titus statistic as of last night: 152 of Titus Interstate's 380 terminals effectively had been shut down. About 12,000 truck drivers and warehouse workers had come out on strike. "We've won President Kerrigan," Stu said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JULY, 1992

Tommy lay on the bed in Bibi's pied-a-terre watching the television, waiting with impatience for the Barry Moore show. After a series of commercials and promos, which promised to provide insights into the three-week-old Truckers national strike against Titus Interstate Trucking, the screen went black. Trumpets blared, clouds parted, and the camera zoomed from a vast height onto an ancient cobbled street filled with men and women in togas streaming towards a towering Roman amphitheater, then drew Tommy and millions of other watchers through a long, dark tunnel onto a dazzling set with a grinning Barry Moore seated at a round table. BARRY MOORE'S ARENA flashed across the screen. Moore rose from his chair. 'While Hail to the Chief' played, he walked past huge color blows ups: Tommy Kerrigan's portrait set against the blue and red Truckers logo; pickets with faces frozen in rage, mouths open to howl, slamming their signs against a big Titus truck passing through a line; a rally with country-rock star Scotty Fruhstone playing his guitar under a huge banner, Down the Union-Free Way; families of mothers, fathers, and children at a Titus Interstate picnic eating hot dogs and salads under banners, No Union No Way; a long line of Titus tractor trailers on a western freeway; and finally Allwyn Baxter, the tall, slender, gray-haired chairman and CEO of Titus shaking hands with a grinning President George Bush at a reunion for Navy fighter pilots.

"The pictures tell the whole story, folks, a battle of titans, a huge, powerful union against a family-owned business, which happens to be the biggest independent trucking company in the United States of America," Moore said returning to his seat. "My guests tonight: Stu Bluh, the man who is running this fight for the Truckers, and Mark Ford, senior vice president and director of communications for Titus Interstate Trucking." The two took their places at the table against a background of applause. "As we all know, Mark, Titus suspended operations yesterday."

Ford, his pallid face shaking just a bit, said: "Right Barry for the first time in 70 years Titus trucks aren't feeding the American economy with the products the nation needs. And, a lot of good people who don't want a union are out of work because of this irresponsible strike."

Stu leaned forward, raising his index finger to emphasize his words: "The responsibility for any inconvenience to the public or suffering by Titus' workers rests solely with Mr. Baxter. Only his ego is keeping this strike going."

"That's a patent untruth," Ford interjected.

Stu continued, "This strike was won three weeks ago when 12,000 Titus employees expressed their rights as Americans by striking against a company that treated them so badly."

"And 3,000 of them came right back to work the following week."

"That's because you frightened those workers by threatening to replace them."

Moore smiled. He loved fireworks. "Hold it. Correct me if I'm wrong Stu, but a win isn't a win until you've won, and yet you say you won this strike three weeks ago. Maybe you can explain to folks like me why you're still picketing and some people--we don't know who--are shooting into trucks on highways, if you already won the strike?"

Stu answered, "Titus' intricate network of pickups and deliveries just can't work with 9,000 workers exercising their right to strike. And more and more companies are refusing to do business with Titus."

Ford held up his two hands in a signal of frustration. "Barry you see the problem before you. We're dealing with people living in a world of delusion. That could be amusing, but one of the nation's great family corporations and 40,000 people with families to support are suffering." He took a sip of water, his hand trembling.

"No offense to you Stu," Barry said, "But the reason I wanted your boss, Tommy Kerrigan, on the show tonight so I could ask him the following: Isn't this strike breaking the union treasury?"

Stu was waiting for this question. Tommy perked up in anticipation of the response they had discussed. "The union is spending about $3 million a week in strike benefits and related costs, and we're spending another million a week for smaller strikes, I hate to say it this way, but the usual run of the mill strikes. We traditionally have had a strike fund of $40 million, so we have a cushion of about 10 weeks."

"Wasting their members' dues money. Should be investigated. And I might add his numbers are wrong," Ford said.

Moore held up his hand, assuming a serious expression. "Tell us about that Stu. I have a numbers cruncher who tells me that with 35,000 Titus workers on the street, the drain on the union treasury is about $10 million a week. By our calculations, you've got about three weeks left and the Truckers' strike fund turns belly up."

"I'm going to give you an answer with an upside and a downside. The upside is President Kerrigan gave every Titus employee a chance to join the battle on the picket lines three weeks ago with the promise of $250 a week strike pay and family medical benefits for the duration. That offer was good for the first week of the strike. The downside is we don't have a bottomless pool of money. The workers laid off yesterday aren't eligible for the strike pay or medical benefits."

"That's a disgrace," Ford shouted. "Families are suffering because of Kerrigan's irresponsibility."

"We're going to a break and then we're going to take phone calls. Maybe some of those Titus workers out on the street because of this strike will have something to say to us or have questions they want answered," Moore said. "Don't move that dial folks. Lot's of fun ahead."

Tommy sensed that the callers would be negative. Stu Bluh had asked some of the Titus strikers to call in, but Tommy suspected the calls would be screened to go against the Truckers. Sylvia Baya had urged Tommy to be on the show, arguing that the members expected it. The street culture that shaped Tommy's reactions told him to never allow someone who screwed him a second shot. He would always consider Barry Moore an enemy for the puffery of his Labor Day show boosting Steve Staski.

When the show resumed, Moore said that Stu wanted a chance to clarify something about the cost of the strike.

Tommy nodded in anticipation.

Stu said, "Sure the strike is costing the union $3 million a week, and it is worth every penny. What I want to ask the Baxter family on behalf of President Kerrigan is whether it is worth the $100 million a week in lost income plus the lasting damage of customers taken away by competitors."

"Those numbers are out of fantasyland," Ford said, his gray face turning red.

"Those are conservative numbers. This strike has cost Titus Interstate $150-million so far at a very minimum."

Moore shook his head. "There's some really big numbers involved in this conflict folks. But now the phone is ringing."

The first caller was a woman in South Carolina, whose husband had been laid off. She wondered if Tommy Kerrigan thought about her three children who depended on their dad's paycheck for food and clothing while he was destroying a great company to force more helpless people into his gangster union."

"Who wants to answer that?"

"Barry, that poor woman went to the nub of the problem. Given a chance to vote, our employees would reject the Truckers out of hand. Titus Interstate, Mr. Baxter, would welcome an NLRB-supervised election."

Stu rose from his chair. He slammed his fist onto the table. "This wonderful company has fired 47 pro-union activists, has paid its workers a fraction of the prevailing wage for unionized truckers and its fringe benefits are pitiful. We want to give this family in South Carolina, this mother, overworked father, and three children a decent standard of living for the first time in their lives."

"Next caller," Moore said.

"Barry, I'm so happy you're taking my call. This is Steve Staski."

"Wonderful," Moore said. "Great hearing from you Steve. You have a question or are you going to give us the insights of a truck driver?" He laughed.

"I have two concerns. First we get Titus Interstate organized. My father started this process, you know. He planted the seeds of unionization in this company."

"Please!" interjected Stu.

"Let the man speak. You'll have your turn," Moore said.

Staski continued, "I'm sitting around today with my brother Truckers in the Los Angeles movie local, some of them are TFOCCers, some of them still remember what my old man did for the Truckers, but we all agree, Tommy Kerrigan has betrayed the workers at Titus Interstate. He promised them strike pay, and now when they're out in force, he's reneging."

Stu tried to speak, but Moore silenced him with a raised hand, and cut off his mike. "Let the man speak. This sounds important."

"I'm not going to belabor this, but if Kerrigan only knew what he was doing and this union wasn't split into pieces between the Reds and True Truckers, who really love their union and their country, this wouldn't be happening the way it is. Hey I'm on a coffee break, and it's over. I gotta go."

"Just a minute, Steve. I want to say whenever you're ready to come back in the Arena for your insights on the American labor movement, the welcome mat is out."

Stu stepped around the table to lean over Mark Ford, speaking into his mike: "Steve Staski is as qualified to talk about union strategies as any other actor at a Hollywood cocktail party." Ford jerked away from him.

"Sit down Mister," Moore said. "We don't go for bullying tactics around here. You don't like what's said, answer in a civilized manner, or leave my show."

Stu's mike came on. "Ohhhh," he said, unraveling himself from the wires attached to his ear and chest. He stalked off the set to a mixture of boos and cheers from the audience.

"That bastard," Tommy said aloud. He called Sylvia's cell phone: "What did you think?"

"You were right. We never should have gone on the show."

"Right." He hung up on her.

He called Jack Egan. "Did you see it?"

"Stu was just great. He nailed Staski as just a cocktail-drinking actor. He got the message about the company losing big money out to the American people. This was dynamite."

"What about Staski?"

"Who cares about Staski."

Tommy hung up. Jack Egan again demonstrated in that brief conversation that he didn't understand the Truckers. The name Staski was an icon in this union. There was a hard core of old timers and the old guard and their hangers on that still thought the sun shined out of Steamer Staski's ass even though he was dead for 20 years. He considered the talk of Steve Staski running for the Truckers Presidency in three years to be grotesque. This kid had done nothing to earn it except be born. The Barry Moore show churned through his mind for the next hour and a half until Bibi came up from the restaurant.

"What an awful night. I had a drunk throw up all over her table," she said. "I'm exhausted."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Allwyn Baxter, the chairman and CEO of Titus Interstate, a basketball player gone to fat, filled the Louis XIV couch in the suite in the Hay Adams Hotel. He didn't rise when Tommy Kerrigan was led into the room by Mrs. Beal, his executive secretary. The two stared at one another without speaking, then Tommy seated himself in a chair opposite Baxter, facing him across a coffee table holding two thick files. Two copies of the three-year contract between Titus Interstate and the Truckers International Union. "That will be all Mrs. Beal," Baxter said, dismissing the woman.

Tommy turned one of the folders around. He flipped through the 112-page document to the signature blocks. He signed his name and the date, July 24, 1992. He went through the same process with the second folder.

Baxter sighed. "I can't tell you how much I hate to do this Mr. Kerrigan." He turned the folders back and signed both copies of the contract.

Tommy rose. "We all have to do things we don't want to do, Mr. Baxter." He put out his hand.

Baxter rose, towering over Tommy. With obvious reluctance, his distaste showing on his face, he reached across the table to shake Tommy's hand, to seal the deal. The strike had been extended for two days by Baxter's refusal to go through the signing in the same room with Tommy and to finalize the agreement with the handshake. "You won," Baxter said. "But old athletes know, one game isn't the whole season."

Tommy smiled. What a dope, he thought. "My members, your employees, won Mr. Baxter." Baxter resumed his seat, turning his head to look out the window across the park to the White House. Tommy took one of the folders and left without saying goodbye. He went to the fourth floor suite, the Truckers were using as a negotiations headquarters and caucus room. Sylvia Baya, Jack Egan, Bruce Adams, and Stu Bluh rose when he entered. Tommy gave the thumbs up. Bruce howled with joy rushing to wrap his arms around a smiling Tommy. "The deed is done. The one o'clock press conference is on," Tommy said.

They sat around a table while Sylvia laid out the roles each would play at the press conference. She said Mark Ford, the Titus spokesman, would read the joint company/union press release while copies were being distributed to the press, then Tommy would call Bruce from the audience, introducing him as co-chair of the union's Titus negotiating committee. Before fielding questions, Tommy would announce that he was disbanding The National Titus Truckers Organizing Local distributing its members to the Truckers locals in their areas that covered interstate trucking. "That's a mistake. The old guard is going to take it as a sign of weakness," Jack Egan said, interrupting Sylvia's monologue.

"We're abiding by the constitution and we're punching a big hole in their bullshit claim that we're dividing the union. We're giving the locals the members. Nothing more to be said," Tommy said, irritated that Egan was continuing to argue against his decision.

At the press conference, Bruce took the anticipated question: "What's in the contract?" and gave a practiced answer: "Everything we asked for."

Then Tommy said, "Sylvia is distributing a fact sheet with our original demands and what we got. Compare the lists. We got everything."

"Was it worth a five-week strike? Thousands of people going without paychecks. The damage done to Titus, maybe permanently?"

"Titus will be back. Our members will make sure of that. They've got as big a stake in the success of this company as Allwyn Baxter or any member of his family. Was a five-week strike worth the biggest organizing victory in 50 years? You tell me," Tommy said.

The triumph over Titus was celebrated with a boisterous party in a bar near the hotel. A couple of reporters tagged along, even though they weren't invited, to glean the inside words of Tommy to the international organizers, staffers and activist Titus truck drivers and warehouse workers from the Washington, D.C. area. Tommy climbed up on the bar. "Brothers and sisters! A couple of words then no more speeches tonight. I'm just going to tell you what Allwyn Baxter told me: `You won this round, but the battle has just begun.' It didn't end today, and it will never end. Now let's party."

Gary Seegar, the New York Account reporter, threaded his way through the mass of bodies, interrupting Tommy as he shook hands with some glowing truck drivers from the Titus terminal in Richmond. "That was a pretty left wing attitude, you expressed up there." The truck drivers fell silent, waiting for Tommy's reply. He ignored Seegar, turning his back on him, continuing to chat as though the reporter weren't there. "You going to comment?" Seegar asked.

Sylvia slid out of the crowd. "President Kerrigan said what he had to say at the press conference. This is a private party Lou but you're welcome to stay as long as you act like a guest. Have a drink, talk to people."

"That's what I'm trying to do," Seegar interjected.

Tommy moved away, and the truck drivers closed the space behind him. Tommy slipped out of the bar leaving Billy Hurley standing in the door with a burly international organizer to keep Seegar occupied, if necessary, for the few minutes he needed to go around the corner and away. He took a cab back to the Hay Adams, nodding to the desk clerk and bell hop as he passed through the lobby to the elevators. He went to the fourth floor, ostensibly to the Truckers' suite, then walked down to the third floor. He let himself into the room that Bibi had rented. He was struck by the sweet scent of her perfume.

"Hail the conquering hero. It's all over CNN and ANC," Bibi said, excitement and joy in her voice. She was fresh from a bath in a flowered silk, red robe that made her thick white hair incandescent.

"I'll see the clips in the morning. I thought the day would never end," Tommy said. They embraced for a prolonged, intoxicating kiss.

"When day is done, let the party begin," she said, letting the robe slip from her body to the floor.

***

Tommy was stirred from a deep sleep by the awareness of Bibi's stare. "I love watching you sleep after making love, but I willed you awake," she said, kissing his forehead and eyes. "I was so proud of you when I saw you on CNN. I wanted to call up and say, `Tommy Kerrigan is my man, my lover.'"

"I'm glad you restrained yourself," he said.

She kissed him on the lips. "Tommy, I have an overwhelming desire to cook for you every day for the rest of my life."

"You'd have to follow me with your pots and pans. I'm on the road half of the time."

She lay back on the pillow. "I want to be with you all of the time. I'd like to tell my friends that Tommy Kerrigan, the great union leader, is my soul mate."

"We're both married to other people."

"Yes. We're both married to other people we don't love."

Tommy hadn't thought about not loving Alice. They had achieved a sad neutrality devoid of fierce angers and jealousies. Occasionally they fucked but without the passion of renewed love. He was consciously distant from Alice, even as he plunged in and out of her. Afterwards, they would lie separately, thinking their own, distant thoughts. Their bond was their children and grandchildren, and all of the years of their marriage.

"When you really love someone, you want to be with them all the time, every moment of the day," she said.

"I really love you, but I live in a world where I couldn't be with you all the time even if I weren't married to someone else."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

SEPTEMBER, 1992

Hank Mayerling drove his mother, Mary, his aunt, Violet, and cousin, Steve, from the Youngstown airport to the Mahoning River Park, where Truckers General Local 2773's annual Labor Day Picnic was underway. A shop steward stood guarding a roped-off space in the crowded lot for Hank's Lincoln Continental.

Steve helped his mother and aunt out of the car. Mary sniffed the pungent summer air. "What a perfect day. Violet, doesn't this make you want to move back to Youngstown." Violet smiled. She didn't want to hurt her sister's feelings.

The shop steward stepped forward to be introduced to Steve. He pumped his hand with enthusiasm. "An honor to meet you. Your dad was a great man. My dad was in the local when the Steamer was in Youngstown during the war."

"Those were great days. We're going to make this union great again," Steve said with a grin, shaking his hand, squeezing the man's upper arm with his left hand, his father's trademark greeting of supporters. He had used it in his film, 'The Trucker.'

They walked down the grassy slope, the air scented with lilacs, the women holding onto their sons' arms under the hot September sun. A softball game with mixed teams of men and women was underway, not too far from the long shed where youngsters and adults, all in shorts and t-shirts, lined up for hot dogs, kielbasa, hamburgers, corn, and potato salad. Another line was collecting soft drinks and pitchers of beer from corpulent men in white aprons.

Bobby Bell was standing with Uncle Ted, beers in hand, both beaming. There were handshakes and hugs all around. Violet patted her brother's sizeable paunch. "You don't look like you're suffering," she said. People on all sides were watching the family reunion with undisguised fascination. Ted poured Steve a beer, then took him on a tour of the picnic, introducing him to the members of the local and their wives. Just hellos, an exchange of memories of the Steamer with some, Steve talking about how much he enjoyed being back on a truck and carrying a Truckers' union card. They nodded, knowing that Steve was back on a truck for a reason, at the picnic for a reason. To those who pressed him, he said that he couldn't bear to see the union his father made great being wasted by a man who owed his career to a strange combination of the Reds and the mob. He knew the odds were against him, but he loved the Truckers, the way his father did; he was willing to take on Tommy K and the TFOCCers and the mob. Several pointed out a clutch of the enemy, TFOCCers, four or five families, the men and some women wearing Titus Truckers or All the Way with Tommy K shirts, gathered together around two picnic tables.

Bobby Bell, who had been trailing behind Steve and his uncle, whispered, "Wave to them. One union."

Instead of waving, a smiling Steve strode across the grass to greet the surprised TFOCCers. He shook their hands, said it was nice to see them, mentioning how deep his family roots were in Local 2773 and in Youngstown, Ohio. Uncle Ted and my dad built this local."

"We know," a TFOCCer said pointedly.

Steve could hear hostility in those two words. "You have a good day. One union!" Steve said.

"Always nice to meet a movie star," the TFOCCer said.

"I'm a True Trucker now," Steve said over his shoulder with a broad grin.

Later in the afternoon, Steve sat with his uncle and Bobby Bell at a picnic table far removed from the others. Steve had slid out of the role of the enthusiastic, confident Steamer Staski, his face showing grimness. "Titus has made him a national hero," he said without preamble.

Bobby Bell said, "When someone says that your response is, `Titus was a great accomplishment for Tommy K, but I'm going to organize 200,000 a year. This union needs a strong leader, who doesn't owe his career to the Reds or the mob." Uncle Ted hammered his fist lightly on Steve's outstretched hand on the table. "You were great today. You have the magic Steve. Just like the Steamer. If I didn't know better, I would think you were him today."

Steve smirked. His uncle should see him when he put on his father's menacing persona. Bobby had told him to save that bravura performance till the next Labor Day, in 1993, when they would move from a quiet campaign to a fiery one. In the meantime, they would keep picking at Tommy K, seizing every opportunity to expose him for what he was, a loser. Bobby gave Steve his schedule for the next month, three weekends on the road for meetings in union halls, dinners with True Truckers, joining union members at their family gatherings for barbeques, birthday parties, whatever, whenever possible. One weekend off. "For the next three years?" Steve asked.

"No. For the next year. Then we get intensive. Then you're on the road seven days a week with one weekend off a month if we can squeeze it in. Ted's right you got the magic. You got the name, the personality, the balls. But Tommy K has the office, and it takes a lot of work to beat an incumbent."

***

Tommy heard a car door slam as he lay in bed awake. The front door opened and closed. He waited for Pepper's reaction. The dog whimpered with joy. Alice must be home. The lights came on downstairs. He heard her loving Pepper, playing with the dog. Laughing. He slid under the covers pretending to be asleep.

"Anybody home?" she called up the stairs. "Or is that a strange man's car in my driveway?" She laughed again. Drunk. She came into the bedroom, stumbling against the open door. "Is my big man asleep?" she asked loudly. Tommy didn't stir. "The drive from the Hamptons was hell. Everybody from Manhattan, the Bronx, and Coney Island too was out there for the Labor Day weekend and decided to come home the same time I did."

"You drove?"

"Not in my condition. A friend dropped me off."

"Joey Furioso?"

"He's such an asshole. I left without him. We meet this sweet boy. He tells me how wonderful I am, my work that is, and he's surprised that I'm so beautiful. This kid is gorgeous. A Greek god come to earth. And he's going on and on about how he adores my Chrysler Buildings. Erotic. Naturally, Joe hates him because he doesn't say diddly about his work. The great artist with the great ego is ignored."

"What was erotic? The Chrysler Building or the little boy?"

"Both. He drove me home. I thought dirty thoughts all the way. He told me he's studying to be a personal trainer at Hofstra. He's beautiful. I was so tempted, but I couldn't bring myself to risk being rejected by this little boy, maybe 23 or 24. I can imagine how old I look to him. When I was young, and had a body to match his, I didn't have the nerve. Then I began thinking about you, my own piece of living granite."

"Yeah."

"I don't mean now. I mean then. My trooper. When you used to jump out of airplanes and come home at night if you didn't have guard duty." She slipped out of her clothes, dropping them on the floor. "It's been a long time," she said.

"Since I jumped out of airplanes?"

She wriggled under the sheet at the foot of the bed, sliding up his body, licking him as she moved. She ran her hands across him. Kissing his eyes and nose and mouth.

He tasted salt on her mouth, and on her breasts. "Right from the ocean? No shower?"

"We went skinny dipping."

She threw off the sheet. "Ohhh. Is that for me," she said playfully. She flicked her fingers across his balls, and took him in her mouth.

Tommy moaned with pleasure. He thrashed around. "Ohhhhh," he sighed, the long, tortured sound that Bibi said she loved to pull from him.

Alice paused. "I like it when you groan and move around," she said. "I'm your love slave tonight. Would you like me to suck you off, or do you want to fuck?" "Both," Tommy said, excited even more by Alice's abandon, both in her crude speech and in her sexual hunger. "Let me do something for you," he said. "No." She pushed him back and climbed atop him. She rode him slowly, then faster, then waving her arms and howling until they both came.

She slumped across him, and fell into a deep sleep in his arms.

In the morning, Alice made biscuits with bacon and scrambled eggs and raspberry preserves. He was amused by her reversion to domesticity. "You must have had a wonderful time last night."

She put her hand on his arm. "Transforming is word. Your magic moans changed me back into a housewife."

"How long is this going to last?"

"The spell will be broken when I leave the house."

"Maybe I'll lock you in."

She laughed and laughed. "I was really horny last night, wasn't I? But I'm glad I was."

"You'll have to give me that kid's address. I'll send him a thank you note." "That's a good idea. I'll do the same." He went onto the garden deck off the kitchen to finish his coffee and to page through The New York Globe and World of New York. At 8 o'clock, Billy Hurley arrived with the car. He honked the horn. Tommy picked up his two big suitcases in the livingroom and called up the stairs: "You want a lift into the city?"

Alice yelled back she was staying on Long Island today. "Thanks for the good time," she called.

En route to Local 1890 in Long Island City, Tommy mused over her parting words, 'thanks for a good time.' No kiss good-bye. If he went home tonight, she wouldn't be there. A lifetime of cold-blooded compromise and concession based on the strength of the adversary made him numb to anger, accepting too an openly unfaithful wife. Their occasional sexual encounters, good or bad or memorable like last night, were the left overs of the marriage. Alice continued the shallow charade of being his wife for his mother, when she was still alive, and their children and grandchildren. All of them knew better. They knew before it hit the papers, and then the whole world knew. Hurley drove without bothering Tommy with small talk, sensing he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.

Jack Egan and Sylvia Baya were waiting in the union hall with maps, schedules and a media campaign to turn out the Truckers rank and file for Bill Clinton's election spread across the big table in the conference room. He listened to Jack's pitch: Tommy would cross the country in an air-conditioned bus with sleeping accommodations for six, a galley, toilet and shower, and most importantly a copying machine and two computers with printers. He would start this evening with stops in New Jersey at two union halls; down to Philadelphia for a big rally; across Pennsylvania with brief stops along the way in terminals, and another big rally of Truckers members in Pittsburgh. Then through all the little cities in Ohio. Bill and Hillary Clinton would meet the bus in a suburb of Chicago to ride into town with him for a really big multi-union gathering.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Bill Clinton put his arm around Tommy's shoulder on the platform at the end of the street sealed off for the rally in front of the Chicago Truckers Building. "Isn't this guy the greatest," he told the cheering crowd that jammed the width and length of the street, pressed against the buildings on either sidewalk, pumping signs above their heads: "Labor for Clinton," "ACTWU Joint Board for Clinton," "Carpenters for Clinton," and most of all, in blue and red "Truckers for Clinton" "We don't agree on some things, but we're together all the way on core issues of more jobs, decent pay, and health care. Tommy K is a great labor leader of a great union. We're rolling to victory together," Clinton said looking with a smile at Tommy.

"Union," someone shouted. And the chant was taken up.

Clinton grinned. Holding up Tommy's hand. The Truckers, who dominated the audience in numbers and noise, joyously roared their approval.

Tommy came out of the rally exuberant. He took his road crew, Jack Egan who had flown into Chicago for the event, and three dozen Truckers activists and officials to Miller's Pub on Wabash Avenue for racks of Canadian ribs and pints of beer. They sang and laughed and joked, a mix of TFOCCers, old guarders, and the shilly-shalliers who sided with whoever was in power. The vacillators were with him now, and the old guarders were coming along too, out of fear, out of practical politics.

The exhilaration lasted into Milwaukee. Clinton called to thank Tommy for the success of the Chicago rally. And, Bibi met Tommy at an inn with a balcony overlooking a lake just north of the city. She was excited about Tommy's appearance with the Clintons. She had seen it on NBC. She was crazy about Clinton. In the morning, she dropped him at the bus and continued onto the airport for the return flight to New York.

Two FBI agents approached Tommy Kerrigan outside a vast white-washed grocery warehouse on the San Francisco waterfront. The agents, dressed in dark suits, patiently waited until Tommy had finished speaking to a cluster of nine Truckers with little coolers and lunch pails in hand, who had just come off the overnight shift. They flashed their IDs, asking to speak to Tommy in private. He called Sylvia Baya over. "Alone, Mr. Kerrigan," the senior agent said.

"Sylvia, I'm going over to the fence there to talk to these fellows. If I raise my left hand above my head, I want you to call the General Counsel's office and arrange to get a union lawyer over here right away."

The agents' faces were set, but their anger seeped through. "We'd like you to come to our office, Mr. Kerrigan," the senior man said.

"Do you know who I am? I'll give you a few minutes of my time, out of courtesy and desire to cooperate, but I'm doing important union work here, and I'm not letting you interfere with that."

He led them over to the fence. "Now what can I do for you fellows?"

"What was your role in distributing the strike pay to the Titus Interstate strikers?"

"What?" Tommy said, surprised. The agent repeated the question. Tommy said he decided on the amount the workers would be given, but left the details of distribution to others. He said he believed Jack Egan hired a private company to do the job since many of the local unions were hostile to his administration and weren't cooperating in the campaign.

The junior agent was taking notes while the senior man continued to ask questions. Would Tommy mind opening the Truckers' records on strike pay to the FBI, along with asking Everywhere Accounting, the San Francisco-based company hired by Egan also to open its books.

"I'm going to have to talk to my General Counsel about this," Tommy said.

They gave him their cards.

Sylvia came over. "What did they want?" she asked.

His response was, "Get me Jack Egan on the phone." He felt depressed. A shop steward had gathered another group to meet Tommy. They stood watching. He forced himself to smile, to stride towards them with the vigor he liked to project to the members. He felt a twinge of pain in his back as he closed the short distance with the group. They listened to his spiel with rapt attention. Then a woman asked when the hell the people in this plant were going to get a decent raise. They had a contract with bonuses instead of pay increases.

The steward said, "Hey Mr. Kerrigan negotiates the national contracts, not ours."

Tommy had gotten used to hearing complaints about lousy local contracts or business agents in bed with the boss. He told the woman that it was up to her and her fellow union members to demand a better contract, to make sure they told their local union officials what they wanted, then to vote down the contract unless they got what they needed, and to vote the union officials out of office if they didn't do the job.

She said, she voted for Tommy because she hoped he would improve the union, but nothing had changed. The same lousy contracts. She walked away. "Don't pay attention to Helen, Mr. Kerrigan, she walks through life like she got a red hot poker stuck up her ass."

Tommy gave a little lecture on the difference between local contracts, negotiated by their local officials, and the national contracts for which he was responsible. He was aware of losing them as he spoke. A couple on the fringe of the group drifted away. He was boring them instead of capturing their loyalty and imaginations. His back really hurt now. He just wanted this over. Sylvia raised a finger in signal. "Vote for Bill Clinton on election day and ask your friends and neighbors to do the same. I've got an important call I have to take," he said to get rid of them.

He took the phone from Sylvia, and walked some distance away. "Two FBI agents were here asking for permission to go through our strike pay records for Titus Interstate."

"Well, I'll be damned. Politics is what it's all about, chief. They're using the FBI to harass the best vote getter Bill Clinton's got."

"So what's your advice?"

"Wait till after the election's over. Clinton wins, I'll give you odds they'll go away."

"Not let them into the records?"

"Not me. I wouldn't."

Tommy agreed with Jack. The feds were probably on a witch hunt, trying to implicate him and Jack Egan in something dirty, probably assuming that they were thieves just like so many Truckers officials before them. He felt frustrated that they would ignore every good thing his reform slate had done, making him a target out of habit, just because he was the international president of the Truckers.

"Are you all right?" Sylvia asked. She had approached him, leaving several volunteers and shop stewards standing together by the bus, ready to board for the next stop.

Tommy shook himself out of his stress-induced torpor. Without responding to Sylvia, he walked over to the bus. He told the gathering: "Got some bad news just now. Those FBI agents told me something that makes me wonder whether the Republican White House is panicking and pulling out all plugs to derail our support for Clinton, the biggest effort the Truckers ever put on for a presidential candidate. They know we're arousing the rank and file, educating them about which candidate has the working man and woman's interests at heart." He let that sink in. "We gonna let the Republicans and their big business friends derail our Truckers to Truckers campaign?"

"No," they shouted.

"Let's get on the bus and work even harder."

On the Monday after Election Day, Tommy rose stiffly from a chair on the dais in the ballroom of the Washington Hilton to speak at the first strategy session for next year's contract talks with The Delivery Company. He stood poised, ready to cover the few steps to the podium as soon as Phil Alt, who headed a big local in Birmingham, Alabama, delivered some brief opening remarks about the significance of the contract.

Alt told the reps from 474 different locals that for the past 25 years, the national Delivery Company contract covering 225,000 members had been mediocre at best and sometimes dreadful. He introduced Tommy as the man sure to change all that, The Delivery Company's biggest nightmare come to life. The 870 Truckers officials rose to their feet cheering. Through an effort of will, Tommy took the four steps to the podium with a bouncy stride, as though his back wasn't aching and pain wasn't flaring down his right haunch into the thigh. He raised his hands for silence. The noise stormed on. Tommy took a sip of water from a glass on the stand in front of him. He began drawing energy from the enthusiasm of his audience, overcoming the torment in his body and the lingering exhaustion of six relentless weeks on the campaign trail for Clinton.

"Brothers and sisters," he shouted. The roaring softened. "Brothers and sisters," he repeated. The noise died away. He grinned. He was looking at an audience filled with local officers who opposed him in the 1990 election. Their spontaneous outburst told him that he was being recognized for his triumphs in organizing Titus Interstate and backing the winning presidential candidate in the 1992 election. With support like this, he wouldn't need TFOCC in his reelection campaign. He might walk into office unopposed if he could hit a triple with The Delivery Company talks. He started by telling them that union politics had no place at the bargaining table. Even though Phil Alt opposed him in the 1990 election, Alt would be sitting next to him as co-chair of The Delivery Company negotiations. They went wild again. A dozen staffers hurried along the aisles distributing folders containing the names of the 20 members of the negotiating committee and an outline of the aggressive contract campaign Tommy had put together. Half the committee members were rank and filers, three of them TFOCCers recommended by Helmut Knall. The other 10, including Alt, were the top officers of major locals, every one of them an old guarder. Tommy read the names, asking each to come onto the stage with him. The old guarders drew standing ovations as they walked forward. The rank and filers received polite applause with a couple of loud Bronx cheers sounding from the Chicago and LA sections.

"Now brothers and sisters, I want you to turn to the proposed Delivery 93 campaign that will involve the rank and file workers of The Delivery Company in their national contract talks for the first time in the history of this union," Tommy said. He knew the old guarders didn't like this concept, which was straight out of TFOCC's agenda to reform the Truckers. He looked at the audience, some staring back or leafing through the material, many engaged in conversations with buddies that formed an irritating murmur. This was the typical environment of a large meeting of union delegates. He realized they were swallowing this distasteful twist in their union lives without the open anger Truckers considered their right. He felt the muscles in his arms relax. He hadn't realized until that moment that he had been clenching the sides of the podium. "On page three of Delivery 93," he said, and stopped as the buzz of conversation quieted and people stood to see what was going on. Several men in suits had hurried across the stage taking up positions. Suddenly the crowd burst into cheers as Bill and Hillary Clinton accompanied by Jack Egan walked onto the stage.

Clinton merrily wrapped his arms around Tommy. Hillary pecked his cheek. "Believe me. This wasn't planned," Tommy said into the mike, then caught himself. "Welcome Mr. President."

Clinton laughed. "I told Jack Egan I had to see you today. I had to express my gratitude to the members of this great union for how hard they worked for me in the campaign. Especially, Tommy K."

The Truckers stamped their feet, screaming, howling with pride and pleasure.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

JANUARY, 1993

They sat with big bowls of gumbo and shrimp po' boys on a wooden screened porch overlooking the vastness of Lake Pontchartrain, Bobby Bell, Steve Staski, three Truckers union leaders with bellies as gargantuan as Bobby's, with gold chains round their throats and thick wrists, and gold rings set with blue and red stones that Reggie Drucker had given them in gratitude for their support at the 1985 convention. A frigid January rain was beating on the roof, drifting through the screening as a fine, chilling mist. The hot thick soup washed down by schooners of beer, the roars of laughter over tales of drunken fist fights and unprecedented hangovers from long nights of matching one another boilermaker for boilermaker thrilled Steve. The camaraderie drew him into a reverie of insight into his father, understanding the pleasure the Steamer drew from such men in intimate gatherings like these.

Steve turned the conversation to the medal their host Manion won in the retreat from the Yalu. Manion swallowed the piece of po'boy he had been chewing, his bag-like double chin bobbing as the food passed into his body. "It was sleeting. Korea is one cold ass place. I got my head down. I'm cut off from my outfit. I'm crossing this farm field. Just stubble in the winter, and I'm praying to the Blessed Virgin, `Don't let me step on a mine Mary.' And suddenly right in the middle of the field is this jeep coming at me. American jeep. Jesus H. Christ, they're gonna run me over. They just miss me, and they pull up. And out gets the biggest Chink in China, and he's got a big gun. He rattles something off to me and fires. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Five fucking times and misses. Meanwhile, I'm sliding my M-1 off my back and at the same time pulling the mitten off my right hand, and flicking the safety off. Pow. Right through the stomach. Then another one into his head. Another Chink is on the other side of the jeep with an American carbine. He snaps one off and I'm firing at the same time. He does a flop onto the ground. I put a hole in his right eye and out the back of the neck. I run up to the jeep and there's a lieutenant colonel, U.S. Army, with another Chink holding a bayonet to his neck. I shot him right through the bridge of his nose. The colonel says as calm as can be: `Soldier, I'm gonna get you the Congressional Medal of Honor for what you did tonight.' He drove us out of there. I can tell you it was one fucking delight to be riding instead of walking. He only got me the Silver Star, and ever since calls me up once a year to apologize and thank me for what I did."

Steve shook his head, projecting wonder and admiration. "My father told me that guys like Big Jim Manion from New Orleans are what made the Truckers great. I don't have to tell you I agree."

Manion was pleased. "I loved the Steamer. Not ashamed to say that. I was a sergeant at arms at the 1960 convention at the Americana in Miami Beach. That was some wild fucking time. What a party. I'm not gonna tell a son stories about his father, but the Steamer was a man and half in every department a man can be." The big bellies nodded, knowingly. "He made me an international organizer in 1961. One of the proudest days of my life. I was an international organizer for 30 years until that cocksucker Tommy K got put in office by the fucking T-Fuckers. I was number one on his hit parade."

Buzz, another of the big bellies, chimed in, "Howie and me were international reps. What we did for this union. The hours we worked. We must have been number two and three on that hit parade."

"I'll swear to you today, Jim, when I walk into the Steamer's old office the day I win the 1995 election, I'm gonna set things straight. That's why I'm running, to get this union back in the hands of the people who built it."

"I wish," Big Jim said sadly. The others watched Steve. Bobby Bell tensing, waiting for his answer. He had prepped Steve on the telephone and in the hotel last night. This was a crucial meeting.

"I want you to walk in that office with me," Steve said. "If my father had lived, you'd be an International Vice President today. What I'm saying, of course, is confidential, but I'm putting together my slate now, and I'm offering you the first slot on it, International VP."

"Hell I dreamed of that all my life. The crown jewel in a Trucker's career. Now it gets offered to me for a slate that ain't got even an outside chance of crossing the finish line first. Forgive my honesty, Steve."

Bobby Bell rose. "Tommy K is unbeatable today. That's now. Two years from now who knows? Notre Dame and the Yankees make their own breaks, and that's what we're gonna do. We're going to be on the attack all the way. Tommy K is going to think he's living in a meat grinder. We're going to rip him up and down."

"He rolled over Matty Krause in `90, an incumbent. Now he's a knight in shining armor. The rank and file loves him," Big Jim said.

"Tommy K didn't win the 1990 election. We lost it. No one in this room turned out the voters in their locals for Krause, and every one of you had an international job paying 75 grand. And you didn't turn out your members."

"That's a lot of shit coming from a New York Jew," Big Jim said raising his voice. The other two looked at Bobby with contempt.

Bobby's face reddened. He took a deep breath to calm himself and said softly, "I have the numbers with me. Don't feel embarrassed. No one turned out their votes. Even Matty Krause lost his home local. He didn't campaign. And everyone else, including me, sat on their asses too. They didn't realize that the old days were gone. I tried to tell Matty, but I didn't try hard enough, because he didn't listen to me. And I'm going to admit I never thought that a second-rate Mick from Queens, who no one ever heard of, could beat us. When Matty told me to go away, I went away."

Big Jim was subdued, sorry he had called Bobby a Jew to his face. If he were a man who apologized he would have. Now he laughed, a short sarcastic laugh. "Maybe if you had hustled Matty would have won."

"If we all had hustled," Bobby said.

"Matty wants to run again," Big Jim said.

Steve rose to stand beside Bobby. "Matty Krause is a loser," he said. "If Tommy K wins the `95 election, the TFOCCers will control the international forever. He'll be unbeatable in 2000 and he'll hand pick his successor."

"We win in `95, or we lose forever," Bobby said.

The three big bellies were silent. They sipped their beers and looked over onto Lake Pontchartrain, hazy in the fine rain. "Thanks for coming fellas. We'll think hard about what you said," Big Jim said.

"No," Steve said falling into his role as The Steamer, taking on his hard voice and hard face. "You join us today, or we leave you behind. We're gonna win this election. I've got a name that means instant recognition. That alone gives me an edge. All we need from you is some money, not a lot when you consider what's at stake, and a real commitment to turn out the voters in your locals like you never turned them out before. This isn't going to be an easy ride, but the stakes are so high it's worth it. I'm giving my life to this. I'm on the road every weekend, and starting on Labor Day I'll be on the road every day."

Big Jim looked at his associates. The three of them knew there was no stopping the clock with a Staski. He said, "Okay. You guys step into the livingroom and close the door behind you. Give us a chance to talk it over."

"No," Steve said surprising him. He drew an imaginary line across the table with his forefinger. His mother told him the Steamer had done the same thing at a meeting in their kitchen in 1958 the night he began maneuvering for the presidency of the Truckers. "You decide right now. Right here. Are you with me? We go out the door and we'll keep going. And I want to tell you no more anti-Semitic remarks. Bobby Bell is the finest man I know."

Big Jim flushed. The other two waited his lead. Big Jim stood. He reached across the table to shake Steve's hand. "Just like your fucking father. It was like him standing in front of me today. We're in."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

JUNE, 1993

The clip from the Chicago Tribune was on top of the thick pile of stories about the split in the Truckers' Delivery Company 21-member negotiating team. He glanced at Sylvia's note saying the Chicago story was the best with the most details. Tommy seethed as he read the account quoting an inside source, whom he suspected to be Phil Alt, describing a meeting of the committee in the Golden Terminal's Stefan Z. Staski Memorial Executive Board Room at which Tommy K took his seat in oversize black leather chair at the head of long conference table--and the eight rank and filers who supported his contract tactics and positions, sat on his left. On his right the opposition, starting with Phil Alt, co-chairman of the negotiating committee, nine other old guarders and two rank and filers aligned with the old guarders.

The Tribune story quoted Steve Staski as saying that his greatest fear was that Tommy K would plunge a divided union into the first strike in history against The Delivery Company with the risks of damaging the company that provided so many jobs to Truckers and bankrupting the union treasury since strike pay for 225,000 workers would be $45 million a week. Staski raised the specter that many of the members, grateful to the company for their good jobs in these hard times, would cross their own union's picket lines. "This cowboy from Queens seems intent on destroying the greatest union in the world, because he doesn't know what he is doing. He doesn't belong in the president's chair," Staski said.

Helmut Knall said in the article that Tommy had been snookered into appointing the two rank and filers in the pockets of the opposition, at the recommendation of his chief of staff, Jack Egan. Helmut said that had Egan checked with him, he could have told him those two were known to TFOCC as vehemently pro-old guard shop stewards in bed with their bosses. Knall said that Tommy K had to be disappointed over his own appointment of Phil Alt since he assumed Alt would move into his camp in a show of gratitude for his appointment to the prestigious position as co-chairman of The Delivery Company negotiating committee. He had been misled by Alt's soft Southern drawl and his graciousness, his seeming acceptance of Tommy as the rightfully elected international president of the Truckers. Helmut said that Alt had emerged as a leader of the True Truckers Caucus, which was putting pressure on all the old guarders to resist Tommy K's programs.

Tommy glanced through the rest of the clips from the Washington, New York, St. Louis, Detroit, and Los Angeles newspapers. He composed himself before he went to the conference room for the final meeting with the negotiating team.

"Afternoon Phil," Tommy said as brightly as he could, taking his place at the head of the table. As soon as he was seated, Jack Egan came into the room with two aides carrying piles of folders. After they distributed the material to each member of the negotiating committee, Tommy K rose and Egan uncovered a long placard on a tripod in front of the 12-foot-long painting of the assassination of Steamer Staski. Emblazoned in large blue letters bordered in red across the top of the placard was The Crescendo/a new way to strike! Below was a graph that started at a tiny point entitled week one: one hour and grew thicker--week two: two hours; week three: four hours; week four: eight hours; week five: sixteen hours; week six: thirty-two hours; week seven: sixty-four hours (one week and three days).

"Now what the hell is this? This union can't afford to strike The Delivery Company," Alt shouted.

"You've got that wrong Phil. The Truckers can't afford to have an employer believe we don't dare strike him. And for your information, The Delivery Company can't afford a strike either. This is a $25 billion a year company with an incredibly efficient, highly productive distribution system. A crescendo strike, starting with just one hour the first week and building would screw up the system and would be a warning of the turmoil to come. As the pressure builds, customers would begin bailing out, making other arrangements."

"What about our members' jobs?" Alt said vehemently.

Tommy ignored him. He signaled Jack, who placed on the tripod another placard entitled: $$$$ IMPACT $$$$. "The impact would be immediate with the company's operations thrown into disarray. During the first three weeks, The Delivery Company would lose several million dollars. In week four, the first full day's strike would cost the company at least $72 million. And multiples of that in each succeeding week. A full week's strike would cost more than half a billion dollars in lost sales and more in lost future customers."

"This is fucking crazy," Alt said, his face reddened with rage. The others on his side of the table, taking his cue, began screaming and cursing.

"Sit down!," Tommy shouted, hammering his fist on the table.

"We're walking," Alt shouted stepping towards the door.

"You do, and I'll charge you undermining the negotiating committee," Tommy screamed after him.

Alt stopped with the door open. He knew Tommy had the power to charge him, appoint a three-member hearing panel, and ultimately to rule on his case. His face burned with the chagrin of backing down. He returned silently to his chair, and his allies followed suit. Alt suddenly said, "I make a motion the committee adjourn until 11 o'clock tomorrow morning at the Hilton when negotiations begin."

"Out of order," Tommy snapped. "The chair is not entertaining any motions at this time."

"I'm co-chair."

"You're in charge when the president is absent," Tommy said. "Now, I'll make it quick. The international is putting out a press release laying out our strategy. We'll have a contract on June 30, or we'll begin our new strike strategy the following week. We'll give the company 24 hours notice of the times of the strikes."

"This is a pretty cute strategy. You're going to damage the company's business, cost our members money and maybe their jobs, and it won't cost the union a penny in strike pay," Alt said.

Tommy was surprised at how quickly Alt had grasped his unspoken agenda that the Crescendo strike would go in a cycle of seven weeks and then begin all over again. The Truckers' constitution didn't provide for strike pay until the third full week of a strike when a member was no longer collecting a pay check from his employer. He said smiling, "Phil, I thought you and your pals were worried about bankrupting the treasury. Now you're unhappy because we have an approach that will hurt the company, and yet have a minimal impact on our members' pocketbooks."

"You're tearing this union apart Kerrigan," Alt said.

The following week with the company demanding a giveback contract including a two-year wage freeze, a slash in health insurance, and the right to hire part-timers or casuals for all job openings, Tommy ordered the first one-hour strike. The True Truckers lobbied the leaders of the 474 locals with members employed by The Delivery Company urging them to let their members decide whether to work or not. Telephone calls were made to the presidents of almost every local, including allies of Tommy K and the TFOCCers, followed by faxes warning the company could dismiss or at the very least suspend those who walked off the job.

At the end of the one-hour strike, Tommy held a press conference with a national telephone hookup. He contended that it was far too early to determine the success of the strike although he assumed that The Delivery Company was shut down for the targeted time. Gary Seegar, the New York Account reporter, speaking from his desk at the newspaper, said he just had been handed faxed press releases from the True Truckers and the company that essentially said the same thing, the strike was a flop. Bobby Bell of the True Truckers estimated that 80 percent of the locals ordered their members to ignore the strike directive, and the company said there had been no discernible impact, but that about 100 drivers or warehouse workers had been dismissed for insubordination.

"Well Gary," Tommy responded trying to keep his voice even to hide his fury at the sabotage of the strike, "I guess the people who say the True Truckers are in bed with the bosses now have proof. Sounds like they're both on the same side against the Truckers union. I haven't heard about these workers being fired, but their union is going to back them all the way. First we'll declare an emergency and put anybody fired on strike pay from day one, and then we'll get them their jobs back or our Crescendo tactic will go on and on. The company lost millions today and stands to lose tens of millions and even billions if this struggle continues."

Jack Egan presented his analysis of the one-hour strike the following day: 60 percent of the locals struck, according to a telephone survey of local presidents. That wasn't too bad, Tommy said, since it showed his opposition in the union and company were exaggerating. Egan said he didn't have a handle on the firings yet. Tommy called Sylvia directing her to fax a summary of the analysis to every Truckers local and to the news media. An hour later, he called Helmut Knall for his reaction.

"I wish it were true," Helmut said. He suggested Tommy ask Egan for the backup material showing a local-by-local breakdown where picket lines were thrown up outside The Delivery Company facilities. The data Helmut gathered from TFOCCers around the country indicated at least 80 percent of the locals had indeed ignored the strike. "I don't have to tell you successful strikes aren't accidents. You sat back and figured the old guard locals would come along. You didn't do the sweaty job of building support for your so-called Crescendo strike among the rank and file," Helmut said. After Tommy absorbed that criticism, Helmut said he had a list of 115 fired Truckers. Every one of them was a TFOCCer who walked off the job in locals that weren't supporting the strike. No one was fired in the New York, California, or Northwestern states locals, whose leaders stuck with Tommy.

As soon as he hung up the phone, Helmut called into the hallway that it was meeting time. Tom MacGahan yelled back, "Coming." He led Tony Miloc and Brian Braden out of his third-floor office down the rickety wooden stairs to Helmut's office overlooking the little backyard garden with its birdbath and patch of grass bordered by pink and white impatiens. MacGahan closed the door behind them. Helmut, as usual, got right to the point, telling his inner circle that the old guard was undermining Tommy K's strike strategy against The Delivery Company. The positive thing about the failure of the one-hour strike was that it would alert Tommy K to how fragile the reform movement's grip on the Truckers was and clearly demonstrated that despite his successes in organizing and politics, 80 percent of the local leaders still opposed him. Helmut said that the four of them had to overcome their disenchantment with Tommy K. He reminded them once again that they weren't in this battle to be appreciated, but to transform the Truckers into a progressive union and in the process to instill their values into the entire American labor movement.

"What you are saying is that you plan to do an all-out effort against The Delivery Company," MacGahan said.

"You got it," Helmut responded.

"You can only go to the well so many times," Tom MacGahan said.

"You're right," Helmut said, then immediately sketched out their assignments to put TFOCC's activist network into action. The activists would make and carry signs outside the company sites on the day of the next action saying, "Truckers Building to Victory" He told them to have the TFOCCers take personal days or vacation days if necessary, because pickets were needed to undermine the excuse Truckers members could go to work because there were no union-sanctioned picket lines.

In Washington, Tommy K called Jack Egan to his office. He couldn't suppress his anger when Jack admitted that his analysis of the one-hour strike's impact was based on an extrapolation of calls by his staff to 25 friendly locals. Tommy told Jack to send out a directive ordering all locals to name a rank and file strike captain at every Delivery Company facility or the international would appoint them. He told Egan to put together a detailed breakdown of the locals that had pulled their members off the job for the hour and those that didn't. He gave Stu Bluh the assignment of dispatching the Truckers 19 international vice presidents and 120 international reps and organizers to the disloyal locals to try to force them out for the two-hour strike the following Thursday. Bluh's staff also was to contact the 2,500 union members who had agreed to volunteer time for organizing and contract campaigns, asking them to show up with home-made picket signs if they could.

That Thursday Tommy K, Billy Hurley and Sylvia accompanied by New York Globe reporter Henri Maitlin Serre and a photographer, piled out of a van in front of the main gate of The Delivery Company's largest grocery warehouse in Birmingham, Ala.

A half dozen pickets in red t-shirts with TFOCC in blue letters carrying Truckers Building to Victory signs were marching in a tight circle to the left of the entrance. A bearded man in a Trucker's distinctive royal blue windbreaker with its red shield showing Local 4475, Phil Alt's home union, was standing between the demonstrators and the narrow gate through which workers with their lunch-pail coolers were flowing from the parking lot into the plant. "Keep moving. Keep moving. Phil says we go to work today," the bearded man was shouting, waving his hand to keep the men and women, many in union windbreakers as well, moving through the gate.

Tommy stepped through the queued workers. "You're supposed to be on strike now," he yelled at the bearded man. "What are you a flunky for the boss?"

With a fierce tough-guy expression, the man whirled towards the voice, his fists clenched. "I'm goddamn Calvin Herbst, chief shop steward of this warehouse. And who the fuck are you?" he said the words beginning with a harsh ugliness and ending softly as he recognized Tommy and took in the hard-faced bodyguard, who stood beside him.

In the meantime, Sylvia unsnapped the legs of a small, sturdy, portable aluminum platform. "Okay Tommy," she said.

Calvin Herbst stood silent as Tommy stepped onto the modern version of a soapbox raising him above the workers who began to pool into a dense crowd. "My name is Tommy Kerrigan. I'm the guy you elected international president so we could some decent contracts again. The only way we're gonna do it is to stick together against the bosses. Are you a company man or a union man." He quickly added "and woman."

"Union," one of the pickets with a Trucker Building to Victory sign, shouted.

"Union!" the crowd shouted in unison.

Herbst said, "Tommy, Phil Alt said anyone who wants to go to work, can. The only ones staying out are the T-Fuckers over there.'

"You should be walking in front of the gate," Tommy said over Herbst's head to the four men and two women in the TFOCC shirts.

"He won't let us," one of the women said.

Tommy held up his hands. "No one goes to work until ten o'clock today. This is a legitimate picket line. Anyone who crosses it is a scab."

"Tommy K all the way!" the woman shouted.

In a moment, all the workers joined the chant, pumping their fists. None went through the gate.

Tommy said to Herbst, "You want to join your union brothers and sisters on the picket line or are you going inside to have coffee and cake with the boss.

Herbst said, "I'm a Trucker, Tommy."

Just before the two hours of the mini-work stoppage elapsed, Tommy recruited one of the TFOCCers as the strike captain for future actions. He wrote down his name and home phone number. He spoke to the workers from his aluminum platform again, explaining the underpinning of his strategy against The Delivery Company. He asked them to pledge to abide by the Crescendo strike program. "You are the union. Not Phil Alt. Not Tommy Kerrigan." He told them that next Thursday, the strike would last for four hours and double each Thursday after that. He shook hands with many of the workers. Listening with pleasure to their exclamations of surprise that an international president would stand with them on a picket line.

Early in the morning just before the 32-hour strike was to begin in the sixth week, The Delivery Company settled with the Truckers abandoning all of the company's giveback demands and agreeing to a four-year contract with annual raises of three percent, an end to the hiring of part-timers to fill new jobs, a systematic program to combine part-time jobs into fulltime positions, an increase in company contributions to the health insurance program and an improved pension plan. Tommy was unable to force the company to cutback on the use of freight trains instead of trucks for moving some materials cross country. The media hailed Tommy as a wonder worker in a worn-out labor movement.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

SEPTEMBER, 1993

Bobby Bell waited for the lull of the week following Labor Day to call Gary Seegar at The New York Account. "I've got a tidbit that will make the Bohemian Bits column sparkle."

Seegar smiled. A lede item in the Bits column meant a $100 bonus. He bit another lump from his lox and cream cheese bagel sandwich as his fingers flashed across the keyboard to call up his Ding Dong file. "I'm listening, Seegar said through the mouthful of mashed bagel, lox and cream cheese.

"This is a biology lesson that everyone interested in the arts and labor will get a kick out of."

Seegar swallowed his food. "Why do I suspect you're about to shed some shit on Tommy K?"

"Because you're a great reporter with great instincts."

"I love you because you're so astute."

"Got a calendar in front of you. Count nine months from Aug. 18 and tell me where you land."

"May 18."

"Very good. Now I've got a marriage license in front of me saying Alice Carroll, the famous photographer, and Thomas R. Kerrigan, the famous and saintly Truckers union president, were married on Aug. 18, 1955. And I got a birth certificate, saying that just seven months later, on March 18, 1956, they had a little bastard named Emmett."

Seegar rocked back and forth in his chair in a gale of laughter. "I love you because you're such a wicked son of a bitch, Bobby. You using your box at the stadium for the Cubs game?"

"Not if you're using this item."

"Let me do some arithmetic, Bobby. Nineteen-fifty-five was 38 years ago. Even if anyone cared, and we would print bullshit like that, 38 years ago. Give me a break."

"You wouldn't know a real news story if it bit you on your cock," Bell said angrily.

"I don't have to worry about this one biting me in any delicate places. How about those tickets, Bobby, I promised my sons I'd take them to the game."

"Call Mildred and she'll take care of it." That was his subtle zing, forcing Seegar into the little humble dance of calling his secretary. He hung up and opened the file on his desk. He studied the flyer topped by a black and white logo, Dirt on the Dirtbag with a cartoon of a shovel showering clods of muck on a cowering creature labeled Tommy K. In the right hand corner was Number One. The headline on the flyer said: Little Bastard. In large print the facts were laid out: Thomas R. Kerrigan and Alice Carroll are married on Aug. 18, 1955. Baby Emmett is born seven months later in the Army hospital at Fort Campbell, Ky., on March 18, 1956.

Above the headline was a paragraph of type: 'Anyone who conceives a child out of wedlock sins against God, the child, society and the woman. And, shames himself forever.' --Father Barry Fagin, eminent Roman Catholic ethicist.

On page two of the Dirtbag was a reprint of a two-year-old Bohemian Bits column from New York Account an item about Alice Carroll frolicking in France with Joe Furioso during her assignment to do a portfolio of photographs of Mont San Michel.

Bell laughed in the pleasure of having created Father Barry Fagin, hoping that Tommy K would be dumb enough to go through the effort of tracking him down. He would have to use Father Fagin in future flyers whose logo would say, More Dirt on the Dirtbag. He buzzed Mildred. "I want 800 of the Dirtbag flyers copied on blue paper and inserted into stamped plain white envelopes. Put the Dirtbag mailing labels on the envelopes, but don't mail them. Box them and send them overnight to Connie in Denver. She'll put them in the mail out there. Charge it to my special account." Bell closed his office door, a signal to Mildred that no one was to disturb him in person or telephonically. He poured himself a scotch, a thick, almost syrupy brew that had been aged in special casks. He leaned back in his big leather chair, kicking off his shoes, savoring the scent and the taste, enjoying the excitement of sending the flyer through the mails, a poison arrow, an unsigned message from the Belinskys, into Tommy K's gut.

***

The blue flyer came onto Tommy K's desk in a daily folder of must-see clippings put together by the Communications Department that he usually glanced through first thing in the morning. Sylvia Baya had attached a yellow flag with a note in her tiny script: 'Kept out of general circulation unless instructed otherwise.' "What shit," Tommy said, crumpling the flyer and firing it onto the floor. Hatred stormed through his body, an electric charge burning his stomach. Oh God. He hoped Emmett wouldn't see this. Please God, he said, don't let my little boy see this. Those scumbags. He wanted to rip into them, to tear them apart, to make them suffer for the evil of this flyer. No one was in the outer office yet. He called Sylvia at home. "Get in here," he said.

"You saw it?" she said.

"Get in here."

He called Jack Egan's office. Furious when the phone went unanswered. He reached Jack, who was on his way to the Golden Terminal, on his car phone.

Tommy's rage had cooled to bitterness by the time Sylvia and Jack arrived at his office just before eight.

They had been pursuing the source and reach of the leaflet since it had arrived in the mail the day before. From the calls that had come in, and from their outreach to friendly locals and a call to Helmut Knall at TFOCC, they figured the flyers had been sent to the president of every Truckers local, to the press and many others. Unfortunately, the entire Kerrigan family, including Alice Carroll and their children, were on the list. "Emmett got one?" Tommy asked.

"Yes," Jack Egan responded. Jack had talked to Alice, who was beside herself with rage. She had tried, but was unable to reach Tommy.

Tommy just nodded. He had spent the night with Bibi, taking the first shuttle to DC this morning. "Who do you think is behind it?" Tommy asked knowing the answer to the question.

"Obviously, the people backing Steve Staski, most likely Bobby Bell," Jack said.

"Any proof?"

"None. Mailed in a plain envelope from Denver on labels with a tiny bag of dirt in the upper right-hand corner. A very professional touch by someone with imagination and resources, presumably Bobby Bell."

"What can we do about him?"

"Beat Steve Staski in the next election. Until you end any hope the old guard has of ousting you, Bobby Bell will keep his hooks in the Truckers." Jack shoved the list of 42 locals, many among the largest in the union, that audits showed had consulting contracts with Bell's company, Ding Dong Services Inc. "That's an indirect conduit of funds for the Staski campaign. They hire Bobby and he devotes the resources to Staski," Jack said.

"I can't understand their thinking. Steve Staski doesn't have a chance against me. Why are they sticking with him?"

"Because they have nothing to lose. You're not handing them patronage, and you are changing the culture of the union. You're a threat to everything they stand for. Bell comes along with the most famous name in the Truckers and says Steve Staski is your last best hope and they go along. It's not their money they're spending," Jack said.

"What can we do right now?" Tommy asked.

"Start the campaign. I can get some seed money from people who believe in you, and we'll get a Washington headquarters open and we'll be on our way."

"Do it," Tommy said. He turned to Sylvia. What about the newspapers. Is anyone running with this?"

"Not yet, and I don't believe they will. From a news or even gossip point of view, it's meaningless." That eased the foreboding of further public embarrassment for Emmett.

After the meeting, he called Alice. She hung up on him. Then he called each of his children. Emmett wondered how they could be so vicious to a man who had done so much for the union? And why the attack on Mom and him. They had nothing to do with the Truckers?

"The politics of venom. A lot is at stake," Tommy said. He sat for a while in his office imagining storming into Bobby Bell's office and beating him to his knees. He knew that would be stupid. Instead, he would crush Steve Staski in the election and go after every local that had Bell's firm under contract.

***

Bobby Bell spent hours on the phone laughing with old guarders over the Little Bastard flyer, while never admitting authorship. They assumed it was his work. When Gary Seegar called to say he had seen the Dirt Bag flyer, Bobby said, "Someone beat you to the big story, Scoop." Seegar chuckled over that response, ending their conversation with a request to keep him in mind. Sure will, Bobby said.

A call from Mickey Sullivan brought him to Cafe Comida y Comidilla in Morgan Adams, a place Sullivan loved, the only restaurant in Washington serving Polar beer. They ate at the table furthest from the door; Sullivan, as usual, sat with his back to the wall. He was so relaxed and self confident that Bobby knew Sullivan had something good for him. They spent the meal talking mob talk, the conflicts and the alliances between the Irish, the Italian and the Jewish elements in the Truckers. Sullivan was an encyclopedia of organized crime and unions.

Most of the names were spoken hieroglyphics to Bobby who nodded knowledgeably, but rarely understood what Sullivan was talking about.

When the plates and their half dozen empty beer bottles were cleared away, Sullivan carefully wiped his hands and fingers with a napkin and ordered coffee with cheesecake. Bobby had the same. The fleshy detective reached inside his coat, extracting a folded sheet. "There's a name there and a number of someone in the Bureau, who wants a little help from you." He could see Bobby's face freeze. "You threw a little shit on Tommy K, but that's gonna blow away in a couple of days. I'm giving you your chance to bang him with something of substance. The Bureau got a call from an unhappy Titus driver about his strike pay. You do a little digging and maybe ease the way for the Bureau to talk to some of your friends in the Truckers, and maybe St. Tommy falls into some real shit.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

FEBRUARY, 1994

Tommy and Billy took a taxi from the airport to the hotel in downtown Pittsburgh through the thin traffic of streets swept by veils of snow. Tommy had awakened this morning with an aching back. He was entering another cycle of pills and hot baths until the pain and stiffness passed. They headed toward a desk next to a big blue placard with red lettering: "Welcome to the 1994 TFOCC Convention."

A man and a woman in TFOCCer windbreakers sitting there, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups, perked up, when they saw Tommy and Billy. The pair hurried from behind the desk to Tommy. "Thanks for coming, President Kerrigan," the woman said extending her hand.

Tommy tugged her close and hugged. Doing the same to the man. A shake and a hug. The man, thick-bodied and powerful, squeezed back, sending a stinging pain down Tommy's right leg.

"As soon as we get checked in, we'll be right up," Tommy said.

"The workshops begin at 10. They're on a coffee break now. Helmut suggested this would a be a good time for you to mingle," she said.

"Sure. That's why I'm here," Tommy said, not losing a beat, knowing he had to force himself into the campaign mode, setting his face in a smile to cover the uneasy feeling about what lay ahead as the enthusiasts crowded him upstairs. He gave Billy his overcoat, telling him to check them in, and to meet him with the key on the 14th floor at 10. "Sharp," Tommy said.

Billy nodded. He knew.

The woman called ahead on a cell phone, letting Helmut know they were on their way.

The elevators doors opened on the fourteenth floor to a roar: "Tommy K! Tommy K!" Helmut Knall stood at the vertex of a wedge cleared in the chanting crowd. They broke into howls, cheers and applause as Tommy stepped onto the floor.

Helmut held up his hands: "Quiet. Quiet everyone." The almost oppressive sound died in a wave extending from those around the TFOCC leader to the far reaches of the crowd. "We're going into Meeting Room A. I hope everyone can fit in. There won't be enough seats, but I'm sure you won't mind standing to hear a few words from our international president."

The crowd, a mixture of TFOCCers in windbreakers and jeans with blue ID badges and non-TFOCCers with red badges, including officials from Truckers locals in the Pittsburgh area and international officers and staffers, howled again, and began draining towards the meeting room, easing the congestion in the hallway. A line of sergeants at arms, several women among the usual towering musclemen herded the lingerers, towards Meeting Room A.

Helmut and Tommy met with a handshake and a light, perfunctory hug. "This was spontaneous. Didn't know when you were coming till I got the call a few minutes ago," Helmut said.

"We doing this instead of the dinner tonight?" Tommy asked, meaning to be facetious.

Helmut studied him for a moment before answering, a dramatic pause meant to be noticed. "These are the people who risked their asses campaigning for you in the 90 election. They've got some questions and a right to some answers."

"What?" Tommy said. He could see Helmut was pissed. The unanswered phone calls. The creation of the campaign organization for 1995 that didn't include his input. He knew any questions raised would be coming indirectly from Helmut, who was too much a master at orchestration to allow the time to be wasted with empty questions. "What's the problem?" Tommy repeated.

"I have no problems," Helmut said pointedly.

They walked past tables piled high with A TFOCCer for TOMMY K buttons, stickers, and shirts and piles of books for sale on union democracy, workplace strategies for stronger unions, 'The Miracle of 1990/how TFOCC toppled the Truckers old guard' by a City University of New York professor. The women sitting behind the tables beamed at Tommy. He shook hands with each.

In the meeting room, whose walls were decorated with TFOCCers for Tommy K posters, Helmut Knall said they were going to make this brief since Tommy would be speaking again at length tonight at the annual banquet. Tommy would speak for five minutes, then he would answer two questions, which Helmut would put to him.

Tommy gave a pitch expressing his gratitude to TFOCC for the organization's support in the 1990 election, and saying with a smile that his goal was to create a Truckers union with a culture of rank and file activism and democracy that would make an organization like TFOCC meaningless. The audience stood to applaud and cheer.

Helmut began speaking before the applause had died away. "Thank you President Kerrigan. You know, and I know and everyone in this room knows that the road to reform for a rank and file movement is like climbing a mountain the size of Mount Everest without the fancy equipment that keeps you warm and makes it easier to breath, and without someone else doing the heavy lifting for you because you got a lot of money and were born into the right family."

The audience applauded and laughed at that.

Displaying his abrupt style, Helmut went on, ignoring the crowd's approval, "I'm going to ask you the tough questions on the minds of many of those I have spoken to at this year's convention and in the weeks leading up it. Why Brother Kerrigan didn't you go out on the road to support the election of reformers in the local elections in December and are you going to campaign for reformers as delegates to the 1995 Truckers Convention in Los Angeles?"

"Helmut you and I, and maybe some others in this room, disagree about the international president getting involved in the locals. I am adamantly against a top-down union. No one should be telling the rank and file of a local who to elect. The rank and file elected my reform ticket. I'm confident that given the information and the opportunity, the rank and file will choose the right local leaders. We agree on the core issue that rank and file involvement and democracy is the answer." Again the audience applauded with enthusiasm.

Helmut looked at his watch. "We've spent enough time on this. Now let's all go directly to our workshops. We've got to keep to our schedule." He turned to Tommy. "Thank you President Kerrigan for your frank and informative remarks." He hurried off the platform.

A subdued Jack Egan was waiting at the back of the room with Billy, a half dozen international vice presidents, and three reporters, including Henri Maitlin Serre from the New York Globe, who had his overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Tommy shook hands all around, promising to give each vice president a few minutes privately in his suite before tonight's banquet. He bantered with the reporters, who asked perfunctory questions about the reelection campaign.

When they went up to the suite, Serre tagged along, saying he needed to ask Tommy a question for a story by one of the Globe's financial reporters. Tommy looked at Jack, who shrugged his shoulders. He caught himself clamping his teeth together, tension. The reporting pack that turned up for significant stories wasn't here. So why was Serre? He could see the unhappiness on Jack's face. Something was up.

A room service waiter knocked almost as soon as they closed the door behind them. He wheeled in a table, setting up a buffet of grilled cheese and ham sandwiches, pickles, bowls of potato salad and cole slaw, a bucket of ice with bottles of beer and mineral water, several pieces of cheese cake, and a carafe of coffee.

"Do you mind if we eat while we talk, Henri, I'm starved. Don't hesitate to grab a sandwich," Tommy said.

Serre smiled. "Croque Monsiuer. What tourists eat in Paris and presidents of the Truckers eat in Pittsburgh."

"Come again?"

"A Croque Monsiuer is what they called a grilled ham and cheese in France. You see piles of them in the cafes." Serre filled his plate, and like Billy, took a beer. Tommy and Jack Egan drank coffee with their food. They spent the time eating in small talk about the wintry day, the size of the convention. Serre asked if Tommy saw any significance in the declining numbers coming to TFOCC's annual conventions since the one in 1990. He said that Helmut Knall told him last week that he expected 1,000, and an inside source told him the number who showed up was closer to 750."

Tommy relaxed. "I don't have to tell you 1990 was a good year. I'm sure a lot of rank and filers turned out, because they knew TFOCC was backing me. A lot of good union men and women wanted to make sure the Truckers changed direction. That's been done. But I really don't want to talk about another organization's numbers. That's Helmut's sphere. I'm sure you know I'm not a member of TFOCC."

Serre took a pad and a small tape recorder from his bag.

"Why do I think the real question is going to come now?" Jack said. Tommy and Serre laughed. Billy was sitting with them, watching the door, but he was detached, as interested in his cole slaw as the conversation.

"The financial desk in New York asked me to ask you, Tommy, about your relationship with Ignatius M. O'Hara, the financier?"

"There's a story there. I knew him years ago, but then we lost touch. You know Iggy was once a member of my local, long before I took over. He worked in a grocery warehouse in the Bronx. Now look at him," Tommy said.

"Could you expand on your relationship with him through the years and currently?"

Jack interjected. "What's the story about?"

"Could you let Mr. Kerrigan answer the question," Serre said.

"I'd like to know what the story is about too?" Tommy said.

"I just know my paper is hot on this story. O'Hara could get himself indicted soon and your name has come up."

"What?" Tommy sprung to his feet. "I don't know what your story is, but I'll repeat we knew each other years ago. I didn't see O'Hara for 20 years, and then only when he pops up to congratulate me on my election." He was careful not to reveal that Iggy's last name in the old days was Mendez. Ignazio Mendez had somehow evolved into Ignatius M. O'Hara.

"No deals, no favors, no loans?"

"What are you talking about? If he walked in this room, I'd shake his hand and say, `How are you doing buddy.' Just like anyone else I've known. But the answer to your question is no. No dealings whatsoever."

"I told my office that's what you would say. I have to admit that when I was covering Steve Staski for a piece I'm doing on his campaign, he said he heard that you flew from St. Louis to New York on O'Hara's private jet."

"What bullshit. Why would I do that?"

"Lou Ramiglia, chairman of the Midwest Truckers Pension Fund, is based in St. Louis. Someone close to Staski told me you were down there discussing O'Hara's loans from the pension fund."

"I know nothing about O'Hara and the pension fund. What do I have to do with the pension fund?"

"I don't know. You tell me?"

"Nothing. I don't sit on that pension fund. And, Lou Ramiglia is one of the old guard from the get go. He ran for vice president on one of the old guard slates in 1990. Check it out."

"He's with you this time around, according to the Staski people."

Tommy turned to Jack. "Ramiglia? He tried to project an unawareness of Ramiglia's status, hoping his face didn't betray him.

"I'll have to check into it, but I will say that a lot of the old guarders are moving with the wind. The rank and file is supporting you, President Kerrigan, so they are going along, saying they're supporting your reforms, to save their asses in their local elections."

"Any other questions, fire away," Tommy said.

"No that's it."

"When's the story going to run?" Jack asked.

"When the reporting is done. I'm just asking a few questions to fill in the holes."

"Any time. We have nothing to hide," Tommy said, rising, a signal the interview was over.

"Has Iggy O'Hara been up to something with Ramiglia?" Tommy asked as soon Serre left.

"I know as much about it as you do," Jack said.

"Get on the horn and find out what's going on."

Tommy went into the bathroom to soak his back.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Billy Hurley and four sergeants at arms pressed a slow-moving path for Tommy K through the crowd outside the grand ballroom. Tommy shook the hands that reached through his phalanx. `God bless you' and `you got my vote' rained on him. "Thank you, brother. Thank you, sister," Tommy responded. "I love you," called a lithe woman with long black hair pulled back in a pony tail. She stood on a chair to reach over the heads of the entourage, her finger tips stretched towards him. He stopped grasping her hand.

"Campaigning in Colorado, 1990, dancing at the victory party," Tommy said, grinning

"I love you even more," Carolyn Gordon said laughing in the euphoria of being remembered. "I'm president of my local now," she shouted after him.

Tommy was exhilarated by the excitement around him, particularly hers. He had a clear memory of that woman: A succulent body in tight, worn jeans and a muscle shirt in southern Colorado early in the 1990 campaign. She was with her husband, Chick, a huge, bearded man in a TFOCC jacket handing out his literature amidst a throng of mostly Latino workers moving into a sprawling meat packing plant set on a dusty flatland. The sun was barely risen, but it was hot. She stopped to shake his hand, extending an olive arm decorated with a tattoo of a cherub in blue sitting on a fluffy cloud on her deltoid muscle. Then she trotted into the plant to punch in for work and Chick, a sociology professor, departed to teach his seminar class at Central Colorado College.

Tommy moved into the ballroom under a banner TFOCC 1994 Convention. As he entered, the lights went down, and a spotlight shown on him. Almost at the same moment, Jack Egan, on the dais at the far end of the room, strummed his guitar. "Everyone sing," he shouted into the mike over the cheers and chants of Tommy K. His voice boomed the opening words: "We're gonna roll! Come on. Everyone sing." And, the crowd joined in,

"We're gonna roll

"We're gonna roll

"Gonna roll Tommy K on.

"We're gonna roll

"We're gonna roll

"Gonna roll Tommy K on.

"Sing the new verse after me," Jack roared,

"If Little Stevie gets in the way

"We're gonna roll right over him."

They roared with laughter and sang:

"If Little Stevie gets in the way

"We're gonna roll right over him.

"We're gonna roll Tommy K on."

Tommy reached the podium as the words died away. He clasped his hands over his head, wringing them in the sign of victory. Cameras flashed. The audience roared.

Helmut Knall, wearing his old Truckers Local 2714 jacket, stepped forward beside Tommy. Helmut held up his hands for silence. "Thank you for joining us President Kerrigan. We've got a lot to celebrate tonight. Three years of good, honest unionism. Great strides but so much more to do. We had some wonderful victories in the December elections." He waved his hand to the wall behind him, drawing their eyes to 13 outsize banners, strung the width of the platform, the banners of the locals captured by TFOCCers in the elections. "A lot to celebrate, but so much more to do," Helmut said. Then he went into the mechanics of the evening. There were seats for only 500, but standees were to be allowed to line the perimeter of the room after dinner was served to give them the chance to see and cheer Tommy K.

More songs were sung. The newly-elected presidents of the 13 locals were introduced. Most were men, three blacks and a Latino among them. Three were women, including a black woman concrete-mix truck driver. She spoke briefly. Fiery words that brought everyone to their feet cheering. The raffle tickets for a 32-inch TV with a VCR were sold from table to table while the main course was being eaten.

With dessert Tommy rose to speak. He praised them for what they had done for him in 1990 and since, listing the Truckers' achievements in his administration in organizing and contract victories and the unprecedented status of the union with an image of being the cutting edge of the labor movement instead of a sinkhole of corruption. He compared himself to Little Stevie. He served in the Airborne, he sweated and broke his back, literally, in a grocery warehouse, he wrested a major New York City local from the mob and showed the nation how a Truckers local should be run. With their support he won the presidency of the Truckers, and together they had shown the labor movement how an international union should be run. "Little Stevie played his father in the movies and now in the campaign. He's such a good actor; let's send him back to the stage where he belongs."

The crowd laughed and cheered.

"I'll need your help in 95. Are you with me?" Tommy yelled.

"Tommy K!" the crowd roared back.

After the banquet, a glowing Tommy K went back to his suite. Jack got on the phone to check with New York. The Sunday edition of The Globe had rolled off the presses without any mention of the Truckers. That was a relief. Billy Hurley broke open a bottle of Powers. Tommy shucked his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and kicked off his shoes. Jack and three of the international vice presidents, none of them members of TFOCC joined them, drinking and joking. No one talked about the campaign or the union, even though they were riding the titillation of the triumphant banquet.

They were into the second bottle when Helmut Knall, showed up with a woman, who wore a little lipstick, but no other make up, grey hair cut a mannish short, in a TFOCC windbreaker and jeans. She was carrying a large, thick manila envelope. He introduced her around. His wife, Judy Heilbuch. Both took glasses of Powers on the rocks.

"You give great banquet," Jack Egan said with a grin.

Helmut, offering his usual poker face, nodded, "Mmmmmh."

Tommy chatted awkwardly about Pittsburgh, the winter weather, memories of Helmut standing up at the 1975 Truckers Convention to announce his program to reform the union, drawing boos and derisive laughter from the old guard delegates. "I wonder if they're laughing now," Tommy said.

Helmut got up. "I don't like to be rude, but I have something important to discuss with President Kerrigan. Could you gentlemen excuse us."

Judy Heilbuch handed him the envelope. "I'd better go too."

One of the vice presidents stood. The others remained seated, looking to Tommy for a signal.

"Couldn't this wait till tomorrow, or some day next week in my office?" Tommy asked.

"No," Helmut said.

"What's it about?"

"I'd prefer talking to you alone."

"What's it about?" Tommy said emphatically. Annoyed.

"The campaign."

"Anything you tell me, I would pass on to the people here. They're all on my slate. Jack's my campaign coordinator."

"Honey, would you get out the figures," Helmut said handing the envelope back to Judy.

She extracted the contents, unfolding a thick packet of paper like a road map, three sheets wide, two deep, exposing a chart that began in 1990 and dropped steadily down to 1994.

Helmut said looking at Tommy: "In 1990, Truckers Fighting Organized Crime & Corruption had 14,285 members out of 1.6-million Truckers. At our `90 convention, we had 2,000 participants. In 1994, TFOCC has shrunk to 12,142 members, 85 per cent of the 1991 level for a combination of reasons: the romance of resistance has diminished, Tommy K incessantly says he is creating a union that doesn't need a TFOCC. Some think their goal of an honest union has been achieved. Others see that barely any TFOCCers were taken on the international staff."

Tommy interjected, "I didn't think your people were in it for patronage."

"They're not. But they're truck drivers and factory workers, and some of them wouldn't mind a piece of the pie. Especially when they're qualified. Especially when they're dedicated. Especially when they see people who didn't do a fucking thing to elect you get those nice jobs."

Judy reached over, a calming touch on Helmut's arm. Tommy stood ready to dismiss him.

"Hear me out President Kerrigan. I have something important to say." Tommy looked him in the eye, challenging, expressing his own anger.

Helmut continued: "This weekend, at this 1994 convention, we have 750 participants. We don't have as many members, and we have some pissed off activists. I'm talking to you about people who risked their asses for you when you didn't have a chance of winning. The question now is will they get out and work for you, or say, fuck it he doesn't need us. He doesn't give a shit about us."

"That's not what I heard downstairs," Tommy said.

"Oh, the TFOCCers will vote for you. You certainly got the vote of everyone in that room. What I'm concerned about it whether they're going to go out and break their asses for you. I'm more than concerned. I don't think they will."

"I never liked the fucking TFOCCers and I think their esteemed leader is full of shit," one of the vice presidents said.

"Is this about the December elections?" Jack asked.

"Yes, and the delegate election next February. Some reformers lost big locals by less than 100 votes in December. Tommy K could have turned those elections around by campaigning for them. Or maybe just openly endorsing them."

Tommy spoke. Carefully. Coldly. "I've told you before. The tradition in this union is the international president doesn't interfere in the locals' internal politics. And, I'm not going to do it."

"The power in this international union rests in the locals. We got the top offices by accident. You're a wildcard President Kerrigan. A fluke. You don't have a base of reformed locals out there. You have old guarders just waiting for the chance to rip your balls off."

"What about my friends. Are you waiting to rip my balls off too?"

"I'm not going to predict what the participants in the convention will do tomorrow, but I'll tell you I'm recommending that TFOCC endorses you," Helmut said.

"I didn't think there was any question about that," Jack said.

"I know advice is a sour pill, but my advice to you is you start campaigning for the reform delegates in next February's election tomorrow and for your reelection at the same time. The two are a package."

"You don't have to tell us how to run a campaign," Jack said.

"Hold it Jack," Tommy said. "I want Helmut to know that I'm not going to campaign for slates of delegates in February. People can run saying they'll support me at the convention. That's how it should be. I plan to begin my reelection campaign the week after the convention in Los Angeles. Jack and I and my reelection committee worked out that strategy after giving it a lot of thought."

"Steve Staski has been on the campaign trail for a year. Every weekend and sometimes during the week too."

"And he's going to lose," Jack said.

"Let's go Judy."

Billy Hurley walked them to the door, closing it behind them. He turned to the now silent gathering. "The wicked witch of the North," he said to a roomful of laughter.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

On Wednesday night, Tommy was pulled from a comfortable doze in front of the television in his Georgetown house by the clang of the telephone. "Yeah," he said into the phone.

"Tommy. This is Iggy."

"Yeah," Tommy said, covering his surprise with a monosyllabic answer. Only Billy Hurley, Martha Nez, and Jack Egan had this number. "Jack give you the number?"

"I squeezed it out of him," Iggy said with an empty laugh. "He said you wanted to talk to me, man."

"We heard you were in a bit of trouble, and somehow my name came up."

"That's really why I called. Just wanted to say I was sorry about that."

"About what?" Tommy asked.

"St. Louis."

"Iggy for Christ's sake. I don't know what you're talking about. Keep me out of this."

"I wish I could Tommy."

"Tell me who you were talking to and what you said."

"You'll find out soon enough, Tommy." There was sorrow in his voice.

"When's all this gonna happen, Iggy?"

"Tomorrow. The next day. Maybe next month. Who knows with the feds. They take their own sweet time."

Tommy slammed down the phone. The son of a bitch. He called Jack Egan. After three rings, the answering machine came on. He slammed the phone down. He didn't talk to answering machines.

After a restless night, Tommy arrived at the Golden Terminal to fidget until Jack appeared in the office. Tommy told him of Iggy's cryptic apology and reference to St. Louis. "Call Lou Ramiglia find out if Iggy has borrowed from Midwest States, what for, and how much?"

Later in the afternoon, Jack reported that Midwest States held $100 million in Iggy's Cordite Holding Corporation bonds secured by maritime assets, and Iggy was negotiating to borrow another $250 million to build a Panamax in an American shipyard."

"What the hell is a Panamax?" Tommy asked.

"That was my reaction. I'm told a Panamax is the largest ship that can fit through the Panama Canal. Iggy's holding company has a fleet of Panamaxes, all built in Korean or Chinese shipyards, flying Liberian flags with Chinese or whatever crews. Iggy offered to build American and crew American if Midwest States put up the seed money and other union pension funds came up with the rest."

"What did Ramiglia say about this?"

"I've called and called. Left messages with his secretary, with his beeper. No response."

"Has Iggy defaulted on the loans?" Tommy asked, dreading the answer. Midwest States had been under a court monitorship for ten years because the fund had become a piggy bank for the mob with a couple of hundred million lost in loans on worthless properties. The international president didn't control the fund, but everyone thought he did.

"There were payments due on two of the bonds in December and January. Iggy said he had run into a cash-flow problem, an aftermath of the recession of `91." Jack hesitated. Then went on: "The fund administrator said FBI agents came around last December to look go over those loans. Ramiglia gave them permission and ordered the fund administrator to keep his mouth shut."

"So why did he tell you?"

"He hears Ramiglia's been arrested."

"Jesus."

The story of Ignatius M. O'Hara double-crossing the Manhattan U.S. Attorney, slipping away from FBI agents through an elaborate scheme involving a secreted helicoptor and a freighter waiting off Long Island, was in every major newspaper Friday morning. The most comprehensive account was in The New York Globe, whose reporters had been working on it for over a year under the headline, Financier Flees, with a subhead: the biggest Ponzi scheme ever?

The U.S. Attorney called a press conference to announce that O'Hara had been deemed a fugitive after running instead of living up to a commitment to plead guilty to a sheaf of crimes including bribing pension fund and bank officials, securities fraud, mail fraud, and inducing others to lie to a grand jury. The U.S. Attorney was going to recommend a maximum sentence of 10 years in prison and a $5 million fine in return for O'Hara testifying against the highest-level officials of an unnamed union and for cooperating in the recovery of many millions of dollars stashed in numbered accounts and bank safety deposit vaults overseas. Interpol and the United States Navy had been alerted to be on the watch for O'Hara and the TeeTee III, the ship that carried him and his helicoptor away.

The Globe story said that a half dozen of the newspaper's financial writers began delving into the business empire of Ignatius M. O'Hara, whom they discovered was once known as Ignazio Mendez O'Hara, after one of the paper's travel writers, in 1992, saw the TeeTee III, an oversize cargo ship with a huge rust stain in the shape of the state of Texas in the Panama Canal that struck her as the most debilitated commercial vessel she had ever seen and she had spent a long career trekking the world's oceans. She managed to board the ship, speaking to the captain and the cook, both Chinese like the rest of the crew. The TeeTee III sailed under the Liberian flag. Out of curiosity, she tracked ownership of the TeeTee III to Dauntless Seafarers Shipping Company, a subsidiary of the Cordite Holding Corp.

Back in New York, the travel writer asked a friend who worked for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey to give her a call if the TeeTee III ever came into New York Harbor. Almost a year later, her phone rang. "Hey, a ship with a similar name to the one you're looking for is being unloaded over in Jersey as we speak. I'll tell you, it looks almost diseased."

She drove to the container port in New Jersey. To her surprise, she found the cadaverous ship with the same state of Texas shape showing through a thin layer of paint. But name identified her as the TeeTee IV. With the help of a Longshoremen's union business agent, she got aboard the ship, where she discovered the same captain and cook that she met in Panama. The captain, who had spoken English in Panama suddenly spoke only Chinese in New Jersey when she asked him bluntly what was going on?

The travel writer confronted the chairman and CEO of Cordite Holding, Ignatius M. O'Hara, a man with a bloated face and a ready smile, in his beautifully-appointed Fifth Avenue office. He insisted on leading her on a tour around the room whose walls were lined with large photos of O'Hara posing with President George Bush on a golf outing, with John Cardinal O'Connor at the annual Lincoln Day Dinner, with Mayor David Dinkins in the Puerto Rican Day Parade, with Jackie O at a fund raiser, with Gen. Colin Powell at NYU's graduation ceremonies in Washington Square Park, with President Bill Clinton on a yacht in the Potomac. He described each event at which the pictures were taken, emphasizing that he gave to the GOP and the Democrats and an array of charitable and environmental causes. He said he supported Bush in 1988, and Clinton in 1992. "And their opponents. Always hedge my bets." Both times he flew to Washington in his private jet to attend the winner's inaugural events. Finally squeezing in her question, she asked him to explain the two names on the same ship, with the same markings and crew. He smiled. "You're mistaken. I'll bet you were transfixed by Harriett the Spy when you were a little girl." She bristled and in a show of salving her anger and proving his innocence, smiling amiably all the while, O'Hara offered to provide a list of the upcoming ports of call of the TeeTee III and the TeeTee IV so that she could arrange to have reporters in different places, or perhaps the port authorities, examine the two ships on the same day. She accepted his offer. He said he would get his staff on the project immediately. Then he insisted she lunch with him as a quid pro quo. She demurred. "No lunchee, no shipees," he said easily. She agreed to have lunch.

O'Hara led her into his private dining room, adjoining his office. "I have a marvelous chef," he said. He took her on another tour, of the walls of the dining room, lined with stunning photos of Mont San Michel. "They were done especially for me by the famous photographer, Alice Carroll," O'Hara said.

The story noted that Alice was married to Truckers union international president Tommy Kerrigan, who admitted knowing O'Hara for decades, saying he was once a member of his local in Queens, but denied any knowledge of the notorious Midwest States Pension Fund's investments in bonds issued by Cordite Holding's subsidiaries. O'Hara never produced the promised schedule of port calls by his ships.

The Globe's investigative team digging into O'Hara's operations discovered the FBI and SEC had probes underway, while he and his companies had been sued numerous times over the sale of securities in 17 different states. O'Hara quickly settled the civil suits, and aggressively fought the criminal investigations. A hint from an FBI agent, confirmed by sources in the Truckers union, who provided documentation, surfaced the five $20 million loans, secured by Cordite Holding's fleet of five foreign-crewed and built Panamaxes, and the proposal to borrow another $250 million to build a Panamax in an American shipyard.

The story raised the question of whether Cordite Holding actually owned four Panamaxes, or just one, which would mean the Midwest States had a $100 million in maritime bonds backed by ghost assets. A Senate Investigations Committee staffer said that with $12.6 billion in assets, Midwest States could easily have covered up the loss of $100 million if the Globe hadn't uncovered the ghost ship scam. He said his committee would certainly be investigating the matter.

FBI sources and SEC documents, for a tentative civil suit yet to be filed, alleged, from 1981 to 1993, Cordite Holdings and its associated companies had sold $830 million in bonds and notes to mutual funds, union and corporate pension plans, and several thousands individual investors. An SEC source said Cordite Holdings books were so convoluted, the agency was uncertain of the size of the company's assets, but clearly there wasn't enough in the till to cover anywhere near the $700 million still outstanding in bonds and notes. A Columbia Business School professor speculated that O'Hara needed the $250 million loan from the Truckers Midwest States Pension Fund to keep what appeared to be one of the biggest Ponzi schemes in history rolling.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

MARCH, 1994

Jack Egan walked into Tommy's office at 8 o'clock with two folders, one blue the other red. He put them on the floor next to the table in the alcove, waiting until Martha Nez and her assistant laid out the plates for the Danish pastries and poured the coffee.

"What's up?" Tommy asked, picking at a cheese Danish.

Jack stood. He was in a jovial mood. Smiling, he rolled up his shirt sleeves. "Very big doings Mr. President. I'm about to unveil plans for two related projects dealing with highly significant elections for Congress in November and for international president of the Truckers Union next year." He held up the two folders: "Operation Big Seed" on the blue one, and "Operation Red Diaper" on the red one. "My code name for the two projects is Early Bird."

He explained that he had been reading a great deal on the mechanics of political campaigns, not only because he had devoted his career to winning elections, but particularly because of the upcoming 1994 Congressional elections and Tommy's 1995 presidential election would be so important to the Truckers and the entire American labor movement.

"How are they related?" Tommy asked.

"Labor law reform, especially outlawing permanent replacement of strikers and putting some teeth in the law to punish employers for firing pro-union workers during organizing campaigns, and curtailing NAFTA and the export of American jobs. I could go on and on. But that's what we need a friendly Congress for."

"We got Clinton elected, and he hasn't done us much good. And he hasn't got any real excuse. The Democrats control Congress."

"Can you just imagine the right wing Republican crazies controlling the House and Senate? We'd look back upon this era as Camelot." Jack said in reading political journals he came across an article describing the phenomenal impact of Involved Voters of America on two House elections in `92, spending $100,000 in each district for a get-out-the-vote drive that swung both elections to Democrats even though the polls showed the Republican candidates were ahead, one in Texas and another in Arizona. "I did a little research and their performance was spectacular. IV America has 400,000 members, tree huggers and social do gooders in local chapters all over the country, so they have a pool of volunteers to draw on. But what really impressed me was the cost of the phone banks to turn out the voters, a mix of blacks, Latinos, environmentalists and all-round liberals. Broke down to 59 cents a call versus $1.18 a call in seven other 1992 House elections. The Truckers Political Action Committee gave IV America $40,000 in 1992 and the AFL gave them $130,000."

"What's this leading up to?"

"Three million dollars."

"What?"

"The biggest lump sum ever given by a union to a non-partisan, non-profit grassroots civic action organization. We don't make any big announcement until after the election so the right wingers can't grab it as an issue. You know, big labor buying the election. Just give IV America the money. They've got a proven track record. They put their effort in marginal races, where they can make a difference."

"And what do the Truckers get out of this?"

"After the election, the Democrats elected to Congress will be told in no uncertain terms who they should be grateful to. And I wouldn't be surprised if Asa Hackett, the executive director of IV America, let some of the rich liberals who are on his fund raising lists know that contributing a little something to the Tommy K 95 Reelection Campaign would be the same as giving to IV America, meaning underwriting someone who is crucial to promoting a progressive, pro-worker, pro-environment agenda for this country."

Environment. Tommy had never envisioned himself as an environmentalist. He had never thought about the subject. Clean air. Clean water.

Jack picked up the Operation Blue Seed folder. He began laying out reprints of articles and charts showing the success of IV America in registering and turning out voters in the two Congressional districts in the 1992 election along with data on the typical budget in a House or Senate election, the anticipated contested races in the 1994 election, and summaries of IV America's strategies for each of the 30 elections where the Truckers' contributions would be applied. He looked up: "$3 million means going into 30 races, and Asa thinks we can be the winning edge in each one of them."

Tommy picked up a clipping from The New York Globe. He glanced through the long article on the tremendous impact Hackett's do-good organization, Involved Voters of America, had on the 1992 presidential election using a lean budget and large numbers of volunteers to turn out record numbers of minorities and environmentalists in two Southern states. The Clinton campaign professionals praised Hackett effusively.

"Asa is waiting outside right now. I asked him to drop by to meet you and be ready to answer any questions you might have." He stepped to the door: "Martha could you bring Mr. Hackett in."

Asa Hackett, tall as a basketball player and walking at a stoop, lurched into Tommy's office with his hand extended from the moment he passed through the door. "I am so thrilled to meet you at last," Hackett said shaking Tommy's hand with an exaggerated vigor. His voice was soft and cultured. He wore a rust-colored clothe vest over a taupe workshirt and tan corduroy pants with brown Justin Roper boots. His long black and gray hair hung loose around his shoulders, his face was leathery from too much sun.

Martha followed him into the room with a tray of fresh coffee and pastries. Jack shifted the charts and papers on the table to make room.

"The day you were elected President Kerrigan, I said to my wife, Amy, `Tommy Kerrigan is labor's phoenix. Mark my words this man is capable of reawakening the progressives in labor. He can heal the divisions of the 60s, I can sense it.'"

Tommy enjoyed the compliment. He had come to expect such accolades in first encounters with rank and file activists and Lefties of all stripes. He liked the enthusiasm Hackett exuded.

Tommy filled the cups with coffee as Jack and Hackett settled into their chairs. Hackett chewed into a raspberry Danish. "Didn't have time for breakfast this morning. Had to see Lane Kirkland's political honchos."

Jack shook his head. "Asa wouldn't tell you this Tommy, but the AFL still doesn't get it. They offered to fund him same money as `92 despite IV America's performance. He managed to get them to raise their ante a bit."

"How much did they come up with?" Tommy asked.

"Two-hundred thousand for 1994," Hackett said. He talked with food in his mouth. "Of course, I said, `Thank you very much.' I'm afraid Lane Kirkland and the people around him don't have your vision, Mr. Kerrigan. They don't seem to understand that organized labor is engaged in a war for survival, and perhaps the most important battle in that war is for control of Washington. The mid-term election is just eight months away and we need to know the level of our financing so we can lay out a plan of action and proceed with it. I can't put in words how crucial your help would be in staving off Republican control of the Congress."

"Even though $3 million is an incredible sum of money for a union, it's nothing alongside what big business can pump into the Republicans," Jack said.

"Don't forget small businesses and rich old ladies who clip coupons, and the Wall Streeters. Put them all together Mr. Kerrigan, and they have untold millions of dollars to give. What we have is the potential of millions of little people who will vote for what is good and right for this country. Only they have to be informed. They have to be electrified. They have to be made part of the process. Think of the $3 million as planting seeds whose harvest will be a better America and a stronger labor movement," Hackett said. He looked into Tommy's eyes with a fierce sincerity.

"You're talking to the converted," Tommy said.

"I know. You should hear me when I'm proselytizing," Hackett said filling the room with his laughter. He stood up reaching out to take Tommy's hand. "We have a deal then. A quid pro quo of sorts."

"You have a track record. Jack thinks the world of you. If you deliver, I think it will be money well spent."

"You can count on IV America, Mr. Kerrigan. And you can be certain we'll spread the word among our friends that a progressive administration at the top of the Truckers is vital for a revived American labor movement."

"I appreciate that," Tommy said politely.

CHAPTER THIRTY

JUNE, 1994

The ache in his lower back gripped Tommy again. He swung his legs onto the floor, tortured by the movement. He turned off the alarm. Bibi slipped out of her side of the bed, immediately putting on her black velvet bathrobe, running her fingers through her short, white hair. "Your back?"

He seethed. "What the fuck do you think it is?"

Bibi stiffened. "That's not necessary. Do you want me to run you a hot bath?"

He was on his feet, breathing hard, dreading the short walk to the bathroom. After he urinated, he washed his hands, and took two Doan's back pills. He was shaving when Bibi knocked, opened the door without his response and brushed past him in the tiny bathroom. "Jesus," he shouted, "Don't walk behind when I'm shaving. I could slash my face."

"Come on," she responded with as much fury in her voice as his. He stared at her in silence. She turned on the taps, letting the water run to hot, testing it with her wrist. With the tub filling, she turned to him: "I know you have a bad back, but that doesn't give you the right to use foul language in my house."

"Your house?"

"Yes. I'd suggest you see a doctor."

"I'm not going to let some hack cut me."

"Don't dismiss the notion that all this pain is psychosomatic."

"What?"

"Yeah. In your head. The stress you are under coming out in your body."

"What bullshit," he said, purposely to annoy her.

"Tommy, I don't need this. I love you, and I'm fully aware that pain makes life not worth living, but deal with your pain instead of bitching at me."

He responded with a sour laugh.

"You're right. I shouldn't have said that. Ugliness is catching. Life with Jerome got very ugly after he had his heart attack and thought he was going to die. He was one of those why-me people. He whined all the time."

"Are you telling me I'm a whiner?"

"I'm telling you I realize you're miserable, but don't try to make me miserable too. Now I'm moving past you."

He wasn't certain whether she was just warning him that she was passing him on her way back to the bedroom or whether she was announcing the end of their relationship. He said, "I love you" to her back.

The bath and the pills eased the pain enough to make dressing relatively easy. She wasn't in the kitchen or the livingroom. She had gone out without taking a bath, without even brushing her teeth. He considered clearing his underwear and socks and shirts and shaving kit and other things out of the apartment. Just leaving the key on the little table overlooking Madison Avenue. That passed. He had a sinking feeling that his short temper had ruined the connection between them. He took the little elevator down to the restaurant. She was in the kitchen working with the early man, preparing the food for the day to come. Helping him to unpack the fish and vegetables. Getting the sauces on for the lunchtime specials. He waited until she saw him. "I love you," he said.

She squeezed his hand. "Remember that."

He walked through the fresh June morning to Park Avenue and 94th Street to wait until Billy Hurley showed up with the car.

Billy arrived with his lips pressed together. He handed him a copy of The New York Account folded to the Bohemian Bits column. "More shit?" Tommy asked.

"Fraid so."

Tommy read the item:

Look for Truckers president Tommy Kerrigan, cuckolded hubbie of famed photographa Alice Carroll, to take a big fall in the upcoming Truckers elections. The guys who drive the big rigs don't like Reds. And!!! The Senate Investigations subcommittee is getting reddy to look into accusations that runaway financial rip-off artist Iggy O'Hara (real name Mendez) was acting on orders from Moscow when he planted the bomb back in 1971 that gave Tommy's union career a big boost.

AND!!! Truckers' insiders say we should keep our eyes peeled (heh, heh) for a red hot exposure of the artsy Alice.

Tommy called Martha Nez at home instructing her to have Jack Egan, Sylvia Baya, his public affairs aide, and Doris Harian, the Truckers General Counsel, in his office as soon as he reached Washington. Egan wasn't available—the answering machine for his home phone carried a message saying he would be out of touch until further notice.

Sylvia and Doris had seen the Bohemian Bits column. Doris said she was on the phone moments ago with the Senate Investigation subcommittee's chief counsel, who told her the item in the Bohemian Bits column wasn't true.

"What's this reference to Alice mean? The red hot exposure?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea, but we have to assume Bobby Bell is behind the whole thing," Sylvia said.

"I can't believe Bobby Bell has that much influence," Doris said.

"Believe it," Sylvia replied.

Packages containing two black and white prints of a nude Alice Carroll in France, cameras slung round her neck, face serious, studying her subject somewhere over the shoulder of the unseen photographer, laughing gaily with head thrown back, mouth wide open as she delicately adjusts a long lens on a tripod-mounted with Mont San Michel in the background, began arriving in mailboxes that day. Amidst snickers and snide jokes they were passed from hand to hand around newspaper city rooms, among television crews, and in Truckers local union halls all over the country. A single sheet of paper accompanied the pictures, saying in large and small colored letters, as though clipped and pieced together from magazines: "COO COO Kerrigan's wife FROLICKS in France. WHO paid her TAB?" In tiny print across the bottom of the sheet: "pass the pinups and the question on."

A messenger service delivered a ten by 13-inch envelope and a five-foot by six-foot crate, both with ALICE stenciled in large print, both addressed to Tommy K at the Golden Terminal. The guard at the front desk called Martha Nez, who had seen the nudes earlier in the day, and realized this must be more of the same as soon as the envelope and crate were described to her. She called Sylvia Baya to ask her what to do?

"In one sense, this makes life easier. I've been sitting here for an hour wracking my brains for the right way to show Tommy the pictures. I've a blitz of media calls, including one from Stark, the godawful tabloid. They're going to print them. They'll be at the checkout counters this Friday, and there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it."

"Oh, God," Martha sighed.

"I'll be right over," Sylvia said with resignation.

A pair of maintenance workers clad in royal blue shirts and trousers waited with the crate in the anteroom outside the President's Office. Sylvia knocked on the door and led them into the room.

Tommy rose, standing behind his desk expectantly.

She handed him the envelope and instructed the maintenance workers to jimmy open the crate, then leave.

Tommy waited until they closed the door behind them to tear open the envelope. The photos of Alice jolted him. Suddenly, he realized he was sitting. Shaken. Humiliated. There was an unsigned letter inside extolling the virtuous lives of the wives of all of the Truckers presidents who preceded him, describing them as dedicated helpmates, who raised the children and stood behind their hard-working husbands. The letter ended with "Coo Coo Kerrigan, don't you think it's time to quit for the good of the Truckers?"

"They're all over the country," Sylvia said, the words sounding so ugly as they flowed from her mouth.

Tommy stripped away a covering in the crate of white butcher's paper stenciled with "going away present" to uncover two framed, glass-covered blow-ups of the nude Alice. He couldn't speak. He waved Sylvia out of the room, and sat brooding, his mind an unfocused jumble of imaginary confrontations and revenges against Bobby Bell and his stooge, Steve Staski.

He dialed Alice's private number in New York. He was determined to be calm, to ask her how the pictures came to be taken, to ask what she expected to say to their children.

Her assistant answered. Alice was in Peru shooting a portfolio of Machu Picchu. She would be out of touch, in South America then the South Pacific and New Zealand for three months or more. He took the blowups out of the frames and fed them, along with the smaller pictures, into the shredding machine next to his desk.

He went home early, spending the evening into late night with an underlying dread scanning the news stations, failing to find any mention of the pictures. That night he dreamt of Alice: they were in bed together in heavy pajamas. He slipped his hand under her shirt to cup her breast, then quickly withdrew his hand, as though burned, turning onto his side, creating a distance between them. He was flooded with shame at the thought that this woman next to him in the bed was his sister, and he had violated the strictest of taboos by touching her. He awoke breathing hard, realizing the woman in his dream was his wife. He felt his entire body, whose every muscle had clenched, ease into a wonderful relaxation. He slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the office, Tommy read through piles of mail and staff reports. He went through every page of the daily media clips and the broadcast transcripts file put together by the communications department. Nothing about the pictures of Alice. That was a relief. He was hungry at noon. He hadn't had supper last night, or breakfast this morning. Martha brought him a tray of grilled cheese and ham sandwiches with a pot of Irish breakfast tea from the cafeteria along with a thick pile of phone messages and memos from staffers requesting time with him. He ate then went through the messages--calls from every international vice president; Helmut Knall from TFOCC: Solidarity brother. Pls call. Two calls from Bibi. A dozen local presidents, some allies, some enemies, had called.

He called Bibi. She burst into tears, telling him a package had been delivered to the restaurant with the photos of Alice. She said that she was terrified that she would be the next target. A chill passed through Tommy. He thought he had been so careful in his encounters with Bibi that no one knew about their affair. Now he wondered. "Promise me you'll call up whoever is doing this and tell them to keep me out of it," Bibi demanded.

Tommy replied that the flyers were being sent from an anonymous source, presumably Bobby Bell and Steve Staski.

"Tell them you'll kick their asses if they involve me."

"I just can't do that," he said, without going into the long explanation that a criminal charge could be brought against him for even the threat of violence.

"Then I don't want to see you until all of this is over," she said and slammed down her phone.

The next flyer, mailed from Seattle, was headlined GAY BLADE: The text said that 35 years after he was born to Tommy K and his artsy playgirl wife, Alice Carroll, Roger Kerrigan, who lives in Keene, N.H., is still unmarried. That doesn't mean he is gay, the flyer said, noting that he never went to college and is a self-employed carpenter/wood carver. He carved a Chrysler Building, two-feet tall and in precise detail, from a single block of cherry wood, for Alice. She has it on a table in the corner of her Soho loft. The Chrysler Building is Alice Carroll's favorite phallic symbol, the flyer said. What a strange family.

Tommy called Roger immediately. His son sounded so embarrassed and depressed that it frightened him. Roger said the flyer would be easier to take if he hadn't broken up with his girlfriend two months ago, and currently had a buddy from Boston, an out-of-work construction worker, living with him. He was glad that wasn't in the flyer. "What an ugly world we live in, Daddy," Roger said in parting.

He called his daughter, Alicia. After their mutual commiseration, he forewarned her that if the old guarders were willing to lie about Roger, she could be next on the smear list.

"Daddy, Charlie and I have a good life together. We go to communion together every Sunday. The kids are doing well in school. We don't even have any debts to speak of, and our neighbors love us. What are they going to say?" "Whatever they want to," Tommy said.

Tommy's next call was to Helmut Knall at TFOCC. He asked Helmut if he could resurrect the story in the next issue of TFOCC's newspaper or maybe an election bulletin that Steamer Staski's murder on the picket line stemmed from a dispute over his wife's affair with a mobster not the Truckers contract.

"Sure we could do that," Helmut said.

Tommy said he was going to have his election committee put together everything he could on Bobby Bell's father and grandfather with their mob ties. Let the members know why Bell was so intent on getting him. He would have someone dig into Steve Staski's past marriages and divorces. He was sure there would be plenty of embarrassing material there.

"A shit fight of sorts. They throw shit. You throw some back," Helmut said.

Tommy said he had to do something.

"I really don't believe anyone gives a rat's ass about Mrs. Kerrigan getting her picture taken, or precisely when your son was born, and whether another son prefers boys or girls. The old guarders are looking at that stuff and either laughing or saying I don't want to be associated with such shit."

Then why are they doing it? Tommy asked.

"To distract you from what's important. To make their dirty-minded friends feel good. To say we're putting it to that straight-laced asshole who wants to reform our union by taking away our perks. You want to really hurt them Tommy get out and campaign for the pro-Kerrigan, pro-reform delegates in the February elections.

"I told you that the president of the Truckers doesn't get involved in local politics."

"All politics is local. Didn't some wise man say that," Helmut said.

Tommy said he would appreciate his help, and said goodbye. He wished he didn't have to deal with Helmut.

Next he told Martha to track down Jack Egan, to have him meet him at the Kerrigan 95 Reelection office. He wanted to get the ball rolling on the counterattack. Martha tried, but couldn't reach Egan anywhere. He hadn't been in his office at the Golden Terminal all week. He didn't answer his page, or his cell phone. His answering machine still carried the message that he would be out of touch until further notice.

On Tuesday morning, the day after the long Fourth of July weekend, long before the letter carriers in Washington and elsewhere made their rounds, flyers with a picture of Bibi's restaurant, Lucien's, over the headline, TOMMY K SLEPT HERE, again and again, were slipped into mail boxes and under the doors or taped to the entrances of the shops and restaurants along Madison Avenue for a block on either side of Lucien's. The flyer said that while the famous photographer Alice Carroll was posing jaybird naked in France and dancing around the world with her camera, her husband, Tommy K was playing honeymoon with millionairess Bibi Goldman, who plays at being an Upper East Side restaurateur. She doesn't have to work for a living. She has a multi-millionaire husband, Jerome Goldman, who conveniently lives in a beach house in faraway Argentina.

Bibi closed Lucien's that morning. She hung a sign in the window: "Closed forever. I'll miss cooking for you."

She was on a plane to Buenos Aires that night.

Instead of spending the Fourth of July watching the Macy's fireworks with Bibi as she wanted, Tommy had flown to the West Coast to fulfill his promise to Giles McGraw to be at his local's annual picnic. The event was a major celebration of McGraw's miraculous victory in ousting Frank O'Toole from the presidency of Truckers Film and Entertainment Local 3327. He announced to the cheers of the Local 3327 members that he was inviting McGraw to run as an international vice president on his ticket in the 1995 election.

As he was walking with Billy Hurley towards the American Airlines counter the next morning at LAX, a beefy man wearing a royal blue windbreaker with the Local 3327 logo, thrust a white business envelope into his hand while saying, "Frankie O'Toole wanted you to see this."

Tommy was drinking a glass of orange juice in his business class seat when he opened the envelope to find the TOMMY K SLEPT HERE flyer. "Those bastards," he said aloud. His distress was so blindingly immediate that he handed the flyer to Billy, who looked at it without saying anything. "I shouldn't have been surprised," he said to Billy.

He sat for a while in silence, then picked up the phone to make the first of a series of unanswered phone calls to Bibi spanning the next three days. That Friday, Tommy ordered his scheduled trips to Atlanta and Miami for rank and file Meet Your President meetings cancelled. As the shuttle carried him from Washington, DC towards New York, Tommy mused that he would be able to tell Bibi he was putting her before the union, something he had never done for Alice and even his kids. There had been so many interrupted family vacations, barbeques, school plays, birthdays, and dinners because of union meetings, negotiations, and a long list of urgencies he was needed to solve. Obviously that was what had caused his marriage to drop into a bottomless sinkhole of indifference. Alice had constantly complained that he loved the Truckers union more than anything or anyone else. He could hardly wait to tell Bibi that his love for her was so enormous it overshadowed the Truckers. He would never put the union first again.

A few hours later, he found Lucien's closed and Bibi's note in the window. He went upstairs to her apartment, letting himself in with the key. On the kitchen table, there was a note:

Dear Tommy,

Your world is too nasty for me. I don't want to live this way. I love you and I always will.

Goodbye forever,

Bibi

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

JULY, 1994

Billy Hurley waited in the lobby of the U.S. Attorney's building on St. Andrews Plaza, while Tommy Kerrigan passed by the security desk and through the metal detector. He was met on the other side by a youthful FBI agent, who had the vigorous, almost bursting presence of a man who jogged, practiced karate and lifted weights seriously. He shook Tommy's hand with too hard a grip in greeting. They chatted about the heat, the agent asking with seeming carelessness whether Tommy had come in from Long Island or uptown this morning. "I live on the Island," Tommy said.

The agent led him through an open door, which he closed behind them, into a pie-shaped corner office with large windows on either side of the broad, wooden desk, which had a vase with a colorful array of cut flowers on its right corner. A slight, young woman with a tiny beak of a nose stood up. "Thank you so much for coming on so short a notice, Mr. Kerrigan. I'm Assistant United States Attorney Miriam Rosenkranz, as you probably suspected. And you've met Agent Cunningham."

Tommy noted that she didn't come round the desk to shake his hand. She was keeping him at a purposeful distance. Why? He had come alone at her invitation to discuss his relationship with Ignatius O'Hara. He said there wasn't much he could say, but she piqued his curiosity by suggesting that he might learn some interesting tidbits about O'Hara from her. Information a little too delicate to discuss on the phone.

"Please, have a seat," she said. Tommy looked onto the desk on which the embarrassing flyers were arrayed, flanked at one end by a thick file folder. "I'm sure you don't mind if Agent Cunningham sits in."

Tommy paused, beside the straight-backed wooden chair, which was to be his seat. He looked around the room for a clue to this little woman. On one wall were framed degrees and awards for outstanding performance on the New York Mason Tenders District Council and Fulton Street Fish Market scandals, several stiff photographs of Rosenkranz in a dark gray suit amid towering men in a mix of sports jackets and pin-stripe suits, the teams of prosecutors and investigators on those cases. There was the framed original of a cartoon, signed by the artist, from the editorial page of The New York Account showing Rosenkranz in the costume of a hunter tossing the head of a Mason Tenders business agent into a bulging sack against a background of quaking union bosses with protruding bellies, bald heads, and pinky-ring adorned hands. On the wall across the room were two large prints, one of a street scene apparently from the West Side of Manhattan lit by a bright sun, a barber pole, a hydrant, a row of stores with illegible printing on the windows, with a second story of red-brick-face apartments with curtains in the window. The second print was of a woman, wearing a coat and a plain, brimmed hat, sitting alone, a cup of coffee in hand at a marble-topped table in a 1920's restaurant with a steam radiator in one corner and a long row of lights from the interior reflected in the plate glass window.

"I asked a question," she said into the long, void created by Tommy's exploration of her office.

"Tell me about your pictures," he said gesturing to the two prints.

"Hoppers. They're prints of paintings by Edward Hopper. I love his clean simple lines. The street scene is called Early Sunday Morning. A row of taxpayers. Sort of a reminder to me of who I work for."

"Is that you having a cup of coffee?" Tommy asked taking his seat.

"Very good," she said. "That's called Automat, and it speaks to me."

A lone woman, lost in her thoughts. Maybe facing life unhappily alone, Tommy thought. He looked at her left hand. No ring.

"Let's establish some ground rules," Rosenkranz said sitting down. "First of all nothing said here today will leave this room." She looked at Tommy for his acquiescence.

"That's fine. Except before we begin, I would like Agent Cunningham to leave the room. I learned a long time ago in negotiations to either talk one-on-one or to match my adversaries man for man. I should say, person for person, shouldn't I?"

"Are you here to negotiate, Mr. Kerrigan?"

"I'm here at your invitation," Tommy said with a smile, falling into his bargaining mode, where he would listen carefully and be cautious in his answers. This woman had a hard set to her mouth, signaling to Tommy that an unpleasant demand was to be made of him. "I'll repeat, just once, Agent Cunningham leaves and you assure me on the record there are no listening devices recording our conversation in this room, or the informal chat you proposed to get me here won't take place."

"Thanks Josh," she said to Agent Cunningham, dismissing him. She turned to Tommy. "I assure you this is an off the record conversation. What I want from you is an assurance that whatever we discuss today doesn't leave this room?"

He nodded.

"I'm putting my cards right on the table. I'm going to tell you from the outset Mr. Kerrigan, I am not one of your admirers. The one thing I abhor more than a crook is a hypocrite who betrays the public trust, a sanctimonious fraud, such as yourself."

Fury and frustration surged through Tommy. "A smart negotiator doesn't shit on his adversary," Tommy said, acid words intended to sting.

She smirked. "Don't play the teacher with me. We've got you for 25 to life, Mr. Kerrigan. All I want from you is the whereabouts of Ignatius O'Hara?"

Tommy stood. "All I know about O'Hara is what I read in the papers. What are you going to charge me with?"

"Labor racketeering," she said almost pleasantly.

"On what evidence. I'm as clean as clean can be."

"Your co-conspirators tell a different story."

"I don't have any co-conspirators."

"Oh yes, you do, Mr. Kerrigan."

"If I were in the soup, Ms. Rosenkranz, I wouldn't have come today, and if I did, I would have brought a lawyer."

"Arrogance is sometimes blinding."

"I don't know your game or your connections, Ms. Rosenkranz; I suspect you're just a professional head hunter looking for another trophy to hang on your wall. The shame of it is I have an election to win next year, and I don't want to sound arrogant, but if Steamer Staski's kid wins on a fluke because of people like you, you're going to set the Truckers back to where they were before I came along."

"Mr. Kerrigan, if it were up to me, you wouldn't be allowed to run in this election. And if I have anything to do with it, you won't."

"I've done more for the members of this union, and more for the American labor movement than anyone who ever held the job before me." He walked out of the office.

He kept his head down, not speaking to Agent Cunningham on the return trip in the elevator to the lobby. He handed his visitor's pass to the guard at the desk, then walked straight towards the door and the brutal August heat outside.

Hurley caught up to him. "What's the matter, Tommy?"

Tommy shook his head. "Drive me over to the local. I've got some phone calls to make." He knew now that Jack Egan's disappearance was connected to whatever they suspected he had done.

He called Egan's home and cell phone, leaving messages. He conferred with Doris Harian, the Truckers general counsel, who had been his lawyer for 30 years. She told him she would ask around about a criminal lawyer. He needed the best, but she would have to stay out of the case unless she resigned as general counsel.

Late that night, he sat down with Noble Kelly, an ex-New York City cop and federal organized crime prosecutor who had become a defense attorney specializing in high-profile criminal cases. They met in Kelly's office at Kaufman & Cole, a powerhouse law firm in a high-rise office building near the South Street Seaport. Kelly listened to Tommy's account with an attitude of studied serenity, ending with an agreement to take the case for a $25,000 retainer with the clear understanding that his fee could reach $250,000 plus expenses. Tommy's pulse fluttered as he signed the agreement that could strip him financially.

Kelly urged him, in parting, to examine his memory for the slightest incident that could carry him across the line into the maws of the justice system. Business deals, gifts, campaign contributions.

"Nothing. No payoffs. No cash. No nothing," Tommy said.

"Then maybe you have nothing to worry about," Kelly replied.

A few days later, Staski's Save Our Union slate faxed a press release to the media and the locals, with an altered version of The New York Account cartoon with Tommy Kerrigan's face imposed on the head that federal prosecutor Rosenkranz was tossing into her bag. Steve Staski called on Tommy K to tell the rank and file why he was in the U.S. Attorney's office trying to cut a deal to save himself and why he had hired a high-priced criminal defense lawyer? "What are they going to charge you with Tommy?"

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

SEPTEMBER, 1994

The missing Jack Egan turned up on the Wednesday after Labor Day with Lou Ramiglia at his side in Manhattan federal court. The jury box was filled with reporters and a sketch artist pulled from the courthouse pressroom by the U.S. Attorney's flack on the promise that a bombshell would be bursting at 11 AM in Magistrate Ilena Paddock's courtroom.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Miriam Rosenkranz told Paddock that Egan and Ramiglia would plead guilty this morning to felony charges of conspiracy, money laundering, and misuse of union funds. They had agreed to cooperate with the federal government in an ongoing investigation of the activities of Ignatius O'Hara and the Truckers Union. She offered into the record an affidavit from an FBI agent recounting information from Interpol that a highly-experienced French solo sailor, Capt. Philippe Pepin, had rendezvoused with the freighter the TeeTee IV approximately a thousand miles southwest of New York City. O'Hara and his only luggage, a leather briefcase and an Army duffel bag, were transferred to the yacht. That information was based on an interview with the captain of the TeeTee IV, who was intercepted and questioned in Panama. A frantic Madame Pepin told investigators that her husband had been hired to ferry O'Hara to Dakar. She expected Pepin to call her when he was en route home. Only silence, leading her to believe he was lost at sea or murdered. The harbor master in Dakar had no record of Pepin's yacht arriving at that port. Whether O'Hara was lost at sea or remained a fugitive was open to speculation.

In entering his plea, an ashen Ramiglia told the magistrate that he had received five $100,000 payments from O'Hara for facilitating each of the five $20 million investments in his corporate notes by The Truckers Midwest States Pension & Welfare Fund. Ramiglia apologized to the Truckers in St. Louis and throughout the Midwest for the loss of those millions of dollars from their pension fund. He said he believed he was acting in their best interests since he was under the impression these were legitimate investments with assured high rates of return.

Ramiglia said that in addition, he agreed to push through the $250-million loan to build a Panamax in an American shipyard in return for another $500,000 gratuity and O'Hara's promise to use his influence with Truckers international president Tommy Kerrigan to engineer his reappointment as chairman of the pension fund. "I specified it had to be a union shipyard your honor. I was creating jobs for American workers."

"While putting a few dollars in your own pocket?" the magistrate said caustically.

"I'm ashamed to say it, but yes your honor," Ramiglia replied.

Egan speaking in a soft monotone described how he had been recruited on the recommendation of O'Hara to serve as deputy director of Tommy K's transition team. O'Hara promised him a $10,000 bonus to be his man within the transition team, keeping him informed of Tommy K's plans. When Cobb Wowka fell ill, and Egan emerged as Tommy K's $60,000 a year assistant, O'Hara agreed to pay him a retainer of $16,600 a month as a private consultant to Chemise Ltd.

The magistrate interrupted with a question: "The Truckers paid you $60,000 a year and Mr. O'Hara another $200,000 a year or so?"

"$199,200 be exact, your honor," Jack said, nervously pushing his metal-rim glasses back in place with his right forefinger.

"And what did you do for your handsome retainer from Mr. O'Hara?"

"The major thing was at Mr. O'Hara's request I told Mr. Kerrigan that Ramiglia had been okayed for reappointment by Mr. O'Hara, and he told me that was fine with him. So he didn't stand in the way of Mr. Ramiglia's reappointment."

"Please be a little more precise."

"I told Mr. Kerrigan, Ramiglia was passed with flying colors by Iggy. Okay? And he responded, Okay. So I sent a memo to the office of the chairman of the Truckers Midwest States, saying Mr. Kerrigan wouldn't veto Mr. Ramiglia's reappointment."

Egan sobbed as he said he too wanted to apologize, to each of the 1.6 million Truckers members for betraying their trust. "I was only trying to provide for my wife and child. I recognize now that by any standard what I did was wrong, but I felt I was operating in a dark grey world, where such behavior was the norm. I was wrong, and I want to do everything I can to pay my debt to society. That is why I decided to plead guilty and to cooperate with the U.S. Attorney."

Tommy Kerrigan, his face reflecting the bleak helplessness of being falsely accused of betraying the members of the Truckers' union, faced a crowded press conference that afternoon in the Golden Terminal. "I have devoted my life to this union sometimes at great personal risk and certainly at great personal cost. This crook Ignatius O'Hara worked with two other crooks, Lou Ramiglia from the old guard and Jack Egan, another lowlife. Egan is not only a rat, he is worse. A lying rat. What he said about me in that court today was a pack of lies. And ladies and gentlemen, the sad thing about it all is that I have no recourse. I am smeared by two low lifes cutting a deal, lying through their teeth, to save themselves."

"Could you tell us about your connection to Ignatius O'Hara dating back to when he went under the name Ignazio Mendez?" Henri Maitlin Serre of the New York Globe asked to the surprise of the reporters around him..

Tommy paused. He hoped the shiver that passed through his body didn't show on his face. "I remember Iggy being a member of Local 1890 a long time ago. He worked in a grocery warehouse in the Bronx."

"His name was O'Hara or Mendez?" Serre asked, the reporter as interrogator.

"Mendez," Tommy said reluctantly.

"Why did he leave Local 1890?"

"You'll have to ask him. Next question."

A reporter from Chicago said that Steve Staski was calling for Tommy K's resignation for the good of the union, to avoid the embarrassment of another Truckers international president being indicted.

"Isn't he running against me? Tell Little Stevie I have no reason to resign. The U.S. Attorney has no reason to indict me. Tell Little Stevie I'm a victim of lies."

Gary Seegar of the New York Account said, "Tommy could you tell us about all those pictures of Mont San Michel that Iggy O'Hara has hanging on the walls of his New York office? How much he paid Mrs. Kerrigan, I mean Alice Carroll, to take them right after you won the presidency of the Truckers?"

"I've never seen those pictures. You'll have to ask Alice Carroll how much she was paid. That's her business, not mine."

"Isn't it all in the family?" Seegar asked.

"Next question."

"Isn't it all in the family?" Seegar asked again.

Tommy flushed. "My wife and I lead separate lives. We maintain separate residences. We have separate bank accounts. Next question."

Tommy came out of the press conference exhausted. He felt a searing embarrassment. "What do you think?" he asked Sylvia Baya.

"I wish you hadn't referred to yourself as a victim," she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Tommy K walked the two blocks from the Golden Terminal to the Tommy K 95 Reelection headquarters in a shuttered men's store. The three fulltime campaign staffers and three women volunteers, office workers from the union headquarters building, paused from stuffing envelopes and making phone calls to smile and wave hello to Tommy. He walked to the back, the old manager's office, where Billy Hurley was leafing through the Washington Post on an old leatherette couch while Cobb Wowka dozed with his feet up on the former manager's ancient wooden desk, his head on his chest, snoring. His carry-on bag was on the floor beside him.

Tommy studied Cobb, who had become dismayingly fat, his white hair had thinned with glimmers of baldness. He looked old in his sleep. Tommy felt a surge of gratitude. Cobb had come out of retirement in 1989 to manage his first election campaign and when he called him again last week, saying he didn't know where else to turn, Cobb once again had come to help him. "Hey brother," he said gently to draw him from his snooze.

Cobb came awake with an effort. He breathed hard in the effort. "Hey old buddy," he said in a delayed response to Tommy's greeting. Cobb said he had been up since 4 o'clock, catching a 6 AM commuter flight into Charlotte, then sitting there for four hours because of stormy weather, not in North Carolina, but in Washington. He had started reading Jack Egan's files as soon as he got in the office. He fell asleep in the process. He had gotten the gist of Jack's vision of the 1995 campaign: Tommy should play the role of international president busy with the work of the nation's largest union until the Truckers Convention over the Labor Day weekend. That was a strategy designed to keep the election in low profile, and hopefully the press disinterested, denying publicity to his rival, Steve Staski. From Sept. 7 until October 1, Tommy would campaign in the mornings and evenings before or after his scheduled work as the union's chief executive, which fortunately would carry him to dozens of cities and even backwater communities around the country at union expense. At the same time, six campaign offices would be opened in major cities with two or three full-time employees and the rest volunteers. Egan had hired three staffers: a fund-raiser, a scheduler, and a volunteers' coordinator. From Oct. 1, 1995 until mid-November when the ballots were mailed out, Tommy would be on the campaign trail six to seven days a week. The end-game centered on a blitz of mailings in three waves at three targeted blocks of members: inter-city truck drivers, parcel service employees, and warehouse workers, combined with get-out-the-vote phone banks, staffed by a combination of volunteers and temps, such as college kids, hired for the two weeks after the ballots were mailed.

"How much is all this gonna cost, buddy?" Cobb asked.

"Egan came up with a budget of $4 million. He figured the end game, the mailings and the phone banks would cost about a million and three quarters alone."

The cheeks of Cobb's face filled with air, which he blew out in a steady stream, a sign to Tommy that he was turning the information over in his mind. "The election in `90 cost us a million, and we had a helluva time raising that. Times have really changed."

Tommy said, "We started out with almost a million in the till. We have a lot more friends, a lot more going for us this time around. Jack figured we'd get $825,000 from staffers and the officers of locals aligned with us, and the 22 slate members including me would come up with another $700,000. The rest would come from T-shirt sales, buttons, passing the bucket at rallies, and direct-mail appeals. One just before the convention in September, another in October, and the final in November."

"I can see the porkchoppers coming up with their share only if they're squeezed, unless of course they are true believers in transforming the Truckers. The slate members should kick in their share. So with what you got in the bank that adds up to about two and a half million. So another $1.5 million comes from committed rank and filers?"

"Right. That's what Egan figured."

"Well if Brother Egan is right, this will be a dandy campaign. A lot easier than last time around. Won't have to buy coffee and donuts out of our own pockets. I'll tell you what, I'm gonna go over the books and the strategy memos. Look the staff over. Get into the nitty-gritty. It's gonna take me maybe a week, a little longer, a little shorter, to come with a plan on where we go from here."

"That sounds great."

"Tell me, buddy, where's Helmut Knall and TFOCC fit into this game. I didn't see mention of them in any of the memos."

"Egan figured, and I agreed with him, that we'd welcome all the support TFOCC could give, but they would do their own thing. Keep them at a distance."

Cobb nodded. "I can see that. Come out of this with your own broad base of support. I'm with you, buddy."

***

Within the week, they met for dinner at a ribs place on the Hill that Cobb liked. They sat near a window a comfortable distance from the only other occupied table in the restaurant. They ordered beers and corn bread, baby-back ribs, beans and French fries. Tommy was shrouded with a gloom reflected on his face. His life had become heavy yoke; he missed Bibi and dreaded awakening every morning to the prospect of another smear in a flyer or a newspaper story.

Cobb went through the mundane issues first, talking as he ate. He urged Tommy to get on the road as soon as possible, campaigning in the evenings and weeks ends until the convention and then to go at it fulltime. "I believe in plant gates and break rooms, and shaking every hand in the union. I don't have to tell you," he said.

"This isn't 1990," Tommy said, "I've got a following out there. I'm the incumbent."

"As I recall the incumbents sat on their asses in Washington in 1990 and you ran your ass off, and they ain't incumbents any more."

"I've had some pretty big victories in my time in office. I don't drive around in limousines; I don't go golfing with the bosses. The members know that."

Cobb waved two fingers at the waitress, a signal for two more beers. "Jack Egan and Lou Ramiglia did you a lot of damage, buddy. You got to get out to the hustings to show the members you can look `em in the eyes. Got nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed about."

Tommy waited until the beers had been settled onto the table. He leaned over to Cobb: "My back is hurting me so much I can hardly sit still. I'll tell you frankly, I can't face going out on the trail for a day longer than I have to. Egan figured I didn't have to go out until after the convention. I'd like to stick with that schedule."

"Okay buddy, we'll put the schedule on hold for a while. Now onto the dreck I've been saving for dessert. I got rid of the three people Egan hired. After going over the books, I don't think we can afford anyone but me on the payroll for the time being."

Tommy became concerned. "What about the money in the bank?" he asked.

Cobb said he wouldn't touch it. Egan had collected $1.3 million, most of it in March, into an account called the Special Friends of Tommy K Fund. There was a notation in the file that all donors--none of them Truckers union members--had been promised anonymity. The contributors were identified by code names so Cobb didn't know who they were. Egan had paid $260,000 in fees for obtaining the contributions to a company called Triangle in the Rectangle Services, based in Hartford, Conn. The same company was going to handle the project of raising funds from the rank and file during the course of the campaign as well as the end-game mailings. "I had a private investigator I know in Boston do a quick run on Triangle in the Rectangle. Did a Dun & Bradstreet, a check of the incorporation papers. Eye-balled the office. Turns out the original incorporations showed a Colleen Driscoll as president and sole stockholder with a mailing address of Greenfield Manor on Bantam Lake in Litchfield, Conn. Eye-balled the house. Turns out the president's full name is Colleen Driscoll Egan."

"What does all that mean?" Tommy asked cautiously.

"Trouble, I'm sure. Maybe big trouble, maybe little trouble. But this campaign is not taking any more money out of that account, and as soon we can, I'm gonna replace all the money spent from that account: the rent for our office, the salaries for the full timers, the phone bill and so on and so on. Adds up to about $300,000, not including the $260,000 Egan paid his wife to collect the money.

Tommy put down the rib he had been chewing, and didn't eat for the remainder of the meal, only nipping the beer in his bottle.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

DECEMBER, 1994

Sylvia Baya came into Tommy's office shortly before 5 o'clock. "Howie Bowles called. The World is going with a story tomorrow that you're going to be indicted by the U.S. Attorney in Manhattan. He wants you to call him as soon as you can. He's writing the story on deadline right now."

Tommy held his head down for a moment to compose himself. "Get him on the phone."

Bowles said without preliminary, "I'm sorry to tell you Tommy, but we have it from good sources that the Southern District is going to indict you tomorrow. We're going with the story"

"Honestly, I know nothing about it Howie."

"Then why did you hire a heavyweight like Noble Kelly as your lawyer?"

"I gave you my answer. You probably know more about what's going on than I do. What do your sources say the charge is?"

"Labor racketeering."

Tommy couldn't speak for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"That's what we hear," Bowles responded feeling the same dreadful sensation that he had experienced as a cub reporter asking a distraught mother for a picture of her three-year-old son who had drowned earlier that day.

"If I knew more I would tell you Howie," Tommy whispered, distracted by the terror of facing a charge that carried 25 years in prison.

"Okay Tommy. Unless you want to say something more, I have to go. I'm on deadline."

Tommy blurted: "I haven't done a thing anyone should indict me for, Howie. Tell your readers that. I want every member of the Truckers to know, I haven't done a thing to be ashamed of."

Martha Nez buzzed Tommy as soon as he hung up. She said that Mr. Kelly was hanging on for him.

The next morning, Tommy and Noble Kelly walked past a gauntlet of newspaper photographers and television reporters with mikes outstretched, screaming questions, while their camera crews filmed. "I'm an innocent man about to be accused," Tommy said repeatedly into different mikes. He turned at the top step, saying to the photographers, "You guys got what you need?"

"Thanks Tommy," several said.

At 9 AM precisely, U.S. District Judge David Stone III, old and wrinkled and sour, entered his courtroom, which was filled with reporters, and FBI agents, assistant U.S. Attorneys, and civil and criminal lawyers drawn by the curiosity of the arraignment of the international president of the Truckers union. The judge ordered Tommy to step forward. Kelly waived the reading of the 46-count indictment, accusing Tommy of labor racketeering for conspiracy, pension fraud, mail fraud, misuse of union funds, theft of union funds, money laundering, and subornation of perjury. Kelly asked that any trial, if the charges were not dismissed before then, be scheduled some time after Jan. 1, 1996, preferably in March, 96 at the earliest so that his client could focus on his reelection as international president of the Truckers in December and then on refuting what he was certain were baseless, politically-inspired charges.

Asst. U.S. Atty. Miriam Rosenkranz opened by telling Judge Stone that these accusations, which she expected to be proven to the satisfaction of a jury, were even more dire in their consequences than a typical white collar crime because Kerrigan had undermined an institution which played a central role in the lives of more than a million American families. One of the key players in these crimes, Ignatius O'Hara, had fled the country. Others close to the defendant had also left the United States. The judge interrupted her to ask who these others were? Rosenkranz said Alice Carroll, the defendant's wife, who was in Peru, and Mrs. Beatrice Goldman, who is believed by many to be the defendant's mistress, was in Argentina. The judge smirked at that. She asked for a million dollar bail.

Kelly immediately said, "Your honor that is preposterous. In all fairness, Mr. Kerrigan should be released without bail on his own recognizance. Of course, he would surrender his passport."

Tommy spoke up: "I don't have a passport, your honor. I've never been outside the United States, other than to Canada on union business." The audience roared with laughter, drawing a fierce look from the judge and a hammer of his mallet. All fell silent.

Continuing Kelly said that Kerrigan's roots were deep in his community, and he had a sterling reputation that had never been sullied by other than political enemies from the Truckers old guard until this moment.

Judge Stone sat lost in contemplation, his lips pressed tightly, his eyes disengaged from the courtroom.

Impatient with the long pause taken by the judge in thought, Rosenkranz spoke up, "Your honor."

"Silence," the judge hissed. His eyes locked on her. "I am deciding at this moment whether a man, who claims to lead an exemplary life, is at risk of fleeing charges that he violated his sacred trust. As others who have appeared in this court know, I have a particular interest in seeing all the grafters and crooks driven from the Truckers union. The first David Stone, my grandfather, who came to this country as a boy from a rural ghetto somewhere in the borderlands of Russia and Poland, had a pair of hands calloused like stone and muscles rock hard from his work as a teamster. On June 21, 1885, young woman, the first David Stone became a founding member of the union that today is called the Truckers International Union of North America. They had 600 members. Four hundred in Chicago. Two hundred in New York. These were men of integrity, social dreamers who at great risk to themselves set out to give hardworking teamsters and dock workers lives worth living. And they succeeded. Unfortunately, that once great union has been burdened by greedy racketeers, leeches draining the union of courage and decency. So I am more interested than you in seeing the guilty punished and the Truckers cleansed of their filth." He paused again for a long time. "Defendant is released in his own recognizance," he said at last.

***

Miriam Rosenkranz, still burning from her putdown in the courtroom, trailed by the print reporters and TV correspondents covering the event, walked the short distance to the U.S. Attorney's Building on St. Andrews Plaza. Melanie Schwartz, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, and Harold Silver, director of the FBI's New York office, were waiting in the lobby with an array of prosecutors, FBI agents, and U.S. Labor Department Organized Crime and Labor Racketeering investigators. The television cameras were in place. On a signal from her public relations chief, the U.S. Attorney, a stocky woman with shaggy grey hair and an angry grey face, read her prepared statement outlining the indictment and highlighting the most interesting tidbits of the case. As she spoke, a woman from the public relations office distributed copies of the statement and an affidavit from Jack Egan.

Egan's affidavit said that with Tommy K's acquiescence, hundreds of undistributed strike-pay checks made out to Titus Interstate workers, were sent every Monday morning to a bank in Nashville stamped for deposit only in The Truckers Return Fund. The bank was controlled by Ignatius O'Hara, who arranged the account for Egan. By the end of the Titus battle, approximately $825,000 had been deposited in the account, whose signatories were Thomas R. Kerrigan and Jack B. Egan. Only one signature was necessary for the withdrawal or transfer of funds. Egan said that the returned money, in effect, disappeared from the Truckers' accounting system by the simple device of Egan personally removing and destroying almost all of the checks when they eventually passed back to the Truckers headquarters, and by assigning the audit of the strike fund to an elderly, long-time Truckers staffer with a drinking problem. The Truckers Return Fund was intended to be a slush fund for Tommy K's reelection, for political contributions, for added compensation for Egan to make his official Truckers' salary seem in accord with Tommy K's pronounced policy of modest pay for himself and his staff. Egan said that the funds drawn from the account were washed through electronic transfers via an account in the Bank of Cemes, chartered by the independent nation of Island Cemes, a tiny island about 50 miles west of Guernsey in the English Channel. The Bank of Cemes is owned by a subsidiary of Chemise Ltd., O'Hara's holding company. Egan said that he told Tommy K, "I'm setting up a fund to take returns from the Titus strike fund. It's going to be one of those flexible things. The money will have to be washed through accounting so we can do with the money what we want. Give us some flexibility out of sight of the bureaucracy." He said that Tommy K responded "Right." Included in the packet was a signature card setting up the account with both their signatures. Among the sums withdrawn from the Truckers Return Fund was $75,000 used as seed money to set up the Tommy K 95 Reelection Office in Washington, D.C.; $100,000 that went to the Democratic National Committee; $400,000 for operating costs of Egan's wife's firm, Triangle in the Rectangle Service, for a new car, for several pieces of jewelry for his wife and for a down payment on a summer home on Martha's Vineyard.

Gary Seegar took a taxi from the press conference to The New York Account office near the Fulton Street Fish Market. He faxed the Manhattan U.S. Attorney's statement and Jack Egan's affidavit to Bobby Bell's office. Then Lou went to the city desk to tell them he had a dynamite story that belonged on the front page.

Bobby Bell flashed through the affidavit, and jumped off his chair to coordinate the hurried copying of the document and organize the faxed distribution to dozens of reporters in Washington and around the country, and to the nation's 750 Truckers locals.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Tommy bought two bottles of Irish whiskey at the liquor store on Route 110 near his house, got to the butcher's just before it closed, and bought a supply of bread, cheeses, soups, pasta, canned beans and vegetables, crackers, tea, coffee, English Muffins, eggs, butter and cookies at the supermarket. He took the condiments he needed from his kitchen. He took pillows and bedclothes from the bedroom. He wore his hiking boots. The Catskills in December could be fierce. He loaded everything into his Four by Four, along with a shovel for snow. Pepper sat on the passenger seat beside him. He had the key in the ignition when he realized he would want some music to fill the voids. He went back into the house for a supply of CDs, and on an impulse called Billy Hurley. "Billy, I'm taking off for a couple of days. I won't need you. Call Martha and tell her."

The snow began flying as he crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge. He took the Thruway north to Kingston, turning onto a deserted Route 28 for the last few miles to Morgan Hill. He plowed up the country lane through the deepening, windblown snow to his father's old bungalow set in a stand of pine trees on a small rise. He and Pepper waded through the foot of snow with the shovel to clear a drift from the steps and screen door leading onto the front porch. The kitchen was dark and freezing, but a supply of firewood was stacked neatly against the kitchen wall. Emmett must have been the last one to use the place. The other two probably would have left dirty dishes in the sink. He felt stung by the thought of the painful embarrassment Emmett suffered. An innocent victim of the Truckers' presidential election. Victim. The word he wasn't supposed to use. Bibi fitted into that category too. The thought prompted him to say aloud, "I love you, Bibi." He found himself frequently saying that in his mind and aloud.

He started a fire in the potbellied stove, and hauled the supplies in from the car. He turned on the water, electricity, and propane for the stove. Tommy carried a rocking chair in from the wide screened porch. With water being heated for tea, he wrapped himself in a comforter and snuggled into the rocker close to the stove, and dropped into a deep sleep.

In his dream, a bare-chested Jack Egan with breasts like a woman and flaccid arms stabbed him with a long triangular chef's knife, smiling all the while. Tommy swung his right forearm in an arc aimed at deflecting the knife, intending to slam his left forearm into Jack's face, smashing his nose and driving his metal-rimmed glasses deep into the sockets of his eyes. But he moved in slow motion, lightly touching his attacker's knife hand and unable to send his forearm into his face. He staggered under the hammering cuts of the knife, and kept trying to fight back, feeling helpless and ineffective, unable to damage Jack, who kept on smiling, the forelock of his hair wet with Tommy's blood.

The whistling kettle snapped him awake. Breathing hard, Tommy was unable to rise for a few minutes until the horror of his impotence passed. He opened a package of Scottish shortbread to go with his Irish breakfast tea. He thought about the dream. The meaning was clear.

The sky in the morning was a solid mass of grey cloud. The wind that had howled through the night was gone. The air was still. No birds. No cars on the road, which had been plowed, a wall of snow enclosing the driveway. Tommy wasn't driving anywhere anyhow. He walked with Pepper following in the trail he broke in the deep snow. Tommy paused every hundred steps to rest, breathing hard and sweating, on a trek through the woods to the abandoned rock quarry. He had learned to swim in the quarry when he was four, the summer before World War II began. They rented the place in those days. Seven dollars a week. His father bought it and winterized it when he came home from the war. The first time the family came to Morgan Hill in the winter was 1947. The weather was just like this. His father and big brother, Johnny, who was about 15, cleared snow from a section and they skated on the frozen quarry. When they got back to the bungalow, the kitchen was filled with the scent of hot chocolate and gingerbread. His mother and father were laughing. The four of them sat around the stove, sipping hot chocolate and laughing. His parents seemed so old, but they were relatively young, his father just past 40, his mother in her late 30s.

Tommy made fried eggs with Canadian bacon, cheese, and two English muffins for breakfast, drinking three cups of black coffee from the tin-pot percolator his father had left him with the house. The morning passed so quickly that he realized he had better check the wood supply before darkness fell in the early afternoon. The shed was piled high with firewood, some ready for the stove. A lot more needed splitting. He would do that tomorrow. Good exercise. He took his snowshoes off the wall. Hadn't used them in years. He tried them out doing okay slogging in a wide circle around the house. For lunch, he had pea soup with ham, oyster crackers, and a beer at the wooden table in the kitchen. Afterwards, he dozed in the rocking chair by the glowing stove. He made steak with pan-fried potatoes and beans with two Irish whiskeys for supper. He felt content, warmed by the whiskey and food. The wind sounding through the trees soothed him. He passed into the night thinking of the fun that this bungalow had brought into his life growing up. How good he felt here. Alice had never liked the place. She said having to cook and clean in primitive circumstances was no vacation for her. He pushed her out of his mind and moved back to happier memories.

In the morning, in search of diversion, Tommy looked through the bookcase in the big bedroom, the one his parents once used, later the one he and Alice used with the kids stacked on bunk beds in the little bedroom. He was delighted to find several books, left behind by one or another of his children, whose titles appealed to him: Dark Star, Fatherland, The China Card, Brotherly Love. He put the books on a corner of the kitchen table, then went snowshoeing through the woods, Pepper bounding in the soft snow beside him. After lunch with a mug of tea in hand, he picked Dark Star from the little pile of books. He opened to the first page: "In the late autumn of 1937, in the steady beat of North Sea rain that comes with dawn in that season" and read, totally absorbed until darkness fell. He made supper and returned to the book.

The days passed with walks in the snow, aching for Bibi, watching the stars on the few clear nights, reading, napping in the rocking chair, preparing meals. Several times, Tommy dined at Victor's, the Italian restaurant in West Hurley, or in the inn near the foot of Morgan Hill on the road to the Ashoken Reservoir.

With three days left until Christmas, he drove home to Long Island. He bought a tree at the nursery and a wreath for the front door. Roger arrived shortly after he did. They had pizza and beer for supper, then decorated the tree and hung the outside lights in the dark. Just before noon on Christmas Eve, Alice pulled up to the house with a car laden with the makings of the evening's feast and numerous packages, big and small, wrapped in red and green paper with silver and gold bows. Tommy greeted her on the front steps with a friendly kiss.

"You're looking unusually good," she said.

She had bags under her eyes and exuded exhaustion. He wondered if reporters or FBI agents had been pressing her for answers, but refrained from asking. "I spent two weeks alone in the mountains. No phone calls. No paperwork. No problems. Just snow and peace and reading and Irish whiskey. I feel great. My back even stopped hurting me."

"The turtle in his shell," she said.

"I'd rather say the lion licking his wounds."

After they brought the food, wine and gifts in from the car, they lunched on beer and grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. Alice, without mentioning Joe Furioso, described in detail her photo shoot in Peru, focusing on Machu Picchu and the other ruins along the Inca trail. She learned enough Spanish and Quichua, the local Andes Indian language, to get around. She spent two weeks in Buenos Aires, then the rest of October and November in Tahiti and with friends in New Zealand. For the past three weeks, she had been working long days on the prints for her next exhibition.

Tommy and Alice's family, as usual, gathered that evening to sing Christmas carols, eat, and drink, exchange presents, and laugh over family memories with no mention of the difficulties or embarrassments. Tommy made his traditional champagne toast: "May our lives be filled with love and laughter." He recounted the Christmas of 1945 when he was eight years old and his father was just out of the Army, fresh from the war. His father and mother bought the tree on Christmas Eve morning from the Italian vegetable stand down the street. His brother, Johnny, had scoured the candy stores and five and tens in the neighborhood for tinsel, finding two boxes. They hardly had the tree up before someone knocked on the door. A buddy of Tommy's dad from the 101st Airborne who had landed in New York on his way home from Europe to Texas, then Happy Koenig, just out of the Army that day, then two sailors from the neighborhood right off their ship in New York Harbor, and finally a pallid young man, an Army Air Force sergeant with a haunted expression who had spent the final months of the war in a German prisoner of war camp after his plane had been shot down and another month in a hospital. The little apartment on 47th Street was packed with laughing men. The elder Kerrigan filled their glasses with beer and whiskey and got them all singing carols. Tommy sitting on the floor of the crowded living room, unnoticed in the revelry, had one of his father's many toasts, imprinted on his mind that night: "May our lives be filled with love and laughter."

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Tommy rang the dinner bell as he put the third pair of pancakes on the iron griddle on Christmas morning. The sausages were ready, the orange juice squeezed, the champagne in a bucket of ice, the table was set with a small pitcher of maple syrup and fresh butter. He poured the coffee when Alice arrived. They kissed, a warm, lingering kiss, reflecting their night in bed together.

"Merry Christmas, lover," she said.

He gave her two pancakes, as she preferred, hot from the griddle.

"You've become quite the cook," she said.

"You've become a spectacular Christmas lay."

They laughed. "To occasional, but spectacular encounters," she said raising her champagne. They touched glasses and drank. "Another toast, may those encounters happen more often and be just as spectacular."

What about Joe? he wondered to himself, not wanting to break the mood.

She answered as though he had spoken. "Joe and I aren't an item anymore. I began to doubt him in Buenos Aires and dislike him in Tahiti. We parted forever in New Zealand. You and I fell apart because you are so in love with the union. I always wondered could a relationship be worse than that? Now I have the answer: Joe in love with himself. He's not real."

"And what does that mean?"

"I don't want to go into a philosophical treatise. Let me put it this way. I would like someone who is real. I'm asking you to date me again, and maybe be my turtledove."

"I'm still the Trucker."

"Let's find out if I can live with that?"

The phone rang. Alice picked it up automatically.

Her face reddened. "Just a minute. He's right here," she said.

"It's me."

"Bibi! Are you in New York?" Tommy asked, his heart pounding. Alice's anger played across her face. She stared into his eyes.

"I'm in Buenos Aires. I miss you so much. I thought you would call."

"I didn't know where you were. I didn't want to cause problems by calling your husband."

"My fantasy was that I would look up one day and find you striding across the room with a big bunch of flowers for me."

"You can't imagine how much I wanted to do that. You wouldn't believe how much it hurt to lose you." Alice got up and left the kitchen.

"I had to leave. I couldn't live the way you do, Tommy, in a world of ugly people, always in conflict. I thought you would try to find me," she said weeping.

"I love you Bibi."

"Then come to me."

"I can't," he said. She hung up before he could say another word.

Alice was in the shower when he went upstairs. The bathroom door was locked. She got dressed and left the house without speaking to him.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

JANUARY, 1995

Tommy returned to the Golden Terminal the day after the New Year's holiday, arriving in the office from the shuttle at 10 AM in a passive mood, with a diminished enthusiasm for the continuing struggle for control of the Truckers. Martha told him that urgent requests for callbacks had come in from his criminal lawyer, Noble Kelly, his campaign manager, Cobb Wowka, and from the Truckers' General Counsel, Doris Harian.

He leaned back in his big chair, frozen in lethargy, looking across Lafayette Park at the White House. "Oh Jesus," Tommy said.

He called Kelly, who said that a friend in the Manhattan U.S. Attorney's office told him another indictment would be coming down charging Tommy with engaging in some sort of a money swap scheme with a national do-good organization in Washington. And, Doris had told him that on New Year's Eve FBI agents had seized the Truckers' political contribution lists for the 1994 Congressional Elections and all of the minutes of the Truckers International Executive Board.

"IV America," Tommy said.

"What was the deal?" Kelly asked.

"We gave them $3 million for voter turnout in the Congressional elections. Egan pushed for it."

"And the swap?"

Tommy's hand holding the phone trembled. He recalled Asa Hackett saying he would urge friends to give to his reelection campaign, but Tommy didn't consider that to be a quid pro quo, an exchange of Truckers funds for donations to his campaign. That must be the source of the $1.3 million in unidentified contributors! He kept that assumption to himself. "What do you mean?" he said to Kelly.

"Pretty simple. Did you, personally get anything in return?"

"I don't play that way."

"Then there's no use wasting energy on guessing games. We'll find out what the feds have soon enough."

"I'm beginning to understand the meaning of being up to your ass in alligators."

"I'm glad you can see some humor in this situation," Kelly said.

"I don't."

Doris was on the phone next repeating what she had told Kelly about the records being seized.

Tommy needed a drink. He knew the general wisdom to beware of drinking when you were glum. That didn't change his need. He put on his overcoat. In the outer office, he said, "Come on Billy. Let's take a walk."

They moved at a brisk pace in the gloomy winter day along Northwest K Street to the Tommy K 95 Reelection headquarters. Two blown up photos filled the storefront windows: Tommy's face huge and smiling and Tommy hoisted on the shoulders of the happy Titus workers at the victory celebration. He was greeted in the storefront by handshakes and hugs from the volunteers, who were working phones and stuffing envelopes. They were rank and filers spending their personal leave time and vacation time on his reelection. By the time he passed through them to the private office in the rear, where Cobb was waiting in the doorway, Tommy's forced smile had turned real. The lively spirit of the volunteers was better than a drink.

Cobb pulled the door closed behind them. "Old buddy, are we living in a nightmare or am I dreaming?" He said that the FBI had seized the campaign's financial records and asked for the names of the contributors to the Special Friends of Tommy K Fund. "I told them that Jack Egan was the only one who could help them with that. Buddy, I thought we were in deep shit when you got indicted. Are we in deeper now?"

"Yeah, but I can't tell you why because I don't know what it's all about. Let's get a drink and talk strategy and tactics." Tommy said.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Rep. Salinas Bapson, white haired and handsome, almost as trim as he was the day he left the Marines in 1946, bounded out of his big chair and around his rich walnut desk to grasp the outstretched hand of Mickey Sullivan. Two men with steel grips squeezing. "I've known this rogue since he was a boy. Met on Okinawa. Got wounded together at the airfield in the big Jap counterattack," Rep. Bapson said to the two staffers from his Special Subcommittee on Union Democracy.

"You look younger to me today, sir, than you did then. We called him the old man," Sullivan said to their audience of two. He patted their still clasped hands affectionately with his free left hand.

"I was all of 21."

"Yeah. But I was 17." Bapson had been a captain, Sullivan a private.

Rep. Bapson returned to his chair, beneath the frame holding his two major decorations, flanked on the wall by paintings of the congressman at war as a Marine. On the left was the scene of the fight at Iwo Jima for which he was awarded the Silver Star. On the right, the battle at the airport on Okinawa where he won the Congressional Medal of Honor for single handedly stopping a Jap counterattack after his company had been decimated. When Sullivan retired from the FBI in 1981, Rep. Bapson arranged for him to be hired as an investigator for the House committee on which he was the ranking Republican. Recently Newt Gingrich gave him the job of chewing up the Truckers; he put out a feeler to Sullivan offering him the chief investigator's job, more a gesture than a real offer. He knew Sullivan was 67 or 68. He just wanted him to know he was remembered.

Of course, Sullivan turned down the position, but told his old comrade in arms, he had something very juicy to offer him. He brought it with him today.

Sullivan took the center seat facing the congressman across the broad desk and snapped open his old leather briefcase. "I've got something here, which is the fulfillment of a life-long dream, the silver bullet in the heart of Thomas R. Kerrigan."

"The notorious Tommy K," the congressman said almost gleefully.

"I've been on his ass for 23 years, almost a quarter of a century. In my wildest dreams, I never thought I would come to this day. God answers our prayers. I met Tommy K in 1971, the day I went in to ask him about Ignazio Mendez, a fugitive wanted in Guatemala for the assassination of two CIA operatives in 1968. Mendez was a bomber with an ego. He left his personal signature, a piece of wire twisted into a double T for talion de los trabajadores, retaliation of the workers, in the makings of the bomb that killed the agents in Guatemala. And then we find the same signature in wire on the bomb that blew up an employer's house in Westchester during the Truckers strike run by Tommy K."

"The one where Stan Sheill was blinded?" Rep. Bapson asked.

"Yessir."

"Hot damn, this looks good. I have Sheill down as a witness."

"I know sir, and it gets better and better. Mendez was a business agent for Truckers Local 1890 in Queens in New York City. He got elected on Tommy K's slate. There was a newspaper story about the double T being found in the Westchester bombing, and Mendez went on the run. Tommy K told me he had no idea where he was or why he left town. He said he couldn't believe Mendez had anything to do with the bombing. Too nice a guy. And guess what? He had another bomber working for him. Julius Happy Koenig. That one was with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and in the Rangers in World War II, and we believe a card-carrying member. So here we have two Reds with an expertise in explosives. I had the investigative thesis, from the start, that Tommy K was a Red plant in the union, that he was part of the bomb plot."

"And, finally you have proof?" the congressman said, envisioning live coverage. C-Span at least, maybe Fox News Network.

"Guess who Mendez turned out to be?"

"Tommy K's illegitimate brother," the congressman said, and his aides rocked with laughter.

"Better. Iganazio Mendez's full name is Ignatius Mendez O'Hara."

"What!" The congressman clapped his hands in glee as if he didn't know that already from newspaper accounts. "Ignatius M. O'Hara! Our Ignatius M., the fugitive chairman and CEO of Cordite Holding, who cheats widows and children and Truckers out of their life savings."

"The same, sir. DOB Oct. 12, 1944 in New York City at Misercordia Hospital. Father, Roberto Mendez, a Guatemalan military attaché; mother Denise O'Hara from Upper West Side of Manhattan. They met in Washington, where Denise was a WAC officer. After graduating from Amherst, Mendez/O'Hara was in Guatemala from 1966 to 1968. Disappeared. Army Intelligence traces him to Cuba. Returns to the States in 1969 and goes to work in the grocery warehouse in the Bronx, we assume to colonize in hopes of radicalizing the workers, in hopes of moving up in the union structure, which he does with the help of his Commie friend, Happy Koenig. NYPD intelligence files say Koenig was the young Tommy K's mentor."

"Unbelievable, Mickey."

"And it gets better. A little something to rouse the hackles of every staunch Republican in Congress. I don't have to go over the O'Hara rip off of the Truckers pension money and his payoffs. I'll remind you, even though you know, that Jack Egan was O'Hara's man in the Truckers. On Thursday, our friends in the Manhattan U.S. Attorney's office will be announcing an add-on to Tommy K's indictment. In a single week in March, 1994, $3 million is donated by the Truckers political action fund to IV America to turn out voters, mostly minorities, in targeted Congressional districts in the 1994 elections."

"I know I was one of them. Wasted their money."

Sullivan continued, "That same week, $1.3 million is donated to the Special Friends of Tommy K Fund by five rich liberals, who are the core supporters of IV America. Quid pro quo."

"This is a dream come true," Rep. Bapson said.

"That gets better. IV America takes care of people who find money for them. The fee is one third of all that you collect goes to the finder. IV America paid one Colleen Driscoll, better known as Mrs. Jack Egan a $1 million finder's fee. And, the Special Friends of Tommy K Fund paid another $260,000 to Mrs. Egan's company Triangle in the Rectangle Services for putting the deal together."

"This is a delightful quagmire that's gonna sink Mr. Kerrigan at last. We need someone who put it in context for public consumption. Are you willing to testify Mickey?"

"What good is revenge if the target doesn't know it's you twisting the garlic-dipped knife in his gut."

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

The next day, a Wednesday, Congressman Salinas Bapson held a press conference, which was prime time television and front page news, to announce his intention of delving into the Communist underpinnings of the 1971 bombing that blinded an innocent nine-year-old boy and the flagrant swap scheme in which the Truckers treasury was tapped for political contributions of at least $3 million in return for massive contributions to Tommy K's reelection campaign. Bapson announced he would conduct two days of hearings on Monday, Jan. 30, 1995, and Tuesday, Jan. 31, 1995.

On Thursday morning, Melanie Schwartz, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, with Harold Silver, director of the FBI's New York office at her side, in the lobby of federal building on St. Andrews Plaza in lower Manhattan, announced to the press the new indictment returned against Tommy K charging that he misused the union treasury in a swap scheme. Later in the day, with 100 Republican Congressmen behind him on the steps of the House of Representatives, Congressman Bapson at another press conference demanded that Tommy K resign for the good of the American labor movement.

Even Tommy's dumping of Martha Nez, replacing her with a secretary from the union's Corporate Campaign Office, generated news stories. Martha told reporters she was considering a whistle blower law suit. Sylvia Baya issued a press release saying Martha was being paid the same salary for the time being as she was as the international president's executive assistant. Tommy was quoted as saying, "I need an assistant I can trust, one not hired by a man whose lies have undermined my presidency."

At three o'clock Tommy walked out of his office past Nina, his new executive assistant. Billy Hurley fell in step with him. They crossed Lafayette Park to Pennsylvania Avenue, then turned in the direction of Capitol Hill. The March wind was searing. After 15 minutes, they went over to K Street NW and headed towards The Tommy K Reelection `95 campaign headquarters.

Helmut Knall and Cobb Wowka were waiting in the back office, chatting, drinking coffee. Billy took a seat outside in the big empty room with a lone volunteer, the wife of sombody who worked in the Golden Terminal. She answered the few phone calls that came in.

A subdued Cobb said with some effort, "Well buddy, you wanted an assessment. I can tell you without even looking at a poll, which we don't have the money to do anyhow, you'll win this election. It'll be tight, the rank and file knows Little Stevie means going back to the old ways, and they just don't want that. No way."

"If they don't want to go back, why will it be tight?" Tommy asked. He sounded cranky, even to himself.

"Stevie's got the name, Staski. With that comes immediate recognition, adoration from the media that doesn't know its ass from its elbow but has all kinds of romantic notions about the Steamer. Then there's a whole segment of the Truckers, too dumb to know any better who think the sun shone out of the Steamer's asshole and his son's a chip off the old block. Then there's the old guard who'll do anything to get rid of you and be back to business as usual. Then there's money. Stevie's got money to burn. Wherever it comes from, the old guard, the mob, the corporate gang that would prefer a tough-talking actor to a real union man, you can see it in his campaign."

"Helmut thinks we've lost his folks," Tommy said.

Helmut considered the bleakness in Tommy's eyes and voice, before he spoke. "If the alternative to Tommy K is Little Stevie Staski, you might be able to frighten the TFOCCers into action. I think the election is a toss up. It will depend on how many people believe you're a crook just like every president we ever had. That's what the Staski gang is peddling. The rip off of the Titus strike pay and the political contributions swap scandal and the nine-year-old boy blinded by a bomb they are pinning on you just about cancels out your accomplishments. But that's not going to determine whether you're president or not next year."

"What is?"

"Going to trial as soon as you can and being found not guilty," Helmut said.

"And if the trial gets delayed until after the election?"

"Steve Staski will walk into the job."

"Hold on there, buddy," Cobb said. "Pardon my French, but I think you're full of shit." He stared at Helmut for a moment, then said, "Tommy, you've got to come out fighting. And now. I talk to the volunteers and they talk to folks all over the country on the phone, who believe you're the best hope the Truckers ever had." "I'm so tired of this whole fucking thing," Tommy said. "I wake up in the morning and I say to myself what shit are they gonna pile on me today? I just want to put this whole thing behind me." He stopped. He was ashamed of having said what he said, sounding like a whiner. He let out a sharp breath. Shame was becoming an habitual feeling. Throughout his life he had reacted to attack with counterattack. Now, he had lost his taste for confrontation. He dreaded going out to the barns and factories hearing the hoots and `coo coo Kerrigans.' He spoke at last: "Why did you support me in `91, Helmut?"

"Because you were our best hope."

"You're still supporting me?"

"Yes, because we're stuck with you."

"And I'm stuck with the trial. If I cut a deal and plead out, my lawyer tells me the prosecutor wants a year in prison and full restitution. You know, $3 million, which I don't have. My only alternative is to spend the $300,000 a trial will cost and that wipes out every penny I ever had. Now I know why the old guarders put together fund-raising committees to cover the cost of their lawyers."

"You can't do that in an election year and still win," Helmut said.

Tommy leaned his face against his clasped hands. How could he say what he really felt without embarrassing himself? That he would quit, putting the nightmare his life had become behind him if he could walk away without going to jail or spending $300,000 on his lawyers. A year and a half ago, he envisioned himself as going down in history as The Trucker, a hero of the American labor movement who was able to do the seemingly impossible by winning the presidency of the Truckers International Union of North America from the old guard and their mob bosses; by unionizing Titus Interstate Transportation's 35,000 workers in an era when organizing strikes against major corporations were considered suicidally crazy; and by the contract victory over The Delivery Company when every other union in the country was surrendering to giveback agreements. That was then.

Helmut and Cobb glanced at one another, uncomfortable in the lingering silence. Helmut thought that what would have been appropriate at this point was to say pull yourself together, deal with the problem you brought on yourself through your own stupidity and ineptness. He smirked as he said to himself, 'an understanding female would say you poor dear.'

"I'm sorry it has to end this way, buddy," Cobb said with a sorrow that moistened his eyes.

Tommy stiffened. Cobb's comment sparked his memory of the Kirk Douglas character in The Champion when he was knocked on his back looking dazed and the announcer at ringside said something like, 'He's finished. There'll be a new champion tonight.' "He got up and so will I," Tommy said to the puzzlement of his small audience. He walked out of the small office without further explanation.

CHAPTER FORTY

Wearing a royal blue nylon windbreaker with Save Our Union in big red letters across the back, Steve Staski glided into the packed House Education and Workplace Committee hearing room his wife Audrey a step behind him. Steve had studied and studied the newsreels of his father with an almost effeminate gait entering so many hearing rooms on the hill just like this. He suspected his father adopted the floating walk to shock the television watchers all over the country who considered him a brutal union thug.

In his role as the Steamer in 'The Trucker', Steve immersed himself in the concept of a brave union leader facing down Corporate America on behalf of otherwise helpless working stiffs. He smiled as cheers and the chant Staski filled the hearing room. He loved being the Steamer.

Rep. Salinas Bapson (R-S.C.) banged his gavel. "Curb your enthusiasm. Order, order," he shouted.

Steve reached the witness table, turned around and held up his open right palm.

The chanting and cheering immediately stopped.

"Very impressive," Bapson said. "You got them in the palm of your hand." He laughed. "I'm no great friend of big labor, but count me in on the side of the hard working Americans, union or not."

"Then we're on the same side, Congressman Bapson."

"Raise your right hand, palm up towards me," the congressman said, laughing again.

Steve swore to tell the truth. "My father led the Truckers when our union was the largest, richest and most powerful union in the free world. I want you to know right from the outset, Congressman, I intend to return the Truckers to their days of glory. You might call it big labor, I call it our destiny."

The chant of Staski, Staski filled the room again until Bapson banged his gravel threatening to have the shouters removed.

"Okay, I am submitting a rather lengthy, detailed statement on the state of the American labor movement and the needs of American workers. The members of the committee can read and study this document," he held up a thick sheaf of paper, "at their leisure. And, I hope it inspires each of you to do what you can for the members of the great Truckers union and all hard-working Americans. Let me tell you before I answer your questions about a scene from our family supper table the night before my father, the great Steamer Staski, was murdered on the picketline. He said to me, son I want you to know that I am willing to sacrifice my life for only two causes, my family and the Truckers union. My mother cried and held his hand. Afterwards, he drove me to the airport for the plane to Dallas. I'll never forget the next day when I took riding lessons at a ranch outside Fort Worth to prepare me for my first role in a Western. My first time on a horse and my father murdered by the enemies of honest unionism."

Steve spent the next two hours answering questions from the eight Republicans and four Democrats who composed the Special Subcommittee on Union Democracy and Workers Rights. The Republicans focused on the corruption gripping the Truckers under Tommy Kerrigan, while the Democrats used their time to ask what legislation they could introduce to foster the lives of workers while avoiding the minefield of the Truckers' internal politics.

As Steve got up to leave the witness table, Bapson said with a grin, "I don't think anyone would consider it amiss if I say in parting that should you be chosen as the next president of Truckers, I hope you will resurrect the Truckers Annual Golf Outing and Feast. I used to look forward to being the guest of Bernie Soloway."

After lunch, Tommy Kerrigan, dressed in a Donegal tweed jacket with a bluish caste, sat alone at the witness table. Noble Kelly, his criminal lawyer, had advised Tommy that he was foolish to face the hostile panel of Republican congressman without a legal advisor at his side.

After being sworn in, Tommy said, "You'll notice I have neither a lawyer nor any Truckers union staffers with me. I don't a need a lawyer to tell me to tell the truth and I figure this is pure and simple politics aimed directly at me by Corporate America for my organizing and contract victories. I don't need any staffers holding my hand or my papers when confronting you."

"I resent your attitude and warn you, you are bordering on contempt of Congress, Mr. Kerrigan," Bapson said his face flushing as he spoke.

"I respect Congress or else I wouldn't be here. Let's get on with the questions."

Bapson looked down at his notes. "You're famous for cutting through the dreck in your dealings, so I will go right to heart of what America wants to know about you, Mr. Kerrigan. When was the last time you met with Anthony, Two Pots, Siciliano and what did you discuss?"

The question gave him a signal of what was to come. He breathed deeply, looking directly into the chairman's eyes, hoping the contempt he felt for this boob from South Carolina, one of the armpits of America, showed on his face. "I've never met Mr. Siciliano for a discussion."

Bapson stared back at Tommy, the subtlety of the response 'for a discussion' registering on his mind. He issued his prepared warning anyhow. "You are under oath. The maximum penalty for lying to Congress is five years in prison." As he finished speaking, two young aides, a black woman and a white man with a crew cut, placed a huge copy of the New York Account's front page photo of Tommy and the hunched old man on the steps of St. Teresa's Church on an easel in the front of the hearing room.

The congressman stretched his chin forward, an indication to those who knew him that he was about to land a knock-out blow. "If I'm not mistaken, Kerrigan, that is undeniable evidence of a meeting between you and the notorious mobster Anthony Siciliano, known to his associates like yourself as Tony Two Pots."

"You must be joking or out of your mind calling me an associate of a gangster. If you read the newspapers or had someone read them to you," he almost said you cracker bastard, "you would know that picture was taken on the steps of St. Teresa's Roman Catholic Church on the day of my mother's funeral. I told the press I didn't know who that old man was and I'm telling you under oath I didn't know who that old man was until I read his name in that paper. And, as I said, you must know that."

Bapson bared his teeth he was so angry at Tommy's response. He wanted to cut this socialist down to his knees. So he struck, the words flying out of his mouth: "Tell the committee, Kerrigan, what you know about Margaret Mamie Halloran Kerrigan's extramarital love affair with Anthony, Tony Two Pots, Siciliano? Tell the committee whether he gave you control of the whole Truckers union along with Local 1890?"

Rep. Anita Hathaway, the skeletal Democrat from Los Angeles jumped to her feet screaming, "Mr. Chairman you owe Mr. Kerrigan an apology. How could you be so cruel? Even Bernie Soloway at the Delivery Company and your other right wing, anti-union friends will be shocked at what you said today."

"You're out of order," Bapson shouted.

"I've had more than enough of this bullshit," Tommy said and walked out of the hearing room with reporters and photographers in pursuit.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

APRIL, 1995

In the Bronx, a tractor trailer jackknifed in the lashing rain blocking the Cross Bronx Expressway approach to the George Washington Bridge. Another tractor trailer crushed a Honda steered by an aggressive driver who sailed with abandon across traffic lanes on the Long Island Expressway where the highway dips at the exit for the Cross Island Parkway. The Tappan Zee Bridge was a mess. The New York State Thruway had a 12-car/truck pileup with two fatalities.

Tommy was caught in the jam on the LIE. He sat trapped in the box of his car for 45 minutes, mired along with hundreds of others by the misfortunes of the truck driver and the dead driver pinned in her tangled Honda. Tommy listened numbly to CBS describing the accidents clogging the major arteries leading in and out of the city. Commuters were warned that as bad as the roads had been through the morning, the evening rush hour would be worse with flooded roads and more wind-driven rain.

At last the cars and trucks around him began inching forward. Another half hour was consumed in reaching the single lane past the wreckage and the swirling emergency lights of police cars and ambulances. Tommy turned off the Expressway at the 48th Street exit and a few minutes later parked in front of Happy Koenig's house on Laurel Hill. He was two hours late for lunch, and exhausted.

Happy, wearing his fedora and a sweatshirt, his wood sculpting outfit, opened the door. "Didn't think you were coming," he said.

Tommy slipped out of his jacket which had been soaked in the few steps from the car up the stoop to Happy's front door. "I hope you didn't eat everything. I'm starved." He sat silently at the old marble-topped table in the kitchen while Happy ladled steaming homemade pea soup into a bowl and put out a round of hearth-baked bread from the Italian bakery on Greenpoint Avenue along with a thick slab of butter. He poured two Bushmills on the rocks.

"Up the union," Happy said touching his glass to Tommy's. Happy reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Believe me when I tell you Tommy, no jury in New York with working people on it, with union members, with people of color will convict Tommy Kerrigan."

"And how do I explain what happened at the international."

"You get on the stand and tell them that you were a visionary who thought you could turn the Truckers into what Local 1890 was and that was your downfall. You were so busy with your vision you didn't see the viper, Jack Egan."

"That's essentially what happened. A lot of people figure that I didn't want to know what Egan was doing because of the money he was pumping into my campaign."

"Maybe if you didn't organize Titus and didn't win The Delivery Company strike, you wouldn't be facing trial now. The bosses don't want real union men running unions. You really scared them. Made it look like labor could come alive again in this country."

He looked at this lean, grey-faced old man who had been his mentor for more than 35 years, who led his son, Roger, into wood carving. "Willful ignorance at best. That's what Stan Sheill would have accused me of if he was a high priced lawyer."

"Don't go on a guilt trip over that Tommy. Little Stanley Sheill was an innocent victim of class warfare. If his father hadn't run me down on the picket line, if the CIA hadn't overthrown the legitimate government of Guatemala, Stanley's house wouldn't have been bombed and he wouldn't have been blinded."

"If I had been paying attention when Iggy said that we had to bring the war to Sheill's front door for what he did to you, I wouldn't have spent a lifetime of regret. I should have asked what he meant."

"The whole Truckers union is guilty of willful ignorance. Look at the bums they voted in every five years before you came along. They like to make believe Steamer Staski was a great union leader and a martyr instead of a crooked thug. If Violet Staski hadn't been fucking some Mafioso in Chicago, Steamer Staski wouldn't have knocked him on his ass and called the strike against the Delivery Company. He did it to spit in the Chicago Outfit's face. That's the real story and it's no secret." Happy's face was aflame in anger.

"I know the story."

"You are the great union leader, Tommy. You have done so much, and you can do so much more when you get past this goddamn trial

"And the election against Steve Staski. My life has become an endless war and I'm really tired of it Happy."

"You're right. The struggle between good and evil, between the haves and have nots never does end and never will end. With evil and the haves usually winning. But every once in a while, a Tommy Kerrigan comes along and gives the working class hope. But come on. I want to show you my latest piece."

They went out the back door, crossing the yard in the icy rain to Happy's studio in the double wooden garage behind the house. One of the walls was lined with prints and sketches of James Earle Fraser's The End of the Trail, the sculpture of an American Indian slumped in blind exhaustion on a worn pony that seems barely able to take another step. Happy whipped away a blue sheet covering his carving of Tommy in a Trucker's windbreaker and cap, slogging through a quagmire, head bowed in extreme fatigue, dragging a picket sign, his eyes empty sockets, and one pant leg was torn exposing a muscular calf.

"That says it all," Tommy said sadly.

"I'm looking for the right title. I thought about, The Eternal Struggle, but that doesn't have the ring. Maybe I'll call it The Reformer.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

MAY, 1995

Tommy took the IRT, packed with the morning rush hour crowd of Chinese, Koreans, Indians from the Subcontinent, Latinos, Irish, East Europeans, and Americans black and white, from Woodside, where he parked his car on the street, to Grand Central and then the Lexington Avenue Line downtown to the Brooklyn Bridge/Worth Street stop. He walked up the steps coming out under the Municipal Building and to the street in a chilling drifting rain amidst the stream of men and women in suits, dresses, chinos, blue jeans and miniskirts under raincoats, slickers, umbrellas hurrying to the city, state and federal courts, to office buildings, to city offices, to apartments in Chinatown, to shopping in the dreary stores in the neighborhood. Tommy was walking on neutral with an inner stillness in a veil of sorrow. He had come through a night without sleep in the Morgan Hill cabin, then in the drive to the city struggled against a flaming desire to put the pedal to the floor and fly into a bridge abutment to escape into death.

The day of his trial had arrived with no calls from the national union leaders who had known him in Washington, or those who had grown up with him in New York. As he turned onto the short street leading to the federal courthouse, he was snapped into focus by the mass of men and women in blue Truckers windbreakers and the chant: "Tommy K, innocent!" being led by Sylvester Timony, who had brought half a dozen members from his San Francisco local with him.

Carolyn Gordon, the slaughterhouse Truckers union leader from Colorado, pumping her fist, yelled from behind the police barricade: "We believe in you Tommy. She was wearing a big Tommy K `95 button over the left breast of her TFFOC jacket. Chick, her bearded, mountain of a man, stood behind her, looking uncomfortable, but he stepped forward to reach past the police to shake Tommy's hand.

"It's so good of you folks to turn out for me," Tommy shouted as the Staski supporters chanted their new rallying cry: Coo! Koo! Ki-Kick out Coo-Koo Kerrigan. He avoided looking into their faces.

The kids, his two sons and daughter, and Happy Koenig were waiting with his lawyer, Noble Kelly, just on the other side of the metal-scanner operated by marshals inside the courthouse. Alicia wrapped her arms around him. "Oh Daddy" was all she could say. He eased her off, telling her not to worry. He shook hands all around. "Let's go up," he said, sensing he had to be the one to lead the way to the chamber where his fate would be decided.

***

At the outset of the case, Noble Kelly told Tommy that the only sure way of avoiding a 10 or 25 year prison sentence was to cut a deal to trade someone bigger than himself to feed the prosecution sharks, maybe President Clinton or Democratic fund raiser Terry McAuliffe, for a light sentence.

"What's a light sentence? Tommy asked in caustically.

"Three years."

"They just love creating rats, don't they, but that's not an option for me unless I'm willing to lie like Jack Egan. I don't have anything on Bill Clinton, and I don't even know McAuliffe. Anyhow, if I did have something on them, I'd hope I'd have internal fortitude not to be an informer."

"Sometimes the standards we set for ourselves don't work in the real world. Tommy, you're facing a judge who will feel righteous in sending you away for a long time if the jury believes Jack Egan. He is the crux of the prosecution and the defense cases. We have to destroy him on the witness stand." He added, "And do as much damage to Lou Ramiglia as possible too."

Coming off the elevator, Tommy went directly to the courtroom taking his seat at the defense table. He looked straight ahead. "Keep everyone away from me," he whispered to Kelly. Tommy knew his face reflected the bleakness he felt in his soul. He couldn't hide it from his family. He didn't want to draw sympathetic smiles of support from the retirees filling the courtroom. He was embarrassed by the accusations, by his failures. He just wanted to be left alone.

At last Judge Stone judge wearing his usual sour-face, came into the room. The jury filed in: 14 of them. Twelve core jurors: eight men, four women, three blacks, a Chinese, the rest white. Dressed in a mix of casual and careful. The two alternates were white women. Tommy had learned the backgrounds of the jurors during the selection process. The black man in the brown tweed jacket was an English professor at Fordham. There was a retired bus driver, an Irishman from the old country, who had been in the Transport Workers Union with Mike Quill. Kelly guessed they were their aces in the hole. Two strong-willed men, either of whom might be capable of hanging the jury or even pressing the jury into acquittal. The black professor hopefully would feel sympathy for a decent man targeted for destruction by the establishment. The old Irish bus driver hopefully had lingering memories of Red Mike Quill who died standing up to the bosses. The rest of the jurors were a mix of white collar workers from banks and public agencies, an advertising copywriter, the owner of a printing services company, a doorman, a retired undertaker, a hotel maid, and a housewife from Westchester. Five of the jurors were from Manhattan, one from the Bronx, the rest from the suburbs.

Tommy watched their faces during the opening arguments, concerned at the quick turn away of a juror's head when their eyes met. The lawyers estimated 10 days of trial, a time span of two weeks, possibly three if unavoidable delays intervened. "Let's proceed," Judge Stone said. The judge was 86. Two years older than Tommy would be when he got out of prison if the jury sent him down.

Miriam Rosenkranz, the assistant U.S. Attorney, went through the building blocks of her case: FBI accountants who examined the records of the Truckers strike fund; the Truckers Return Fund bank account with Tommy's signature on the card authorizing deposits and withdrawals; the Titus strikers who should have been paid, but weren't; the Truckers international reps who sent the checks to the Truckers Return Fund; Asa Hackett, the coordinator for Involved Voters of America, telling of the meeting at which he believed the swap scheme was approved; Martha Nez describing the closeness of Tommy and Jack Egan, who was endowed with extraordinary powers by the international president; and finally, the star witnesses: Lou Ramiglia and Jack Egan.

Lou Ramiglia, dressed in a navy blue blazer, gray slacks, a white shirt and Canadian regimental blue and gray tie, regurgitated his account of Tommy K at first hostile and then friendly enough not to interfere with the operations of Truckers Midwest States Pension & Welfare Fund after he indicated that the financing for Ignatius O'Hara's super freighter would be approved.

Kelly opened his cross-examination by asking Ramiglia if he would be more comfortable with his usual gold chain around his neck instead of the fancy tie. "Did Ms. Rosenkranz pick out your tie?"

Rosenkranz objected. The jurors smiled.

"My wife picked out the tie," Ramiglia said with a sneer flickering across his face.

"You're a real family man aren't you?"

"No need to answer that question. Let's not waste time," Judge Stone said.

"Mr. Ramiglia brought up his family, your honor. He opened the door and I intended to step into that room later in the cross, but I'll get to the point." He went to the defense table where his partner handed him a folder. After glancing into it, he asked: "I understand that in 1980 you authorized the purchase by the St. Louis Truckers Brewery Local of a fishing cabin on Bull Shoals Lake in the Ozarks approximately 275 miles from your union hall in St. Louis. How often did you use that cabin?"

"Every once in a while. The members and other officers were authorized to use it too." Ramiglia assumed his poker face, although his fear of the questions to come was barely discernible in the slightest squint of his right eye.

Kelly smiled at the jury. "Could you give me the names of the members and officers who have used the cabin since 1980?"

"How would you expect me to keep track of that? They wanted to go, they went."

Kelly asked, again with a smile directed first to Ramiglia and then to the jurors, "How did they get there?"

"They drove how else would they get there." Ramiglia's anger sounding in his voice. He had started to breathe hard.

"Perhaps they went the way you always did by private plane from St. Louis to the private airport near Camp Ramiglia."

"What do you mean, Camp Ramiglia? That wasn't the name," Ramiglia said knowing what would come next.

Kelly held up a small bound book. "Says Camp Ramiglia on the cover of the log of your visits and the names of those who paid a weekly rental fee to use the camp. The rental fees were paid directly to you not to the Brewery Local's treasury, according to Shirley Bradley, who kept the log and who was your office administrator up until two years ago. Why did you fire her?"

"I got rid of her because she brought her family problems to the office."

***

Later in the trial, Shirley Bradley, a short woman in her mid-50s with long blonde hair wearing a pink blouse overlaid with white flowers and stuffed unto bursting into a leather skirt, testifying for the defense, said that she facetiously named the fishing cabin Camp Ramiglia since the only member of the Brewery Local who ever went there was Lou Ramiglia. She went with him in the private plane hired for the trip at least once and sometimes two or three times a year, taking advantage of those times when her husband was away on business or hunting. The only other guests at Camp Ramiglia were the paying customers, none of them members of the Brewery Local.

"Didn't the other officers or the members of the Brewery Local complain about that arrangement? Kelly asked.

"They either didn't know, didn't care or didn't dare. Lou Ramiglia is not the kind of man you cross."

"Then why are you daring to do it?"

She shook her head and looked down, uncomfortably embarrassed, but intent on exposing Ramiglia. "Lou came back from a pension conference in Las Vegas a couple of years ago with a present for me, syphilis. I passed it on to my husband, Andy, who went crazy when he found out. He went to give blood and found out he had VD. He told me the only one who could have given to him was me, because he never gone to bed with any other woman in our 20 years of marriage. Then I realized that the only one who could have given it to me was Lou. He was the only other man who ever even touched me. When I confronted him, Lou treated me like a dog. He told me I should have known better than to get infected, I probably got it from Andy. I walked out of his office in a frenzy. When he came out behind me, I turned and I clawed him, real good, right in front of everyone in the office. So he fired me after 15 years on the job. Just like that. You're finished, you bitch, he said. So I lost my husband, my lover if you could call him that, and my job all in the space of 24 hours."

Kelly, who had been nodding deeply and occasionally shaking his head, throughout her testimony, said, "Just one more question, Mrs. Bradley, just to clarify a point. The log for Camp Ramiglia indicates that the customers paid fees totaling roughly $6,000 a year. Lou Ramiglia had five different Truckers posts paying a total of $275,000 a year. Why would he pocket a paltry $6,000 that really belonged to the membership?"

She laughed. "You don't know Lou as well as I do. The answer is because he's greedy and cheap. He never spent a dime of his own money; everything was on the union credit cards.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Not one of the 50 seats in Judge Stone's 14th floor courtroom was empty; filled with Truckers in their blue windbreakers, Tommy K's children, Happy Koenig, courthouse regulars, and a dozen lawyers drawn by Noble Kelly's reputation as a master litigator, as Kelly opened the third day of the trial with the question: "Mr. Egan could you tell us what you did for the handsome wage Ignatius Mendez O'Hara secretly paid you during the course of 1994?"

Jack Egan relaxed, opening his mouth just a bit to ease the tension in his body as foretold by Assistant U.S. Attorney Miriam Rosenkranz during the practice sessions in which she asked the questions she anticipated from Kelly. Egan put on a pleasant expression, smiling with his lips closed, then delivered his prepared answer, "I was a consultant for Chemise Limited."

Kelly nodded. "I believe you testified on direct that your main function for Mr. O'Hara, who was paying you through Chemise Limited, one of his fronts, was to be Mr. O'Hara's liaison to Tommy Kerrigan, and as such you passed along the word from Mr. O'Hara that he wanted Mr. Kerrigan to approve the reappointment of Lou Ramiglia as chairman of Truckers Midwest States Pension & Welfare Fund?"

"That's correct."

"Let's see. Mr. O'Hara paid you a $10,000 signing bonus and $199,200 in the course of that critical year?"

"That's correct."

Kelly grinned for the jury. "Is it correct, too, that the by-laws of the Truckers Midwest States Pension & Welfare Fund provide that the board of directors of that body appoint the chairman." Kelly presented a copy of the by-laws to Egan and another to the prosecutor. "Clearly, I would have had as much authority as Thomas Keegan, the president of the Truckers International Union, at the time to appoint, Ramiglia to that post. Is that correct?"

Egan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "There was something more. I made sure that auditors weren't sent into the Midwest Pension"

"Was that so there would be no way Mr. Kerrigan could know about the Panamax loans and raise a stink that might block them?" Without waiting for his answer, Kelly continued, "I can see why that was worth a fortune to Mr. O'Hara to make sure Tommy Keegan knew nothing about his machinations, but you still haven't answered my question about Tommy Keegan's power to appoint the Midwest Pension fund chairman."

"We're awaiting your answer, Mr. Egan," Judge Stone said.

"Perhaps I misspoke."

"Perhaps you did. Perhaps you should have read the by-laws before making up that story."

"We'll have no more such comments, Mr. Kelly.

Kelly said, "Of course, your honor. Now let's turn to the Truckers Return Fund. I don't have to remind you, Mr. Egan, that you admittedly set up this account in a Nashville bank, controlled by Mr. O'Hara, to steal the strike pay from hundreds of Titus International truck drivers and warehouse workers, that approximately $825,000 was taken from the pockets of those strikers and deposited in what became your personal slush fund. Could you tell me how all of the money was spent?"

"I can't recall all of the details. I've admitted what I did and I'm ashamed of myself for doing it. But I say this, I didn't intend to cheat actual strikers. I would say 98 percent of the money came from using the names of the 3,000 or so Titus employees who lost the right to collect strike pay because they returned to work across our picket lines."

"So in your world view, it's okay to steal union funds sort of like the sleazy crook in the Doonesbury cartoon saying, the pension fund was just sitting there. Or should we say, the Truckers Return Fund was just sitting. Now, let's go over what you did with the money you stole from the Truckers. I have a breakdown based on your sworn affidavits: $75,000 was spent setting up the Tommy K 95 Reelection Office in Washington, D.C. I should note that most of that money was spent through your wife's firm, Triangle in the Rectangle Services so that she collected a middleman's fee on every penny spent. Another $100,000 that went to the Democratic National Committee, a contribution made in your name. Was that a good way to score points for yourself with Washington politicians?"

"I believed we needed to elect Democrats to foster pro-worker legislation."

"Could you explain to the jury how you helped Truckers union members and other American workers by draining $400,000 from that account for undocumented services by your wife's firm Triangle in the Rectangle Services, for $75,000 for a Jaguar, for $40,000 for jewelry for your wife, and for $50,000 for a down payment on a summer home on Martha's Vineyard?"

"I can't tell you how guilty I feel over what I have done. It is an aberration from the life I have lived in trying my best to help others."

"There's $45,000 unaccounted for and no money left in the account. Where's the missing 45?"

"I've always been concerned about the problem of hunger in Africa so I donated $45,000 to a program administered by my great friend, The Rev. Matthew Luther Jameson at the Reformed Christian Biblical Church in Hartford to meet the needs of starving children in Ethiopia."

"Did either you or your wife benefit from this donation?" Kelly asked.

"I've done many things I've regretted in my life, but this certainly wasn't one of them," Egan testified looking directly at the jurors.

"I'm glad to hear you've done a modicum of good," Kelly said, wondering whether this charitable donation of other people's money had given a more positive cast to Jack Egan's sorry character in the minds of any of the jurors, especially the three blacks. As he walked back to the defense table after saying he had finished with Jack Egan, he mused that Jack Egan didn't seem the charitable type, but life could be full of surprises. He decided he had better have his investigator, Paul Arnewsky, a fleshy man with eye glasses and thinning hair who was stationed in a chair behind the defense table, take a quick look at the good reverend Jameson and his Ethiopian charity. He wrote a note on his legal pad, tearing off the sheet, which he handed to Arnewsky telling him to get moving on the contribution to feed the hungry Ethiopian children before the end of the day,.

A despondent Tommy K took the stand on the sixth day of the trial. He glanced across the courtroom. His three kids sat with Billy Hurley in the front row, Carolyn and Chick were in a middle row among retirees from Local 1890 whose presence dominated the room. Towards the rear, Stan Sheill sat with his seeing-eye dog along with Bobby Bell, a happy-faced Mickey Sullivan, and a coterie of business agents and international reps aligned with Steve Staski.

Tommy worried about two of the jurors, who looked at the lawyers, the audience, the judge, the witnesses, but never at him. The pair, the advertising copywriter and the owner of a small printing services company, studied their feet or other parts of the room when his eyes flowed across them. He wondered: union haters, or maybe just believers in the prosecution witnesses.

Tommy testified that his leadership style was to delegate authority to Jack Egan and others giving them full power to deal with the routine details involved in the operation of the Truckers. He focused on grand strategies. He assumed that he could have written his name on the Nashville bank's signature card without paying the attention he should have, adding the he signed hundreds of documents without more than a cursory glance, relying on Jack Egan or Martha Nez or the union lawyers to have examined them.

"You put your name on paperwork moving millions of dollars out of the Truckers' treasury without carefully examining them?" Rosenkranz asked with contempt in her voice on cross examination.

"Yes," he said.

"Without even reading them carefully?" she asked turning to the jurors with the unspoken question `How can you expect us to believe that?'

Tommy answered, "I trusted Jack Egan." He added in almost a whisper, "I shouldn't have."

"And you called yourself a reformer?" she said.

"I did institute many reforms. I cut the president's salary from $250,000 a year to $150,000. I..."

"That's enough. I don't want to hear your campaign speech."

Kelly was on his feet, "She opened that door your honor."

Judge Stone said, "Next question."

She delved into the political contributions swap scheme, sneering in disbelief as Tommy testified he was unaware of a deal to trade donations to his campaign in return for the contributions to Involved Voters of America and similar organizations. He swore his only goal was to prevent the election of conservative, anti-union Republicans to Congress.

Kelly offered just two character witnesses: Happy Koenig, who described his long relationship with Tommy watching him emerge and blossom as an absolutely honest, effective leader.

Rosenkranz questioned Happy about his role in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and the U.S. Army Rangers as an explosives expert. "Did you ever make a bomb for the Truckers?" she asked.

Kelly was on his feet screaming a furious objection.

"Don't ask any more question like that Ms. Rosenkranz," the judge said.

The second character witness was Kelly Belmont, who described how Tommy took him out of a Bronx warehouse making him a union staffer after the big strike in 1971 so that blacks would have a representative they considered their own. "I was the first black business agent in Local 1890's history." Tommy watched the Fordham professor's eyes go up theatrically as he leaned forward with an intense concentration.

"Did you get along with the employers you dealt with Mr. Kelly?" Rosenkranz asked.

"Belmont. Everybody calls me, Belmont," he corrected her.

"Oh yes. The lawyer is Mr. Kelly," she said with a grin. Some in the audience laughed. Her smile was broader. The Fordham professor's lips tightened. "Did your appointment stem from union politics?"

"Tommy appointed me because I stood up with him against the mob in Local 1890, back when it was worth a man's life."

She tried to cut him off with a wave of her hand, "You've answered the question," she said.

Tommy smiled. She didn't know Kelly Belmont.

"I'm not finished lady. You want to make it seem like it was small-potato politics. Tommy Kerrigan is a man with bigger balls than you'll ever see."

The old men from Local 1890 laughed and applauded. "You tell `er, Belmont," someone called out.

Judge Stone slammed his gavel. Mr. Belmont. I'm admonishing you. Don't use language like that again in this courtroom. This is a courtroom not a loading dock."

Belmont was a man in control: "I noticed your honor," he said politely. No apology. No confusion. The Fordham professor smiled. The judge reddened, but let it go.

As the trial continued, Kelly brought in a handwriting expect, who testified that the Thomas R. Kerrigan signature setting up The Truckers Return Fund was a poorly-done forgery.

On the final day of presenting the defense case, Kelly called The Rev. Matthew Luther Jameson, presiding pastor of the Reformed Christian Biblical Church of Hartford, Connecticut, to the stand.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Miriam Rosenkranz jumped to her feet to object to this last minute calling of a witness without giving the prosecution time to prepare for a cross examination.

"Your honor," Kelly said to Judge Stone, "the defense was totally unaware of this witness until Mr. Egan mentioned him in my cross examination. It took us until yesterday to locate the Rev. Jameson, who was out of the country on church business and to elicit his version of the so-called donation of $45,000. Ms. Rosenkranz must have been well aware of the existence of the good reverend even before Mr. Egan seemed to remember on the stand what happened to the missing $45,000 from the Truckers Return Fund."

Jameson, dressed in the classic clerical garb of black suit, black bib and white collar, testified that the 1,500 members of his church, most of them relatively poor, but hard-working people, collected $45,000 to feed the orphans of Ethiopia in 1988. The money was to be distributed to the needy in Ethiopia through Food for the Hungry, supposedly a non-governmental organization set up by Jack Egan for the purpose. When he discovered that Egan had drained the entire $45,000 into his own pocket for administrative expenses, Jameson threatened to go to the police, but was dissuaded by Egan who signed an agreement to repay the money as soon as he could.

The expressions on the faces of most of the jurors gave Tommy real hope that the jury had come to the conclusion that Jack Egan was nothing but a self-serving liar and thief.

Gary Seegar, the slack-bellied, bearded reporter for the New York Account, notebook in hand, was waiting at the bank of elevators as Tommy, Billy, and Kelly emerged from the courtroom. "Can I get a comment from you on Tony Two Pots, Tommy? He died this morning. We're putting together an obituary on him."

"What have I got to do with this guy?"

"I thought you might be going to the wake if not the funeral."

Tommy looked at Kelly, who was watching the exchange with interest. The elevator door opened. As Tommy and Kelly entered the elevator box, Billy stepped in front of Seegar blocking his way.

"I guess that's a no comment," Seegar called over Billy's shoulder as the elevator door closed.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Noble Kelly ended his prolonged closing argument by telling the jury: "We have two leading characters in this drama: the greedy Jack Egan who stole money from hungry kids, who stole money from strikers, and who stole money from the Truckers union. And, Tommy K, who didn't get a penny of that money. You heard the evidence and so did I. If you convict Tommy K of anything even the Statue of Justice will cry." He touched the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to the cheekbones of his face just below his eyes to emphasize the notion of tears being drawn from the marble statue of the goddess of justice.

In her rebuttal delivered with whispers and sneers, Assistant U.S. Attorney Miriam Rosenkranz urged the jurors to remember that Thomas Kerrigan was the defendant not Jack Egan or Lou Ramiglia. "Don't be led astray by the unfortunate attacks on the characters of Mr. Egan or Mr. Ramiglia. Neither is a perfect or they wouldn't be facing justice themselves, but they have tried their best to make amends by revealing the extent of Thomas Kerrigan's corruption and betrayal of his high office, betrayal of the hard working men and women who put their trust in him and were cheated by Thomas Kerrigan. I agree with Mr. Kelly that he deserves justice and I pray you deliver it to him in the form of a conviction." After almost shouting her final word, 'conviction, she whirled round and strode to the prosecution table where she stood, head down.

"Are you finished, Ms. Rosenkranz?" the judge asked breaking the lock she had attained on the attention of the jurors and the audience.

Late in the morning of the 22nd day of the trial, a Wednesday, after the jury filed out of Judge Stone's near empty court room to begin deliberations, Noble Kelly looked at his wristwatch. He said to Tommy, "Early, but not too early for a drink for two men who really need one."

"And Billy," Tommy said.

The only seats in the audience were occupied by Billy Hurley, a young greasy-looking man with long hair who was taking notes, a woman free-lancing an article for a Socialist paper with a circulation of about 4,000, and two ancient trial buffs.

Billy joined them as they passed through the door to the hallway. The woman free lancer came out behind them, following them to the elevator, hoping to be invited along to lunch or a bar, wherever they were going. She said, "I don't think you have a problem at all Mr. Kerrigan. Mr. Kelly did some job in taking the prosecution witnesses apart."

"Thanks for the compliment, but you never know what a jury is going to do," Kelly said. He nodded over his shoulder, "Who is the kid. He from the Village Voice or something?"

"He wouldn't tell me," she said.

"Ahhh, an observer from the other side," Kelly said.

On Pearl Street, Kelly said to the woman, "We'll see you when the jury comes in."

"When do you think that will be?"

"Only the Shadow knows," he said smiling.

Tommy and Noble Kelly with Billy trailing a couple of steps behind walked across Broadway to the Salisbury Plain on Duane Street, where they settled onto high stools at the broad oak bar. With the noon hour thirty-five minutes away, the long bar had only a half dozen customers sitting in pairs chatting over their drinks.

"Three Powers," Kelly said to the bartender. "On the rocks okay, gentlemen?" Billy and Tommy nodded. "On the rocks, then," he said.

The bartender wiped the clean bar in front of them with a cloth and fetched the bottle of golden-colored Powers Irish Whiskey from the pyramid behind him. "You want menus?" he asked as he placed the three glasses of ice and whiskey before them.

"Yeah, we might as well eat here," Tommy said.

Kelly raised his glass: "To the American jury system, and your jurors in particular, God bless them one and all." They touched glasses and drank.

Tommy said, "Another toast. To the Rev. Matthew Luther Jameson." After he sipped his whiskey, he asked Kelly, "Are we home safe?"

Kelly drained his glass. "Iacta alea est. The die is cast. We won't know the outcome of the game until the jury returns with a final verdict. I did my best in the courtroom and I've learned not to torture myself by guessing the outcome. There's no way to predict what a jury will do with certainty. So you and Billy enjoy lunch, talk about the Giants or the Yankees or your kids, but don't torment yourself over wondering what they will do. It is out of our hands until a verdict comes in. I'm going back to my office; the clerk will call me when the jury comes in and that could be with a question or a verdict. We won't know until it happens. You stick near the courtroom if you can. Check in with the clerk or my office at least once an hour. You can't be among the missing when the jury comes in or else the judge will go ballistic."

Tommy went to phone booth near the restrooms to call his children to tell them the jury was out, but not to bother coming to the courthouse since he had no idea when the verdict would be announced.

Back at the bar, which was beginning to fill with the lunchtime crowd of politicians, office workers and cops, Billy suggested the house special, beef chili, with a side of tomatoes and French fries. "Used to come in this place all the time when I was on the job. The chili is terrific."

After eating, Tommy went alone to find a bench in City Hall Park where he could pass the time reading Slaughterhouse Five, a novel recommended by his son Roger. He wasn't much of reader under normal circumstance and this afternoon under a pleasantly warm sun on the last day of May with flowers blooming along the walks, birds singing, and the noise of cars, trucks and sirens, a bursting headache blocked him from getting into the novel. He watched men and women on their lunchtime breaks hurrying through the park with paper bags filled with sandwiches and soft drinks or coffee. He didn't want to jinx himself so he drove away the thought that Noble Kelly had so shredded the government's case that he didn't see how any jury could convict him. There was always the chance that the jurors would want to throw Rosenkranz a bone by returning a guilty verdict on one of the minor charges. Kelly in his closing argument warned against that route, since an amendment to the Truckers Union constitution, pushed through by the TFOCCers at the last convention, required the removal of a president convicted of a crime, no matter how minor.

On Friday evening, the jurors sent a note to Judge Stone saying that they were so deeply split they couldn't reach a decision. The judge, who had assumed a not guilty verdict would be returned quickly in the wake of Kelly's destruction of the government's case, urged the 12 men and women to carefully examine the evidence, to use common sense, and to do their best to reach a verdict. He guessed, without saying so aloud, that they were split between those who wanted to find Kerrigan guilty on a minor charge to throw the prosecutor a bone and the complete rejection of all the charges. He told them they would remain in the courthouse from 10 AM until 10 PM through the weekend and every day thereafter until they reached a verdict.

The expressions on the jurors' faces universally was fury. The forewoman asked why they couldn't be allowed to go home over Saturday and Sunday.

"You're here to fulfill your obligation to society and you will do so. Sometimes life can be difficult. Now go in there and reach a decision."

They sat locked in the jury room from 10 AM until 10 PM with a one-hour break for lunch and 90 minutes for dinner at three local restaurants, a different one each night. The long, repetitious, contentious days were interrupted several times with returns to the courtroom for the rereading of crucial testimony by Jack Egan, Lou Ramiglia, Tommy K and the Rev. Jameson.

They went through the weekend and through Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The judge refused four requests over those days to end the ordeal by accepting a hung jury. The spectators had dropped away and didn't return.

On the eleventh day of deliberations, a Saturday afternoon, the jurors asked for a third reading of Jack Egan's testimony in which he admitted cheating on college exams and being on Ignatius M. O'Hara's payroll while working as Tommy's chief of staff. Shortly after 8 o'clock that evening, the jury sent another note to the judge. "We cannot reach a unanimous decision. Please let us go home."

Tommy, Noble Kelly, and Rosenkranz with her associates were assembled into the courtroom at 10 PM. In the audience was a lone reporter, a young woman from The New York Globe. The judge came onto the bench a few minutes later, and the jury filed into their box. The forewoman led the way with her head down. The black professor from Fordham wore an angry expression, the Irishman seemed bemused. Juror two, the advertising copywriter was tight-lipped, and juror seven, the owner of the printing services company, stared at the judge while the other jury members looked at Tommy, who was fidgeting in his chair, fearful of the verdict to come.

Judge Stone read aloud a note from the forewoman stating that no matter how long they remained in the courthouse a unanimous decision was beyond them. The judge turned to the jurors, "I want to thank you ladies and gentlemen. This has not been an easy experience for any of you. I'm sure you did your best and I must say that your refusal to be moved from your varying positions show the sincerity of your convictions. Thank you. You are dismissed. Free at last to go to your homes." He instructed the court officers to keep the participants in the trial and the spectators in the courtroom for at least 30 minutes to give the jurors time to depart if they so chose without being questioned.

Rosenkranz felt a surge of bile rising to her throat. Her teeth were clenched. She decided as she fiddled with a pen and yellow legal pad, waiting for the seemingly interminable half hour to pass that on Monday she would urge the U.S. Attorney to order an investigation of the jurors. She was convinced only a rigged jury could have found Tommy K not guilty. The printing services company owner struck her as a deceitful little man. He never met her eyes. Maybe his company was in a financial bind? She tried to shake her anger fed by her desire to track him down to confront him on the spot, and everyone of these jurors, to find out why they were stupid enough, weak enough, or even venal enough to let this union crook go?

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

JUNE, 1995

On the following Tuesday, Steve Staski appeared on Barry Moore's Arena to deliver his analysis of the outcome of the trial of Tommy K. "I must say Barry," Staski told the cable show host, "that I consider a hung jury tantamount to a conviction."

Watching the segment in his Georgetown house, Tommy shouted, "you son of a bitch" at the television screen.

Staski told a wide-eyed, grinning Barry Moore of his assumption that despite the overwhelming evidence one or two jurors held out against conviction because they felt sorry for Tommy K.

Moore responded in his booming voice that while Tommy K had become a rather pitiful figure, some people believed the worst: that the jury had been fixed.

"I can't say something like that," Steve said looking down and shaking his head in reprising a scene from his television series Over the Road, in which he discovered with dismay that his best friend had been arrested for drunk driving after crashing into a school bus. He looked into Moore's eyes. "I know a lot of people are saying that, because they believe Tommy K is capable of anything, but I wouldn't dream of joining a lynch mob. I do think the Justice Department is obligated to get to the bottom of that awful accusation."

"The American labor movement is lucky to have someone like you on the horizon to take over the biggest, toughest, most successful union in the country." He reached his soft right hand across the table to shake Steve's extended hand. "Thank you so much for taking time out of your campaign to drop by to see me. When is the Truckers' nominating convention, over the Labor Day weekend? I hope to see you again a few days after Labor Day Steve to hear about the convention and what you're going to be doing to win the presidency. Not there's any doubt now that you will."

Tommy's private phone began ringing moments after the close of the show. He didn't answer. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. He felt painfully exhausted. He decided he would go to his Morgan Hill cabin to escape the Truckers union and the problems that went with it for a week or 10 days. He wanted to be alone; he wanted to recharge. Early the next morning, he checked the answering machine. Messages from Cobb Wowka, Helmut Knall, and Noble Kelly. He decided to talk to Kelly, but it was too early to call. He had nothing to say to either Cobb or Knall; he wasn't interested in hearing their ideas for a counter attack. He was tired of the sordid politics of the Truckers' election.

Downstairs, Billy Hurley was waiting with the car. "We're going up to New York."

"You want to go to National?"

"No. We're driving. I want you to drop me by the house and then take off until further notice. I'll call you when I want you."

Billy noticed the language, 'want you,' not 'need you.' He didn't speak to Tommy through the long hours of driving to New York, not even when they stopped for coffee and gas.

"Have a good vacation," Tommy said as he got out of the car in Melville. He went right to the telephone to call Noble Kelly.

"I'm just going out. Can you see me this evening, say at six o'clock in my office. I should be back from court by then," Kelly said.

Tommy swallowed his peeve. Since becoming international president of the Truckers he had become accustomed to people rearranging their schedules to come to his office or wherever he wanted to meet them. Kelly was treating him like a nobody. "No I can't make it and I'll be out of touch for a week to 10 days," Tommy said. He wasn't going to demean himself by running to the lawyer's office.

"Well then, I'll give it to you in two brief sentences and then I have to run. The retrial will cost you another $300,000. A third upfront. Number two, I met Miriam Rosenkranz at a bar association seminar last night and she's ready to deal. She'll drop the case if you agree to resign from the Truckers, not only the presidency but membership in the Truckers before your convention. Think it over; you'll save $300,000 by jumping out now. I must tell you I think we can win the retrial. We should have gotten a not guilty verdict the first time around. But juries are strange animals. I've told you that before. Now goodbye."

He hung up without waiting for a response from Tommy. "That son of a bitch," Tommy said slamming down the phone. He held onto the handset, embarrassed by his readiness to respond with the street phrase 'son of a bitch' to the Staski interview and now the short shrift of Noble Kelly. He fetched Pepper from the neighbor across the street, whose son was paid to take care of the dog on Tommy's frequent absences, stocked up on supplies at the supermarket, and set out for his cabin in the Catskills.

For the next three days, Tommy struggled to drive the uncomfortable and repetitive stream of thoughts about his problems from his mind by focusing on fixing the minor afflictions suffered by the cabin in the severe winter on Morgan Hill: clearing brush, redigging a drainage ditch, painting, and fixing the screens.

As he was stapling the wire screening onto a frame along the long front porch, he felt something inside of him shift suddenly transforming his passion to be the catalyst for improving the lives of American workers, especially Truckers union members, into an indifference that startled him. He paused, staring without seeing, remembering the very day of his decision to change the union from a sinkhole of corruption in the pocket of the bosses. The date was Dec. 20, 1958, the Saturday before Christmas; he had been on the job as a selector for a little less than three month at the Delivery Company's grocery warehouse in Blissville, when Mike Bottio, the assistant shop steward, a swarthy, hard-looking man always in need of a shave, said, "Hey kid, gimme ten dollars for Izzy's Christmas gift." Izzy Belinsky was the president of Truckers Local 1890.

Tommy reacted with rage; ten dollars was almost a full day's pay. "I don't have $10."

"I'll lend it to you," Bottio said. He was the plant loan shark. His union post gave him the freedom to move around the cavernous warehouse lending money and taking bets.

Tommy shook his head and turned away from Bottio. "I've got work to do," he said.

"You're lucky you have a job, kid. You just don't appreciate what Izzy does for guys like you."

Tommy ignored him, swallowing the impulse to say Izzy does more for the boss than he does for the workers. That was the moment that decided his future to transform Truckers Local 1890 into a union for the rank and file not the officers or the mobsters or the bosses.

Thirty-seven years later in the midst of repairing the screens on Morgan Hill, he mused that he had done what he set out to do. He made Local 1890 into the epitome of what a union local should be and he had done what amounted to wonders as the international president of the Truckers. He was tired of striving to be a working class hero. He wanted to be left alone; he wanted to quit the brutal politics of the Truckers, but he was trapped by circumstance. Even if he wanted to walk away, and he did, he couldn't.

That night he slept soundly, awakening in the morning with a solution to the fee for Noble Kelly. When he took over the Truckers, he had cut the international president's salary from $250,000 a year to $150,000. As soon as the election was over, he would boost his pay by the uncollected $100,000; he could easily pay off the $300,000 in installments over the next four or five years. If Kelly wouldn't go for that plan, he would borrow the money. He had managed the cost of the first trial by selling his half interest in the Melville house to Alice. He didn't have much cash in the bank and the only other thing of value was the Morgan Hill cabin.

With his financial worries resolved, the day passed in happiness with a short hike up the mountain trail behind the house and Dinty Moore's stew and homemade biscuits with a Paddy's Old Irish Whiskey for dinner. He was wearing his blue cashmere sweater against the chill of the mid-June evening, sitting on the porch in his Kennedy rocker sipping the remnants of his second Paddy's, when a car pulled into the driveway. He watched wondering with irritation who had come to disturb his retreat.

Alice got out of the car. She came up the four wooden steps to the screen door. "I knew I'd find you here."

"Where else would I go?"

"You are so predictable," she said. "Mind if I enter your domain?"

He put down his glass to step over to the screen door, pushing it open for her, wondering whether he should kiss her. He didn't feel like it; he had lost the habit, but he stepped forward as if to touch her face or lips with his.

She pressed her open palm against his chest. She said, "Hey. Ever see the print of the chessmen in checkmate. The winning armies of chessmen all have the same big smiles. The losers have so many different reactions to defeat. Some are crying. Some are determined to fight again. Some are crushed. Bitter. Confused. You name it. After hearing your jury was hung, I decided I would like to see a painting by the artist showing the expressions on everyone's face after a draw." She walked around him to take his place in the rocking chair. She laughed. Hatred was laced across her face.

"What is so funny?" he asked, knowing that she was trying to hurt him.

The words slipped like darts of venom from her tongue. "Me sitting down in the great Tommy K's special chair. I never would have dreamed of doing it when we were married."

"Not married any more? I thought we were."

"Oh cut it out. That's just a memory and you know it."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Get me one of those," she said pointing to his glass. "Then we'll talk."

He went into the kitchen, poured the whiskey over ice in low-ball glasses, and returned to the porch. He raised his glass to her, "Thanks for the memories."

She took a sip. "Let's get right down to business so I can get back in the car and get out of here." Alice told him that she had decided to sell the house in Melville, which they had bought 25 years ago, in which they had raised their children. "The last vestige of a once and always marriage."

That announcement stabbed him, a sensation he experienced just below his breastbone. He never imagined she would sell. The house was the center of what remained of their family; the place where Christmas was celebrated, the place to which the children could return. He thought they had come to an understanding, a neutrality in which each could take their own lives in whatever direction they wished. She didn't need the money the house would bring; she was being ugly.

"I want to tell you too not to expect me to pay for your retrial."

He started to speak, but she held up her hand to silence him.

"Let me finish." She told him that Bobby Bell's wife, Daniella, had been at her showing at the Metzger Gallery in Beverly Hills over the weekend. Daniella, who as usual had too much to drink, told her that Tommy's trials would never end in anything but a conviction or hung juries.

"If she heard the evidence and saw Noble Kelly in action, I don't think she would jump to that conclusion. Kelly is positive we'll win the next time around."

"Where are you going to get the money for the retrial? You don't have it in the bank. You don't own anything except this shack. You don't even own a car. It belongs to the union doesn't it?"

"When I became international president, I cut my salary from $250,000 a year to $150,000 and I can move it right back up again after I get reelected. I can pay Kelly off with the proceeds of that extra $100,000 a year."

"What happens if you don't get reelected?" She told him Bobby Bell was confident that Steve Staski was going to win because polling showed the overwhelming majority of the rank and file believed Tommy K was a crook who dipped into the union treasury to finance his reelection campaign. Besides that, all of the old guard locals had been electrified into pouring money and volunteers into the Staski campaign prodded by the fear that the TFOCCers would ruin the union if Tommy K won again.

"Are you here as a shill for Bobby Bell?"

She swallowed the contents of her glass and slammed it down on the ledge of wood that ran along the porch just below the screening. "If I tell you something that could change your life forever, will you swear to me that you will never tell anyone else, because I'm putting myself in danger and Daniella too."

He thought about it as she stared at him. "Okay."

"The jury was rigged. The vote was 10 to 2."

"Kelly fixed the jury?"

"No. Bobby Bell did. He arranged for two jurors to be paid to hold out for conviction no matter what. And Daniella says you'll never find out how the deal was done. But if they have to they're going to do it again and again."

Tommy sneered. "And why would Daniella be so concerned about my finances that she would tell you all this?"

"She's not. She said that's the least of your worries. She told me that the only one who was one standing between you and some mob guy who hates you, called The Corker, was Anthony Siciliano and now he's dead. Bobby Bell is trying to cool the situation so this Corker guy doesn't kill you and mess up Bobby's plans for Steve Staski taking over the Truckers. She said if you win the election by accident you're a dead man."

"Neil Corso," Tommy said. "His nickname is The Corker. I haven't seen him in years, decades. I can't believe he would dare touch me. First he would have to get past Billy."

"I don't want any part of this, but I certainly don't want to see you killed or Daniella killed for trying to help you. So I'm arranging for the house to be sold and I'm leaving for Europe as soon as I can get on a plane. And whatever you do, don't tell anyone what I told you."

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

As they exited the Long Island Expressway at 48th Street en route to Happy Koenig's house in Laurel Hill, Tommy told Billy Hurley that tomorrow would be his last day as president of the Truckers. He was uncertain what would happen to Billy's job, whether he would continue with the new president or not.

"Don't worry about me, Tommy. I can take of myself."

"I appreciate that, but after you drop me, your job with me is over."

They shook hands before Tommy got out of the car.

The moment Happy opened the door, Tommy handed him a bottle of Valpolicella Superiore

Happy paused for a second before arriving at his greeting: "Ah, a good wine to go with a good meal and good company. I made veal parmigian and pasta for lunch with the great Tommy K. Come on in."

Tommy had little to say while Happy dominated the table conversation with his oft-repeated stories from the Spanish Civil War. "We lost that one, but I made up for it a couple of years later when we kicked the fascists' asses," Happy said as he usually did after recounting his exploits in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade as though the war against Germany and Italy was a continuation of the conflict that began in Spain.

After they had finished eating and had moved to the living room with the remnants of the Valpolicella Superiore, Tommy said, "I don't know how to tell you this because, because I know you would never surrender that's not in your character." Happy lost his smile realizing he was about to hear something dreadful. "I'm going into New York tomorrow to sign a deal with the feds. Miriam Rosenkranz has agreed to drop the charges against me the moment I quit the Truckers."

"Why Tommy?" Happy asked putting his glass down. His face reflected the agony he was feeling.

"You know the expression, don't let the bastards grind you down. Well, I'm ground down. I just can't take any more."

"You're suffering from a form of battle fatigue, brother. I saw good men fall apart in the war; a week away from the front the lines and they were back as good as ever. I read in the papers the jury voted 10-2 for acquittal. Why the hell are you quitting when the odds are with you?"

Tommy again said, "I just can't take any more." He didn't describe his dilemma over the prospect of losing the election and then not being able to raise the money to pay for the retrial and his realization that if he won the election, he would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and wondering if the car he was getting into would be torn apart by a bomb.

"We're in a class war, Tommy. There are things we have to do in life, not because it's easy or we want to, but because it's our destiny. You're the only one who can beat Steve Staski. You're all that stands between having a real union that cares about the members and the return of the mobsters and the business unionists, who are as bad as the bosses."

Tommy put his hand across his mouth and squeezed as though that action magically could make him feel better. "I knew that's what you would say because you would never feel the way I do."

"Was it T.S. Eliot who said, April is the cruelest month? Maybe it was for him. For me, June stands out. When I finally made it back to the states after Spain, I landed on June 21, 1938, and went right to my sweetheart's house and I found out she got married to someone else. I never found another girl I wanted to marry. On June 5, 1956, someone told me to take a look at the New York Times. Right on the front page they had the full story of Khrushchev's Secret Speech about what a scumbag Stalin really was. I still remember the little headline, 'dead dictator painted as savage who was mad and power crazy.' I quit the party as a result."

"And today is another infamous day in June."

"I'm 77 years old so I might not have long to remember it, but for the rest of my life I'll remember June 14, 1995, the date the once great Tommy Kerrigan threw in the towel. You know what I'm going to do in reaction. I'm a reactionary I guess. I'm gonna change the name of my sculpture of you from The Reformer to Ground Down.

Tommy got up. He was felt scourged by the shame of falling so short of Happy's vision of him. He said, "I knew you wouldn't understand, but I felt I had to tell you face to face." He left without saying goodbye. He walked from Laurel Hill to the Bliss Street IRT station. At Woodside, he took the Long Island Rail Road to Huntington and a taxi, arriving at the house just before four o'clock. It would be almost two in Texas. He called Cobb Wowka at his home in Dallas.

Mrs. Wowka answered the phone with an edge to her voice. She said she would fetch Cobb from the backyard where he was dozing by the pool.

"Hey buddy, you getting ready to rumble again," Cobb said in his jovial voice.

"The game's over Cobb. I officially quit the Truckers tomorrow. Put in my papers to withdraw from the union, to dump the presidency."

"I'll be damned. You were gonna win the election you know."

"I'm not so sure. I'm just tired of it all. I just want to put it behind me."

"You're gonna shock a lot of people, gonna disappoint a lot of them. I got to say that my wife and Steve Staski and the old guard are sure gonna be happy."

"How about you Cobb?"

"Your election in 1990 was the high point of my life. I put it up there with marrying Nan and having my kids. But I have to admit I am awfully tired this time around. Just isn't fun any more."

"I know what you mean."

"I'm 70 so I'm winding down. But what are you, 57 or 58, if I got the numbers right. You got a whole life ahead of you. So the union's behind you. Not many guys did as much as you did. Now you got to figure out what else you always wanted to do and do it."

"I feel like I'm a hundred and fifty seven. All I want to is to crawl into a hole and pull it closed behind me."

"That's not good, Buddy. Take it from Ol' Cobb, do something that's meaningful or fun or that's important to you whatever it is."

He decided Alice could find out about his decision in the newspapers or on TV; he was past her too. He wondered if Bibi would somehow hear about it on the radio or in the newspapers down in Buenos Aires—or if she wouldn't know about it until he walked into her new restaurant, Lucien's de Nuevo York. He would take Cobb's advice; fly to South America as soon as he could and that would be meaningful, fun and important to him all wrapped in one. He would make one more call.

"What can I do for you President Kerrigan," Helmut Knall said when he answered the phone.

"I wanted to give you a heads up."

"I'm listening," Helmut said.

Tommy wondered if he knew already. Helmut always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone. "I'm resigning from The Truckers tomorrow. So I won't be running for president."

"Shit," Helmut screamed startling the two interns stuffing envelopes on the other side of the thin wall separating his office and the volunteers' room in TFOCC's Chicago headquarters. "So you cut a deal huh." Without waiting for a response, he continued, "We were going to win this one. So now let me look at my calendar. You're giving us ten whole weeks to find another candidate who can somehow even get nominated at the convention. Don't worry we'll manage it somehow."

Tommy said, "What difference does it make to you Helmut. If your candidate wins, it's a triumph. If he loses, you just keep on fighting. You were born to be what you are. It's in your blood."

"I'm surprised and disappointed in you soon-to-be former President Kerrigan. Sorry, I can't stay on the phone; I just can't waste any more time on you. I've got to get looking for a new candidate for international president." He hung up.

"No sympathy was expected and none was offered," Tommy said into the dead phone.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

Noble Kelly met Tommy in the foyer of the U.S. Attorney's building on St. Andrew's Plaza in lower Manhattan shortly before their appointment at nine o'clock with the prosecutor, Miriam Rosenkranz. He handed him a manila folder. "Read it carefully. Once you sign, you're out of the Truckers and the U.S. Attorney drops the criminal case."

Tommy forced himself to read the agreement sentence by sentence, twice. It was a habit formed from years of dealing with devious management lawyers. He was weighed with fatigue, dreading the humiliation of everyone in the world believing either he was a crook or a quitter. "Okay," he said after staring at the line where he would sign his name.

Marvin Sylvan, the FBI agent, whom Tommy recognized from the courtroom, met them after they passed through the security scanner. No words were exchanged. They followed him to the elevator, which carried the three of them up four floors. He led them into a large corner office where Miriam Rosenkranz, the prosecutor, stood behind a broad glass-topped desk, barren this time aside from two folders with a pen between them. A painting in grey of the goddess of justice loomed on the wall behind her; that wasn't there the last time he was in her office. Was this meant to be some sort of symbol or perhaps an answer to Kelly's closing pitch to the jury that Justice would cry if they convicted the innocent Tommy K.

"This must be a good deal," she said to Tommy without preamble or the usual social gesture of shaking hands. "You look as unhappy as I feel. Let's get this over with as quickly as possible." She turned over her right hand, indicating the folders.

Tommy leaned onto the desk, opened one of the folders, read the agreement again. He picked up the pen, hesitated, and leaped into the abyss, "You know the jury was fixed don't you? Those two jurors were paid off to hold out for a conviction."

"What the hell," Kelly said.

"And what do you know about that Kerrigan?" she asked. Her eyes flickered up to Sylvan who was standing near the closed door behind Tommy and Kelly.

The movement of her eyes told him that she knew.

"I've been told Bobby Bell arranged to have two jurors hold out for my conviction. I know about this but you don't? I don't believe you," he said the contempt in his voice filling the room.

She paused, weighing what she was about to say. "Sign the agreement Kerrigan or go back to trial and you'll end up in prison where you deserve to be."

"You know about it and you are willing to keep bringing me back to trial?"

"I believe justice will be served when you're removed from office, Kerrigan."

"I'm not sure whether you're in Bobby Bell's pocket or you just hate unions."

"You could be in real trouble, Mr. Kerrigan. Your protector is dead," the FBI agent said.

"What protector?" Tommy said turning to him.

"Tony Two Pots. Don't tell me you didn't know. He died of a heart attack in May."

"He's not my protector."

"I think you've said enough Agent Sylvan." She said to Tommy, "Now is the moment of decision, Kerrigan, sign or leave this office right now. I'm not going to stand for any more insults from you."

"Kelly with you as my witness, I'm demanding the FBI and the Justice Department investigate the fixing of that jury by Bobby Bell and maybe this dame going along with it."

"Get out before I order you arrested," she screamed at him.

"Come on, Tommy, time for you to leave," Sylvan said opening the door.

He felt triumphant, the helplessness and the frustration falling away like dead leaves. He strode out of the office with Kelly and the FBI agent right behind him.

In the foyer on the other side of the security gate, Sylvan touched Tommy's arm, leaning close to him he whispered, "You're making a mistake, Tommy. Neil Corso is a cowboy. Watch yourself."

"What's this all about, Tommy?" Kelly asked.

He suspected his lawyer knew about the fixed jurors, but he said: "You heard what I said upstairs. I guess we're going to proceed with a retrial. And I agree with you, we should win the trial especially if those bozos can stop the jury from being fixed."

"You made a real enemy in Rosenkranz."

"What's she going to do, try to convict me."

Tommy drove to the shuttle terminal at LaGuardia Airport; he felt alive again.

At 4 o'clock that afternoon, Tommy stood behind his desk in the president's office at the Golden Terminal before all the print and television journalists that his press aide, Sylvia Baya, could gather with the promise of dynamite story. The only television cameras were from CNN and C-Span; the other networks and stations either couldn't get crews in position or couldn't believe Tommy's press conference would be worth the effort. Reporters from the Washington bureaus of all the major newspapers waited with pens, notepads and mini-recorders in hand.

"Let me give you the big story right away. The jury that voted 10-2 to find me innocent was fixed." Tommy paused, not able to suppress his smile at the immediate reaction of the reporters, who were assuming he was about to deliver a confession. "Not by me. But by my old-time enemy, my nemesis I guess you would say, Bobby Bell. He paid off two jurors to hold out for conviction. Now that's what you fellas would call a man bites dog story."

"You got proof?" a reporter called.

"I've passed this information onto Assistant U.S. Attorney Miriam Rosenkranz and made a formal request for an investigation." The reporters started to babble questions.

Baya stepped in front of the podium. She held up her hands, "Please listen to what President Kerrigan has to say."

"Right after I got elected back in 1990, an editorial cartoonist pictured me as a wide-eyed innocent in a leaky boat on a stormy ocean filled with sharks labeled organized crime, the old guard, and Corporate America. I beat the old guard then and I'm going to do it again next when I whip the actor, Steve Staski; you all know how I whipped Corporate America and in case you forget their names, I mean the Delivery Company and Titus Interstate Transportation. Hey Sylvia look how far I've come; I managed not to say the Big Tit."

His audience roared with laughter.

"And as far as organized crime goes, you all know that my enemies claimed that I somehow fell under the protective umbrella of Anthony Siciliano. I swear to you that was not true; I swear to you the only time I ever met Mr. Siciliano or spoke to him was on the church steps on the day of my mother's funeral. Just this morning, an FBI agent whispered in my ear that with Anthony Siciliano gone to judgment, I had better watch out for a notorious hood named Neil Corso, I believe they call him The Corker. I'll tell you, I'll tell the world that 30 years ago, I defeated Neil Corso and a bunch of other gangsters including Bobby Bell, his father, Sydney Belinsky, his grandfather, Izzy Belinsky in an election for control of Truckers Local 1890.

"I wasn't afraid of the big bad Neil The Corker then, even though he threatened me one time because I wouldn't okay a sweetheart contract for one of his pals, and I'm not afraid of big bad Neil The Corker now. Mr. Corker, I'm easy to find. In fact I'll be at The Truckers Constitutional and Nominating Convention over Labor Day weekend getting nominated for a reelection I will win. I know I'll win because the rank and file of The Truckers International Union of North America want an honest union leadership that stands up for them at the bargaining table and is dedicated to getting rid of the last vestiges of organized crime in this union."

Neil Corso saw an excerpt of Tommy K's press conference at eight o'clock on CNN. He and his wife watched the full press conference at 10 o'clock on C-Span in the screening room of their Cold Spring Harbor house. He could hardly breathe in the fury that roiled his body and mind; his heart thumped in his chest. "He spit in my face," he screamed at the television set.

She sat as still as she could. Neil could be so dangerous to anyone around him if he believed he was being insulted. So many times, years ago, when they went out to the movies or to dinner and someone made the mistake of crossing him, he beat them bloody with his fists or a bottle, or whatever weapon was nearby.

"I'm going out," he said.

She knew something awful was in the works or else he would have used the phone to call one of his underlings to pick him up.

In the morning, she had a better understanding of Neil's rage when she saw the challenge thrown at him repeated on the front pages of New York Daily Reporter and the New York Account, the two city tabloids that were delivered to their house.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

AUGUST, 1995

Aside from Steve Staski announcing that he was standing behind Bobby Bell and Bobby Bell filing a $100 million defamation of character civil suit against Tommy K in federal court, the campaign for the presidency of the Truckers Union lay dormant as it usually did in the weeks leading up to the Constitutional and Nominating Convention.

Tommy was spending the first week of August at his Morgan Hill cabin when the heat in Washington and New York neared the intolerable. This was to be his final respite before the drudgery of canvassing his key supporters to be certain they remained with him for his nomination for another term and preparing his speeches and strategy for what promised to be a tumultuous convention.

During the past night, he had had the same nightmare twice: he was sinking in a grey quagmire, realizing he was in a dream, he tried but was unable to move his arms or legs or head to break the lock of sleep; he called out, help me, but his voice was a barely audible whisper. He sensed that if he gave in without a fight, he would die.

Tommy awoke at 5 AM, the cabin still locked in the pitch of darkness without a moon. He swung his feet onto the cold floor feeling relieved to be alive. He sat for several minutes, head bowed, hands on his knees, filtering through the happenings of the previous day, searching for something in what he heard or did or read that could be the seed of the nightmare. He didn't need a dream expert or a psychiatrist to tell him that an unspoken fear of Neil Corso lingered somewhere in his mind or subconscious. That could have been the source of his dream. Mob guys had a way of killing people if they so chose. No escaping that reality. Pepper of course was the best alarm system he could have around the cabin. The dog was certain to bark if any strangers came onto the property. And, Billy Hurley was the best protection anyone could have.

Billy had urged him to take his holiday from the stress of the union and politics as an anonymous tourist at a busy resort.

Tommy thought of the Morgan Hill cabin the equivalent of a church providing sanctuary. "No one's gonna bother me at the cabin. First of all they've got to find it."

"You would be surprised at how easy that could be," Billy said.

"And secondly, Corso knows he would be the primary suspect if anything happened to me. Besides they could blow up the car or shoot me in the back of the head on a street if they really wanted me dead."

Tommy went through his morning ritual of sit-ups and pushups while the coffee was perking on the stove. No morning run today, he wanted to be ready to leave when Billy and Mario Cresci arrived; Billy to chauffeur him in the union LeSabre to Philadelphia for a caucus of his Northeast supporters and Mario to drive his personal car, the Four by Four, back to Melville. He let Pepper out into the emerging twilight before shaving and taking a shower.

He was scrambling two eggs with bacon cooking in another pan and biscuits heating in the oven when he heard Pepper bark and the sound of car turning into the driveway. He looked at the clock 5:40. Billy and Mario were almost an hour early. He still had to eat breakfast so he slid the eggs and bacon out of their pans onto a plate. He fetched the tin of biscuits from the oven, his mouth watering in anticipation of this favorite breakfast.

The sound of Pepper's continuous barking, someone cursing furiously, and the noise of thrashing brought Tommy running from the kitchen onto the front porch. A heavy-set man in a blue running suit with red stripes along the legs and arms was slamming a baseball bat onto the powerful dog twisting and turning, still snapping, teeth bared trying to bite his adversary. Tommy froze for a moment and Neil (The Corker) Corso followed by a short man, both in the blue and red running suits, rushed through the screen door. They piled onto Tommy knocking him to the floor. The short man lay on Tommy's legs holding him down. Corso grabbed Tommy by the hair and punched him in the face again and again, ignoring the union leaders ineptly flailing arms.

The man, who had been beating Pepper, dropped the baseball bat on the floor as he came onto the porch, where he grabbed Tommy's right arm while the short man rolled off his legs to grasp the left arm. They hauled him to his feet pushing his arms upwards to bend his upper body and head down.

Corso picked up the bat. He said to Tommy, whose struggles were fruitless in the grip of the experienced strong arm men, "I'm here to teach you a lesson that's 30 years overdue. Your mother must have been one good fuck for Don Siciliano to look out for you the way he did." He tapped the bat lightly against the top of Tommy's head to ascertain his aim.

In the brief time it took Corso to raise the wooden baseball bat high and slam it down, Tommy stood still envisioning himself in Buenos Aires with a huge bouquet of flowers in his right hand turning into Lucien's de Nuevo York. She was sitting there in her whites at the bar listlessly doing paperwork, a glass of clericot at hand. She seemed tired, the sparkle gone. "Buenos dias. Donde esta Senora Bibi? Senora Goldman?" He watched her as he spoke. He had practiced the words over and over in anticipation of this moment. "Tommy!" she said sliding off the barstool, knocking over her wine glass, shattering it. Her face alive with joy.

"Ohhhh," he shrieked involuntarily as the first blow landed.

Billy and Mario turned into the driveway at 6:28, allowing two minutes to stop the car and walk up the short flight of steps to the porch, they would be exactly on time.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," Mario said as he spotted Pepper's body on the lawn in front of the house.

Billy slipped his 9mm from the holster on his right side. Mario followed him up the steps to the porch. They gasped at the sight of Tommy lying on his back, his face smashed into an unrecognizable pulp. "Tommy," Billy said as though calling the name could bring him back to life. "Who did this to you Tommy," he shouted. After kneeling, ignoring the blood that stained the right knee of his trousers, to search for a pulse he knew would not be there, Billy turned to Mario, "Go find a telephone, call the local sheriff, tell him to get here right away."

"Should I say he's dead?"

"Just do what I tell you," Billy said, not wanting to say aloud that his boyhood friend was dead.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

Happy Koenig learned of Tommy K's murder from the radio. The WNYC newscast included a long excerpt from Tommy's recent press conference. Happy clenched his teeth as listened to Tommy saying: "Just this morning, an FBI agent whispered in my ear that with Anthony Siciliano gone to judgment, I had better watch out for a notorious hood named Neil Corso, I believe they call him The Corker. I'll tell you, I'll tell the world that 30 years ago, I defeated Neil Corso and a bunch of other gangsters including Bobby Bell, his father, Sydney Belinsky, his grandfather, Izzy Belinsky in an election for control of Truckers Local 1890.

"I wasn't afraid of the big bad Neil The Corker then, even though he threatened me one time because I wouldn't okay a sweetheart contract for one of his pals, and I'm not afraid of big bad Neil The Corker now. Mr. Corker, I'm easy to find. In fact I'll be at The Truckers Constitutional and Nominating Convention over Labor Day weekend getting nominated for a reelection I will win. I know I'll win because the rank and file of The Truckers International Union of North America want an honest union leadership that stands up for them at the bargaining table and is dedicated to getting rid of the last vestiges of organized crime in this union."

An NPR interviewer on the program asked the nation's foremost journalistic organized crime expert Lenny Capisca whether any of his sources had told him anything about the murder.

Capisca laughed. "I have to admit I have a reputation for hearing the inside scoop about hits and such, but usually the body has to cool off for a while before I get a call. Sometimes somebody wants to make a point then I get called pretty quickly. I would have to say that Tommy K was foolish to challenge Neil The Corker, who has a reputation for flying off the handle pretty quick. I'm pretty certain I'll be writing a book about this case." He laughed again.

"Why would the mob want Mr. Kerrigan killed?"

"Despite the story about Tony Two Pots looking out for him, I would have to say that Tommy K was no friend of organized crime. He stood up to them throughout his career. I can't say the same about Steamer Staski. He was in bed with the mob."

Happy got out of his easy chair after a while to walk out to his studio in the double garage behind his house. He unscrewed the small, oblong brass title plate, Ground Down, at the base of his sculpture of Tommy slogging through the quagmire. He threw it into a waste basket. The plate with the title, The Reformer, still lay on the work bench. He picked it, mulled the title, then made another one tapping out the letters and filling them with blackening:

Tommy K

Working Class Hero

Martyr was the word that flashed into Helmut Knall's mind the moment he heard of Tommy's death in a phone call from a Local 1890 TFOCC member. There was no doubt in his mind that the crazy hood, Neil The Corker, did the job. Well, catching him was up to the cops. Helmut had a more pressing problem on his agenda: the nominating convention was just four weeks away. He had to find another candidate quickly or Steve Staski, the actor, would become the next international president of the Truckers by default.

He knew as the word spread across the country in news reports that his phone would be ringing for hours on end, calls from TFOCCers wanting revenge, wanting to know what would happen next. Reporters would be after him for comment too. He needed time to formulate a plan. He unplugged his phone and went out to the anteroom. "No phone calls, no visitors no matter who they are," he said to the volunteer, a student from the University of Chicago, at the desk outside his office.

Helmut sat for 10 minutes with his fingers tented over his nose, his two thumbs pressed to the bulging hinges connecting his lower and upper jaws. None of the reformers among the presidents of Truckers locals had the stature or charisma that Tommy K had brought to the 1990 election. He didn't need to check a list of those names. He carried them in his head. He never stopped analyzing the pool of talent available to foster the TFOCC agenda. He settled on two names: Sylvester Timony from San Francisco and Carolyn Gordon from Colorado. Among their qualities was a consuming ambition to rise to the top of the Truckers hierarchy. Neither would ever express that aloud, but their actions showed the hunger.

He stepped into the hallway: "Meeting time," he shouted. Tony Miloc and Brian Braden were in their offices upstairs. Their immediate response, hurrying down the stairs, told Helmut they were waiting, anticipating his call to confer. Tom MacGahan was fund-raising in Los Angeles. He would call Tom after meeting with Tony and Brian.

"We heard," Tony said as he and Brian came into Helmut's office.

"Close the door, Tony," Helmut said.

"We need a candidate and right away," Tony said.

Helmut smirked. Tony liked to demonstrate he was on top of things. "There's no time to debate a solution. You both know Sylvester Timony and Carolyn Gordon. I'm going to suggest one them for the presidency."

"The guy who looks like a poster boy for the Truckers union and the girl who looks like a movie star," Tony said.

"Right, but from now on say the woman who looks like a winner. She's the best candidate I can think of. A good local leader, good speaker. Most of all, she has that magic quality called charisma. She won control of the slaughterhouse local in '91 when no one, including me, imagined she could do it. Any objections?"

Tony, who would have preferred Timony, said, "She's awfully young."

Helmut was prepared. "She's 36, old enough to run for president of the United States. She's the best damn speaker I've ever heard and she speaks Spanish too. If we get her elected, she'll not only be the youngest international president of the Truckers union, she'll be the first woman."

"Have you talked to her already?" Tony asked.

"I wouldn't do that without conferring with you guys first. Who knows, maybe you would have a valid objection to her or Timony."

"Neither of them has much of a chance," Tony said.

"Don't say that again outside this office. We're going out to win and we've got to believe we can overcome all the odds and win. That's what makes football and politics so exciting. Sometimes the breaks come your way."

"Don't forget prayer," Brian said.

"Okay. Start planning a campaign to elect Gordon with a heavy emphasis on the fact she has spent 18 years, half her life as a rank and file Trucker. And, she ousted a bunch of old guard bums, who were in bed with the boss, to get elected president of the slaughterhouse local. Keep in mind, we're going to get a million dollars of free publicity because she's so young and she's a woman."

"Like Little Stevie gets because he's a Staski and an actor."

"The difference is he acts tough, Gordon is tough. And don't forget she's made a name for herself, while he inherited his. Right. While you're working that into her campaign, I'm going to call her to invite her to be our candidate."

Within an hour, Helmut reached Carolyn Gordon. After listening to her anticipated expressions of grief and rage over Tommy K's murder, Helmut asked, "Why did you want to be president of your local?"

"To give people a better life."

"What would you do if you were president of the international?"

"I'd give more people a better life."

"Good answer. Be prepared to answer questions like that when you run for international president. Now the reason for my call. We're in a crisis situation. We need a bona fide reformer to run as Tommy K's successor. We want you to be that candidate."

"Whoa. I'm no Tommy K. I'm sure I'd get almost every vote out of my local, but I don't know about the other 749 locals. I don't have a national reputation."

Helmut continued as though Gordon hadn't spoken. "We have a month to get you the support of enough delegates to get you nominated at the convention and then you get three months to campaign every day, seven days a week. Truckers are the same as all Americans; they're suckers for a name, for a celebrity. Staski has both. What we have going for us is the martyrdom of Tommy K."

"Hell, I've only been president of my local for four years. That's really not much experience."

"How long have you been a Trucker?"

"Eighteen years."

"How long have you been a TFOCCer?"

"Five years."

"You've got enough experience for me, a lot more than the actor."

"Can you give me a few days to think it over?"

"No. Let me know right now. We don't have any time to waste. Are you the candidate?"

"Yes," Gordon said as Helmut knew she would. An image churned through Carolyn Gordon's mind of standing on the dais at the convention with her hands raised high wallowing in the cheers and admiration of the reform delegates as she accepted the nomination to be their candidate."

Interrupting Gordon's reverie, Helmut said, "We're going to spend the next two weeks getting you a campaign manager, introducing you to our delegates to the convention; I don't have to tell you that you can never take anyone for granted. Then we'll have a press conference just before the convention. After you get formally nominated, you start campaigning seven days a week."

"What about my local. I've got responsibilities here."

"Your responsibility now is to win the presidency of a union with 1.6 million members. If you win someone else takes over your local; if you lose, you go back to your local and spend the next five years getting ready for the next run for international president. If we don't win this year, we'll win the next election in five years because you can be sure that Steve Staski will be a do-nothing president with scandals and indictments on his hand, because he'll owe his mob supporters so much he won't dare stop them from taking everything they can."

THE END

