The Stranger
Page 29

“I’ll be honest here. You do too.”
Tripp tried to smile it off. “It’s really no big deal.”
“Yeah, you said that before. No offense, but I don’t believe you.”
“It’s lacrosse business. That’s the truth. I’m still hoping it’s nothing, but I can’t tell you more right now.”
“Why not?”
“Board confidentiality.”
“Are you serious?”
But he was. Adam could see that Tripp wouldn’t budge on the subject, but then again, if Tripp was telling the truth, what the hell could the lacrosse board have to do with anything truly relevant in this?
Tripp Evans slipped back into his car. “Just tell Corinne to give me a call when she can. Have a good night, Adam.”
Chapter 16
Adam expected Mayor Gusherowski to look like a fat-cat politico fresh off the graft train—soft build, ruddy complexion, practiced smile, maybe a pinkie ring—and in this particular case, Adam was not disappointed. Adam wondered whether Gusherowski had always looked like a poster boy for corrupt politicians or if, over his years of “service,” it had just become part of his DNA.
Three of the past four mayors of Kasselton had been indicted by the US Attorney’s office. Rick Gusherowski had served in two of those administrations and been on the town council for the third. Adam wouldn’t judge the man strictly on his looks or even legacy, but when it came to New Jersey small-town corruption, where there was smoke, there was usually a blazing, supernova-like bonfire.
The sparsely attended town hall meeting was breaking up when Adam arrived. The median age of the audience appeared to be in the mideighties, but that could be because this particular town hall meeting was being held at the brand-spanking-new PineCliff Luxury Village, which was unquestionably a euphemism for nursing and/or retirement home.
Mayor Gusherowski approached Adam with a Guy Smiley smile—the perfect blend of game show host and Muppet. “Wonderful to meet you, Adam!” He gave Adam the perfunctory too-enthusiastic handshake, adding that little pull toward him that politicians believed made the recipient feel somehow inferior or obligated. “Can I call you Adam?”
“Sure, Mr. Mayor.”
“Oh, we’ll have none of that. Call me Gush.”
Gush? Oh, Adam didn’t think so.
The mayor spread his arms. “What do you think of the place? Beautiful, am I right?”
It looked to Adam like a conference room at a Courtyard Marriott, which was to say neat, generic, and impersonal. Adam gave a noncommittal head nod.
“Walk with me, Adam. I want to give you a little tour.” He started down a corridor with forest-green walls. “Great, isn’t it? Everything here is state-of-the-art.”
“What does that mean?” Adam asked.
“Huh?”
“State-of-the-art. How is it state-of-the-art?”
The mayor rubbed his chin, signaling deep thought. “Well, for one thing, they have flat-screen televisions.”
“So does almost every house in America.”
“There’s Internet service.”
“Again, like almost every house, not to mention café, library, and McDonald’s, in America.”
Gush—Adam was warming to the name—volleyed the question away by reigniting the smile. “Let me show you our deluxe unit.”
He used a key to unlock the door and opened it with the flourish of—maybe Adam’s mind was on game shows now—a model on The Price Is Right. “Well?”
Adam stepped inside.
“What do you think?” Gush asked.
“It looks like a Courtyard Marriott.”
Gush’s smile flickered. “These are brand-new and state—” He stopped himself. “Modern.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Adam said. “Frankly, it doesn’t matter if it looks like a Ritz-Carlton. My client doesn’t want to move.”
Gush nodded with great sympathy. “I get that. I really do. We all want to hold on to our memories, am I right? But sometimes memories hold us back. They force us to live in the past instead of the present.”
Adam just stared at him.
“And sometimes, as a member of a community, we have to think about more than just ourselves. Have you been to the Rinsky house?”
“I have.”
“It’s a dump,” Gush said. “Oh, I don’t mean it like that. I grew up in that neighborhood. I say this as a man who worked his way up from those very streets.”
Adam waited for the bootstraps analogy. He was somewhat disappointed when it didn’t come.
“We have a chance of making real progress, Adam. We have a chance to chase away the urban blight of crime and bring sunshine to a part of our city that could use it. I’m talking new housing. A real community center. Restaurants. Quality shopping. Real jobs.”
“I’ve seen the plans,” Adam said.
“Progressive, am I right?”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Oh?”
“I represent the Rinskys. I care about them. I don’t care about the profit margins of Old Navy or the Home Depot.”
“That’s not fair, Adam. We both know the community would be better served with this project coming to fruition.”
“We both don’t know that,” Adam said. “But either way, I don’t represent the community. I represent the Rinskys.”
“And let’s be honest. Look around you. They’d be happier living here.”
“Doubtful, but maybe,” Adam said. “But see, in the United States, the government doesn’t decide what makes a man happy. The government doesn’t decide that a couple who worked hard and bought their own home and raised their family would now be happier living somewhere else.”
The smile slowly returned to Gush’s face. “May I be blunt for a moment, Adam?”
“What, you haven’t been so far?”
“How much?”
Adam steepled his fingers and did his best movie villain voice. “One billion dollars.”
“I’m serious. Now, I could play games and do it the way the developer asked me to—bargain with you, go up in ten-thousand-dollar increments. But let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I’ve been authorized to increase the offer by another fifty thousand dollars.”
“And I’ve been authorized to tell you no.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
Adam didn’t bother responding.