is coming up. I can kick this guy out,” he said, ignoring the fact that this guy could take him down in ten seconds or less. Tony was like that—loyal, yet short on brains. He’d go far in city government.
“It’s a bit late for that, Tony. I’ll look after it, thank you for trying.” Tony gave Sean one more look and then left the office.
Cleo glanced at her watch. Tony was right about one thing, the mayor was going to be here any second, waiting for an update. “You will leave. Now is good.”
The stranger slammed her door shut, and settled himself on her couch as if he planned to stay. He looked around the room, the picture of casual indulgence. “I don’t care if you have time or not. Somebody in this office is screwing up my brother’s life and I’m not happy about it.”
“Nobody from this office is interested in your bar. I have a meeting with the mayor.”
“Still haven’t fixed that strike yet?” he asked, and this time, it was her hands that fisted.
Jackass. Mark Anthony? Fat chance of that. Mark Anthony would never question her governing skills, not even if he thought that Cleopatra had sabotaged his fiefdom. Okay, maybe then.
“So if there is a strike that’s keeping everybody so busy,” he continued, “how come someone from this office, someone from the health department, someone from the historical society and somebody from the state liquor authority are all out posting a notice on the door at my brother’s bar?”
Cleo’s eyes narrowed at that. Out of habit, she turned her angry voice into her soothing constituent voice. It wasn’t easy, but a necessary job requirement. “I can’t do this at the moment, but I promise that I’ll look into it as soon as the strike is over.”
“Gee, now I think I’ll sleep better,” he snapped back, seeing her soothing constituent voice for what is was. A sham.
“I like you better when you’re nice,” she ventured, which was a half truth. She liked him better when he was nice, but he got her insides all tight and humming when he wasn’t. Disturbing, yet true.
“Most people do,” he responded, and then pulled out a phone in the middle of her office, as if he owned the joint.
Cleo pointed at the door. The man smiled back.
Jackass.
“Mike. It’s Sean O’Sullivan. How you doing? How’s the wife? Really, what is this, number four? Getting busy, aren’t you? So listen, talk to me here. I’m running down to the station at Prince Street, late for court, you know how it goes, and I race down the stairs, and when I get to the bottom, it’s all empty, so I whap myself on the head for being such an idiot that I forgot about the strike. You guys are killing me here. You know what you’re doing to my career, and don’t laugh….”
Cleo watched him. Fascinated. He was a lawyer. It explained much. But who was Mike?
“I know you don’t have anything to do with it, but what’s the real holdup on the strike?”
“Yeah, mayor’s a dickhead, I know, I know. I didn’t vote for him.”
Sean stood up, and began pacing around the office as he talked, completely taking over the place. He ignored her Rutgers diploma on the wall, ignored the press pictures next to it, ignored the picture of Bobby McNamara at his inauguration and even ignored the half-knitted afghan that she hadn’t stitched on in ten years, but still kept her warm when absolutely necessary. He ignored everything, including Cleo.
“Pay raise of ten percent? That’s nutso in this day and age, Mike. Why don’t your guys take something less? I don’t know. Five seems reasonable to me.”
Two seemed reasonable to Cleo, but she started to pay closer attention. Mike, whoever he was, seemed to know things.
Sean nodded, stopping a moment to tap the mayor’s bobblehead on her desk, which nodded back. “They’re holding out for seven?”
Hell would freeze first. A seven percent raise? Was everyone in this town insane? Probably. Including her.
But she wasn’t stupid. She scribbled a note and shoved it at him.
Pension?
He took it. Nodded. “Okay, so what about the pension stuff? What if the transit authority pulled a Detroit, and put some money into a kitty, letting the unions fund it after that?”
Establishing a trust? Oh, creativity. Cunning. And it would save billions in the long run. Cleo liked that. She really, really liked that.
She scribbled a number on the paper and Sean jacked his thumb higher.
Cleo motioned her thumb down.
Sean scribbled a counter number on the paper, and Cleo pulled out her calculator and started running numbers. This could work. She looked at him with surprise. He noticed and flashed a cocky grin as if she should have never doubted him.
“I know, I know, the transit guys are whackjobs, too, but you think they’d bite? They should bite on that. I want to ride the subway again, Mike. It ticks me off. This is my city. Besides that, we’re a few weeks away from Thanksgiving. You got all those kids wanting to see the parade, the giant balloons, Santa Claus. Come on, Mike, those guys can’t disappoint the kids. Santa Claus uses the subway, too, and the kids know it.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a dreamer. Anyway, just wanted to put a bug in your ear. You know me, always ready to whine about something. Listen. We’ll have to go out to dinner. You and Peggy and the rug rats…
“Nobody special here. Same old, same old, whoever’s on speed dial is good enough for me.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t think hell’s freezing anytime soon…. Uh-oh, boss is yelling. Bad news. Gotta go. Thanks, Mike.”
Sean hung up the phone and looked at Cleo, not missing a beat. “Can you do it?”
“I can’t do it,” she said, only to be contrary, because she was back to being aroused, and it ticked her off that union negotiations could affect her like that. The transit authority could fund the trust, and possibly stave off a fare hike until 2012. The mayor would be a hero.
“I bet you can do it. The city would be stupid not to put it out there. They’ll save millions in the long run.” He collapsed on her couch, again like he owned the place.
“Who’s Mike?” she asked.
“Mike Flaherty. Legal representation for the national transit union in their civil rights cases. We went to Penn State together. And the transit authority was once a client of the firm. Not my area, but I know Mike. He’s a good guy. Peg’s really great.” He talked like he knew everybody in New York, and she began to wonder if he did.
“Who are you?”
“Sean O’Sullivan.”
“I remember your name. Who are you?”
“Lawyer. McFadden Burnett.”
“What do you practice?” she asked, hoping
