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To say I was surprised to see Silas’ name come up on my caller ID would be the world’s biggest understatement.
All the man could talk about before leaving Albany was how intrigued he was with a “slower and saner” way of life Upstate. I knew he’d been a hiker before he messed up his knee, but how much hiking can one person do? And this town – Middle Valley – that he ran to … how many people live there again? Thirty?
(I’m exaggerating, of course. It’s 330. I think. I don’t know.)
I mean, this is someone that everyone in state government at every level considered a true political animal. I recall a time when he’d rather saw your hand off than have a conversation. How was he ever going to be happy in a place like Middle Valley?
I had even tried to talk him out of it. “You’ll be bored out of your skull,” I told him. “And not for nothing, but you’ll be done with Albany – probably for good. Are you sure you want to do this and risk all the connections, all the relationships you’ve created and earned so you can go to bake sales, sit by a lazy river, and mix it up with some townies?”
“I’m only renting,” Silas had said at the time. “If it doesn’t work, or if I’m not fully engaged, I’ll come back. I’m at least going to give it three months, work on this sheriff’s murder case, and let the chips fall where they may. I doubt my contact list will freeze up in just three months.”
Now, a year later, it appears the chips have fallen squarely into the lap of a smart woman named Mercury, landing him a job with the new mayor and, indeed, drying up his Rolodex. For my part, though, I figured taking his call would either a) make me a hit with everyone at Happy Hour Friday night (all of whom are as confused as I am about this), or b) earn ME some political capital by doing him a favor.
Turns out he’s doing me one.
Silas informs me immediately of his predicament.
“I can’t help Paul,” he says. “It’s that simple. It’s like you said when I left, about how I’d lose my influence? Well, it’s true. I have.”
“Who’d you call?” I ask. “I’m sure Monty could help you out. He’s always … around.”
“No, this is beyond Monty, I think.” I can hear him sighing loudly on the other end of the phone. “I did call him. He didn’t return.”
I am still confused. “So what do you think I can do?”
“You know people, you can talk to people, mount a real case for him,” Silas says. The desperation in his voice is palpable. “Look, the guy … he isn’t the sharpest tack in the bunch. The fact is that he got taken, blackmailed, and when he did, he got into trouble. The guy that caused the trouble is locked up at the moment, too. But Paul’s gambling got the better of him and, well, he killed someone essentially so his debts would be forgiven.”
“And he’s a sheriff?”
Silas chuckles. “Yeah, irony.”
I begin to pace around my kitchen. (Note to self: Order more cigars. )
“So you think I can make him the victim?”
“Better than anyone I know,” Silas says.
I decide to change the subject. “So … what’s it like there anyway. Any women?”
Silas laughs. “Well, I’m enjoying the company of one of them,” he says. “Her name is Mercury.”
“Isn’t that the one you were working with at the Courthouse?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says. “We don’t work together anymore, of course, so it’s not a big deal. She’s starting a forensics lab here to cover the Southern Tier. You may have heard about it.”
“I have actually,” I tell him. “What do people actually do there? I mean, is there much a ‘scene’ there, or do the streets roll up by 8?”
“There’s a bit of a scene,” he says. “There’s the Golden Pillar, for when you want something upscale … old school, formal dining room and upscale rooms. And the Riverside is a great burger joint … wait a minute! That’s right, that’s what I was going to tell you!”
I’m taken aback by what I sense to be a conspiratorial tone in Silas’ voice.
“What were you going to tell me?”
“The Riverside, yeah … one of my favorite places. Guess who owns it?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess, Silas. Who owns it?”
“Cassie Cunningham.”
I roll the name through my mental database. No hits.
“I have no idea who that is,” I tell him.
“The daughter of King Cunningham … Kingmaker Cunningham … Bill? He’s the guy that owns The Printing Press on the Lower East Side … the elections bar.”
“Wow … so, wait, you mean, the sister of …?”
My heart began to race. I remember Jill Cunningham the way a professional ball player remembers their first hit – with deep affection, and in great detail.
“Yep.” The smile on Silas’ face was audible. “And guess who just came to town to work for her?”
“No way.”
“Way. And she’s single again.”
I catch my breath and stand up. “That idiot divorced her?”
“Afraid so, my friend.”
I look out the window of this $3,000-a-month apartment with its distinctive view of the Hudson Valley and immediately calculate that, given my lack of actual possessions, I can put everything in storage and be out of here in less than a week.
“I’ll do it.”
“Terrific,” Silas says. “But listen, he doesn’t have any money. None. I mean zero. This is going to be out of the goodness of your heart, yes?”
I weigh the options, but it’s a no-brainer.
“Only if you have a guest room,” I tell him.
“I do,” he says.
“Great, give me three days. I’ll call you tomorrow.”