number off, a word out of sync, a fact over here that did not line up with a fact over there.
Down the street in the quiet night, a city trash truck went about its business picking up garbage. The grind of machinery supplied comfort, a presence on the otherwise deserted block. It was also hard not to notice the diligence with which they cleared away the debris, even at this late hour.Suddenly, as if jolted by something, David Cohen started talking. “It’s crazy!” he shrieked. “What are they doing out here at eleven-thirty at night!!” It wasn’t their safety he was worried about, or the fact that they might be making too much noise. He knew, as surely as he knew anything, that they were working overtime, and the city was paying them time and a half.
He got into his car and headed south to Lombard Street. Neither his wife nor his children were up when he got home. Given that he had averaged about seventy-five minutes of sleep per night during the past eight days, he had a right to be tired. So he showered and got into bed, but still he wrestled with rest. The unions, the media—all would get copies of the five-year plan later that day, and Rendell himself would go on television to give a live address and present details of the plan to the public. Details, details, so many details, so many chances for screwups—unless he could master all of them.…
Several hours later, in the darkened gauze of the night, a nondescript black sedan with an ugly red interior parked across the street from City Hall. With the light from the streetlamps weakly splashing on the pavement, the man getting out of the car walked briskly and firmly. He opened the door at the northeast corner and then ascended the steps to the second floor. The sound of worn sole against hard floor majestically echoed, but only he was there to hear it. The time was 3:30 A.M.
David Cohen was back at work.
Sitting at the head of a large oval table in the Cabinet Room at 8:15 the next morning, Ed Rendell already looked exhausted. Lack of sleep had reduced his eyes to narrow slits, and his body looked pale and almost bloated, like a raft lost on the ocean. He would spend this day much as he had spent the previous one, pushing and pumping and pimping the five-year plan, trying to convince just about anyone willing to listen that this was an authentic blueprint for attacking the city’s fiscal problems, not some glossy document that beyond the charts and the numbers read like pulp fiction. But he also knew that the measures he was seeking, particularly in a city in which the working person was a conquering hero, were draconian. Among other proposals, the plan called for a union wage freeze and drastic cutbacks in virtually every benefit that had been successfully bargained for over the years.
“Nobody wants to be viewed as a prick or a bad guy,” he told a group of local labor leaders from the city’s Building and Construction Trade Councilin the privacy of the Cabinet Room. “Neither do I. I didn’t cause this mess. I’m faced with the responsibility of trying to do something about it.
“There’s a lot of pain,” Rendell conceded. “A lot of people will be yelling at me. I understand that.”
But Pat Gillespie, business manager of the council, wasn’t sure whether Rendell really understood at all. “They don’t trust you,” said Gillespie, a handsome, husky man with a smile like an angel and a mouth like Madonna’s. “It’s not you personally. The city government has lied to them consistently. They’ve had it stuck up their ass.”
But Rendell clung hard to the numbers in the five-year plan, and the more he talked, the more convincing he became, the timbre in his voice not one of theatrical fist pounding but more a kind of common man’s incredulousness at just how rotten the system had become. Although he had been trained as a lawyer, Rendell spoke like a talk-show host—instantaneous warmth, humor, accessibility, and unpredictable
Down the street in the quiet night, a city trash truck went about its business picking up garbage. The grind of machinery supplied comfort, a presence on the otherwise deserted block. It was also hard not to notice the diligence with which they cleared away the debris, even at this late hour.Suddenly, as if jolted by something, David Cohen started talking. “It’s crazy!” he shrieked. “What are they doing out here at eleven-thirty at night!!” It wasn’t their safety he was worried about, or the fact that they might be making too much noise. He knew, as surely as he knew anything, that they were working overtime, and the city was paying them time and a half.
He got into his car and headed south to Lombard Street. Neither his wife nor his children were up when he got home. Given that he had averaged about seventy-five minutes of sleep per night during the past eight days, he had a right to be tired. So he showered and got into bed, but still he wrestled with rest. The unions, the media—all would get copies of the five-year plan later that day, and Rendell himself would go on television to give a live address and present details of the plan to the public. Details, details, so many details, so many chances for screwups—unless he could master all of them.…
Several hours later, in the darkened gauze of the night, a nondescript black sedan with an ugly red interior parked across the street from City Hall. With the light from the streetlamps weakly splashing on the pavement, the man getting out of the car walked briskly and firmly. He opened the door at the northeast corner and then ascended the steps to the second floor. The sound of worn sole against hard floor majestically echoed, but only he was there to hear it. The time was 3:30 A.M.
David Cohen was back at work.
Sitting at the head of a large oval table in the Cabinet Room at 8:15 the next morning, Ed Rendell already looked exhausted. Lack of sleep had reduced his eyes to narrow slits, and his body looked pale and almost bloated, like a raft lost on the ocean. He would spend this day much as he had spent the previous one, pushing and pumping and pimping the five-year plan, trying to convince just about anyone willing to listen that this was an authentic blueprint for attacking the city’s fiscal problems, not some glossy document that beyond the charts and the numbers read like pulp fiction. But he also knew that the measures he was seeking, particularly in a city in which the working person was a conquering hero, were draconian. Among other proposals, the plan called for a union wage freeze and drastic cutbacks in virtually every benefit that had been successfully bargained for over the years.
“Nobody wants to be viewed as a prick or a bad guy,” he told a group of local labor leaders from the city’s Building and Construction Trade Councilin the privacy of the Cabinet Room. “Neither do I. I didn’t cause this mess. I’m faced with the responsibility of trying to do something about it.
“There’s a lot of pain,” Rendell conceded. “A lot of people will be yelling at me. I understand that.”
But Pat Gillespie, business manager of the council, wasn’t sure whether Rendell really understood at all. “They don’t trust you,” said Gillespie, a handsome, husky man with a smile like an angel and a mouth like Madonna’s. “It’s not you personally. The city government has lied to them consistently. They’ve had it stuck up their ass.”
But Rendell clung hard to the numbers in the five-year plan, and the more he talked, the more convincing he became, the timbre in his voice not one of theatrical fist pounding but more a kind of common man’s incredulousness at just how rotten the system had become. Although he had been trained as a lawyer, Rendell spoke like a talk-show host—instantaneous warmth, humor, accessibility, and unpredictable
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