Office and Borough Hall. Various other borough, state and city
offices – everything from the Veterans Administration to the local Parole Board
– could be found within a five-block radius. Also within this
city-within-a-city were many charitable and cultural non-profit organizations
that relied on governmental largesse.
Under the latest revision of the
New York City Charter, borough presidents were stripped of much of their power,
and most of their staffs. In the other four boroughs, the BP’s had thus been
reduced to mere ceremonial figureheads. On Staten Island, however, the local
political machine of the incumbent was so powerful – and so feared – that the
Borough President was able to place scores of his supporters in jobs at these
non-profits, in return for his funneling city and state money to them. The
non-profits, of course, contributed heavily to the BP and his party. In effect,
they were government-sponsored slush funds. (It’s the perfect scam,” Dudley
Mack explained to Scarne. “And, quite possibly, the long-sought perpetual
motion machine.”)
Scarne spent a fruitless 15
minutes looking for a parking spot near the government complex. Most of the
metered spots were taken by cars sporting official decals or signs identifying
the driver as a government worker of some sort. He knew from Dudley that the
merchants in the area were resentful, since shoppers could get nowhere near
their stores. They, like Scarne, would have to park at the far end of the
commuter parking lot and walk a quarter mile, uphill. Most potential customers would
rather drive to a nearby strip mall. But the merchants were mostly immigrants
of color, and could not afford to complain to the very police that were
supposed to protect them. Those that did were soon hit with a blizzard of
building and sanitary violations.
After leaving his car, Scarne
headed toward the ornate Borough Hall, which sat on a hill overlooking the
ferry terminal. There was a small parking lot just to the side of the building
with five spots. The one nearest the stairs contained a black Lincoln Town Car
with an “Office of the Borough President” license plate. Three adjacent spots
also contained vehicles identifying them as official.
He was walking past the last spot,
which was vacant, when he was startled by the blast of a horn from a vehicle
turning into it. He backed off to let a white Lexus SUV with “M.D.” license
plates pull in to the spot, which had a large brass “RESERVED” plaque at its
head. Since Scarne was the only person walking by, and there were no other cars
on the one-way street, it occurred to him that whoever was behind the wheel
could have waited a second to let him pass. He looked back as the car door
opened and the driver lumbered out.
The first thing Scarne noticed was
the man’s feet, encased in huge brown loafers that could have doubled as
gondolas. The rest of the man was equally enormous. He was dressed in a white linen
suit that must have given his tailor quite a challenge, because it somehow fit
wonderfully. His thick neck looked like it was bursting from his pink shirt’s
collar. A striped pink and blue tie completed the bizarre arrangement. As he
shut the door, he caught Scarne staring at him. His pig-like eyes, set in an
incongruously small head, traveled over Scarne, as if trying to categorize or
place him. When he couldn’t, he turned and trudged slowly up the stairs leading
up to the building’s entrance. At the top stood a police officer, who was
looking over everyone who entered. He greeted the fat man with a tight smile
and a nod and opened one of the massive doors for him. But the cop aimed a
baleful look at his back when he passed. Curious, Scarne walked up to the cop.
He noted that no one else was getting help with the door.
“Excuse me, officer, who was that
who just walked in? Big guy, white suit.” Except for street directions, cops,
in general, don’t like to give out information, so Scarne
offices – everything from the Veterans Administration to the local Parole Board
– could be found within a five-block radius. Also within this
city-within-a-city were many charitable and cultural non-profit organizations
that relied on governmental largesse.
Under the latest revision of the
New York City Charter, borough presidents were stripped of much of their power,
and most of their staffs. In the other four boroughs, the BP’s had thus been
reduced to mere ceremonial figureheads. On Staten Island, however, the local
political machine of the incumbent was so powerful – and so feared – that the
Borough President was able to place scores of his supporters in jobs at these
non-profits, in return for his funneling city and state money to them. The
non-profits, of course, contributed heavily to the BP and his party. In effect,
they were government-sponsored slush funds. (It’s the perfect scam,” Dudley
Mack explained to Scarne. “And, quite possibly, the long-sought perpetual
motion machine.”)
Scarne spent a fruitless 15
minutes looking for a parking spot near the government complex. Most of the
metered spots were taken by cars sporting official decals or signs identifying
the driver as a government worker of some sort. He knew from Dudley that the
merchants in the area were resentful, since shoppers could get nowhere near
their stores. They, like Scarne, would have to park at the far end of the
commuter parking lot and walk a quarter mile, uphill. Most potential customers would
rather drive to a nearby strip mall. But the merchants were mostly immigrants
of color, and could not afford to complain to the very police that were
supposed to protect them. Those that did were soon hit with a blizzard of
building and sanitary violations.
After leaving his car, Scarne
headed toward the ornate Borough Hall, which sat on a hill overlooking the
ferry terminal. There was a small parking lot just to the side of the building
with five spots. The one nearest the stairs contained a black Lincoln Town Car
with an “Office of the Borough President” license plate. Three adjacent spots
also contained vehicles identifying them as official.
He was walking past the last spot,
which was vacant, when he was startled by the blast of a horn from a vehicle
turning into it. He backed off to let a white Lexus SUV with “M.D.” license
plates pull in to the spot, which had a large brass “RESERVED” plaque at its
head. Since Scarne was the only person walking by, and there were no other cars
on the one-way street, it occurred to him that whoever was behind the wheel
could have waited a second to let him pass. He looked back as the car door
opened and the driver lumbered out.
The first thing Scarne noticed was
the man’s feet, encased in huge brown loafers that could have doubled as
gondolas. The rest of the man was equally enormous. He was dressed in a white linen
suit that must have given his tailor quite a challenge, because it somehow fit
wonderfully. His thick neck looked like it was bursting from his pink shirt’s
collar. A striped pink and blue tie completed the bizarre arrangement. As he
shut the door, he caught Scarne staring at him. His pig-like eyes, set in an
incongruously small head, traveled over Scarne, as if trying to categorize or
place him. When he couldn’t, he turned and trudged slowly up the stairs leading
up to the building’s entrance. At the top stood a police officer, who was
looking over everyone who entered. He greeted the fat man with a tight smile
and a nod and opened one of the massive doors for him. But the cop aimed a
baleful look at his back when he passed. Curious, Scarne walked up to the cop.
He noted that no one else was getting help with the door.
“Excuse me, officer, who was that
who just walked in? Big guy, white suit.” Except for street directions, cops,
in general, don’t like to give out information, so Scarne
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