Bow Tie

By Thomas L. Nadeau

Former California political fi xer turned private investigator, Wyatt (a.k.a, Bow-Tie), receives a surprise visit from former flame, Lottie Renz. She pleads with Wyatt to help her out of a jam. The FBI is investigating major corruption in State government in which she was a minor bit player, and she fears she will be cast to the wolves to take major blame. Save me, Wyatt! she pleads.

Old emotions get the better of him, and Wyatt starts down the web of Lotties connections. They lead to prominent members of the State Assembly and Senate, and the FBI, as well as to shadowy heads of shell corporations. Eventually, the trail leads to possible homicide. Navigating a minefield of shifting and outright dangerous threats, Wyatt attempts to bring the world back into some semblance of his own notions of balance and justice. Written in the style of Roman-Noire by an author who actually worked the political scene, the story reveals behind-the-curtain glimpses of rough-and-tumble California politics that are rarely encountered by everyday citizens.

What an adventure! Nadeaus writing conveys mood and captures the reader
from the first page. BOW TIE is a memorable entry in the noire genre.

-- Mary Blayney, New York Times Bestselling Author

Combining his Maine-bred Yankee sensibilities with his first hand
knowledge and experience in bare-knuckles California politics, Nadeaus
Bowtie tells a timeless tale of deception and corruption with a dash of
humor that is especially relevant today.

-- Dan Gougherty, Editor, Elk Grove News

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491720462

Thomas L. Nadeau

Thomas Lawrence Nadeau, Jr., a native of Waterville, Maine, attended the American University in Washington, DC and Cal State at Chico. After stints with the Army and the Merchant Marines, he settled in Northern California, working as reporter and editor for newspapers in Sacramento, Chico, and finally, Marysville. Nadeau received the 1997 Gold Medallion for Excellence in Investigative Journalism from the State Bar of California. He contributed to the Sacramento Bee, Reuters and Newsweek. Nadeau died in April, 2011 at his home in Marysville, CA.

Book preview

1

Listen.

The hard truth is you can’t shake your past.

It pads behind and it lurks ahead. It trails, it circles, it crouches for the spring, like a big cat on the hunt.

Run in the daylight. Hide in the dark. Pray, if you’re so inclined. Doesn’t matter. Sooner or later there it is coming at you out of the brush, its eyes afire.

Take it from me. I know… Now.

It was a Saturday, the day my past came back to find me, and a characteristic San Francisco morning: low clouds and patchy fog, sea in the air, sunny by noon.

I was in front of the mirror mulling which bow tie to wear when someone ratcheted my old-fashioned doorbell.

Graaank-graaank! Graaank-graaank!

My digs were modest and a trick to find, being tucked away one flight up over a used bookstore and a Vietnamese restaurant out on Clement. Visitors never called on me. None. Not even the mailman. That made the noise at the door both an annoyance and a mystery.

Graaank-graaank!

Just a second, I called out, and headed for the glass-paned door with a bow tie in each hand. It was a woman, I could tell, but the curtain lace veiled her face.

Graaaank!

Right, okay… , I flipped the deadbolt back and pulled the door open.

Who… , I began, then stopped.

When I looked down into that strawberry blonde’s blazing blue eyes my question shifted immediately from Who? to Why? Rumbled, from my head to my heart and back again, like a ship’s cargo loose in a dangerous sea.

Hello, Wyatt, she said, and she reached out for a handshake.

Lottie, I, I… , I stammered.

May I come in?

I, but… . But when you stop and think about it, what else could I say? So, I said it.

Sure, why not, and I reached out for the handshake, too.

And that was how Lotta Renz—my old flame, my old foe—strutted back into my life, dragging my past behind her.

I pointed her to the living room and followed her there, giving her the once-over as we went.

High-toned and strictly 24-karat, Lottie wore her wealth like street gang colors. She was dressed to the nines in a tailored gray glen plaid suit accented with her natural hues: green and gold, the colors of banknotes and bullion.

What had it been, six, seven years since I’d seen her last? Well, she surprised me. I would have thought time would have treated her rougher, worked her over in the same way it had me: etched more lines around her mouth, pinched more creases in her brow, added a few more pounds. But no, Lottie was unchanged. She was as young then as we were before. She’d been caught in amber.

Time, on the other hand, had weathered me steadily, like the clapboard siding on a saltwater farmhouse.

Jack Kennedy was right. Life is not fair.

Along with a snazzy leather purse Lottie toted a designer briefcase. Not a good sign. Over the years I spent with her I’d come to regard her briefcases with suspicion. Too often they turned out to be little satchels of trouble.

When we got to the front room I was still clutching my bow ties—one a red and blue polka dot, the other yellow-striped. I smiled uncertainly. She sized me up.

Wear the polka dot, she decided. Goes better with your blue button-down and tan slacks.

Never shy, Lottie found a seat on the sofa and put in her order.

How about a cup of coffee or something? We have things to talk about, she said, and set aside her purse and briefcase.

I rounded up a mug of coffee from the kitchen. While she sipped it, I stood at the mirror and hand-tied my bow tie. Lottie watched.

Cross the left and the right sides, leaving the right longer. Fold the left wing double to make the bow. From the bottom, loop the right side back over the left to make the cross knot. Pull the right side back through the inside of the cross knot, doubling it over as it goes to make the second wing.

Still wearing the bow ties, I see, she said. They still your trademark?

Tugging the knot snugly into place, I looked back over my shoulder at her.

I can still tie ’em, if that’s what you mean. I teased the final touches into the wings of the bow and sat down in an armchair to face her.

Things to talk about, I prompted.

Yes. Political things. A political predicament to be specific.

Again, I looked at her briefcase. It was suddenly fatter and more foreboding.

I’m not in the business anymore.

I know. I heard you went back to newspapers for a while, then into something else. What that something else was nobody I asked seemed to know. They said you just blended into the wallpaper.

Into the wallpaper? Hardly flattering, and hardly accurate.

Not exactly.

But I also heard from some others that you still help friends out from time to time—if circumstances provide.

I was curious to know where she’d gotten that information, but no reply seemed the best reply to make at that point.

Lottie took my silence to mean she could go on. She took a sip of coffee, set the mug on the coffee table and got right down to it.

I’m in a jam, Wyatt.

She looked for my response. I’d be damned if I’d give her one. Let her twist.

A big jam.

Good. Glad to hear it.

Lottie let the sarcasm slide. Her new problems apparently out-weighed our old arguments.

Have you seen the news these last few weeks about the FBI anti-corruption investigation up in Sacramento?

Only what the Chronicle carried; some radio headlines here and there. Undercover scam. Agents pose as businessmen. Pay officeholders for favors. No indictments yet.

Lottie fished around in her purse and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. A new indulgence, I noted.

Mind if I smoke?

Yes, I said flatly.

She did a double take, then chucked the cigarettes back into her bag and plunged on.

What you’ve seen is just the tip of a very nasty iceberg, Wyatt. There’s more to come, with indictments expected any day now.

Lottie crossed her legs, a simple, girlish act that revealed a bit more thigh and emphasized the taut calf muscles that made her legs the best-looking I’d ever seen… ever. She leaned forward and clasped her hands around her knee. With her hands exposed like that I just had to look: nothing there, third finger left.

I think I’m going to get scooped up in it. In fact, I know I’m going to, if things keep going the way they are.

I thought you dropped out of politics yourself after your term as a party officer ended.

She shook her head.

Not at all. Oh, I may have lost my public profile, but I’ve been busy. For the last few years I’ve been with Riley and Lefkowitz.

Robert Riley and Irving Lefkowitz were partners in a hotshot political consulting firm. Big-time offices in San Francisco and Los Angeles. High-powered clients. Winning record. Very pricey.

I’ve been doing issue campaigns for them. You know, local and state ballot measures? I’m out of candidate races.

Fascinating, but get to the point. What have you done that might interest the FBI?

Lottie’s smile became a smirk.

Right now, the FBI is interested in everyone. It’s an election year. Fighting political corruption on the front page gives their image a big boost, which it could use, considering how badly it’s suffered these last few years. If you ask me, the feds are so flushed with the success they’ve had so far they’re grabbing anyone they can on any grounds they can find, or invent.

Fine, but what have you done personally to put yourself in harm’s way?

She fidgeted in her chair.

You sure it’s not okay for me to smoke?

Positive, I said. However, looking at her nervous state, I relented. But I guess I can make an exception this time.

I opened a window and found a small plate she could use for an ashtray.

Thanks, she said. She drew out a cigarette and lit it. It was one of those slim, black, modern-woman cigarillos. Very unbecoming.

Anyway, what I do for Riley-Lef is I run their speakers bureau, that is, I schedule technical experts, show business personalities and—here’s the crux—legislators to address special interest groups on topics such as rent control, insurance reform, tobacco taxes, gun control, toxic waste, that sort of thing. Whatever shoe the foot fits.

Agitated, Lottie fiddled with her hand jewelry—her rings, her bracelets, her watch.

That means I also arrange the honorariums—pardon me, the honoraria—the speaking fees legislators are paid for appearing before private groups. Most of these engagements are legitimate, you understand… , she hesitated.

It was right there I should have told her to stop, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was intrigued.

. . . but not all of them. Some are simply convenient devices to sidestep campaign contribution limits and, in a few cases, to disguise bribes. She puffed and exhaled. At Riley-Lef we call them ‘honey-rariums.’

Lottie shook the ash from her cigarillo.

For obvious reasons, financial disclosure of these ‘supplementary income payments’, and she explained for my benefit, the current euphemism for cold cash bribes, is, well—spotty. The FBI would like to look at my notes on those, I’m sure.

Oh, I’m sure, I agreed with her.

And there is another aspect of my job the FBI might also find interesting. Being in the catbird seat as I am, I get approached from time to time by political newcomers who aren’t sure which legislator they should see to get their particular problem, ummm, favorably resolved.

She paused and puffed and thought to herself. I kept quiet.

Our firm makes these referrals for several clients, she said, but mostly we do it for Rich-Richard.

Richard Albion Schroeder III was the speaker of the state Assembly, which made him arguably the second most powerful figure in state politics after the governor. And that was giving the governor the benefit of the doubt, many contended.

As speaker, Schroeder was trail boss of the cattle drive. He honchoed the Assembly’s legislative calendar, doled out key committee assignments to the eighty members of the lower house, sliced up the Capitol office space and, on a daily basis, helped or hindered the political rise of his ambitious colleagues. He had that kind of power.

Schroeder was well to do in his own right through land, ranching and gas and oil interests he inherited through his Orange County family, reputedly one of the wealthiest in the state. He had also made a business—like bundle or two in his own right. Hence his nickname, Rich-Richard.

Plenty of folklore floated around as to the extent of Schroeder’s assets. According to one tale, for instance, he owned the mineral rights to Disneyland, for whatever that might be worth.

Well provided for materially, and otherwise secure in his own Assembly seat, Schroeder was himself relieved from the ordinary money pressures that made bribery and personal gain tempting to politicians. His own record was therefore unblemished—well, so far as anyone knew.

But Rich-Richard held his speakership only by virtue of the partisan votes of his cohorts. As a result, it was in his best interests to see that Assembly members who would be loyal to him were elected, and that they received sufficient campaign contributions to remain that way.

Schroeder did this by using his good offices to facilitate the give and take between his cash-needy loyalists and cash-rich lobbyists worried about the outcome of Assembly votes. So that was how Rich-Richard came by his second sobriquet: The Great Enabler.

A timely nod from Scroeder enabled a staggering amount of political cash to find its way into the appropriate coffers.

Lottie continued.

That makes me the secretary and bookkeeper. I make the introductions. I help negotiate the final amounts. I help determine where the payments go, and I see that they get there. And, I make it perfectly clear to everyone who should feel grateful to whom, and how deeply they should feel it.

She sighed ruefully.

In other words, Wyatt, my signature is on everything. Everything.

Lottie paused, assessing, I suppose, the damage such a confession could cause her.

Now, I’m hearing from an inside friend that Riley, Lefkowtiz and Schroeder have voted me Miss Most Expendable. They’ve decided I’m the one who goes if the FBI gets too close.

Her story both impressed and depressed me.

On the one hand, Lottie had snagged herself a front office position at the busiest stall in the political bazaar: the little shop where favors are sold. In terms of sheer power, that was something. But, on the other hand, just as she didn’t seem to grow any older, she also didn’t seem to grow any wiser.

Save me, Wyatt! Save me!, she wailed like the lady in distress she was when she called me in to get her out of a similar name-on-the-dotted-line peccadillo years before. I swear, I’ll never sign anything ever again!

She bit her lip, looked into her coffee mug, shifted around in her seat.

I thought you learned this lesson when you tangled with the ethics people over designating soft money.

Soft money is campaign argot for cash ostensibly donated to a political party for distribution to candidates deemed worthy by the party leadership. Touted as money without strings, it is often quietly earmarked in advance for specific candidates. This dodge allows candidates and their contributors to camouflage the true source of their money. It’s a clever gambit, but at the time Lottie got caught doing it as party treasurer, it was unethical and illegal. Later, the state Legislature changed the election codes to make soft money practices by and large okay, much like the Pope took eating meat on Friday off his list of sins.

That’s what I needed, a reminder, she snipped.

Lottie was getting increasingly worked up. Either she would wear out her jewelry or wear out her hands with the way she was fiddling and wringing.

Have you anything to drink around here? Wine? Scotch?

I looked at my watch. She looked at me.

What about a martini? I offered. Straight up? It used to be her favorite.

That would be nice.

In the kitchen I stirred up a martini for her, and pondered the changes that had been wrought in Lottie. Smoking cigarettes. Drinking in the forenoon. Asking for help—my help, no less. Her flapjacks really must be on the griddle.

Back in the living room, I delivered her drink: strong gin, whisper of dry vermouth, two olives on a toothpick, all in a stem glass. Just like uptown.

She looked at her drink, then looked for mine.

Aren’t you having something?

Maybe later.

Oh, she said, as if filing a note away somewhere. She took a sip, then a swallow, then continued with her story.

Our office got wind early on something like this was brewing with the FBI. Undercover be damned! Secrets don’t last long in Sacramento.

And she laughed a tight little laugh.

You should see it, Wyatt. You’d appreciate it. You more than most. The Capitol heavyweights are beside themselves. To give you an idea how hot it is, usually, you know, they can fend off trouble by feeding a few rank-and-filers to the sharks. People of no consequence. But this FBI thing is something else altogether. This time the main contenders are looking at dumping high-level political operatives. Real pros. People who count. She jerked her thumb at herself: People like me.

Tut, tut, Lottie. I scolded her. They won’t be feeding you and the other political ops to the sharks. They’ll simply be ‘actively cooperating with the investigation’—being the good civic leaders they are.

She swallowed more of her martini.

So, that’s where I am, Wyatt. I’m in the middle with my thumbprint all over a drawer full of incriminating books, ledgers, notes and printouts.

A mammoth mess indeed. I gleefully reconsidered. Maybe Jack Kennedy was wrong. Maybe life is fair.

But I’ll be damned if I’m going down with this one. I’ve put in too much work and time to get where I am only to lose it now. I want a way out, she said, with bitter edge to her voice.

Lottie finished her drink and narrowed her look at me.

And I have a way out. I think.

It was then I saw that certain dire look creep into her cornflower blues—a look I’d seen there before, but only in the diciest of times when the circumstances were desperate and the options few.

This one has to be handled right, she said, as though she was someplace else and talking to herself.

If I’m going to avoid prosecution, escape embarrassment, land on my feet and still have some semblance of a career left when it’s over, then it has to be handled very, very carefully. Otherwise… , her voice trailed off, then returned.

That’s why I asking you to come back and do this one for me, Wyatt. Fix it. Tie it up.

You have to be kidding, I said, scowling at her in frank disbelief.

Well, I can’t do it myself. This one’s going to take the touch, and there’s just no one else I’d trust with it. I mean, there aren’t too many Grogans around anymore, she said, reaching back into the past for a name that meant something to me.

And no Congressman Bobs at all, I added, wistfully.

And it’s not like I just got in a jam, dropped everything and came running. I’ve thought long and hard about this. If there were some other way… , Lottie folded her arms and hugged herself. It’s just that I don’t know anyone else with your, your… , she searched for the words, . . . your particular talents, shall we say.

There she sat—arms crossed, legs crossed, her whole body collapsed into the last defensive position.

Fix it for me, Wyatt. Tie it up for me, Wyatt. Wyatt, get me out! It was our old sweet song and she wanted a reprise. But did I? Would I? Could I? And, most importantly… .

Why should I?

Lottie unfolded herself and leaned back in her seat, studying me thoughtfully.

Well, not for love, certainly, Lottie said with a light laugh.

Nope, I agreed, certainly not for that.

She cast an appraiser’s eye around my hide-away flat, my burrow, and a far cry it was from her own opulent bay view home.

If not for love, then what about for the money? It looks like you could use some.

It was my turn to laugh.

Since when did I ever care about money?

She thought about that.

Never, I guess, she said, and she toyed with the uneaten olives that rattled around in her empty glass. Then she brightened.

What about for the money and for the satisfaction of saying, ‘I told you so, Lottie’, and the pleasure of seeing me come back, hat in hand, asking for help?

I smiled a casket salesman’s smile.

If you stop and think about it, Lottie, you’ve already given me that.

Lottie winced, but, being Lottie, she didn’t give an inch.

Then how about for the chance to get back in the business? For a chance to show you can still tie one up, and she did a fair pantomime of me putting the final touches to my bow tie, ‘tighter than Truman’s bow tie’, like you used to joke in the old days?

Lottie’s aim hadn’t drifted. She could still kick straight to my most vital spot—my ego. It still rankled me how I’d been made to look the idiot when we fell apart. Forced out and foolish. Oh, she was canny that way.

There is all that to consider, I admitted.

I needed time to think, so I retrieved her martini glass, and went out to make her another. And as long as I was at it, I made one for myself. Lottie could do that to you.

Back with the drinks I sat down and stalled for time.

Lottie Renz. She’d been a royal pain in the ass, that was true, but she’d also been fun. Well, fun as long as it lasted, anyway. With Lottie it was the afterwards that took it out of me. So, could I stand being around her again? Could I take it? Probably not.

You realize I could just take this information and scuttle you with it, I pointed out.

The temperature in her cool blue eyes nose-dived to below freezing.

You could, she conceded, in a tone that had a measurable wind chill factor, but I don’t think you would. You wouldn’t dare be that stupid.

She was right. Last time we crossed swords, she drew blood. We both had, actually. But, no, I wouldn’t spike her like that, for reasons of professional pride, if nothing else.

Are you prepared to see this through? I asked.

We start the ball on something like this, we have to dance till the band goes home.

She thought it over, then gave me a slow, serious nod.

To this day I can remember the wavering internal debate I held with myself while she sat there watching: I shouldn’t. Why not? I couldn’t. But what if? Don’t be a fool. Who says I am? That’s roughly how it went inside me. In the end, though, I took the leap.

Why?

Later on I’d be asking myself that same question, a lot. I guess the answer boils down to this: there are certain mistakes a guy just has to make. Watching Lottie watch me, I got the distinct feeling she’d already figured that one out.

Okay, I said, "I’ll do it. That is, I’ll go up there and see what I can do for you, if anything. No promises. Cash money up front. Usual expenses. What I say