Jerry Mills stutter-stepped, and almost froze as he crossed the dining room of Il Rosa. It was bad enough that Phil Mahoney was in the same restaurant, but the guy was sitting with Reuben Hartman, the man he was meeting for lunch.
What the hell was this ass doing here?
He wanted to turn and leave, but he was too far into the room, and Hartman had spotted him and waved. Then Mahoney had turned around to see him.
“Jerry, so glad you could make it,” Hartman said as he reached the table.
“Nice to see you, Reuben,” Mills said.
“You know Phil, of course,” Hartman said, gesturing toward the obnoxious ass.
“Of course.”
Mills went to shake hands out of habit, then pulled back, but it was too late. Mahoney extended a big, sweaty paw and they shook hands.
“Hey, how ya like the corporate world?” Mahoney asked.
“It’s good,” Mills said. “Where have you been? Haven’t seen your column in a while.”
Mahoney stared at him with the same arrogant look he used down at City Hall when Mills was press secretary for the mayor.
“I’m around. Working on a few things,” Mahoney said.
Yeah, right, Mill thought. He remembered reading how the guy was bought out by the Herald. Career over. Goodbye, no talent, jerk.
“Jerry, please, sit down,” Hartman said.
Mills walked behind Hartman and sat down across the circular table from Mahoney. He was pleased to see the Mahoney had put on weight. The face was fuller, and with the mustache and rounded shoulders there was something walrus-like about him.
“Isn’t this great?” Hartman said. “A couple of giants in the media business.”
Neither one of them said a word, so Hartman did what he did best, tried to salvage the situation.
“I asked you two to lunch because I have a project I’d like both of you to be involved in. Now, I’ve already spoken a bit with Phil about it,” Hartman said.
Mills looked at Mahoney. The man was holding up an empty pint glass, waving to get the waiter’s attention. When he did, he pointed at the glass for another beer. Classy.
“Now, I know you two have a bit of a history,” Hartman said.
“Reuben, what’s going on?” Mills asked, still debating whether to just leave.
“I have a unique business opportunity for you, Jerry,” Hartman said. “The same one I just presented to Phil.”
“No way I’m working with him,” Mahoney said.
“What?” Mills said.
“Even in a bar,” Mahoney said.
“Bar?” Mills said.
“Plus, you offered it to me first. Don’t I get like a right of first refusal or something? I mean if I was interested?” Mahoney asked.
“What is this, Reuben?” Mills asked, turning to Hartman.
Hartman bit his lower lip and breathed deep, then turned to Mahoney. “Phil, I’d like you to stay silent while I talk to Jerry,” he said.
“Okay. I get it,” Mahoney said.
Hartman turned his attention back to him. “Jerry, I have a proposal that I’m hoping will be of interest to you. Might was well get right to it since Phil is so eager to…to talk about it.”
He listened as Hartman explained about his uncle, and some old Irish bar on the west side. How the old man won it in a card game, then bought the building years later. How he was too old to run things. Mills remembered that Hartman could talk too much. Plus, his tone was flat and kind of boring. He wondered where the hell this was going. Just then, the old pro dropped the bomb.
“Jerry, I think this establishment would make a wonderful opportunity for someone in your position,” Hartman said.
“You want me to have business lunches there or something? Give the place some corporate business?”
“No,” Hartman said, “As I explained to Phil, I think with the right ownership, the tavern could be a huge success.”
“So, you’re putting together a pool of backers? We all kick in and become part owners. You get our names mentioned in the gossip circles and try and build buzz. Is that it?”
“No, that’s not it,” Hartman said.
“For starters, I’m not sure I could even get clearance from NIT to invest. They’re pretty strict with outside projects like that.”
“NIT?” Mahoney said, breaking his silence. “I thought you were with IBM.”
“Butt out,” Mills snapped.
Hartman moved along with his pitch. “Let me be clear, Jerry. What I am suggesting is you and Phil buy the bar.”
“Ha,” Mills laughed, and shook his head like it was a big joke, until he realized it wasn’t. “No way you’re serious,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” Hartman said.
He checked Mahoney. The man’s big mug was staring back at him.
“I can tell you this is nowhere near a good idea,” Mills said, turning back to Hartman.
“I’d like you to give it some thought,” Hartman said. “As a personal favor to me, Jerry.”
Mills closed his eyes and counted to five, then opened them. “Okay, I thought about it. No.”
“Jerry,” Hartman said.
“It’s okay, Reuben,” Mahoney said, elbowing his way into the exchange. “It’s personal, I get it.”
“Jerry,” Hartman said again, “given your…situation…I think this is something you may want to think about.”
Again he pretended to mull it over for a moment. “Fine, I thought about it again. No,” he said.
“What’s his situation?” Mahoney asked.
“There is no, situation,” Mills said. “I’m not buying, owning, or running a bar, Reuben. It’s not what I do.”
“You sound like me,” Mahoney said.
“Don’t you ever shut up?” Mills said, snapping at Mahoney. “You…you hack.”
“Hack?” Mahoney said.
“Yes, hack,” Mils said again, surprised at how good it felt. He could unload on this jerk with no repercussions now. Mahoney didn’t have a column, and probably never would again. “Do you have any idea the grief you’ve caused me over the years?”
“You were the mayor’s press secretary. It was my job to cause you grief. As a matter of fact, I’d wake up in the morning wondering how I could make your life miserable.”
Mills shook his head and looked at Hartman. “Is this is what you invited me here for, Reuben? To discuss some kind of business venture with this washed up writer, this…this…”
“Don’t say hack again,” Mahoney said.
Mills glared at the former columnist. “Don’t you understand how ridiculous you were? You called the mayor of New York a bicycle thief.”
“That’s only because he was. He wanted to remove all bicycles within five-hundred feet of a school to take away temptation from any of the thugs masquerading as students of the city’s illustrious school system.”
“And that stupid play on words you used,” Mills said. “The man went ballistic. I thought I was going to be fired.”
“I said he probably had a secret file of all the bikes he collected. A pedal file,” Mahoney said. “What was so bad about that?”
“Okay,” Hartman said, raising his voice. “Let’s say we all take a break.”
“You’re a hack,” Mills said, to Mahoney. “You deserve to be unemployed, you hack.”
“Hey, that’s it,” Mahoney said. “No more. That’s the last one you get. You call me a–”
“Hack,” Mills said, finishing the sentence for him. “Hack, hack, hack.”
A wave of crimson washed over Mahoney’s face. “That’s it,” he yelled at Mills, loud enough for the dining room to hear.
Mills saw a flash of activity across the table. It was Mahoney reaching for a glass of water.
What the hell?
Mahoney’s hand jerked the glass forward. Mills watched the water fly out in a big, clear blob. Then he closed his yes as the ice water and cubes hit his face.