“Him” was Davey Birdsong.
Goldman, of course, had blown his cool and did not expect her to take the suggestion seriously. But, after thinking about it, Nancy had.
She had been curious about Birdsong before. Nancy mistrusted people who were always on the side of righteousness and the downtrodden, or would like you to think they were, as Davey Birdsong did. Nancy’s experience was that those kinds of liberal-populist do-gooders were usually looking out for number one first, with all others trailing a long way behind and getting the leftover crumbs. She had seen a lot of that at first hand—in black communities as well as white.
Mr. Milo Molineaux, Nancy’s father, was not a liberal do-gooder. He was a building contractor who, throughout his life, had pursued one forthright, stated objective: To transform himself from a poor boy, born of black parents in rural Louisiana, into a rich man. He had succeeded, had done it honestly, and nowadays Mr. Molineaux was very rich indeed.
Yet her father, Nancy had observed, had done more for people of his own race—by providing steady employment, fair wages and human dignity—than a thousand political activists and their kind who (as the saying went) “had never had to meet a payroll.”
She despised some of the liberals, including white ones who acted as if they were trying to atone personally for three hundred years of black slavery. The way those idiots behaved was as if a black person could do nothing wrong—ever. Nancy amused herself by being rude and bitchy to them, watching them take it and smile, and letting her get away with the inexcusable just because she was black. While they did, her contempt for them grew.
She did not despise Nim Goldman. In fact—though the knowledge would have amazed Nim—she had come to like and admire him.
Goldman hated her guts, and Nancy knew it. He hated her straightforwardly, making no effort to conceal it. He hated her as a reporter and as a woman. Nancy was perfectly sure her color had nothing to do with Goldman’s hatred, which would have been just as intense had she been white, yellow or a shade of purple. Where his hatred of Nancy Molineaux was concerned, Goldman was colorblind.
Which was as it should be. Ergo, Nancy respected him.
In a perverse way—which she recognized as perverse-she rather enjoyed arousing Goldman’s anger. It was so goddam refreshing! Just the same, enough was enough. Twice she had impaled him well and truly, but it wasn’t fair to go on doing it. Besides, the son-of-a-bitch had guts and was honest, which was more than you could say for most of those sleazy pontificators at the hearing where Goldman had spoken his mind and afterward got gagged.
About that hearing, Nancy had written the story she had to because she prided herself in being—first and foremost—a good journalist. Which meant being ruthless, putting emotions, personal feelings, second. But none of it had stopped her feeling sorry for Goldman and mentally wishing him well.
If she ever got to know him better—which was unlikely—someday she might tell him all of that.
Meanwhile there was a certain logic and justice, Nancy Molineaux thought, in that having abandoned Goldman as a target, she had switched attention to Davey Birdsong.
Birdsong she most certainly did not admire, being certain—even at this early stage of her inquiries—that he was a phony and probably a crook.
She had begun, soon after the GSP & L shareholders’ meeting, by quietly investigating Birdsong’s p & lfp. That had taken several months because she worked in her spare time and there were some extended periods when she didn’t have any. But results, while slow, were interesting.
Birdsong, Nancy learned, had founded p & lfp four years earlier, at a time when inflation, plus increased oil prices, had forced electricity and gas rates substantially higher. Without question, the rate increases caused hardship to lower- and middle-income families. Birdsong had proclaimed himself the people’s champion.
His flamboyance earned him instant media attention and he capitalized on it by recruiting thousands of members into p & lfp. To accomplish this, Birdsong employed a small army of university students as canvassers and Nancy had managed to locate several—now ex-students—who had worked for him. All, without exception, were soured by the experience.
“We thought we were doing something noble, helping the underprivileged,” one of the former students, an architect, told Nancy. “But we discovered what we were mostly doing was helping Davey Birdsong.”
Her informant continued, “When we went out canvassing we were given petitions to take with us which Birdsong had had printed up. The petitions were addressed to the Governor, State Senate and House, the Public Utilities Commission … you name it. They urged ‘reduced utility rates for hard-pressed residential users,’ and we went door-to-door, asking people to sign. Hell!—who wouldn’t sign that? Just about everybody did.”
Another ex-canvasser—a young woman who had consented to talk to Nancy at the same time—took up the story.
“As soon as we had a signature—not before—we were told to explain that organizing petitions cost money. So would everyone please help by donating three dollars to the campaign, which included a year’s membership in p & lfp? By that time, the people we’d been talking to figured they owed us something for our trouble—it was smart psychology, Birdsong’s good at that—and there were very few, even poor families, who didn’t come through with the three bucks.”
“There was nothing really dishonest, I guess,” the young architect said, “unless you call collecting a whole lot more money than was needed to run p & lfp dishonest. But what really was cheating was what Birdsong did to the students who worked for him.”
“Birdsong promised us, as wages,” the young woman said, “one dollar out of every three collected. But he insisted all the money must go to him first—as he explained it—to be entered in the books, then we would be paid later. Well, it was later, much later. Even then we only got a fourth of what he’d promised—twenty-five cents instead of a dollar out of every three. We argued with him, of course, but all he would say was that we had misunderstood.”
Nancy asked, “You didn’t have anything in writing?”
“Nothing. We trusted him. After all, he was on the side of the poor against big business—or so we thought.”
“Also,” the architect added, “Birdsong was careful—as we realized later—to talk to each of us separately. That way … no witnesses. But if there was a misunderstanding, all of us made the same one.”
“There was no misunderstanding,” the young woman informant said. “Birdsong is a con man.”
Nancy Molineaux asked those two ex-canvassers and others for estimates of how much money was collected. In his own public statements, Birdsong had reported p & lfp as having twenty-five thousand members. But most whom Nancy talked to believed the real figure was substantially higher—probably thirty-five thousand. If so, and allowing for the amount paid out to canvassers, the first year’s receipts of p & lfp were probably close to a hundred thousand dollars, mostly in cash.
“You’re not kidding,” the architect had said when informed of Nancy’s estimate. “Birdsong has a profitable racket.” He added ruefully, “Maybe I’m in the wrong one.”
Something else Nancy discovered was that collection of money by p & lfp was continuing.
Davey Birdsong was still hiring university students—there was always a new generation which needed part-time work and money—and the objective was to get more p & lfp annual memberships, as well as have existing ones renewed. Apparently Birdsong was no longer cheating the students; probably he realized he couldn’t get away with it indefinitely. But, for sure, a potful of cash was flowing into p & lfp.
What did Birdsong do with it? There seemed no simple answer. True, he did provide an active, vocal opposition to Golden State Power & Light on several fronts—at times successfully—and many who belonged to p & lfp believed they were getting their money’s worth. But Nancy questioned that.
With help from an accountant she had done the arithmetic and, even allowing for the most ge
nerous expenses and a personal salary for Birdsong, there was no way he could have spent more than half of what was coming in. So how about the remainder? The best guess was that Birdsong, who controlled p & lfp totally, was siphoning it off.
Nancy couldn’t prove it, though. Not yet.
Her accountant adviser said that eventually the Internal Revenue Service might demand an accounting from p & lfp and Birdsong. But the IRS, he pointed out, was notoriously understaffed. Therefore lots of so-called non-profit organizations were never audited and got away with financial skulduggery.
The accountant asked: Did Nancy want him to tip off the IRS confidentially?
Her emphatic answer: No. She wasn’t ready to tip off anybody.
The accountant’s services were available to Nancy because her father was an important client of his firm. The same applied to a lawyer often retained by Milo Molineaux, Inc., and Nancy took the ex-university students to him and had them swear out affidavits. They co-operated willingly.
She was building her dossier carefully.
Nancy Molineaux knew about Birdsong’s other income from university lecturing and writing. There was nothing wrong with that, or even unusual, but it reinforced her curiosity about what Davey Birdsong did with all that money.
Then there was a vague rumor—she overheard it at a cocktail party—that Birdsong and p & lfp had appealed to the Sequoia Club for financial support. Nancy considered that unlikely and, even if true, was certain the wealthy and prestigious Sequoia Club would have no truck with the likes of Davey Birdsong. Just the same, because she made a habit of covering all bases, Nancy had put out feelers. So far, no results.
The most intriguing question of all came up one day in January when Nancy was driving her Mercedes 450SL and happened to see Davey Birdsong walking on a downtown street. Without stopping to reason why, she decided to follow him. She whisked her car into a handy self-serve parking lot and went after him on foot, keeping a discreet distance behind. What came next was like something out of an espionage novel.
Although Nancy was positive Birdsong had not seen her, he behaved as if he expected to be followed and was determined to shake off pursuit. First, he walked into the busy main lobby of a hotel. After glancing around, he ducked into a men’s room and a few minutes later came out wearing dark glasses and a soft felt hat, whereas before he had been bareheaded. The change did not fool Nancy. However, his appearance was different and she realized that, if Birdsong had been dressed that way to begin with, she probably would not have noticed him. He left the hotel by a side door. Giving him a comfortable start, Nancy followed.
She almost lost him then because, further along the street from the hotel, he was boarding a bus which promptly closed its doors and moved away.
There was no time to return to her car, but luckily a taxi was approaching. Nancy hailed it. She flashed a twenty-dollar bill and told the driver, a young black, “Keep that bus in sight, but don’t make it obvious we’re following it. Every time it stops, though, I want to see who gets off.”
The driver was instantly with it. “Will do, lady! Just sit back. Leave the action to me.”
He was smart and resourceful. He passed the bus twice, then each time eased into right lane traffic so the bus, in an outside lane, would pass him. While both vehicles were close, Nancy kept her head averted. But whenever the bus stopped to take on or disembark passengers, the taxi was positioned so she could see clearly. For what seemed a long time, Birdsong did not appear and Nancy wondered if she had missed him after all. Then, about four miles from his point of boarding, he got off.
She could see him looking around.
“That’s the one—with the beard,” she told her driver.
“I see him!” The cabby accelerated past, without glancing in Birdsong’s direction, then eased into the curb. “Don’t turn around, lady. I got him in the mirror. Now he’s crossing the street.” After a minute or two: “Be damned if he ain’t getting on another bus.”
They followed the second bus too. It was going in an opposite direction from the first and retraced some of the original route. This time Birdsong got off after a few blocks, again looking around him. Close by were several parked taxis. Birdsong took the first and, as it pulled away, Nancy could see his face peering through the rear window.
She made another decision and instructed, “Let him go. Take me back downtown.”
Nancy reasoned: there was no sense in pushing her luck. She hoped Birdsong had not detected her taxi trailing him, but if she persisted he undoubtedly would. Solving the mystery of where he went, and why, would have to be done some other way.
“Geez, lady, kinda hard to figure you out,” the cabby complained when they had changed direction. “First you wanna tail the guy, so we do okay. Then you quit.” He went on grumbling, “Didn’t even get close enough to see the other hack’s number.”
Because he had done his best, she decided to explain why she didn’t want to be that close, and possibly be seen. He listened, then nodded. “Gotcha!”
A few minutes later the young driver turned his head. “You still wanna find out where the beard goes?”
“Yes,” Nancy said. The more she thought about Birdsong’s elaborate precautions, the more convinced she became that something important was happening. Something she had to know.
The driver asked, “Know where the guy hangs out mostly?”
“His home address? No, but it wouldn’t be hard to find.”
“Maybe we could work a deal,” the driver said. “Me and two buddies. They ain’t working, and they got cars with CB radios. I got a CB too. Three of us could take turns following the beard, pulling a switcheroo so he don’t keep seeing the same heap. We’d use the radios. That way, when one guy eased off, he’d call another in.”
“But to do that,” Nancy pointed out, “you’d have to keep watch on him all the time.”
“Can do. Like I said, my friends ain’t working.”
The idea had possibilities. She asked, “How much would it cost?”
“Have to figure that out, lady. But not as much as you’d think.”
“When you’ve done your figuring,” Nancy said, “call me.” She scribbled her apartment phone number on the back of a business card.
He called late that night. By then she had looked up Birdsong’s home address which was in the phone book.
“Two hunnert and fifty a week,” the cabby said. “That’s for me and the other two.”
She hesitated. Was it important enough to go to all that trouble and expense? Again her instincts told her yes.
So should she ask the Examiner for the money? Nancy was doubtful. If she did, she would have to disclose everything she had uncovered so far, and she was certain the paper would want to publish immediately the material on Davey Birdsong and his p & lfp. In Nancy’s opinion that would be premature; she believed strongly there was more to come and it was worth waiting for. Another thing: The newspaper’s penny-pinching management hated to spend money unless it had to.
She decided to go ahead on her own. She would pay the money herself and hope to get it back later. If she didn’t, it would be no great disaster, though it would violate one of the rules she lived by.
By most standards, Nancy Molineaux was wealthy. Several years ago her father established a trust fund which provided her with a regular, comfortable income. But, as a matter of pride, she kept her private finances and professional earnings separate.
For once, pride would have to be humbled.
The cabby said he would like something in advance, which was reasonable, and Nancy told him to drop by and pick it up.
After he did, she heard nothing for six days. At the end of that time, the young cabdriver, whose name was Vickery, brought her a report. To Nancy’s surprise it was detailed and neatly written. All of Birdsong’s movements were described; they were routine and innocuous. At no point had he shown awareness of being followed. More significant: He made no attempt to throw any follower off.
> “Goesta show one week ain’t enough,” Vickery said. “Wanna try another?”
Nancy thought: What the hell, why not?
In another seven days Vickery was back. He had the same kind of detailed report, with similarly negative results. Disappointed, she told him, “Okay, that’s all. Forget it.”
The young man regarded her with unconcealed contempt. “You gonna give up now? Look whatcha got invested!” When he sensed her wavering, he urged, “Go for broke! Try one more week.”
“You should be a frigging salesman,” Nancy said, “not driving a hack.”
She thought about it. She had proof that Birdsong was a fraud; did she still believe he was a crook? And would finding where he went so mysteriously help the story she intended to write? Finally, should she cut her losses or—as the smartass kid put it—go for broke?
Her instincts again. They told her all three answers should be yes.
“Okay, hotshot,” she told Vickery. “One extra week. But no more.”
They hit pay dirt on the fourth day.
Vickery phoned, then came to her apartment, that night. “Figured you’d wanna know right away. This aft the beard tried to shake anybody off, the way he did that day with you and me.” He added smugly, “We beat the sonovabitch.”
“For what it’s cost me,” Nancy said, “I should goddam hope so.”
The young man grinned as he presented the usual written report. It showed that Davey Birdsong had driven his own car from his apartment garage and parked it on the opposite side of the city. Before leaving the car, he had put on dark glasses and a hat. Then he had taken a taxi back across town, followed by two bus rides in differing directions, and finally a walk—a roundabout route to a small house on the city’s east side.
He went into the house. The address was given.
“The beard stayed inside two hours,” Vickery said.
After that, the report continued, Birdsong took a taxi to a point a few blocks from where his car was parked. From there he walked to the car and drove home.
Vickery asked hopefully, “Wannus to watch the beard some more?” He added, “Them buddies of mine still ain’t working.”