Elsinore / Chapter 26

         After his lengthy phone conversation with Morris Kominsky, station manager Joe Glotz was exuberant. With all its twists and turns, the Elsinore story was a guaranteed ratings winner. Joe was convinced that KTLA would receive endless praise for blowing the lid off the “evil government” that was terrorizing innocent Jews.

Joe replayed Kominsky’s words in his head: Our public leaders cut off the healing water from the entire town. They left us dry and destitute. If that’s not hatred and animus, what is? They deprived us of water! That’s evil! That’s torture!

What could be bigger news? The story brought to mind the greedy railroad moguls during the 1800s who forced landowners from their ranches and tortured the Chinese laborers who laid their tracks. Joe knew that KTLA would be foolish to reject this scoop.

And if anyone was daring enough for the Elsinore assignment, it was Pat Michaels. After challenging the Feds and defending mobster Mickey Cohen, Pat could take on anyone.

Pat listened as Joe explained. Then Pat spoke, “I need to talk to Kominsky right away. I want everything. Newspaper articles. Meeting minutes from city council. Notes from the property owners association, police reports, any correspondence to or from the health department. The whole ball of wax!”

Joe handed Pat a scrap of paper with Kominsky’s number on it. Pat sat down and picked up the receiver, its rotary making a steady puttering noise as he dialed each digit. His chair squeaked as he leaned back and lit up a Kent.

Pat listened to the phone ringing on the other end, while Joe put his hands on the desk and leaned toward him. “This guy’s a live one, Pat. He’s wound tighter than a banjo string!”

“Let’s just hope he didn’t play you like a fiddle,” Pat retorted. Joe’s eyes narrowed as Pat’s exhaled smoke surrounded them.

From the initial hello, it was obvious to Pat that Morris was jumpy. Even his breathing was abrupt, as if someone was holding a gun to his head while he spoke.

A few minutes into the conversation, Morris said, “Mr. Michaels, I appreciate your calling, but I believe it’s best we meet in person. This phone line is likely tapped.”

“I don’t object to that,” said Pat, even though he suspected Morris was delusional. “I prefer a face-to-face discussion anyway. Can you meet here at KTLA tomorrow?”

The next morning Morris showed up at the TV station. With him were Elsinore’s newly elected mayor Thomas Bartlett and City Attorney Carl Kegley. Pat, Joe, and the three other men met in the conference room.

Bartlett and Kegley didn’t talk much. They simply nodded supportively while Morris worked himself into an angry rant. It was plain to see that the battle had taken its toll on Kominsky. His face was red with anger as he recounted the plight of the property owners. When he finally finished his tale, he was breathing heavily and looked exhausted.

“Please forgive me,” he said, dabbing his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “It’s just that there’s been so much violence and vandalism. It has me quite riled.”

Pat raised his eyebrows. “Violence and vandalism?”

Morris looked at his hands. There was a long silence. At last Kegley explained in a dull monotone, “Somebody threw a rock through the stained-glass window at the synagogue.”

“Broke the Ten Commandments!” Bartlett cried.

Pat clasped his Saint Christopher medal as if to protect the icon’s holy ears from hearing the sacrilege.

“Even children are taking a beating,” Bartlett continued.

“Jewish children!” Morris barked.

“This sounds like a dangerous assignment,” Pat responded.

“No doubt about it. You should be deputized before your investigation begins,” said Morris as he looked toward the mayor.

“We’ll make sure Chief Bittle issues you a badge,” Mayor Bartlett promised.

“Thanks,” said Pat. “But a badge doesn’t mean much without handcuffs and some fire power behind it.”

“That can be arranged,” the City Attorney told him, smiling for the first time that day.