Worthy Of This Great City Read online

  But what you first noticed were the numerous teenage girls. The place was absolutely overrun with female adolescents, all of them dressed in unflattering jeans and muddy, scuffed paddock boots, and all of them reeking of casual competence mixed with a little compassionate contempt. They were variously occupied, some leading horses out of the shaded depths of the barn, others just inside the doors tacking up, two of them helping a handful of chatting, slender women in notably clean breeches up onto their respective mounts. Someone had cut a step into the stump of an enormous tree, a sycamore or an oak, and this fixture served as a rustic mounting block.

  Everyone seemed very nice.

  But June wasn’t among the group at the barn, and I was directed back along the drive. I followed the next class down, walking behind the slow parade of riders guiding their mounts at a clumsy walk, one at least almost stumbling at every other step which seemed to be the rider’s fault. We reached the riding rings a quarter mile along, one to each side of the road, one occupied and one free.

  My entourage filed into the vacant oval while I crossed to the opposite side and joined a couple of people sitting on the grass to observe the action. This ring contained maybe six or seven adult women pulled to a ragged halt around the rail while their instructor, another lithe, well-muscled teen, hectored them over some intricacy of horsemanship they apparently weren’t quite grasping. She strode over the stony surface, adjusting the bars on jumps not three feet high, pausing once to stamp out her cigarette, occasionally laughing good-naturedly at her students, and once bending her own body into the desired two-point position, poised slightly forward on an imaginary mount in the center of the ring.

  At length the class commenced a slow circling, hugging the rail, excluding one game if terrified candidate called forward to ride the course. I watched with empathetic nervousness and some glee as she sat back, took a deep breath, and commenced wildly kicking her horse. It was a gigantic beast, white with a shaven mane just starting to grow back, a hulking, unmotivated punk.

  “Left leg! Left leg!” The instructor turned round with the rider, traversing the course with her own body as the woman, all novice determination, finally attained a slow galumphing trot towards a low crossbar, approaching it from a clearly unfortunate angle. Naturally enough the pale beast veered off completely, forcing the poor woman, all sweaty frustration, to circle him back and get him pointed in the right direction and sluggishly trotting again. Meanwhile the remaining contingent, June among them, swiveled in their saddles to watch this effort while continuing to circle the rail.

  The white giant maintained his extremely uninterested gait, plainly considering a second evasion; the rider resorted to her crop and he delivered a grudging canter, approached the jump with near comical resignation, and took it without effort or interest. Then he shook his spiky head and conferred a rude snort before defiantly subsiding back into an outright walk.

  “No! Keep riding him! Don’t let him get away with that! Keep him going. Get him moving! He’s not done yet; he has to go all the way around.”

  But the rider was kicking futilely at the animal and laughing with relief. “He is?”

  June was approaching on an elegant bay. She was wearing a helmet and a tight knit shirt over tan breeches; the outfit narrowed her already slight body into something frankly unnatural, all gigantic eyes and little pointy chin like one of those short gray extraterrestrials that abducts rustics. The animal stuck his moist, warm nose under the bottom rail and started to chew off what green he could reach. I offered the appropriate compliments, keeping my distance; horses are less reliable than cats and a lot bigger. With the humility of a supplicant, metaphorical cap in hand, I reiterated the purpose of our meeting.

  Nodding, patting her horse’s broad neck, June seemed pleased to be looking down at me. She fervently pursues some mythical Greek goddess by Founding Fathers personal ideal; you can see her striving, and it’s exhausting.

  So even if you weren’t already familiar with her position on the Landing issue you only had to look at her. Ostensibly a Democrat, June invariably identified with the business community as representing the ideals she considered the foundation of civic excellence. No need to be consistent; the priority was to get elected. She’s got a bulging forehead, a ready moue of contempt for any ignorant adversary, and level gray eyes to see through unrealistic bullshit. “It’s imperative we staunch the financial erosion.” That’s her idea of casual conversation. And she was hardly alone in censuring Philadelphia’s prohibitive wage tax: precious few industries remain within the official city limits although our hospitals and universities and some major pharmaceutical firms keep the municipality afloat if dangerously exhausted. But if you ran a decent mid-sized business it was only responsible to locate to one of our many pleasant suburban industrial parks or office complexes.

  June made an aborted attempt to halt her horse’s gluttony, but there’s probably only so much you can do about dominating a thousand-pound creature if you didn’t learn as a child. Anyway he was probably a rental, a mercenary just doing his job and nothing personal. Of course June remained gracious, and she’d automatically centered herself upright in the saddle; she crossed her hands into an easy pose over the reins, presenting a reasonably effective image of cool competence. She also looked terrified; I suspect riding was some kind of test of courage, so of course thoroughly admirable. “You know, I sympathize with David. I respect his commitment to PennDesign. He’s not another demagogue thinking about reelection. But those guidelines are vague on every critical point, just wishful thinking playing with public expectations, and that’s irresponsible.”

  She meant what the hell was up but preferred not to ask, what with always having to project her superior knowledge of the universe. It’s the same with Ruth, that identical fearful pride acting to extinguish possibility. (People I know tend to flow into each other like that all the time.)

  I said, “The mayor’s pushing the Casino plan irregardless.”

  “Ha! Persistence isn’t everything; these people who think they can make something succeed just by refusing to concede. There’s incredible over-saturation, you know that, all the casinos are losing money; Atlantic City is imploding! But it’s like we don’t see it. We want to turn the whole city into an amusement park, but how does anybody get the money to play? Do they all work for other casinos?”

  “Well, but say the riverfront casino gets approval from Harrisburg – no, I’m not saying it will, don’t start! Just assume it hypothetically, or something less definite but promising occurs, and then tell me what it would take to get that Landing proposal through Council?” She tried again to pull up the head of her stubborn mount; I waited as the two completed a tedious circle in place. The smell of the place was beginning to bother me, as was the powerful mound of intrusive flesh and teeth looming above me.

  June came back around frowning. “Well nothing. There’s nothing I can imagine; I mean, that won’t happen anyway. How can the Control Board make that decision without approval for the site? Oh, it’s completely ridiculous! Even under those circumstances Columbus has the votes, unless you know something different?” She didn’t, that was plain. Her eyes, as they focused on me, were dancing in the bright sun, but I could see the irritation. “Of course there’s that incident when van Zandt died. He might have been wavering towards the casino, it’s possible, but they still wouldn’t have the votes.”

  I’d figured the same myself. Anyway I had nothing on van Zandt, not so much as a hint of a rumor despite my best efforts; so far as I know no one’s uncovered anything to this day. But still, that was interesting.

  She half-turned in her saddle again, looking back into the oval: almost her turn at the course, then turned back to examine me with an expression somewhere between disappointment and real anger. “You know, Con, it’s always nice to see you, whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

  I nodded. “I’m not sure what I’m doing,” I admitted. And this is a typical day for me. “Yo
u’re actually certain Columbus will happen, then?”

  “Oh, I think so. I think we’re better people than we’re given credit for.” After which remarkable declaration she gave me a second in case I had anything interesting to say after all, then added an apologetic smile goodbye. She sent me yet another backward glance as she turned her mount into the ring.

  Starting back to my car I heard the instructor shout: “Gallop, June! gallop!” So I walked the few steps back to watch. June was perched way too far forward on the neck of that lovely animal, her skinny legs flapping wildly. They cleared a bale of hay maybe two feet high at a less-than-sprightly trot, the horse bored but obliging, but even from my moderate distance I could tell June was elated to the toes of her polished brown boots.

  I waved in congratulation. Why not? No matter how good the horse or how valiant the effort she was never going to catch up.

  She was right about Columbus, though, about it’s ability to mesmerize the money people with images of future renown and a resurgent river district. Mayors are temporary, Columbus would outlast the administration, and it seemed very imposing and very conventional, as close as you could get to a fiscal guarantee. I thought so, anyway, and so did that semi-circle of intently self-interested types up at the PCPC meeting, present solely to safeguard the potential of the architect’s elevation at the side of the room, a Columbus of clean office towers gracefully interspersed with luxury high-rise housing, with our dilapidated Great Plaza amphitheater reborn as a state-of-the-art outdoor concert venue. The whole fantastical complex was positioned against a background of photos of the river and its two cities, as if it had a right to take proprietary pride in the soaring blue arch of the bridge.

  Which miniature hypnotic vision compelled a meaty, well-groomed supporter to place his meeting binder under his chair, rise, and smile at us with one of those frank and eminently reasonable entrepreneurial smiles. Even so he had an air of urgency about him, in the set of his shoulders and in his minor frown, and there was a defensive edge, too, in the positively infatuated glance he cast at the model.

  “I’m sure we all want to develop this location in a way that will prove financially as well as socially beneficial.” This an admonishment to the PennDesign presenter, now thankfully restored to his own chair off towards the windows. “I would point out that the community desires outlined here automatically eliminate anything suggestive of what I shall term a Vegas manqué. Thank God, because we’re all familiar with the many past attempts to develop this section of the waterfront and their truly extraordinary record of disaster, and I cannot help but feel such a downmarket move would prove yet another fiasco.”

  An utterly serene conversational tone with that confidant smile, a kindly pretense of equality to emphasize the overall superiority of the majority and raise the stifled indignation of the unbelievers.

  Speaking of moral certainty and people who pronounce their Liberal politics the way their parents used to pronounce the word “Christian”, consider Councilwoman Margery Haskell, a woman incapable of political self-doubt and according to my calculations one of the two holdouts on the committee, the other being David Cevallos. Seeking a line on the strangely unquenched optimism of the casino proponents, I caught up with Margery as she was exiting the ornate Caucus Room at City Hall in a clutch of unknowns and supernumeraries. Spivak and Murphy were in there still, standing and talking, Murphy doing his serpent smile. The Caucus Room is exactly what you’d picture for the top secret meeting room of an ancient extraterrestrial evil society scheming to conquer the planet.

  Margery put a firm hand to my back, courteously but with no hesitation whatsoever, and propelled me down the corridor, through an anteroom, and into her private office. Isolating me there, virtually pinned in my chair by her informed fervor, facing her legendary wall of diplomas, a great fan of them spreading out behind her – all degrees, too, not a single masquerading tribute. She sat there with her hands at ease on her desk, just waiting. “Good of you to see me,” I said. I could see her shiny scalp through the tight little curls around her hairline; the rest of her was concealed inside a chocolate ensemble, a straight shift and jacket, clearly expensive stuff.

  “Your nose is beautiful,” she told me once. “Stop cowering.” She does not get my schtick.

  Margery’s been married forever to a mellow mathematics professor, the kind of man you look at and know he’s never experienced serious anger or frustration in his entire life but who invariably radiates a deep understanding for those less evolved. They had a couple of daughters already in college. Otherwise I still don’t know much about her personally, only her official biography and some vague assertions. Probably she envisions herself a heroine, probably with some justice, but she’s such an aggressively triumphant woman, stern and superior.

  Another option is that we just intuitively dislike each other. For what it’s worth, a number of her colleagues privately delight in disparaging her, partly from envy and partly because Margery is so fucking patronizing. That instructive hand on your arm, insisting you listen and learn. “She has to face her own ignorance,” Ruth says. “It’s the only thing that can possibly save her now.”

  The esteemed Councilwoman was fixing me with a sternly cordial expression. She returned my remark, her voice cool and pleasant. “I’m glad you can see me. So many people can’t anymore.”

  These women who prefer the offensive edge. “Well, of course.”

  Regarding me with that friendly yet purposive expression, sherry-colored eyes challenging under that restrained aureole. An extremely intelligent, surely successful woman and yet this implicit belligerence. “Let’s get to it; I’m delighted to have this discussion. I appreciate your diligence. But if I were you I wouldn’t bother searching for any connection between our Mr. Manetti and the casino proposal. A natural enough suspicion, but I assure you unfounded, in fact absurd.”

  Margery was perfectly correct in that we were much too early in the process for criminal opportunity. The obvious implication was, as she said, absurd, but we were both aware of the potential.

  “A Vegas on the Delaware. That’s what everyone’s so afraid of, though why they’re terrified is mysterious when there’s reason to think it would be a great success.” For a moment she concentrated on the air behind me, I suppose gazing at this idyllic vision of the future. “Do you know what would happen? People would actually go there; the Landing would become a genuine destination. Or perhaps you would prefer the Gallery?” This with one of those knowing, accusatory glances at me, God knows why. I truly resent it when people insinuate like that, ascribing opinions to me that I’ve never even considered.

  As to the Gallery, it didn’t even exist anymore. It used to be a predominately diverse mall at what was then the Market East train station, in its last years degenerated into mostly discount and dollar stores and generally patronized by that loud, pushy element that rudely invades the space of people just trying to go about their business: all those undisciplined and increasingly exotic ethnicities, obstructive and child-infested and always so, I don’t know, reproachful. A population providing that paranoid prick of urban danger that keeps the better sort patronizing suburban high-end retail and illegal drug centers like King of Prussia. Market East served businesspeople catching trains, the urban poor, tourists in search of the physical remnants of Philadelphia’s glorious history, and anyone heading to Reading Terminal Market for quaint Amish goods or lunch. Here’s something I love about that train station: there’s a mural on the tunnels that depicts the four seasons in trees and shrubs, square tiles designed to flow into an image at speed, from a moving train. Unfortunately trains slow and stop at a station, so no one’s ever seen this effect but only some separate, static tiles, like gigantic pixels.

  Margery said, “Gambling’s coming into downtown Philadelphia, however regrettable that proves. There are serious concerns but there’s strong popular support, and the mayor knows if the Landing site is ultimately rejected the default will be Market
East or the immediate area.” She spoke with her usual depth of authority but what did it matter what the mayor felt? He could be as wrong as anyone.

  And I had reason to doubt their certainty. Lower Market Street backs up to Chinatown, and Chinese community leaders sensibly fear that the proximity of a slots parlor is likely to exacerbate, if in fact wasn’t deliberately designed to exploit, the gambling predilections of that populace. Some years back a nearby location, a former department store, was selected for a gaming license, and that suggestion evoked sufficient outrage to kill the plan. City Hall knew what to expect.

  Margery paused for dramatic effect, taking the opportunity to examine her surroundings as if searching for a forgotten conclusion. Then she moved in closer over her desk, adopting an air of serious confidentiality: “That license has to go somewhere that satisfies the constituents, but we can agree it won’t be West Philly or Kensington. It will go somewhere white folk want revitalized, therefore if it’s not the river then it will be downtown Market Street. And while there’s a slight chance that will succeed there’s a much higher probability of catastrophe.” Someone approached from the outer office, saw me, and entirely disappeared, perhaps into a random beam of sunlight. I could smell dust, air freshener, and disinfectant.

  “Market East is symbolic of Center City’s economic decay. Low-end gambling is not likely to stop the violence. Shiny rows of electronic slot machines will not attract suburbanites away from higher-end casino options, but you and I know that ludicrous projects do go blundering forward. I am determined to prevent that happening.”