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That, of course, was part of its charm. The fact that Little Pete’s served hefty portions of its greasy spoon staples—bacon-and-eggs to lox to scrapple to gyros—certainly was another. As were its lively servers, who addressed patrons as “hon”—even the obnoxious drunk ones feeding their munchies at three A.M.—and made sure that when ordering, patrons knew that Little Pete’s embraced In God We Trust—All Others Cash Only. Thank You Kindly. Hon.
“Raychell was anchor at one of the network TV affiliates in Missouri’s capital,” O’Hara said.
“St. Louis?”
O’Hara raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Not very big on geography, eh . . . ?”
Payne shrugged.
O’Hara went on: “Me neither. I had to look it up. Jefferson’s the capital. It’s tiny, so it shares its market with Columbia. Together they’re somewhere in the mid-hundreds, maybe one-sixty, market-share-wise.”
“While Philly is number four in the country.”
“Right.”
“And she catapulted into the hottie hot seat here because . . . ?”
“Oh, I’m not going to give this to you, Matty.” He smiled. “You’ve gotta work for it. This is too rich.”
Payne grunted.
“Okay, give me a clue.”
“Who was the attorney general of Missouri?”
“What? I don’t know the damn capital. How the hell would I know that? Why would I know that?”
“Perhaps because you know his former chief of staff.”
“I do? The Missouri AG’s chief of staff? How is that possible?”
“Former, and now current chief of staff for the attorney general for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”
O’Hara looked across the bar. Payne followed his eyes and saw a pale-faced chubby-cheeked thirty-something with horn-rimmed glasses and a suit that dripped Ivy League having an animated conversation—He acts like everything he says is hilarious, Payne thought, but only he’s laughing—with Edward Stein.
Payne was aware that Frank Fuller had hired Stein away from his father’s law firm—his father, indicating his displeasure, had told him that—and Stein, at Fuller’s pleasure, was on loan to serve as Carlucci’s chief aide. The latter information having been provided by Denny Coughlin.
“So,” Payne said, “Daniel Patrick O’Connor is somehow connected. I do know that he and Stein, who until recently worked at my old man’s firm, were in the same Penn Law class. And that connection is?”
“Who owns the affiliate station, the perpetually-last-in-the-market affiliate that gives us the riveting Action News!?”
“I’m guessing the same sonofabitch who bankrolled the attorney general’s run for office.”
O’Hara nodded as he sipped his drink.
“With dark money, of course . . .” he then said.
Payne knew that the “dark money” of well-heeled donors—individuals to teamster unions—was funneled through third-party political action committees in order to mask its source. And, for reasons that baffled him, was fully allowed by Pennsylvania law.
Payne nodded. “Which is legal, of course, but despicable. Which is why corruption in this state is off the chart.”
“Pay to play . . .” O’Hara said, nodding, then added, “Five-Eff ring a bell?”
Payne sighed.
“Tell me you’re yanking my chain.”
