79

IT WAS AN EXAMPLE of what Terry Reardon always called, “One of my Irish days.”

At midmorning, on Tuesday, he had a visit from Tommy Arena who came to let him know that the Herald delivery drivers ratified the new contract. The pressure was off.

Arena had spoken to Reardon again a few days after Cardella was shot. “Like I told you, don’t worry about having no new contract by the end of the month,” he said. “There’s no way I’ll let these fucking drivers strike under the circumstances we got now. We can finish up negotiations later on. If you want that Donlan kid sitting at the table with you, that’s okay. Or you and me can meet by ourselves and work something out.”

Terry thanked him for his consideration.

“Take whatever time you need and get back to me. These fucking guys ain’t going nowheres without my say-so.”

A couple of weeks later Reardon called Arena and told him he’d like to see if the two of them could put a deal together. They agreed to meet for lunch on the following Tuesday at the Old Grist Mill Tavern in Seekonk, just across the line in Massachusetts. Reardon worked out all his final offer positions on the various economic proposals submitted by the Union. Still, applying one of the lessons Cardella taught him, he held back a little on each when he read the numbers to Tommy as they had their dessert.

Arena wrote them down in a small notebook he carried in the inside pocket of his jacket. He repeated them out loud and asked the question Reardon anticipated: “Are you telling me you got no fucking room to move on any of these?”

Terry responded first with some body English, stretching his arms and shoulders in the chair and looking off into space for a few seconds. “This is the deal my boss said we need to have, Tommy. It’s the same thing you’d get across the table.” He should have stopped right there, leaving Arena without an opening. Instead, his next words telegraphed the fact that the Herald was prepared to do better, to spend more money, if necessary, on settling the contract. “What’s your biggest concern?” he asked.

The cocky Teamster business agent had negotiated too many agreements not to pick up the signal Reardon unwittingly sent. He answered in a suitably strident manner, raising his voice enough to remind Terry of the temper tantrum he’d probably be having if they were in a private room somewhere instead of the middle of a crowded restaurant.

“I gotta get enough in wages to make these fucking guys happy, Terry. This last contract gave them shit, you know that. No one wanted a strike three years ago, so you and Richie got away with fucking murder. You probably earned yourself a big fucking bonus on that one. My guys tell me they want more in the paycheck, that’s what’s fucking bugging them right now. All I keep hearing from them is how much more they’ve got to shell out for their fucking groceries.”

Arena looked down again at the numbers he’d written in the notebook. “I can sell them on this not being the time for another holiday or more sick days or life insurance, but you gotta beef up the fucking wages. This here won’t do it. It ain’t gonna be easy getting a majority to buy the whole package, but I’ll do my fucking best if you give me something to work with. Tell that to your boss.”

“I’ll speak to him, Tommy, but don’t get your hopes up.” Then Reardon made his second mistake. “I’ve still got your word there won’t be a strike, right?”

Arena jumped on that one just as quickly. “I told you I don’t want to see these fucking guys do something stupid. But we ain’t gonna lay down for the Herald to walk all over us. If you can’t give me what I gotta have to push it through, then we could have a fucking problem.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Terry said, “but it’s not up to me. Whatever happens, I’m still going to hold you to a two-week written notice before they walk. We signed off on that one.”

“No problem. Now just go back and get me some more fucking money.” Arena didn’t doubt for a second that it was coming. He felt good enough about it to consider picking up the check, but resisted the temptation.

* * *

Reardon had to make sure he dragged the negotiations on long enough to get through the election. The executives on the Herald ’s fourth floor made it clear they didn’t want to see any labor problems breaking out while all the big races were reaching a climax. Trouble with the Teamsters meant newspapers not getting delivered. Reardon knew he had to keep his tit from getting caught in a ringer for at least the next three weeks.

Arena called a week later to find out what was happening. Terry had a phony excuse all worked out.

“Look, Tommy, my boss told me to make a complete analysis of the Union’s outstanding money proposals and the Company’s last offer. He’s not going to do anything until the publisher and the managing editor review everything and see where we stand. But I had a few other things to do first, and I just sent the breakdown over to them yesterday afternoon. We could set up a tentative meeting for early next week, if you want.”

Arena was willing. But even while agreeing to return to the Old Grist Mill on Tuesday, Reardon knew that the earliest he’d be ready to give Tommy his “take it or leave it” position was on Friday of that week. If the drivers turned it down, the two-week strike notice Tommy had to give him would carry them through the election.

And that’s how it worked out. Reardon cancelled the Tuesday meeting early that same day and lunched with Arena on Friday. He improved the wage package in each of the three years of the contract, but still held back a little of what he was authorized to spend in case there were any more surprises.

Tommy didn’t disappoint him. “It’s not all I wanted,” he said, frowning, “but it gives me a fucking chance to sell it to the drivers if you’ll throw in a two hundred dollar signing bonus.”

Reardon hesitated, purposely, staring at Arena. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he finally answered. “Instead of my having to get back to you-know-who and discuss this all over again, I’m willing to do this: your guys get the package I already put on the table today, plus a bonus of a hundred bucks up front—and that’s gross, before deductions—if they ratify this deal the first time around. If they reject it, the bonus is out the window, no matter what happens afterward. Write that down, so there’s no misunderstanding.” Terry waited for Arena to open his notebook and make the entry. “But you’ve got to give me an answer no later than next Thursday. If they turn it down, you can bring me the strike notice at the same time. Thursday will be the day, either way, agreed?”

“I could sell it easier with the fucking two hundred, but I’ll do my best,” Arena said.

So Tuesday got off to a great start when Tommy Arena came by unexpectedly with news of the ratification. Terry informed his boss, and got himself invited to lunch at the Biltmore.