WISEGUYS
Brooks Adams was usually found hunched over his laptop or leaning back in his executive chair contemplating Milwaukee’s modest skyline while talking to depositors. For important calls he used a gold plated French telephone, a gift from a Haitian investor. The high-ceilinged office with its thick gilt moldings and gold-framed portraits of Frederick Douglass and Booker T. Washington bespoke of power. Operating the largest black financial institution in the state, Brooks had clout. The mayor’s office called frequently. Contractors in New York and Texas bidding on federal projects in the Midwest courted him to make their minority enterprise quotas. The mantle of the ornate fire-place was lined with pictures. Brooks in robes receiving his MBA. Brooks in khaki flight suit in Kuwait. Brooks shaking hands with George Bush, smiling. Brooks shaking hands with Obama, beaming. Brooks standing between Ben Carson and Donald Trump, ordained.
This morning Brooks bent over a spread sheet, head in hands. Winfield, on his way to hammer out an investment brochure, passed his office. Peering through the doorway, he sensed trouble.
Glancing up, Brooks sighed, tapping his desk pensively. “Oh, God, Win. We have problems.”
“What is it?”
“First, our insurance on the B-25 is going through the roof. A B-17 crashed in San Diego during an air show, and the carriers are getting skittish about covering old war birds. We have to get a new FAA check or lose our coverage. But that’s the tip of the iceberg. Tower and Jay Kroll are in default. They won’t make a payment this month. That’s forty-two grand this month, fifty-five next month.”
“Anything we can do?” Winfield asked.
“Foreclose and have another second-rate property on our books. You know how that will look on our balance sheets? Plus, we have an audit coming up. That building was overvalued to begin with. They had it pegged at three million. It wouldn’t bring half that now. And we can’t hold our rates any longer. I’m going to have to drop the CD’s half a point next quarter.”
“What about?” Winfield asked, tilting his head toward the window. Through the mini-blinds the white forty-two story US Bank building dominated the city like a mammoth filing cabinet carved of ice.
“They don’t know yet. So far they have been cool. But let’s face it, we made a lot of promises to them about fresh investor capital, and we’re coming up short. Carlos is putting in fifty grand of his own money, and Bijan thinks he can get at least a hundred from one of his uncles. That half mil you squeezed out of Bronfman came just in time. But we need a few million to stay kosher. If we don’t hit our targets, some other minorities are going to edge us out, and we’ll be shaved down to a slice.”
“What about Singh’s investors?” asked Win, eager to change the subject. The words “squeeze” and “came” hit a little too close to home. “You know, the guys from Nigeria. They were talking five or ten million, maybe more.”
“One million would be enough. But they’re evasive. Can’t pin them down. Every time I call to track them down, it’s happy hour. I think Shirley Collingsworth has been whispering in their ear. They took a limo down to Chicago two days ago and spent the night. Face it, she can offer a lot more opportunities than we can. We’ve got Brewer’s Court, but she must have five projects. They’re smart enough to know about diversification.”
Winfield bit his lip. Shirley Collingsworth. He had managed to vanish whenever she appeared at investor meetings. So far she still did not connect him with the Kwik Kleen fiasco.
“Veraswami is coming in this afternoon at two-thirty for a talk. I’d like you drop by. I’ve been putting off trying to force these boys, but we can’t wait. They are not going to hang around Wisconsin much longer. If we don’t get some cash out of them soon, we might as well forget it.”
Brooks sighed, glancing at his desk calendar. “Almost Valentine’s Day, and I don’t have a date lined up. What about you?”
Winfield coughed. He had a dinner invitation from Shelly Bronfman, who breathily informed him that Sid was in New York representing Midwestern clients in a class action suit.
“Oh to be in love, Win. I could use a therapeutic lay just now. But Karen’s in DC until the twentieth.”
Valentine’s Day. Winfield cringed, knowing that in less than seventy-two hours he would be expected to repeat his Presidential Suite performance on Shelly Bronfman’s king-sized bed.
Seventy-two hours. With the end of the Cold War, Win could no longer draw upon his third grade fantasy of nuclear war indefinitely postponing a spelling quiz.
Still, there could always be a blizzard.
Returning from class, Winfield scanned the clear Easter egg blue sky for traces of clouds. Still, blizzards were known to sweep in from Lake Michigan and blanket the city in less than an hour. Bare trees leaned in the wind. A good sign. A steady blast could blow snow into hip-deep drifts. Classes would be canceled, and, more importantly, the private drive to the Bronfman estate would be impassable—provided Shelly didn’t have a snowmobile.
In the conference room, Dr. Veraswami nervously shuffled a stack of note cards like a novice dealer. Brooks and Lionel sipped coffee in silence. Keisha tapped her blood-red nails on a thick pile of loan reports marked DEFAULT. Ted Kaleem distributed computerized credit checks.
“Gentlemen and lady,” Veraswami said quietly, removing his gold-framed glasses, “I have to apologize. I fully expected Ben Ahmedi and John Obi to come themselves, but they had to remain in Abuja to negotiate a government contract. Instead, they sent their sons. Recent graduates. Well-educated, bright, but they are young men on their first trip to America. I’m not sure how serious they are.”
“I asked Ted to investigate them,” Brooks stated. “No use chasing after them if they’re not serious.”
“These boys look pretty solid, so far,” Ted said quietly. “I made calls and checked some of Dr. Veraswami’s contacts in Nigeria. They arrived at O’Hare on February 9th and are scheduled to fly out the 16th. They took two suites at the Hyatt and have run up a considerable bill. They’ve been hitting the strip clubs every night. Ahmedi and his pals did back to back champagne rooms at The Landing Strip and ran up a four thousand tab they put on AMEX with no question. They paid cash for the girls at Gold Diggers and Babydolls. VIP rooms and lap dances. Been making it rain all over town. Bouncers told me they got a little wild but cooled it off with wads of fifties. Ahmedi bought a watch at Watts for six grand and paid cash; Obi dropped eight grand on jewelry at Bayshore. He put it on Visa, and again no problems.”
“OK, they have credit and some play money. They’re on a spree. Question is, are they going to invest?” Brooks asked. “We need big money. My whole pitch to US Bank is our ability to tap into resources not on their radar. We need a sit down with those guys and soon.”
“I explained to them, explained to their fathers the importance of this project,” Singh said softly. “To blend African and African American interests, to build a bridge if you will. To impress both our governments. Mutual interests,” he said, locking his fingers as if in prayer. “The problem, I fear,” he sighed, “is that they doubt the viability of this organization. Will major investors—white investors—place their money in a black institution? They seem to want to meet some white people. You see, despite Obama, they believe this country is very racist, that it will never let black people rise, especially in business.”
Brooks cleared his throat with a deep, pained growl. “So any more bad news?”
Ted sighed, “They’re champing at the bit to see the Coast. I took them to Salerno’s for steaks their first night in town. They started talking about Vegas with the bartender. She told them how Old Man Salerno ran the Stardust and worked with Lefty Rosenthal. They dug the whole Casino angle. She pointed out all the pictures of the old man with the Rat Pack. They hung on her every word unless they just liked staring at her tits. We are going to lose them if we don’t find a way of keeping them in town.”
Keisha drummed her fingernails on the glass topped table. “Count me out. One afternoon of showing those horn dogs through Brewer’s Court is enough. Ahmedi is halfway human, but his pals couldn’t keep their hands off my boobs. I almost broke a nail. I’ve done my bit.”
“I know,” Lionel sighed guiltily. “I offered to show them the project, but they insisted they wanted you.”
“Look, I don’t mind dealing with Ahmedi. He’s cute and shows some respect. But Tweedledum and Tweedledee are just walking hardons.”
Veraswami raised his palm. “You must understand them. They are young, and sadly, their image of American women, especially black women, is based on movies and rap videos.”
Brooks shuffled his papers and looked up, pursing his lips. “So, tell me, guys, what do you really think? Are we wasting our time with them? Can we pin them down and get them to invest in Brewer’s Court? Five, ten million? One million even. I need to call US Bank with something solid. Something they would never get without us. We have to prove our worth.”
“The problem is they call me about getting more data,” Keisha said, “but with me it’s always just a come on. I checked with Carlos and Bijan. They never got a response to their phone calls or their email. I printed out my pdf. files and walked them over to the Hyatt. The concierge paged them three times and eventually sent my papers up with a room service order. I doubt they ever opened the envelopes.”
Lionel leaned forward. “I spoke with them last night. This being a black organization scares them as much as it attracts them. They don’t feel secure about tying up money in a black venture. They fear it will fail. They think we will be discriminated against or discredited. They are suspicious. Skiddish.”
“Look, if they want reassurances we can have Gwen Moss give them a call. We could set up a meeting in her Congressional office,” Bijan suggested.
“But’s she’s black, too,” Ted said. “Another black endorsement won’t help. These boys want to be sure whites will invest. We need some high roller to put his chips in to reassure them,” Ted said.
“So we bring them here for a meeting and have a white guy in a suit walk in, say he’s from Goldman Sachs and hand Brooks a check for ten million,” Carlos said.
Brooks shook his head. “That won’t work. What if they invest? They’ve already seen our financials. They invest, they’ll get our quarterlies. They’d expect to see that ten million on our books. They don’t see it, they’ll ask a lot of questions. And we can’t issue fake paper. Not with all these audits.”
“What if the Goldman Sachs guy just advises that it’s a good investment?” Bijan suggested.
“Then they would wonder if it’s such a great opportunity, why doesn’t this big shot invest?” Keisha asked. “It’s just another empty white endorsement. We can get the mayor to do that.”
“Wait,” Winfield suggested. “What if you had a rich white guy who wanted to invest but couldn’t, one who was turned down, refused? What would impress them more than a black outfit that turned away white money?”
“Why would we turn down money?” Ted asked.
“Look, you said they were impressed with the Salerno story. Remember his son Frankie tried to invest in the stadium, but they would not let him? He set up a holding company under another name, and they still shut him out.”
“But he moved to Colorado,” Lionel reminded Winfield.
“They don’t know that,” Ted said, sitting forward. “We have a white guy play Frank Jr. and say he wanted to invest but we turned him down. We have the stadium articles as proof. Hell, these kids grew up watching The Godfather and Goodfellas, right? If the mob wanted in on Brewer’s Court, they’d be thrilled. That’s the way they were brought up, am I right, Singh?”
Dr. Veraswami spread his small, soft palms, “Let us be honest. Hollywood has given your gangsters glamour and credibility. I am afraid you may be right. They come from good families, but they are very naive and frankly very gullible.”
“And the fact we turned Salerno down would show how credible we are. It would show we might be cash poor right now but not desperate. And it would make us look strong, that we would could push back against the Mafia, and the mob guys actually backed down without a fight,” Winfield suggested.
That could work, if we don’t overplay our hand,” Carlos said. “Maybe we could set up a lunch at Cinelli’s or Joey’s”
“A restaurant might not impress them. Besides, what if someone walks in and says hello to us, it could blow the whole deal. Joey’s too nosy. He’d catch on and start asking questions,” Ted argued.
“What do we do for Frankie?” Lionel asked. “Hire an actor?”
“No,” Ted said, raising a professorial finger. “Nothing so phony. We just host a business meeting. The more genuine, the better. We just need a few white guys, the right environment, the right ambiance. We could rent a limo, even rent a house. Borrow some place for a few hours. We’ll impress them with these,” he said, waving the credit reports. “I make some phone calls, get the names of the room service guys, the barmen, the hookers. They will certainly remember a group of Africans tipping fifties. We’ll tell them we have had them under surveillance since they arrived. We’ll let on we have contacts crews on the Coast. Scare them away from California and Vegas.”
“I rode with those clowns,” Keisha said. “I noticed they were really taken by the mansions on Lake Drive.”
“Could we borrow one?” Lionel asked. “Who do we know up there?”
“What about Sandy Preston’s place? That Spanish villa with a great view of the Lake?” Bijan asked. “Remember her birthday party last year?”
Keisha shook her head. “She’s in Rome until the end of March. The house is being refurbished. Contractors are ripping the place apart to put in new floors. Nobody could be living there.”
Ted drummed his fingers on the table. “Keisha, what about the house on Summit? The one we foreclosed on. It’s not on the Lake, but it’s the size of a cathedral. I know it’s empty, but we could rent some furniture. We just need to decorate the entrance hall and the library. We can close off the other rooms.”
“We’d need more than furniture. You’d have to bring in rugs and what about the windows? Do you know how long it would take to make drapes? Know what that would cost? And what about the utilities? We’d have to pay the gas bill to get the heat back on.”
Brooks shook his head. “We don’t have time. Besides, I don’t want to use any place tied to us. We don’t want to leave a trail. Any other ideas?”
Keisha drummed her fingernails on the table. Lionel looked pensive. Brooks rubbed in chin in thought. Bijan tapped his smartphone.
Winfield took a deep breath. “I may be able to provide a place,” he said quietly. “On the fourteenth.” The fourteenth. Win could not bring himself to say Valentine’s Day. “I have access—for that day—to the Bronfman estate. They change the access codes every day. I have the numbers for that day.”
No one pressed him for an explanation. Thank God!
“Will anyone else be there?” Ted asked.
“Not until after six. We’ll have to out well before then.”
“We only need the place for an hour, even less,” Brooks said. “If the Bronfman estate won’t impress them, nothing will”
Ted slammed his fist into his left palm. “That would be perfect. We chauffeur them out in a limo. I’ll make the call from the hotel and pay cash. No trace.”
“But who’s going to be Frankie Salerno?” Lionel asked. “We already introduced them to Carlos and Shel, and it can’t be any of us.”
“What about Tony? The waiter at Garibaldi’s? He’s better than Joe Mantegna. Put him in a black shirt and a thousand-dollar suit and give him a pinkie ring.” Carlos glanced around the room. “Anyone got any other ideas?”
“Tony does owe us. I kept his Benz from being repoed,” Lionel added.
Brooks bit his lip. “Tony’s an outsider. We’d have to tell him too much. We have to keep this close. We need another white guy, someone they never met.”
Ted laid a firm, muscular hand on Winfield’s shoulder, “They’ve never laid eyes on Win.”
“But I don’t look Italian.” Winfield winced, fingering his blond hair for emphasis.
“Neither does Frankie Salerno. Besides, you’re the only white guy we’ve got.”
“What do I have to say?”
“Not much,” Ted said. “Let the walls do the talking. The less said the better. This is more like an audience than a business meeting. We usher them in. You only have to say a few words. They leave. We can rehearse the whole thing beforehand.”
“But,” Winfield protested, feeling very small, “will they buy me?”
“Sure, remember Frankie Junior is just a real estate guy with tax problems. He was never made or did time. You just have to remind them who your dad was. Look, Salerno’s doesn’t open until four. We borrow that portrait of the old man and some of those celebrity handshake shots to give Win some cred. Now, we’ll need a crew. I can get three or four white guys from the JCC. They’re ex-cops, and they’d keep their mouths shut. They’ll get a kick out it.”
Brooks glanced at his watch. “OK, Singh, get a hold of Ahmedi tonight. Tell him Ted has set up a meeting with Frankie Salerno. Son of the big time mob guy. Major player in own. Big investor. Ted, you get your guys together. We have two days to pull it off. This will keep them in town until the fourteenth, and they leave for JFK the next day. That will be perfect.”
“Frankie Salerno. Frankie Salerno,” Winfield repeated, feeling like Sinatra getting into character to play Maggio. “I guess I could do it.”
“Let’s not forget some arm candy.” Ted said. “They would expect a guy like Frankie to have a babe. She has to be white, preferably stacked.”
White. Stacked. Italian-looking. Moira!
“Remember the Irish girl we used for the website announcing free checking?”
Ted smiled, cupping his hands. “The brunette with the melons? Oh sure, she added some welcome diversity. But can you trust her? Will she keep her mouth shut? A modeling job is one thing, but this is a little different.”
“No problem.” Moira had confided that she had overstayed her visa and was working off the books. Fearful of deportation, she did not report a purse snatching or bother to record the license plate of the drunk driver who sideswiped her Toyota.
“OK,” Brooks nodded, “Let’s sum this up. Winfield will play Frankie Salerno and bring the tits. Ted will line up the car and crew.”
“I’ll get the Salerno pictures,” Ted promised. “Jimmy Pulido can handle it. He and the bar manager go way back. Now, Win needs a new suit—you ought to get something out of this—and we need to go over what you are going to say. I’ll have Jimmy give you a call. He will be your right hand man, Win. Remember that. He will be the only one who calls you Frank. Everyone else will address you as Mr. Salerno. They will have their eyes on you all the time, so you just need to give them a nod. And don’t overplay the part. The Pope don’t have to prove his Catholic. Just assume the role. Jimmy was undercover, so follow his lead. What do you think, Mr. Salerno?” He paused, waiting. “Mis-ter Sa-ler-no?” he prompted. “Forget your name, already?”
“Damn,” Win muttered. Immediately the second grade Columbus Day pageant came to mind. In those innocent days when explorers were celebrated as discoverers instead of conquerors, Winfield had been selected to play the Italian hero after Manny Goldberg’s appendix ruptured. Climbing from his cardboard ship, Winfield met an Indian princess. Lifting her mother’s love beads over her bangs, Joy Lipinski greeted the navigator’s historic arrival. “Welcome to the shores of the New World,” she said, offering the necklace. His black construction paper hat bobbling on his head, Winfield gazed into Joy’s blue eyes and immediately forgot his lines.
At Venutti’s Menswear Winfield chose a sharp double-breasted pinstripe, cut close to the waist. The humming tailor deftly slipped pins to mark spots for alteration.
“I can have this while you wait,” he said in a soft Neapolitan accent. “Would you care to select a tie?”
Winfield lifted a light cream silk from the rack. “How would this look against a black shirt.”
“Black shirt? Very tasteful. I have a gold tie pin that will make you look . . .” The rest did not have to be said.
At home, Winfield scanned his video collection, pulling Casino, Goodfellas, and a grainy home-taped Godfather off the shelf. He watched and listened, practicing the subtle nuances of De Niro and Pacino.
After grading papers, he headed to The Black Shamrock. Fortunately, the bar was nearly empty. He ordered a Jameson, sliding a twenty toward Moria and telling her to keep the change.
“What’s with you?” she asked, leaning forward.
Observing her cleavage, Win bit his lip and pressed closer, “I’ve got a little acting job for you.”
“Acting?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not that video thin’ you were talkin’ about?”
“No, no. More like a personal appearance. A modeling job.”
“Modeling? Do I keep my clothes on this time?”
“Sure. Sure. Remember that outfit you wore at Sean’s birthday party? Wear that. Should take no more than an hour, and it pays five hundred. All you have to do is sit in a chair. No lines, no posing. Just be in the room. Arm candy. In this case, chair candy.”
“Chair candy?” Her black eyes narrowed into mascaraed slits. “Whut ya gettin’ at?”
“It’s five hundred dollars for one hour of your time. And remember,” he whispered, “Say nothing till you hear more.”
Tilting her head, Moira gave him a West Belfast wink.
According to historic accounts, a light snow powdered North Clark Street in Chicago on St. Valentine’s Day, 1929. Eighty-seven years later, a light snow powdered Lake Drive as a Lincoln Town Car pulled off the hilly road and wound through the turns of the private drive leading to the Bronfman estate.
Adjusting his tie in the back seat, Win was tempted to sneak a drink from one of the mini-bottles rattling in his pocket. The car slowed then stopped at the decorative iron gates. The driver lowered the window and turned to Win, “The code?”
“7854,” Win said, taking a deep breath.
There was an electronic beep, and the gates slid open. The driver pulled up the long drive and parked in front of the Bronfman house that rose from the snow like a Czarist wedding cake. Winfield slid out of the backseat, holding the door for Moira who bounced out, tits ajiggle. Jimmy Pulido popped the trunk and carefully lifted out the oak-framed portrait of Frank Salerno. A cluster of red heart-shaped balloons floated upward, bobbing to an abrupt stop when they reached the end of their tethers.
“What’s all that for?” Win asked.
“Insurance. Ted’s idea. If someone shows up and asks why we’re here, we tell them we’re setting up a surprise party. I got an invoice from Party Palace just in case. My sister’s the assistant manager. She’ll vouch for us. We’ll just hide these out of the way unless we need them.”
Winfield guided Moira up the steps to the entrance. Punching in a second code, he pushed open the heavy doors. The baronial marble foyer was larger than Win’s entire apartment. To the left was a large study. High-ceilinged, wood paneled, marble encrusted, the room reminded Win of Downton Abbey.
Even the blasé Pulido was impressed, “Man, this place looks like the goddam French embassy. If this don’t impress them, nothing will. First, nobody touch a thing,” he warned. “We gotta make sure we put everything back the way it was.” He whipped out his smartphone, took a sweeping video, then began taking close-ups of the desk and mantle. “OK, Win, Moira, get into position. I’m going to check out the kitchen and bathrooms. If one these guys asks for a glass of water or has to take a leak, we can’t fumble around looking for the can.”
Jimmy’s men replaced a seascape over the hearth with Salerno Sr.’s portrait and arranged gold-framed Salerno-Sinatra/Salerno-Martin/Salerno-Sammy handshake shots on the mantle. Jimmy nodded at Moira, pointing to a chair. Glancing at Winfield, she took her seat, thrusting out her Hindenburg cleavage.
Winfield swallowed hard and sank into the leather wingback behind Bronfman’s Mussolini-sized desk.
The ex-cops moved quickly. One slipped a bottle of Bell’s Scotch from his coat pocket and placed it on the bar. Another wrestled the cloud of heart balloons into a hall closet. Jimmy pulled a roll of papers from his pocket and thrust them at Win. “Hang onto these. We can’t have you sitting here empty-handed. Have to have some important business being interrupted. Otherwise it will seem too fake.” He walked to window tapping his phone.
“They’re pulling up to the gates. We ready?”
Frank Salerno. Mister Salerno. Mr. Salerno. Mr. Frank Salerno. Frankie Salerno. Winfield practiced his name like a mantra and crossed his legs, wishing he had used the powder room. Images of the cardboard Santa Maria came to mind. Joy Lipinski’s open blues eyes. “Welcome to the shores of the New World.” Duh!
Winfield watched the white limo slide around the bend in the drive and pull in front of the great bay of mullioned windows. A black capped driver alighted, walked around the elongated Lincoln, and opened the rear door. The three Nigerians, dressed in matching topcoats, alighted, pausing to study the house. They craned their necks, nodding and pointing. A good sign.
So far so good. So far so good. Winfield clutched his papers and smiled at Moira. He heard the front door open. Two faux bodyguards, armed with metal detectors, took their positions in the foyer. “I’ve got a Mr. Am-dee,” one of them said to Jimmy Pulido, deliberately mispronouncing the name, “an’ two associates for Mr. Salerno.”
“OK.”
In the hall mirror Winfield caught a glimpse of the bodyguards frisking the guests. The Nigerians, smiling to each other, lifted their arms, opened their coats, and nodded approvingly. Evidently, they were being greeted with all the mob protocol they expected.
“OK, you guys are cool. One ting. Mr. Salerno don’t let nobody smoke in his presents.”
“OK, OK,” Ahmedi answered, sounding like a Japanese land speculator shouting “Howdy!” to Texas ranchers.
“Mr. Salerno, you have visitors.”
As the trio entered, Winfield fought his natural instinct to rise. He remained fixed in his chair. The Nigerians approached cautiously, glancing at Jimmy Pulido, who interposed himself as negotiator, handler, advisor, consigliore.
“Mr. Salerno, this is Mr. Ahmedi.”
Winfield sighed and dismissively waved the Nigerians to sit.
“I heard about your arrival,” Winfield said causally, letting his long repressed Jersey accent surface. “You are seeking investment opportunities in this country. We’ve had calls. What can I do for you?”
Ahmedi glanced at his friends, then leaned forward. “Mr. Salerno, let me be frank. We require independent verification on something. I’ve learned not to trust bankers or government officials. This money we are investing. . .”
“. . . is not your own,” Winfield adlibbed. “Your fathers’ money. Of course, you must be careful.”
“Exactly. We need a good return, but it has to be safe.”
“You are interested in Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan. Brewer’s Court?”
“Yes. We want to know. . .”
“If it’s a good investment.”
“Yes.”
Winfield drummed his fingers on the desk. Rising, he stood under Frank Salerno’s portrait.
“I spoke with Brooks Adams. Twice. I wanted to invest ten million in Brewer’s Court. But he turned me down. I was disappointed, but I understand. You see my father had certain connections here and in Las Vegas,” Winfield said, wheeling his hands like a Neapolitan traffic cop, “that make certain investments difficult for me. All based, I assure you, on unfair assumptions about my father, his name, his heritage, his friends.” Winfield paused, watching the Nigerians’ eyes. They were glancing over his shoulder, taking in the Rat Pack pics. “I called back and offered to invest twenty million through a Canadian holding company, but Brooks Adams still declined. I was disappointed, but as I said, I understand. This project has a lot of public money involved. Government agencies. Lo