Rob had called the Police Chief of the town’s small police force into his Mayor’s office. “Sit down, please, Tony”. Chief Tony Draper had sat and waited for the Mayor to speak. He obviously had something on his mind.
“You have seen the latest orders from the Governor’s office about the Coronavirus, COVID-19. At first, I was skeptical about it, the virus, but the latest reports from Italy and the rest of Europe gave me pause for thought. I think that we need to make sure that Blandings Crossings keeps on top of this thing.
“We need to ensure we have zero tolerance for any assholes who try to breach the lockdown. A friend of mine from the UK sent me a Facebook message the other day, apparently a police patrol found some idiots having a barbecue party outside an apartment block, and when they refused to disperse, the police officers tipped the barbecue over.
“We need to be as hard and as firm as that. If not more so. I want you to step up your patrols as much as you can and to make sure that anyone caught operating anything like that barbecue gets treated as firmly as you can. Any pubs, bars, taverns or amusement places in the town that are breaking the law, they must have the full weight of the law brought down on them, no matter who they are.”
Tony nodded. “Anyone or any place you have in mind, especially?”
Rob gave the impression of someone who was doing some deep thinking. “Well, there’s that amusement arcade on the Avenue, but under the new owners they seem to have got their act together. Thinking about it I’d guess the only place you might get problems with his Harvey’s Tavern, on Cooke Street. That guy always seems to be pushing the boundaries just that little bit more, always trying to give the bird to the police and the authorities.”
Tony gave him a regarding, searching look. “Sure, thing, Mayor. You are right about Harvey Clinker. His dad who opened the place back in the 1950s as an Italian restaurant was a different kettle of fish: he always kept it nice and respectable. If his oldest boy Alfonso hadn’t died over there in ‘Nam, Alfonso would have run the place and not that little waster, Harvey. Oh, well. All water under the bridge, now, but I’ll make sure we keep tabs on Harvey and his tavern.”
Originally, the tavern had been a high-quality Italian restaurant and modest hotel operated by Mario Bastini, who had come from the old country in the early 1950s.
After his father had died, Guido Bastini had decided to change his name to something more American, Harvey Clinker was what he chose, for some reason nobody had ever figured out, and he reopened Mario’s as Harvey’s Tavern, closing the hotel rooms because he was too lazy to keep operating them. The Italian cuisine was replaced with standard bar room crud.
“And I want to make sure that anyone found there is given the full power of the law, Tony. Anyone,” added the mayor, forcefully.
Tony nodded and stood. “Okay, Mayor, I’ll do that.” He had guessed at the game the Mayor was playing, for he had also heard the rumors about what the Mayor’s pretty, but pretty empty-headed, wife had been getting up to with Harvey Clinker.