They called New York political mastermind Thomas C. Platt the "Easy Boss," perhaps because of his mousy looks and skinny physique. As the second in command to his flamboyant mentor Senator Roscoe Conkling, he was nicknamed "Me-Too Platt," indicating his image as a mere Yes Man. In truth, he was no burly, crude William M. Tweed or gross, arrogant Boies Penrose. Platt was a bland, almost anonymous-looking fellow who operated the Republican Party machine during the late 19th Century with a grip of steel. You didn't mess around with the Easy Boss.

Why invoke his shade now?

Let us first conjure him up in his element, a hotel lobby in New York City on a Sunday afternoon. Here he is, sitting in a well-stuffed chair, a cadaverous man with melancholy eyes and hollow cheeks, listening to the flattery and pleadings of businessmen and lesser politicians, stoical as a Mandarin on an imperial throne. They call this spot the Amen Corner for good reason: when the Easy Boss makes his opinion known, there can only be agreement. Nothing so crass as money changes hands, but fortunes -- financial and political -- shift in this room. Boss Platt raises a bony hand and the deal goes down.

One of these deals created Greater New York by combining Manhattan/the Bronx with Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island. For better or worse, this would be the Boss' most enduring legacy. More typically, the Amen Corner approved of the making and breaking of governors, senators and (sometimes) U.S. Presidents. Influence and kickbacks flowed through Platt's machine like motor oil through a great harvester-machine of votes. In the machine's wake were howls of pain, squeals of delight (from the machine's flunkies) and clouds of fear. Few loved Boss Platt, but many feared him.

Today, who even remembers Thomas C. Platt? Mostly, only students of 19th Century politics. For the most part, his deeds were like words written upon water. The Boss is an old suit of threadbare clothes in the musty closet of History. Shake them out and only moths remain.

But let the ghost of Boss Platt retreat and look instead for traces of young Tom the druggest in the bustling upstate New York town of Owego to find a story more poignant and (perhaps) meaningful. Because, though Platt is long gone from Owego (as well as this earth), the town remains, a fairly obscure yet rather pleasant place north of State Highway 17. Commodious brick buildings occupy the main streets, which show surprising bustle and vitality. Owego boasts good restauants and a more-than-decent used book store. If it is not booming, it is not in poor shape either. But a visit to the town does make it apparent that the ghosts far outnumber the living souls here.

Boss Platt -- a cold-blooded spectral presence even in life -- hovers around the edge of the town center, near the pharmacy where he used to work. Is he sorry that he is remembered by almost no one here? Not really. Does he regret that his town is part of a region that has been in decline for nearly a century? Are you kidding? The Heart of Platt does not bleed for a puny backwater town, even if he grew up there. Platt was a creature of the Social Darwinian age, and even if he adhered to the pieties of the Protestant faith, he knew what the laws of the universe were. And besides, was the world even the world anymore with the Boss no longer in it?