Cold Type

by Harvey Araton

  He hung up, steadied himself and re-dialed. Steven picked up halfway through the third ring.

  “You quit?” he said.

  He had not rehearsed his opening line. He spit it out more as an accusation than as a question.

  “Who is this?”

  Jamie heard a backdrop voice, feminine.

  “Hold on a sec,” Steven said. He yelled out, “They’re in the upper cabinet, closest to the refrigerator.” Then he was back. “Sorry, who’s this?”

  “You know who.”

  “Jamie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “Let’s just say I got it from a source.”

  “It just became official yesterday,” Steven said, groggily. “I would’ve called you today.”

  “To tell me you’re a total hypocrite?”

  Jamie was aggravated by his cousin’s tranquility, his likening the betrayal to the purchase of a television set.

  “Jamie, come on, give me the benefit of the doubt. I would have called you this morning as soon as…” He paused, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “As soon as my company left and I was alone.”

  “When I found out and from who isn’t what I’m talking about, Steve,” Jamie said. “I’m talking about the fact that you fucking quit.”

  “Hold on again. Let me get to another…”

  Jamie heard a thump, the receiver dropping, followed by an exchange of hushed voices and muffled laughter. After a few seconds, another line picked up.

  “I’ve got it,” Steven said.

  “Uh huh,” said the female voice. Jamie would have bet his next paycheck, whenever that might be coming, that it belonged to a certain NY1 reporter.

  The hardcore evidence was in front of him or at least reverberating in his ear. Debbie Givens being with Steven had confirmed his suspicions. The NY1 picket-line story had been a setup.

  Now he was sure that it was Steven—the only one who knew of his intention to cross—who had sold him out.

  Except he was unsure about which infidelity to be more furious about.

  “Okay, we can talk,” Steven said.

  “What should it be first? How you stabbed me in the back—or the union?”

  “You? How do you figure?”

  “Was it worth it, Steve? Is that your definition of moral responsibility? Screw your cousin in order to get laid?”

  Steven sighed.

  “First of all, I didn’t know—I didn’t really think—that you were actually going to be that…”

  “What, stupid?”

  “Yeah, now that you put it that way. Stupid enough to go through with it. And I definitely had no way of knowing how it would go down—you standing there, baiting your father until…”

  Again, he didn’t have to complete the thought, actually say “your father had to give you a good crack in the mouth.” He only had to let it linger to regain some footing.

  “So, yeah, I told Debbie that you might cross, that there could be some shouting, a little picketline action she could use with her report. That’s all.”

  “That’s all? I confide in you and the first thing that comes to your mind is, ‘How can I personally benefit?’ ”

  Steven’s self-assurance had returned, but Jamie was too angry to concede the high ground. He waited for a response. All he got was Steven exhaling.

  “I guess that explains part two then,” Jamie said. “I don’t really have to ask why you would quit the Trib in the middle of a strike that you helped create. Because if this is your idea of moral responsibility, then what the hell would you know about loyalty?”

  “Will you stop with the moral responsibility already?” There was a pause, another deep sigh. “I know, the timing sucks,” Steven said. “I didn’t plan it this way, okay? The Sun’s been after me for a while. They called a few months ago, offered a huge raise. I thought we talked about that, but I guess not. I considered it for a couple of days, but I kept thinking, How do I leave a union position and sign a contract with a newspaper that doesn’t even have a union—to write a labor column? It would’ve looked terrible. I turned them down but then they called me again, the day after we went out. I went to see them the day of the rally.”

  “Now the suit and all makes sense,” Jamie said, recalling Uncle Lou’s bewilderment over Steve’s rally attire.

  “Isn’t that what you usually wear to a job interview?”

  “Never mind.”

  “So not only did they sweeten the offer, they said I could write a general column,” Steven said. “Anything I want to write about. No restrictions. No more columns being vetted and killed by the freaking publisher. The only catch was that they wanted me to start, like, yesterday. I had twenty-four hours to give them an answer. So what was I supposed to do? Pass up a dream job, something I would never get from Brady, because of bad timing?”

  “What happened to all that shit about kicking Brady’s ass, running him out of town and getting back your paper?” Jamie said.

  “Come on, Jamie. You know I was a little drunk that night. And I can’t believe you of all people are getting on my case about this. You crossed the damn line yourself. All of a sudden you’re Dennis Rivera?”

  Steven paused, apparently to determine if Jamie would recognize the blatant name drop.

  “If you’re wondering, yes, I know Dennis Rivera is the head of the hospital workers, 1199,” Jamie said. “You impressed?”

  His bluff called, Steven rushed back on point. “Let’s be realistic here. They’re getting the paper out. This strike can’t last much longer. Sooner or later, no matter how damn stubborn they are, the drivers will have to capitulate. The Alliance will be back in the building with a contract. Brady will try to screw everyone, just like they do everywhere. The Sun, the Trib—it’s all the same.”

  Jamie couldn’t quite believe the rationalization that was coming from his cousin’s mouth. He couldn’t fathom that Steven felt no quote-unquote moral responsibility to Carla and the rest of them, who—forget the picket line—could all yet wind up on the unemployment line.

  “You really think there’s no difference when one paper has no union and the other has one that’s out in the street and you helped put it there?”

  “I don’t run the Alliance, Jamie,” Steven said. “Yes, I stood up there with Robbins. Yes, I talked about the security cards being invalidated even when it was stretching the truth. That’s what you do when you’re trying to get people to commit to something that most of them don’t really have the stomach for. And that’s what their union leaders wanted. I didn’t make anyone vote for Robbins. I didn’t make anyone walk out. I’m a columnist—was a columnist—who wrote about labor issues. That’s why Robbins asked me to participate. I didn’t volunteer. I’m a journalist, not a labor leader. I write and report. I just want to work for whoever will let me do that.”

  “And what about all those people who don’t have another job to go to?” Jamie said. He was determined to keep the argument going even when he knew he couldn’t win. “How can you be so self-righteous?”

  “I’m just being me,” Steven said.

  “You know what?” Jamie said. “That’s your fucking problem and you don’t know it.”

  He gently put the phone down, stared at it for several seconds in disbelief and nearly jumped out of his skin when it suddenly rang.

  “What?” he said coldly. He was sure it was Steven hell-bent on getting in the last word.

  There was a delay in the response. “Jamie?” It was a female voice. It was Karyn, taken aback by his tone.

  “Sorry,” Jamie stammered. “I had just hung up a second ago. You caught me by surprise.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s just this…actually, nothing, forget it.”

  “Look, I know I’ve been telling you that I didn’t think it was a good idea that you come to Aaron’s party today. I know I said it would make me uncomfortable and that would make him uneasy when I want him t
o have a good time with the kids. But I’ve been thinking about it and, you know, that really isn’t fair. I shouldn’t project what I’m feeling on him. He’d want you to be there. Can you come?”

  In the blur of the past two days, Jamie hadn’t even given a thought to the party or the birthday. Once again, a parental milestone was obscured by career-driven intrusions. But here was Karyn, surprising him, opening a door and inviting him in.

  “What time?”

  “About four, four-fifteen,” she said. “A couple of the kids have an afternoon pre-school class. It’ll probably go until about six, six-fifteen.”

  “You need me to bring anything?”

  “No, we already have your gifts here, stacked up to the ceiling. Just bring yourself.”

  “You sure you’ll be okay with it? The ex-husband polluting the air around all those married moms, the crazy guy from the TV news?”

  It occurred to Jamie that Karyn may not have even seen the clip or the front page. She wasn’t much of a tabloid reader and NY1 did not broadcast in the suburbs.

  Why even go there? Apologize before…

  “Don’t start,” she said, but with a more compliant tone that seemed to concede that perhaps she deserved it for excluding him in the first place.

  “Actually, from what they keep telling me, a couple of them are in marriages that probably won’t last much longer either,” she said. “No, it’ll be fine. Really, it’s what’s best for Aaron. He…we…really would like you to come.”

  “I’ll be there,” Jamie said. He was buoyed by the offer, Steven’s disloyalty already behind him.

  “Good. I’ll tell him.”

  “Karyn?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  He put down the phone and smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Morris Kramer was impressed. After all these years, Jackie Ryan still had clout.

  “How the hell did you get all these guys together in twenty-four hours?” he said.

  Ryan pooh-poohed him with a shrug and a wave.

  “Made a few calls, promised them lunch.”

  He opened the refrigerator and reached in to extract a mound of cold cuts. He slapped them onto a serving tray, separating them into three smaller stacks—the bologna, the turkey and the Swiss cheese. He lifted the tray with his functional arm and balanced it against his chest.

  “Grab the bread and those jars of mustard and mayo.”

  Morris nodded and followed Ryan from the kitchen into the living room. The others were deep in debate about what ailed the Giants. They’d been crushed in Dallas the previous Sunday. An eternity ago, it seemed, when their newspaper was still union-produced.

  “Six in a row they’ve lost,” Leahy of the pressmen was saying. “Reeves is no Handley. But I watch this team every week, and I’ll tell you something—he ain’t Parcells either.”

  “What, every time something goes wrong, it has to be the coach’s fault?” a voice from across the room bellowed. It was Parlinski of the mailers. “What’d Reeves win last year, eleven games? It’s this Brown guy. You ever hear of a decent NFL quarterback from Duke?”

  There was snickering all around as Ryan laid the food tray onto the glass-top table. He had earlier set out cokes and bottles of Budweiser, several of which were already drained.

  Morris followed Ryan with the mustard and mayo and stepped back to take inventory. He counted six others in the room, which meant that all but one of the nine Trib striking unions was present and accounted for, excluding the drivers, who were not invited.

  Just as Morris began by process of elimination to identify the absentee, here came Vaccaro of the photoengravers out of the bathroom, tightening his belt. He made a beeline for the beer.

  So they had all agreed to come. Morris shouldn’t have been surprised. He might have known that even in retirement, years removed from Jackie Ryan’s last job action, no self-respecting union rep would spurn his invitation.

  “Whoever comes, it’s your show,” Ryan had told Morris after kissing Sean Cox’s cheek, godfather-like, and reminding him to give his love to the Missus. “I’ll bring them here but I’m not going to say much, if anything. It has to come from you.”

  Morris nodded and thanked Ryan for his counsel. He rode the subway home, determined to reveal nothing about the plan, not even to Louie. His brother customarily checked in by telephone to discuss the day’s events in that solicitous way that reminded him of the days he covered for Louie growing up. Cleaned up his messes, signed his school papers that were festooned in red before their old man got home after a long day at the shoe factory and drinking away too much of his paycheck.

  Odd that Louie hadn’t called though. Morris figured his brother was just trying to give him some space—which, in fact, he very much needed.

  Alone, Morris hoped to settle himself and resolve what was spooking him more. Was it the magnitude of the assignment he had been given by Ryan or doubts about its objective? It was just as well that Molly had set a turkey sandwich out on the kitchen table and carried her own to the living room sofa. She clicked on the television and all but posted a do-not-disturb sign.

  Morris couldn’t remember the last time she was mad enough to cold-cut him for dinner. Not that he cared. He had little appetite, even for a slice of the strawberry cheesecake Becky had baked for the aborted family dinner earlier in the week. Normally he could eat half the cake in one sitting but it sat untouched on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. For once in his life, he could have used the calories. He’d lost some weight but not in the good way. He’d noticed it more in his face these days—wane and balding was not his best look.

  He’d gone to bed early on Thursday night to rehearse his talking points silently, in solitude. The clock on the night table flipped to 8:21 when his head touched down on the pillow. He ignored the ringing telephone, letting Molly answer, grateful the call wasn’t for him. He tried to focus on how he would begin, but was haunted by the warning that he best be prepared for a worst-case scenario, bordering on charges of betrayal.

  “Some of these guys may be friends of Colangelo’s and if they’re not, they’re probably afraid of him,” Ryan had said. “Can you convince them that they’ve got to move first before Colangelo cuts a deal behind their backs? If he does and the drivers get back inside the building first, the rest of you are probably screwed.”

  Morris fell asleep before ten. He dreamed they had all returned to work only to discover the Trib had been converted to one of those brightly lighted supermarkets, and he had been ordered by Brady to man the deli counter.

  Small wonder he had no interest in the cold cuts the others immediately set upon. Morris cracked open a diet Coke and watched them smother their sandwiches with mayo or mustard.

  He stepped back behind the couch and waited, nodding and smiling when the others acknowledged him. He still had misgivings about the mission.

  What if he’d misread Colangelo’s furtive behavior in the bar? What had it proved? For all he knew, Colangelo had just come from discovering his wife screwing the damned electrician.

  Even with Ryan’s blessing, the notion of advising them to cross another union’s line seemed to be radical at best, heretical at worst. Morris never fancied himself a groundbreaker, let alone a speechmaker. He did know he was going to have to make a good case, and one—as Ryan had stressed—that could include no mention of the bankruptcy issue.

  Any mention of the printers’ job guarantees would provide an opening for the others to pounce. They would accuse him of scheming to use them as a shield to protect the printers at the expense of others.

  He wished Ryan would start the meeting already. But he seemed to be in no particular hurry. He was on the far side of the room, directly under the framed Time cover, huddled with Sandy Robbins.

  Morris studied Ryan, watched him as he nodded and put his hand firmly on the smaller man’s shoulder. It was a gesture of confidentiality but also of subtle control. That was pa
rt of Ryan’s genius, the leadership qualities that made others normally accustomed to having their way defer to him, even in seeming partnership.

  Morris gulped more Coke, the can nearly empty but his throat still scratchy. Watching Ryan, he couldn’t help but let the doubts out of their prison, synaptic insurgents prowling for trouble.

  Has he been straight with me? Is it in everyone’s interests to isolate the drivers? Is this one last opportunity for Jackie to protect the printers to compensate for his bankruptcy miscalculation and by extension his legacy? Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a damn schoolboy. And who the hell am I to question Jackie Ryan? A scoundrel like Brady was likely to exploit weakness wherever he would find it. Colangelo at this very moment might be shaking hands with Brady’s labor lawyer, putting the finishing touches on a contract. Jackie knows what he’s doing.

  Morris watched Ryan and Robbins closely. They had the body language of men in cahoots. Ryan caught Morris’ bemused stare and sent back an assuring nod. He walked to the center of the room. The others grew quiet.

  Morris remained behind the couch. Ryan laid a half-sandwich in a napkin onto the table and took a couple of steps back.

  “Gentlemen,” he began. “Let me first thank you for coming, especially on such short notice and in the middle of a job action. You know, I experienced a few of these unfortunate situations myself…”

  He paused, seemingly to let them behold the man who had once frustrated the President of the United States and a labor-friendly one at that.

  “I know how many things must be pulling at you in so many directions. But before we go further, I’d like you to know that while I called you all here, it was only because Mo Kramer asked.”

  Ryan acknowledged Morris with a finger-point. The others half-turned to nod. Morris pursed his lips and forced a smile. His stomach was so knotted he had to fight the urge to excuse himself to go sit on the toilet.

  “Mo thought that my apartment, being downtown, would be a good meeting place. I have no idea what he wants to say, but I will tell you that I’ve known him for many years. He worked closely with me, and I’ve always considered him one of the most dedicated members of the Ones.”