Heart of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Instant deposit.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t get checks anymore. It’s instant deposit.”

  “I am a dinosaur.” Waddell looked up at Cole for the first time. “Marry the girl, ride off into the sunset, live happily ever after—all that crap. I got nothing but memories. So this is where I get off.”

  “It’s been a good ride. You got the brass ring.”

  “It was gold, and Chris was buried with it.” Waddell slapped the side of the box. “You’re a good friend, Cole Sage, maybe my best. I wanted to be the one to tell you I was leaving. I kind of figured we would go out of here together. Changing of the guard and all that.”

  “Still might.” Cole shrugged and picked up an autographed baseball and placed it in the box.

  “If you don’t mind, I would kind of like to do this by myself. It’s a kind of rite of passage, you know?”

  “No problem.” Cole started for the door. “I’m sorry it ended this way.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Waddell said with a shrug. “Cole, watch your back, this new guy Faraday is a shark. He has no feeling for anyone, or anything, just the bottom line.”

  As Cole walked down the hall to the elevator his mind went back to a cold February afternoon when he watched Mick Brennan being lowered into the ground. The man who taught him most of what he knew about being a newspaperman had been reduced to nothing more than a minor player on the newspaper he loved so much. Journalists never get to stand in Yankee Stadium and say, “Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.” For the most part they are burned out, used up, and tossed out like yesterday’s early edition.

  Sure, once in a while there is a Tony Snow who is given a platform to go out with grace, dignity, and a smile. Cole thought of something he once heard Snow say, about his job: “You’re blessed… Leave no room for regrets.” Cole was beginning to regret what he saw as the beginning of the end for him.

  It was Chuck Waddell who brought him to San Francisco. It was Waddell who fought the big boys upstairs for Cole’s freedom to be Cole. Without Chuck as a buffer, Cole’s days were numbered.

  As the door closed on the elevator, Cole decided he would leave on his own terms, before that pink slip was faxed, e-mailed, pasted on his door, or something worse. It was time for him to go. On his own terms, in his time.

  “You’re back!” Hanna smiled and gave Cole a double thumbs up.

  “Waddell wanted me to know he’d been let go,” he offered without irony.

  Cole closed the door behind him, as he went into his desk. He sat down, slapped the desk hard, and picked up the phone.

  “Randy, can you come up and see me when you get the chance?”

  “How ‘bout after lunch?”

  “That would be fine.” Cole set the handset in the cradle.

  He pulled out the drawer of the credenza behind him. The last time it was opened was his first day at the Chronicle. Cole turned over several small white notebooks, a folder with a welcome letter and map of the building, and found what he was looking for: the Employee Benefits binder. He turned and set the binder on his desk. The guacamole green binder seemed to glow against the scattered mess of white paper and yellow legal pads. He flipped several pages until he found it: “Contract of Employment”.

  “Two years to go.” Cole ran his finger over the date on his contract. “‘Termination of this agreement by the employer requires a thirty day notice. A severance package to include one year’s salary and, one year’s medical insurance coverage shall be paid beginning with the date of termination of this contract.’ Thank you, Chuck.”

  Cole closed the binder and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and weighed several options, two of which were completely impossible. Kelly would never agree to open a peanut butter and jelly sandwich shop in Tahiti, or a writing school in Costa Rica. That one might actually work. Cole’s future would fly or flounder, in the next few hours.

  “Ms. Day?”

  A broad shouldered man, with an equally broad belly, stood a few feet from Hanna’s desk. His light blue shirt was pressed with perfectly straight creases, sleeve and chest. The dark navy trousers he wore were starched stiff enough to stand by themselves, and the creases may have been sharp enough to cut your finger.

  “Good morning, Craig,” Hanna greeted the front lobby security officer.

  “I caught this one wandering around on the second floor. With all the comings and goings this morning, the entry door was propped open, and the buzzer was shut off. She claims she’s Mr. Sage’s niece, and just got off on the wrong floor. I thought I would escort her, if you know what I mean.” The security guard turned slightly to look at a girl of about sixteen standing behind him.

  “Hi, I’m Hanna.”

  “I’m Lindsey, is my uncle in?” The girl’s tone and demeanor was bright, sharp, and matter of fact. Yet there was a major problem with the story: Cole Sage was an only child. He never married, so there was no possibility of “in-law” relatives.

  “He’s on the phone at the moment,” Hanna lied. “Thanks Craig, I got this.” She redirected her attention to the girl: “Have a seat, he won’t be a minute.”

  Lindsey made her way to one of the two chairs that backed against the wall to Cole’s office. She popped in her earbuds and reached in the pocket of her hoodie to click on her iPod. The Queen of England couldn’t have looked more in control. She crossed her legs at the ankles, and silently tapped her foot to the beat of whatever she was listening to.

  Hanna let her wait for nearly five minutes and then got up and tapped gently on Cole’s door. “There’s someone out here I think you’d like to meet.” Hanna closed the door and returned to her desk.

  Cole appeared in his doorway and smiled at Hanna and then at the girl sitting outside his office. A blind man could have seen there was absolutely no recognition in his eyes. He looked at Hanna for some help and guidance, and she just grinned at him.

  “Lindsey is here to see you,” Hanna finally offered.

  “Lindsey.” Cole nodded. He knew he was about to be the butt of a prank of some kind. Hanna was enjoying this all too much.

  “Lindsey.” Hanna replied.

  “Lindsey?” Cole questioned.

  “Lindsey.” Hanna said with a big grin. “Your niece? Lindsey?”

  Cole looked down at the girl who was now peering up at him, ear buds still firmly planted. Cole reached down and tapped the girl on the shoulder with the back of his hand. He motioned for her to remove the obstacle to their conversation.

  “Hi, I’m Lindsey, remember me?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Could be more than what fifteen or sixteen years?” Cole fished.

  “Six actually. I was nine the last time we were all together. Yeah, mom, grandma, me and you. At grandma’s house after my dad’s funeral.”

  Cole took the seat next to Lindsey and looked over at Hanna. She was still grinning from ear to ear and thoroughly enjoying the scene playing out in front of her. He stretched out his legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. Lindsey left her ankles crossed and stretched her long legs out just like Cole.

  “You know, Lindsey is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m a tad bit confused here. You’re going to have to help me out.”

  “OK,” Lindsey offered.

  “Tell me about your grandmother. Where does she live?”

  “Here in San Francisco.”

  “Your mother?”

  “With my grandma.”

  There’s no phasing this kid, Cole thought. “This will sound kind of dumb, but what’s your last name?”

  “Frost. Lindsey Frost. My mom’s Natalie, and my grandma is Marie.”

  “So your dad was Jack?” Cole decided to see just where this all would go.

  “No, Curtis,” Lindsey said emphatically.

  “OK, I give up, Lindsey Frost. Who are you, really? I have no niec
es, nephews or anybody else except my daughter and her family. I’m an orphan and only child. So you want to tell me who you really are, and what you are doing here?”

  “I am Lindsey Frost. My mom’s Natalie and my grandma’s Marie. I’m a writer. I’m one of the best. I go undercover a lot and usually can bluff my way into people’s confidence. How’d I do?”

  “Except for the part about being my niece, and the funeral? Almost perfect.”

  “That bad?” Lindsey asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Lindsey stood and faced Cole. She put out her hand and offered it to Cole. “I’m Lindsey Frost and I want to be a writer.”

  “I’m Cole Sage. Nice to meet you. What brings you here today?”

  “I asked Tico at the news stand on 24th who was the best writer in the city. He said you. So, here I am. I’ve come to go to work for you.”

  “How old are you, Lindsey?” Hanna asked.

  “Sixteen, well, fifteen if you want to be technical. But I’m closer to sixteen than fifteen. My birthday is next month.”

  Cole took the opportunity of the female exchange to give Lindsey a once over. She was tall and lanky, and a little grimy. Not filthy, just grungy, and in need of a good scrubbing behind the ears. Her clothes were both too big, and too small. Her hair was cropped short, and not by a professional. But, she was kind of cute, in a Huck Finn kind of way.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Cole asked.

  “No idea.” Lindsey smiled looking around for a wall clock.

  “It’s nine-thirty. Now, I haven’t been to school in a while, but as I recall, school should be in full swing about now. Why aren’t you there?”

  “I believe education is where you find it. In a city like San Francisco there are opportunities to learn something everywhere you look.”

  “That is very true, but a writer needs a good strong education to open the doors so they can show what they can do. I went to school a lot longer than I wanted to. I had to…to get anyone to take me seriously when I applied for a job. Know what I mean?”

  “I know but it is so boring.”

  “You miss a lot of school?” Hanna asked.

  “My grandma thinks so. The teachers keep calling her.”

  “Tell me something,” Cole said, and patted the chair next to him inviting Lindsey to sit back down. “Where does a fifteen, excuse me, almost sixteen-year-old go when they’re not in school?”

  “All over. I chase down stories. I interview people. I get a feel for the color and heartbeat of the city. There are so many things to see, and do, and people to meet.”

  “You sure sound like a writer.” Cole smiled broadly.

  “Look, I brought my stuff,” Lindsey said excitedly. She took off her backpack and unzipped it, revealing several spiral notebooks of various colors. “This is my Story of San Francisco. I’m almost finished.” She began pulling out the notebooks and handing them to Cole.

  She hopped up from her chair and handed two notebooks to Hanna. Cole grabbed the first one on the stack and flipped it open. The handwriting was the first thing that struck him. It was perfect, almost machinelike in its, form and clarity. He thumbed through the entire notebook before reading a word. The penmanship was consistent back to front. When Cole looked up at Hanna she was staring at him with her eyebrows raised high in amazement.

  Then he began to read. Her prose was crisp and insightful. By the bottom of the first page he was hooked. Cole continued to read in silence, page after page. The descriptions of commonplace things elevated them to treasured pieces of the multi-layered city that the young girl obviously adored.

  When Cole turned to look at Lindsey she was watching him read. Hanna, as she read, sat with a charming smile of enchantment across her face.

  “This is all yours?” Cole asked.

  “No, I have more at home,” Lindsey replied.

  “No, what I mean is, you wrote this?” Cole asked gently.

  “Yes sir. Is it OK?”

  Cole laughed heartily, and put his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Lindsey Frost, I think we are going to be great friends. What do you think, Hanna?”

  “I think we already are.”

  “Look, here’s the deal,” Cole said as he stood. “This is a working newspaper. At least for a while longer. You saw all the people carrying boxes out of here? They are out of a job. So, this is not the best day for a visit.”

  The phone on Hanna’s desk rang. “Cole Sage’s office. Yes, sir, I will give him the message. Yes, sir. I will, sir.” Hanna put the phone down. “That was the new Editor-in-Chief, Mr. Faraday. He wants you in his office. Now. Right now.”

  “I tell you what, Miss Frost, how about my very capable secretary, slash, assistant, Hanna here, takes you on a tour of the paper? Depending on when I return, what do you say the three of us have lunch and talk about what it takes to be a writer in the digital age?” Cole hesitated. “And getting you to go to school?”

  “That sounds really good. Except for the school part,” Lindsey said, shaking her head with a coy smile.

  Cole dipped his head half an inch. “Then we will all meet back here.”

  “Just let me turn the voicemail on and we’ll get started,” Hanna said, smiling at Lindsey.

  Somehow, Joseph P. Faraday managed to move himself into Chuck Waddell’s office before Chuck got to his car. At the desk outside the door, a woman, with the face of a pit bull, and a temperament to match, sat guard.

  “Cole Sage, to see Mr. Faraday.”

  “Wait your turn.” The woman jerked her head in the direction of a row of office chairs all currently occupied except one.”

  “Nice to meet you as well,” Cole said with a big, fake smile.

  Cole made his way to the empty chair and was greeted by Tucker Locklear, a sports writer. “You, too?” Locklear whispered.

  “Rain falls on the just and the unjust alike.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just a quote. How long have you been sitting here?” Cole queried.

  “Long enough to hear Franklin from Circulation go ape and start screaming at the new boss. This is really bad, Sage.” Locklear glared at the woman at the desk. “Isn’t she a peach? What a bee-auch.”

  “He must have brought her with him. Anybody know where this guy’s from?”

  “Not sure. Someone said Baltimore. Who knows?” The man in the third seat injected.

  Cole wished he was alone. Locklear’s questions began to grate on his nerves.

  The door of the Editor’s office opened, a woman that Cole recognized, but didn’t know, walked past the group without looking up.

  “This is taking forever.” The man speaking was short, expensively dressed, and looked nothing like any newspaperman Cole ever met. Faraday was close shaven, but the blue-black of a dense beard gave his face the look of an old Warner Brothers cartoon gangster. His hair was equally thick and freshly trimmed. From head to foot he was immaculate. Cole looked down and picked at the small food stain on his thigh.

  “So, what have we got here?” Faraday’s eyes passed over the group of five waiting to see him. He turned his back to the group and said something inaudible to his secretary. She handed him three envelopes. “Alright, Carrack, Zepeda, and Turner.” Faraday slapped his leg with the envelopes. “Thank you for your service, due to the restructuring, you won’t be part of the new staff. Good luck with your future endeavors.”

  Three men stood and took an envelope from Faraday. No one spoke and none of them looked at Faraday. Locklear nudged Cole with is knee. They didn’t make eye contact.

  “So which one of you is Sage?” Faraday asked.

  Cole began to stand, but stopped short when Faraday pointed at Locklear. “You. Come with me. You’re the sports guy, right?”

  “Tucker Locklear.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  The two men entered the office and Locklear turned and closed the door. He looked at Cole and raised his eyebrows and smiled. It was a smile of resolve. Th
e clock was running down and the game was lost. Cole grimaced.

  Tucker Locklear was in the editor’s office less than five minutes. He walked out with a bewildered look and nodded as he passed Cole and simply said, “See ya.”

  “Sage!” The voice from inside the office conveyed the tone of one who was used to having people jump to his every command. Cole didn’t move. “Sage!” Faraday bellowed again. Cole stayed as he was.

  Cole thought: First one who blinks loses.

  Faraday appeared at the door of his office. “Are you deaf?”

  “No,” Cole said, devoid of any emotion.

  “Didn’t you hear me call you?”

  “I heard my name.”

  Faraday stared into Cole’s eyes. Cole repeated in his head: First one who blinks loses. Faraday blinked.

  “Come in, come in. I haven’t got all day.”

  Cole stood and walked passed the editor and into his office. Two chairs sat in front of the desk Chuck Waddell occupied for so long. Cole moved to the one on the right and stood behind it.

  “Have a seat.”

  Before he sat, Cole glanced around the room. All traces of Waddell were gone. His essence was gone as well. All in less than an hour. Cole did not like Joseph P. Faraday or his bronze embossed nameplate. He was a nasty, little man, with a nasty attitude. Cole couldn’t abide the I-am-the-god-of-all-you-see attitude of a lot of executives. Faraday was beyond that. He possessed a mean spirit and an aura of evil. He was a high-priced punk. Cole hated punks.

  “So, Mr. Sage.”

  Cole noted that Faraday began every sentence with so. This was either an affectation, in which case another item to add to the ever-growing list of things he disliked about this man, or it was just a bad habit. In either case, Cole didn’t respond.

  “Is there a reason you don’t answer me?” Faraday seemed annoyed.

  “I’m not sure how to respond to ‘Mr. Sage,’” Cole replied.

  “‘Yes, sir,’ would be appropriate.”

  Cole didn’t respond.

  “You seem to be a money maker for this paper. Your column is popular, as are your reruns on the blog. You are an award-winning journalist, which gives the paper credibility. Is that about right?”