"I'd better do something about this," he said to Rourke a few weeks after Peter and Holly's visit. Houston wilted under the heat of late July and everything seemed to have slowed down except the work pouring across his desk, which included the memo he brought to Rourke from the editor of the Tucson Call.
"We might be in for a strike," it said. "No one died in the pressroom accident, but Dugan thinks we're in a weak position because of it, and he's demanding we begin negotiating a new contract now, six months before the old one expires; otherwise he's hinting about a strike over unsafe working conditions. We barely broke even in the first six months; I don't think we could weather a strike."
"I'll be there Monday," Matt told Rourke, showing him the memo. "I've already rearranged my schedule for next week."
Rourke frowned. "We had good relations with Dugan. What happened?"
"Damned if I know. Negotiations were set to begin in a couple of months; everybody was happy. Something tore it apart, and it wasn't that accident. That's one of the things I'm looking into."
Rourke nodded thoughtfully. "What's wrong with the Call Matt? You've had it seven months; long enough to show some progress."
"I don't know what's wrong. Equipment and morale were in bad shape when we bought it, but—"
"But it was the same with Graham's chain. Half the papers you buy are in trouble and you pull them out. Why not this one?"
Matt shook his head. "I can't get the staff moving. It's sluggish, as if it's determined to prove the paper won't make it. The other day I had the crazy idea they'd been bribed to throw it, like a baseball team throwing a game. But of course that is crazy: they'd be doing themselves out of a job."
Rourke leaned back in his chair. "I understand they're getting mail for Trivate Affairs.' "
"It's the only part of the paper that's working. I don't know where we'd be without it."
"You'd be finding a way to succeed. You're the one who turns these
papers around, Matt; no one else. And you'll succeed in Tucson; you've never failed yet. I suggest you send Chet there first. He can fill you in before you talk to them. You have more important things to do than digging up background information."
"I don't think we need Chet in Tucson."
"I think we do. He has a way of sizing up situations, and you've used enough of his reports to know he's thorough. He can save you a week of listening to everyone lie about everyone else. And, Matt, when you get there, don't give that bunch any leeway. We don't negotiate at gunpoint. Fire Dugan, fire the whole staff if necessary; you can always bring in people from other papers until you hire new ones. You've given them a new printing press—they know it's on order—you don't have to give anything else, at least until the contract is up."
Matt felt a flash of dislike. "I didn't 'give' them a printing press. I ordered one because two men were injured on the old one. And of course I'm going to negotiate. But I can do it informally; Ernie Dugan and I understand each other. I sit in on his poker games when I'm in town and we've gone drinking together, and we have an equal stake in the Call. He's right about our being in a weak position if they talk about striking over unsafe conditions; I gambled that I could wait a year before spending money on new equipment. I was wrong. But I don't think he'll push that; he knows we're not making a profit yet."
"If you think you know Dugan, I won't argue," Rourke said pleasantly. "But I'd like Chet to do the advance work. Indulge me, Matt. I don't think you'll regret it."
Matt hesitated, then nodded. He didn't want to meet Ernie Dugan with Chet nosing around in the background, but whining wasn't his job; getting along with Keegan Rourke was.
Ernie Dugan, just under five feet tall, with a dense tangle of black beard that was his special pride, claimed he had only two sports, poker and negotiating contracts, and he played them both with passion. From the first time he invited Matt to sit in on his weekly poker game, and the two of them had sat up afterward, drinking and comparing their different lives, he'd called Matt the only honest publisher he'd ever met. But something had changed by the time Matt arrived in Tucson and Chet met his plane. "All his officers," Chet said as they drove in from the airport. "And two from national headquarters. They're all waiting for you."
"I told Ernie on the phone I wanted a private talk," Matt said.
Chet put out his hand, palm up. "I didn't know that. I put together a team of our own people so we wouldn't be outnumbered. By the way, I'd
rather you didn't tell him I told you about his crew; he thinks he's going to surprise us."
"Surprise us? That's not the way Ernie plays; what's got into him?"
"He thinks he has us by the balls and he's going to get all he can. Just don't tell him I said anything; I don't want to lose my sources of information."
That was twice in two minutes Chet had told him to keep quiet. Matt looked at him thoughtfully, but Chet was concentrating on his driving and they made the rest of the trip in silence.
"I'll be in the editor's office," Matt said when they arrived. "Tell him to meet me there. And the business manager. No one else. And tell Ernie to come in when they leave."
"But everyone's waiting for—"
"Chet."
"Right. Give me a minute. ..."
"Not too long." Matt waited in the bare office the editor had never redecorated, thinking the paper could fold at any time. When the editor and business manager came in, he gave them barely time to sit down. "I'm going to talk to Dugan myself, and try to find out what the hell is going on around here; can you give me any reason why I shouldn't?"
The editor, knowing he was being bypassed, shrugged. "I haven't been able to talk to him for weeks; he looks past me."
"Have you asked him why?"
"Of course not; it would make me sound weak."
"He already knows you're weak. I've been pushing you for months to get the paper moving, and you haven't been able to do it, and he knows it." He looked at his watch. "I want to talk to him, so we're going to have to make this fast. I'm bringing in a new editorial staif. I can find jobs for both of you on one of my New Mexico papers; that goes for the features and news editors, too. If any of you don't want them, you're on your own; my new people will be here next week."
"Next week!" They barraged him with angry excuses and defenses, voices rising, faces red.
"That's enough," Matt said.
"You could have given us some warning!" the business manager blurted.
"I've given all of you seven months of warnings. What did you think I meant when I said I expected a profit?"
The two men looked at each other. "Not many major papers in New Mexico," the business manager said.
"They're not major." Matt handed them an accordion folder. "These
are descriptions of the papers and the towns they're in. If you take the jobs and get used to the way I run a newspaper, I may be able to shift you to larger ones in a few years. Think about it while I talk to Dugan."
The editor put out his hand. As Matt took it, he said, "I'm sorry. I wanted to make it work, but it was like a brick wall."
Matt nodded, thinking he'd probably been too harsh. "Let me know what you decide."
"You can't do this—" the business manager snorted, but the editor maneuvered him from the office, and in a few minutes Dugan arrived.
"Thanks for coming in, Ernie," Matt said as they shook hands. "It's too crowded out there for poker and a quiet talk. Who called up the troops?"
"Seems we both did," said Dugan. "Because of the love and trust we have for each other."
Matt shook his head. "You know damn well I wouldn't do that to you. I told you on the phone we could handle our problems informally. This isn't a battlefield, Ernie."
"Well, now, Matt, I guess it's beginning to look like one. You and I've taken care of little things in the past, but this looks like it's getting too big for that. You called your friends; I called mine. What did you want to talk about?"
"Damn it, Ernie, calm down. I want to talk ab
out anything that's bothering you. But get this straight: I didn't call my friends, as you put it." A thought struck him. "Did Chet tell you I called that meeting in the conference room?"
"Now, Matt, listen, I don't talk about other people. You and I can still get along; all it takes is some honest negotiating. If you really want to talk, maybe we should get started?"
Matt took a folding chair and poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups on a table beside him. Helpful Chet. I'd rather you didn 't tell him I told you about his crew . . . don't tell him I said anything. . . . And the son of a bitch probably said the same thing to Ernie. Don't tell Matt I told you about the army he's going to hit you with. . . .
But what was in it for Chet? After more than twenty years with Rourke, why would he play both sides? Matt watched Dugan blow on his hot coffee. All Chet had managed to do was make it a damn sight harder for Matt Lovell to prevent a strike—
All he'd managed to do? That was quite a bit.
Matt felt his anger build. If Elizabeth were there, she would have been able to defuse it, as she had so often with her sharp comments that helped him understand others because she was better with people than he was.
But for months he'd been without her steady presence, and though he was getting better at holding himself back, he still found himself often wishing she were there to help him—especially with Chet. Somehow, she'd always known just what to say about Chet to make Matt smile and calm down.
But of course she wasn't there; he was on his own. He had to calm down and he had to be patient, because at the moment there was nothing he could do about Chet. The two of them worked for Rourke and had no business squabbling in front of Ernie Dugan, who was on the other side, however much Matt once thought they had in common. He drank his coffee, burned his tongue, and in a black mood said, "All right, Ernie. You've got a list?"
"I do. And you know where it starts, Matt. The accident in the pressroom shouldn't have happened. The reason it happened, no one was willing to spend money on new presses—"
"Agreed."
"—so two men . . . what?"
"I said I agreed. Don't give me this bullshit, Ernie. We took a chance and postponed buying new presses; we made a mistake and we're doing all we can to make up for it. We've made a cash settlement to both men; we're picking up medical expenses not covered by insurance; we're holding their jobs for them; we've ordered new equipment for the pressroom. We've also started a phased purchase of a new computer system. You haven't got a grievance, Ernie. You've got past history."
"Well. Not quite." Dugan tugged at his beard, avoiding Matt's eyes. "Too many things postponed around here. Not just the presses, but also salaries, bonuses, overtime, profit sharing—"
"We've never talked about profit sharing, Ernie."
"Don't I know it. I'm saying if we want peace and harmony around here it's about time we did. Then there's the pension plan—"
"We have the best of any paper in Tucson."
"Which isn't saying much. And we have to look at vacations, sick leave, overtime, assignment schedules—"
"All right."
"What?"
"Tell me if I understand you correctly. You want to negotiate everything after you'd pledged to freeze benefits for two years, or until the Call is profitable. You want to get more of everything, and the hell with making the paper stronger. Is that right, or did I leave something out?"
"What the fuck, Matt, you've never talked to me like that!"
"You've never brought me ultimatums. What the hell has gotten into
you, Ernie? In all the times we've talked and played poker, we've never threatened each other."
"Poker's fine when people are friends," said Dugan heavily. "Not when one of them is putting on a good-buddy act to get the other one to sell out."
"You son of a bitch," Matt said quietly.
"Fuck it, Matt, we're not working for the same people. I have a membership to answer to; you've got a corporation. I didn't think of it at the time, but when the owner of a paper cozies up to the head of the union there has to be a reason."
/ didn 7 think of it at the time. The image of Chet Colfax came to Matt as clearly as if Dugan had said his name. "And somebody helped you think of it, Ernie. Right?"
Dugan ran furious fingers through his beard. "Labor and management don't sleep in the same bed; if they do, somebody's getting screwed. I can think for myself."
"Were you thinking for yourself all these months when you said I was honest and we understood each other and could work together?"
There was a silence. "Are we going to start talking about our contract, or not?" Dugan asked.
"We're not." Matt poured more coffee, spilling some on the table. He felt cold. Stupid, he thought. A babe in the woods, believing in Ernie. Rourke had seen that. If you think you know Dugan, I can't argue. Whether Chet had put him up to it, or Ernie had decided on his own that they were adversaries, Matt Lovell had been stupid and naive. Looking for a friend, for Christ's sake, when in fact they stood on opposite sides of a war zone.
But he hadn't completely lost his wits: he'd made contingency plans. What made him feel cold was that he had to use them.
"Let's go out and talk to the others," he said, moving to the door. "I want them to hear this."
"You're going around your editor?" Ernie demanded.
"I've cleared what I'm going to say with my editor and business manager. Come on, Ernie, you asked for this."
At the head of the table, with Ernie glowering at him from a seat halfway down one side, Matt stood and faced the two rows of men. Chet sat apart, in a far corner of the room. "We made progress the first couple of months after I bought the Call; since then, we've barely held our own, and the place is about as lively as the dugout of a losing team. In fact, I mentioned to someone last week that the staff acts like it's throwing the paper the way a team throws a game."
"Just a fucking minute—!" Dugan burst out.
"Not yet, Ernie. You'll have your turn when I say so. I'm not making accusations; I'm telling you how it looks to management. I came here to talk and find out what you're worried about and find a way to work together to put some life into this paper. In other words, I came here to cooperate, and I find my friend Ernie Dugan expecting me to negotiate at gunpoint. Ernie"—he focused on Dugan—"you must have some friends over at the Sentinel; you've been trying to organize that paper for years."
When he paused, Dugan growled, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Gunpoint, Ernie." Matt's voice was like steel. "I've been talking all week to Bill Falworth about buying the Sentinel. He hadn't intended to sell, but he's been rethinking that, and it looks like we'll be able to reach an agreement. And I'm not sure whether I want to own two papers in Tucson."
When it sank in, Dugan was on his feet, his face dark with rage. "You fucking bastard! You're saying you'd shut down the Call!"
Matt's face was expressionless. "With labor problems at the Call, especially after months of poor performance, I'd be a fool to put money into bigger benefits for a gang that's holding me up when I can buy the Sentinel and run it my own way."
Dugan began to pace, skirting the chair in the corner where Chet sat rigidly, alarm in his round eyes. "Three papers in this town and you want to close one of them down. Take jobs away from people, knowing they couldn't get other jobs because there'd only be two papers left, and you'd own one of them."
"That's the picture," Matt said evenly.
"Goddammit. Goddammit. You planned this! You started talking to Falworth before we even knew you were coming to Tucson! You'd destroy this paper to get your way!"
"No. I'd shut down the Call because it isn't profitable and the union's demands will make it impossible to turn it around."
"We don't have demands! We have an agenda!"
"You have demands. I didn't hear anything about greater productivity, longer hours, more aggressive investigating, better reporting, more careful editing. I didn't hear any ideas from you about helping
the people of the state or helping the Call survive. All I heard were demands. And not one of them had anything to do with the fact that this paper doesn't have enough readers to make a profit."
"Goddammit, we can work all that out in negotiations! We understand each other; we can talk, dammit—"
"In the same bed? With one of us getting screwed? Sit down, Ernie; 1*11 tell you exactly what we can work out.*'
Dugan stopped pacing. "My job is negotiating, not sitting and listening.*'
"My job is making this paper profitable. When you sit down, I'll tell you how we're going to do that."
Dugan gave a furious kick to the leg of an empty chair, sending it skidding, then came back to his place and sat down. "We'll start with the contract," Matt said. "If you demand a new one with different terms, we'll go on negotiating with the Sentinel. If you'd rather we didn't do that, we'll stay with the current contract, but we'll extend it for eighteen months with the same terms and no new negotiations. Don't say anything, Ernie; you'll waste your energy. I've only started. I'll say it again: we're freezing salaries and benefits for eighteen months. That goes for everybody: editors, management, staff. But we have to cut other costs, too. We'll find more efficient ways to do everything and we'll cut out waste and perks, but at most that will save about five percent, and I'm aiming for twenty. That means reducing the staff. We'll work it out together, or you work it out alone; I don't care, as long as costs are down twenty percent in six months. No one will be hired to replace workers who quit or retire or die; the least essential workers will be let go; reporters who insist on writing the kind of mediocre crap you've been turning out lately will be out. The same goes for photographers. I'm bringing in a new editor and top staff from some of my other papers—"
A rustle ran down the table; the men looked at Dugan, then quickly away. They might have had a weapon if Matt had kept his old team, but now they had nothing.
"—because I'm sick and tired of the Call being second-rate. I can't believe you aren't, too. If the paper shows a profit, we'll negotiate a new contract in a year and a half, with pay increases directly related to performance. We'll do our share to help: we're starting a new contest right after Labor Day; we'll have billboards, radio and television advertising, a telephone circulation drive, and a larger bonus for bringing in advertisements. But we can only bring readers to the paper once or twice; the way to keep them is by giving them a superior product. I expect the Call to be superior; I expect it to be profitable in eighteen months. Are there any questions?"
Private affairs : a novel Page 33
