Except for the faint hum of the vacuum cleaner, the office was very
quiet. It was sparsely furnished, with a teak desk, a black swivel chair, two black leather armchairs, three black file cabinets, and a single picture on the wall, of Chet and Rourke. It was cold and cheerless, lacking any identifiable personality. Exactly like Chet. "You're a busy fellow, Chet," Matt said at last, still looming over him. "And you're going to tell me all about the things you do. The hatchet job you assigned to Artner; using my name to give orders in Albuquerque; bugging your leader's office—"
"It's not true!"
"What isn't true?"
"That I . . . any of it! Cal. Artner. Cal dug up his own information. He was very unhappy about it because it was your wife, but wrongdoing is wrong whoever does—"
"You puny sanctimonious bastard!" Matt thundered. "Who the hell do you think you are to pass judgment on my wife? You spoonfed that story to Artner and he had a ball with it; the two of you probably sat up all night giggling over it. You've been pals since you dredged him up from Graham's old chain and added him to your collection, the way you add tapes of Rourke's conversations. You stinking little scavenger—"
"Goddammit, you can't talk to me like . . . listen, you son of a— Wait!" he cried as he saw the look on Matt's face. "Don't you touch me! You don't work here anymore; you can't—you have no right—"
"Keep your mouth shut! From now on, the only time you'll open your mouth is to answer my questions." Matt leaned against the desk a few inches from Chet. "Why did Artner write that smear?"
"It wasn't a smear—it was a straight news story—!"
"Damn it, I told you I want answers! I flew in today to get the truth, not your usual bullshit, and you knew it the minute you saw me. That wasn't a news story; it was a lying piece of—"
"Every word in that story was true! I made sure of that before—" He stopped, then struck the desk with his fist. "I told him to check his facts! They're all true!"
"They're a pack of innuendoes. But you're not answering my question. I'll ask it again: Why did you order that story?"
"I didn't! I keep telling you! I wasn't even there!"
"You were in Albuquerque; you told the editor of the Daily News I'd fire him if he didn't print the story." Matt looked him up and down. "I could beat you to a pulp," he said softly, and those soft tones were more terrifying to Chet than shouting. "God knows I've wanted to often enough. But right now I need answers." He leaned forward and, so casually Chet was slow to realize what he was doing, he opened the tape
recorder, removed the cassette, and dropped it in his pocket. **Why did you order that story?"
Che ltd "Give that bad
"I asked you a question,"
"Give it back! Jesus Christ, do you know what you're doing?"
"Did you. when you made it? There are always dangers in bugging an office, Chet. Being found out is one of them, I'm still waiting for your answer and I'm getting goddamned tired of asking."
Chet licked his lips: he chewed the inside of his cheek. In the silence, they heard the high-pitched whine of the cordless vacuum cleaner a worker was using on the spiral staircase as she made her way a step at a time to the lower floor. The whine stopped; there was a knock at the door. "CleanersT a woman's voice shouted
Matt went to the door and opened it, "We won't be long. Can you do the other offices fin
The woman shrugged. "Sure, but v-c':e fast. We'll be back in maybe half an hour."
We'll be out of your way by then." He closed the door. "Rourke and I kept you later than usual tonight, didn't we" AH right. t: "s wir.c this -; Why was the story written
"WiD you give me that taf
"I'll consider it. Why was it writta
Chet let out a long breath. "I tried to protect him," he said to the ceiling. "I'm not sure why: lately he hasn't been very nice to me. He even had Terry report to him from Santa Fe after he told me I'd be the only one reporting, after he told me he trusted me. That wasn't honorable."
Mad watched him, wondering what the hell he was talking to himself about. Terry was probabh Terr. Ballenger, but when was he in Santa Fe —and reporting on what?
Chet looked at the outline of the tape cassette in Mar shrugged and looked up, meetLng Matt* Her Olson interview was a
threat and I decided we had to discred: t tines I need to make on-
the-spot decisions; this was one of them.*'
ruin Elizabeth's reputation. What was the threat?" Chet looked at him blankly. 'That was a question, Chet, Who needed protection? Who was threatene:
Once more Chet shrugged "There was a lot of public pressure on the legislature, because of what Olson said, to take land from Mr. Rourke and give it to those people for a new—" fUmrkeT
"It's his land. He owns Nue^
Man gazed at Cher's round glasses, reflecting the fluorescent lights in :ie Jcilizg / asked Romht hnfffl tkmem times r be nan m wo h mt m dbcf project; he denied it in half a dozen convincing ways. And this afternoon he
dodged it "What about BaUenger?"
Terry owns two percent of Ballenger A Rourke owns the
res: Terry buys land all over the world for Mr. Rourke He tets nf corporations under his name, becau-: t got out that Keegan Rourke was buying land prices would skyrocket or people would refuse to sell, or whatever He stays in the background and gets people like Terrs to go out and buy the bn
"The whole Nuevo valley. And no one knew.**
-Right"
"How was it kept so quie
u know how. Pn ^d corporations don't have to reveal the
names of their shareholders. Nlilgrim. Saul Nlilgnm. was asking around but he couldn't find any—"
vaow all about corporations Hon was it kept quiet in the legislature" When the dam was approved, did anyone mention Ballenger buying the whole valley? And having the government build him a cL
"I don't know! I don't know anything about that' All I know :>. retry bought the lane and Mr. Rout* erting the dam for nothing; he's
paying for it: not in dollars, not directly, but he donated the land for the state park: he's building new roads around the dam and the lake, and to :re >k: ereu—and he"> r->::;; foe Ihc :e->:r: and the docka and beaches on that side of the lake
".And he doesn't want to give any of it ur
"He wool gh b d up He's already planning to expand the resort if it takes off the way he expects—and he won't allow those people to restaurants and shops competing with his He doesn't like trouble He planned — we planned it—for more than ten years. Do you know when he first heard about Nuevo! A: j cur wedding? From your father! .And no-s going to come along after all this time and throw a wrench in it. Now will you give me that tape? It doesn't mean anything to ;
Tm still considering it The resort area covers over a thousand acres. You decided to destroy Elizabeth's reputation so that Rourke wouldn't lose a hundred of them. Is that correc:
"WdL no, that's not—I wouldn't put it that—"
"I would And so will our readers when I tell them the
"You won't do that.' Christ, you can't —! Mr. Rourke told you not to! He fired you! Said you wouldn't get a job anywhere in the world! I knew that would happen, you know. He liked you best, but I knew I'd outlast
you because I know him better than you. Better than anyone. Now look; we can work together. I'll talk to him—there's a technique to it—and he won't stand in your way when you look for another job. I can even promise a reference . . . //you give me that tape. Now. Then I'll take care of things upstairs and you'll find a job in no time . . . you've made a nice reputation for yourself. I hear about you wherever I go; people talk about you. ..."
Matt contemplated him. "Last year you gave me a stack of reports to use in our series on land use. Where are they?"
"On file. In Santa Fe; the state legislature."
"I'll ask it once more, since you're having trouble. There's a stack of reports, including one on resettlement help for the people of Nuevo. Where are the
originals, and where are the copies?"
"I don't know."
"Goddam it, do we have to go through this farce every time I ask a question? Stop this bullshit or I'll give in to my worst instincts and beat the hell out of you." The thought flashed through Matt's mind that the real farce was that he had never struck anyone in his life and doubted that he'd have the stomach to beat the hell out of anyone, even Chet. "I want those reports. Where are they?"
Chet sat still for a moment, his face blank, his eyes glazed, then shrugged one more time. "It's not my fault," he mumbled. As if he were sleepwalking, he moved to one of the black file cabinets, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a folder. He began to leaf through the papers inside it.
"Don't bother," Matt said, lifting the folder from his hands. "I'm interested in all of it."
"Look." Chet's shoulders slumped; his voice was dull. "Nobody's supposed to see that stuff; it's my job to keep it safe. You're creating a situation I can't handle. Let's be reasonable. What about my offer to speak up for you with Mr. Rourke? This is your future we're talking about! You want to protect it, don't you? I'm not asking much. Go ahead and read that stuff—I can't stop you—read it here and give it back, and give me the tape—you've got to give me the tape!—and then I'll go to Mr. Rourke and get him to change his mind about you; I promise I can deliver on that!"
There was another knock at the door. "Cleaning!" the woman's voice cried. She opened the door and peered around it. "I'm sorry, sirs, but we get in trouble if we miss an office, and we have the other floors to do—"
"It's all right," Matt said. "We're finished."
"We're not!" Chet cried. "Goddammit, Matt! Those papers! The tape—!"
"They're safe," Matt said shortly. "I hope I won't have to tell anyone about the tape. It will help if you don't tell Rourke I have the papers. Take heart, Chet; I'm more trustworthy than you are."
"Nobody is!" Chet scurried into the hallway behind Matt as the cleaning woman went into his office. "Nobody's trustworthy; you know that! Matt, goddammit, if he ever finds out—"
"Yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?" He looked with contempt at Chefs bulging eyes, thinking how amazingly consistent it was that rats never had the guts to face their own tricks turned against them. "You were the one who wanted to be reasonable and make a deal, Chet. I'm making one. I don't want Rourke to know I've taken anything from the office. It's in your interest not to tell him. I'm aware that it's hard for you, after twenty years of getting dirt on other people, to know that someone has something on you, but you'll get used to it. And after a while I may give serious thought, again, to returning your tape."
With a few long strides he reached his office, where he picked up his briefcase and the cardboard box heavy with files and memorabilia. When he returned, Chet had not moved. "You'll be all right, Chet. And if you cooperate, you may even do some good for once, even if it's against your better judgement."
He walked to the elevator a few feet away and pressed the call button. "You'll be hearing from me."
And then, as the vacuum cleaner started up again, the elevator arrived and he stepped in. His last sight before the doors closed was of Chet, eyes wide and staring in the empty reception room, with the whine of the vacuum cleaner filling the air.
In the study in his apartment, he opened the folder and fanned the papers on the desk, like playing cards. He recognized the reports Chet had given him—saying they'd come from the legislature in Santa Fe—on job opportunities created by the Nuevo Dam and State Park, tourism and increased business in the entire valley, flood control, irrigation, and a reservoir for future water needs. He'd only skimmed them the first time; ten different projects were included in the series on land use and there'd been no reason, or time, to study all of them closely before passing them along to the editor who was writing the series. This was the first time Matt really had looked at how the Nuevo Dam got approved.
And how the people were compensated. He found the report headed "Compensation and Resettlement" and pulled it out, And with it came
another, just beneath, with the same title: a draft version of the resettlement report peppered with typing errors, phrases crossed out and rewritten in Chefs precise handwriting, penciled comments in the margins, three versions of a resettlement budget scribbled across the bottom of the second page, a note at the top of the third page saying "Check time schedule with Bent," and, at the end, the notation, "Mallard Typing Service," with a telephone number.
The little bastard wrote it himself. Typed it himself, edited it, then sent it out of the office for final typing.
And brought it to me with other reports supposedly from the New Mexico state legislature, as research background for our series on development.
Research.
How many of the "research" documents we used in that series were written fifty feet from my office?
His telephone rang and he picked it up, "Yes," he said absently, looking at the report before him.
"It's Elizabeth."
Caught by the iciness of her voice, he looked up from his desk, at the starlit sky behind his windows. "How are you? I was going to call you later to—"
"Were you. I can't imagine why. You couldn't possibly want to hear anything I have to say; it might interfere with your faith in that simple-minded smear you published."
"I published? Elizabeth, you can't believe I had anything to do with that garbage?"
"Of course I believe it. What did you think I'd believe? That your minions are running the Rourke papers themselves? That they'd try to destroy the reputation of their publisher's wife on their own? That they're slipping stories into your papers behind your back?"
"Artner did that once before, if you recall."
"Yes, Saul made the same point. And I told him I couldn't believe that you'd let Artner, of all people, work without supervision after he'd pulled that trick once. You don't need two lessons, Matt; you've always learned very quickly from one. I hope I can do the same. I don't want your explanations or excuses; I can't think of anything you could say that would soften what you did. It was so destructive I couldn't believe you'd do it to anyone, much less to me. It had only one purpose: to make me seem venal and unreliable, and it worked; Markham has stopped syndicating Trivate Affairs'—"
"Oh, my God."
"You can't be surprised; you're an expert on the power of the press—
Private Affairs All
your power with your press, to get what you want. And you want progress, don't you? I read your series on land use—someone else wrote it but it was in all your papers, so the direction came from you; I do remember how you work. Bigger and better resorts, ski areas, timbering, mining— and the hell with the people."
"I never said that or felt it; I always—"
"When did that series mention the people who live in all those areas you want to develop? Once in a while there were a few words about compensation; that was it. The rest was progress, and the people be damned. And your family, too, for that matter"—he heard her voice tighten—"there are things happening here because of what you've done, what I've done—"
"What? What's happening? No one's called me—"
"Because you're not part of it anymore. I shouldn't have said anything; it just came out; it shouldn't have. You left me with this family and I'm dealing with it. You don't care enough; you haven't talked to me about your work or anything personal for months. And the one favor I asked you got ignored, because you'd lied. You said you had a report on helping the people of Nuevo and you'd send it to me. In December. This is the end of March and I still haven't—"
"I couldn't find it. I have it now—"
"Do you? How convenient. It doesn't matter anymore. All you care about is having the power to change the shape of the land and push your privately chosen people into office to run it, and you'll do anything to get what you want. You and Keegan. I said that once before, didn't I? You make a good pair. Like a married couple. Like partners in crime. I haven't—"<
br />
"That's enough, damn it, be quiet and listen to—"
"If you interrupt again I'll hang up. I haven't liked what you've been doing for a long time, but I kept thinking one of these days we'd talk about it. Maybe I still thought you'd go back to the way you used to be. I don't anymore. If you can watch Cal Artner drag my name through the mud to turn the legislature against Isabel—that worked too, by the way; you'll be delighted to hear her bill is dead—then you're capable of anything and I don't want to have anything more to do with you. I'm filing for divorce next week. You're hearing it from me instead of reading it in Polly's column, not because I'm doing you a courtesy, but because I had to tell you how I felt and I've been calling you for a week, trying to reach you. I understand you were sailing. I hope it was pleasant; I assume you'll be rich and powerful enough to do much more of it in the future."
"God damn it—!"
"I told you I'd hang up, Matt. It seems I've passed the boundaries of whatever courteous behavior my parents taught me. You'll hear from my lawyer."
The phone went dead in his hand.
Matt slammed it down. She might have asked him what he knew about the story, what he thought about it, what he was going to do about it, what he—
But why should she? She'd told him what she thought: the story appeared on the front page of one of Matt Lovell's papers and Matt Lovell runs his empire with a firm hand. It would never occur to her that he ran it at the whim of Keegan Rourke.
/ would have told her the whole damn story if she'd calmed down long enough to listen. She would have understood: she had Chet pegged from the beginning.
But maybe she wouldn't have understood—or taken the trouble to try. The Elizabeth who had just hung up on him was an Elizabeth he had never known: more assertive, less pliable, not as warm.
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