The Player

by Brad Parks

  “Carter: This is an outstanding piece of journalism, a pleasure to read and edit. There are a few minor questions below. Please address them and ship the story back to me so we can put it on A1, where it deserves to be!—TT.”

  Below, there were three questions so insignificant I was able to make the fixes on the spot. I saved the story, shipped it back to Tina, then walked to her open office door. She was seated with her long, lean body in a twisted position, like a minor maharani on her throne—yoga being one of Tina’s pastimes.

  “Was this a trick?” I asked.

  “Huh?” she said, looking up from whatever had been transfixing her on the computer monitor.

  “You said yesterday the recycling story was, quote, ‘garbage.’ Now suddenly you’re thrilled about it. What gives?”

  “Oh, yeah, I … Look, why don’t you sit down?”

  I sat.

  She said, “Can I be honest with you?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay,” she said, uncurling herself and placing her hands on her desk and her feet on the floor. “Last night I saw you heading out the door with your girlfriend, the human lollipop, and at first it made me feel, I don’t know, angry or jealous or something.”

  I was going to interject that Kira wasn’t my girlfriend, but I didn’t want to interrupt a verbal journey that sounded like it was heading toward Apologyland.

  She continued: “But then I caught myself. You’ve given me ample opportunity to have a real relationship, and I’ve turned down every one of them. Because I don’t really want one—with you or anyone, for that matter. So I can hardly blame you for pursuing one with someone else. Even if the person you chose treats every day like it’s Halloween, that’s hardly reason to despise her. She’s got herself a great guy. I shouldn’t hate her for that. Or you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Anyhow, I’m sorry for being in such a snit with you lately. I really would like to go back to being friends. And colleagues. I hate that I’ve let our personal relationship cloud my judgment as your editor.

  “Which,” she said, making a big show of inhaling, “brings us to your recycling story. I went back and reread it last night and it struck me I had been guilty of malicious editing. I realized if anyone else had handed me that story, I would have been thrilled with it. The only reason I ripped it apart is because it said ‘By Carter Ross’ at the top. So I went back through and re-edited it more evenhandedly, and I was really quite pleased with what I found.”

  “Th-thank you,” I stammered. I was always a bit uncomfortable when Tina was being contrite. As an editor, Tina was something of a fire-breathing dragon. As a reporter, I always fancied myself the brave and valiant knight, ready to do battle with her. But now suddenly my dragon wanted to stop and cuddle. It was enough to make me wish the fearsome lizard would just keep spitting fire. At least that way I knew to keep my shield up the whole time.

  “I mean, let’s be serious, I’m about to have to spend the afternoon rewriting Buster Hays. There’s not enough Novocain in the world to numb that much pain. Next to him, editing you is a dream. And I ought to give you credit for that.”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “So what’s this other story you’re uncorking?” she asked. “Come on, don’t make me sweat Pigeon for it.”

  Ordinarily, I never would have told an editor about a piece that was still such unmolded clay. There would be too much of a temptation for the editor to stick her hands in it and leave messy thumbprints all over. But given Tina’s sudden softening, I made an exception to my usual policy and told her what I knew so far.

  She agreed with my conclusion that Ridgewood Avenue deserved the Eagle-Examiner’s full attention. She gave me the official blessing to continue making use of Pigeon and to continue my search for the truth.

  It would have been even better if she could have told me where to find it.

  * * *

  Emerging from Tina’s office, I considered my options and quickly decided I needed to enlist the aid of some of my compatriots. Stick around a newspaper for any length of time and you’ll realize that some of your best sources of information are the other reporters in the newsroom with you.

  I immediately set my sights on Tommy Hernandez, happily clacking away on his computer. Tommy is about five foot seven, maybe 145 pounds, and gay as a box of Shrinky Dinks. He had his hair perfectly mussed and thoroughly moussed and was wearing a tailored shirt with more darts than a dive bar. He also had earbuds in. Tommy sometimes celebrates his Cuban heritage by listening to salsa music; other times, he celebrates certain stereotypes regarding his sexual orientation by listening to vapid pop music.

  I couldn’t say which he was indulging at the moment. He didn’t appear to notice me as I approached him, but I was still a few paces off when he said, “Whatever the question you and your hideous pleated pants are coming to ask, the answer is, ‘forget it.’”

  Tommy is seldom shy about expressing his distaste for my fashion sensibilities. “How could you even hear me coming? You have music playing.”

  He looked up at me blank-faced. I pulled one of the buds from his ears. There was no sound coming out.

  “You’re doing the pretend-to-listen-to-music-so-people-won’t-bother-you thing,” I said. “You know that just makes me want to bother you more, right? Don’t you at least want to know why I’m coming over?”

  “No. And do you know why? One, because I’m very busy doing my own work. And, two, because you’re coming out of Tina’s office, which probably means she’s told you not to do something that you are now going to ask me to help you do. I’m not going to be your stooge this time.”

  “When have I ever recruited you into an act of insubordination?”

  “You mean this week? Not yet. But it’s only Tuesday, so you’re just about on time.”

  “Actually, I’ll have you know, Tina is well aware of what I’m working on and I’m doing so with her full permission.”

  “Really?” he said, removing the other earbud. “That’s sort of weird. What’s her angle?”

  “It’s part of the new détente between us, apparently,” I said. “Anyhow, if you’re busy, I’ll leave you alo—”

  “No, I was just saying that so you wouldn’t try to talk me into doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. I’m really pretty free. What’s up?”

  I leaned against the desk across the aisle from Tommy. “I was wondering how much you knew about McAlister Arms, that new development that’s being proposed in the South Ward.”

  As city hall reporter, I was betting Tommy would have heard any scuttlebutt surrounding such a large new project.

  “Ah, Vaughn McAlister. He seems to be everyone’s favorite subject lately.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s throwing money around like crazy,” Tommy said.

  “All aboveboard, I’m sure.”

  “Above the table, below the table … with New Jersey’s campaign-finance laws, who can tell the difference most of the time?”

  “What does he want?”

  Tommy shook his hair-product-filled head. “I don’t know, specifically. I think he just wants to make sure things keep moving smoothly. You know how it is with developers. Between the banks and their subcontractors and whatever options they might have on the land that are running out, they’re always up against one time constraint or another. They’re almost as bad as we are when it comes to deadlines. Plus, I’m hearing he has his sights set on bigger things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. World domination.”

  “Seriously…”

  “Well, the rumor is McAlister Properties is laying groundwork for something called McAlister Tower—some big skyscraper filled with Class A office space and a hotel on the top floors and all that. They’d build it right near Penn Station so they could get the PATH crowd and the New Jersey Transit crowd. It sounds like it could be really cool.”

  I just lau
ghed.

  “What?” Tommy said, frowning slightly.

  “It’s just funny that you haven’t been doing this job long enough to get completely jaded yet. Ever hear of Harry Grant?”

  “No.”

  “He was before my time, of course, but ask around. There are people around here who will remember him,” I said. “He swept into town in the eighties with this plan to build the world’s tallest building right here in Newark—one hundred and twenty-one stories. Everyone thought he had real money because he paid to have the dome atop city hall gilded with gold. But it turned out that was basically the only money he had.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He built the facade for what he called the Renaissance Mall—this was the first stage of the tower—and then he went bankrupt and fled town. The facade stayed there for like two decades before someone finally knocked it down.”

  “So, what, you think the McAlisters are another Harry Grant?”

  I didn’t necessarily. Newark had come a long way from those days in the eighties, when it was so desperate for something—anything—to be developed that it was ripe to be plucked by whatever con man stopped off the turnpike. But I just said, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Tommy leaned back and pondered it for a moment. “I don’t think so. I mean, the McAlisters seem to be legit. This McAlister Arms thing is their first residential project, but they already have a couple of office buildings downtown.”

  “Yeah, except they didn’t build those places. They just took existing buildings and slapped ‘McAlister’ on them when they bought them.”

  “True, but they do own and manage them now. That has to count for something.”

  “Do you know them at all?” I asked.

  “I’ve never met the old man. From what I’m told, he’s sort of the backroom guy. Vaughn McAlister is the front man. He’s usually around if you want to talk to him.”

  Tommy pulled his phone out of his pocket and read off a number with a 973 area code.

  “You’ve got his phone number programmed in your phone?”

  “The McAlister name comes up often enough. I’ve probably quoted Vaughn a half-dozen times in the last six months.”

  “Is he a good guy to deal with?” I asked. And here, of course, I meant it in the way reporters define a good guy. It has little to do with, say, charitable works or a magnanimous personality and everything to do with whether they are quotable and return phone calls promptly on deadline.

  “Yeah, good enough. He’s a slut for good press. He’ll pretend to be busy, but then he’ll always magically be able to find time for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Tommy responded with a burst of Spanish, which he often does when he’s insulting me.

  “Okay, what did you just say?” I asked.

  “It translates roughly as: ‘Don’t thank me. Just buy better pants.’”

  * * *

  As Tommy had predicted, Vaughn McAlister’s schedule was absolutely slammed—completely and totally booked solid between now and next Labor Day, with not even a glimmer of hope that he would have time to wave hello if we passed in the hallway—except for the one small opening that happened to have popped up that afternoon. But only because the prime minister of England had canceled at the last second.

  I had been somewhat vague as to why I was calling, saying only that I was writing about a neighborhood in the South Ward that was near McAlister Arms. I couldn’t very well come out and say that I was worried his construction site was harboring toxic waste. Yet, it struck me during our brief phone chat—as he impressed upon me the monumental inflexibility of his colossally imposing schedule—that he didn’t really care what I was calling about.

  And, coincidentally, his magical opening was in twenty minutes. Which is about how long it would take me to collect myself, drive to his office downtown, park, and walk to his building.

  Arriving at McAlister Place, I breezed through the downstairs security—I could have told them I was Jack the Ripper and they still would have waved me through—then faced a far stiffer inspection upon reaching the second-floor offices of McAlister Properties. A round-faced fortyish woman with shellacked brown hair and a gray skirt suit looked up at me as I entered.

  “Hello, may I help you?”

  “Hi. My name is Carter Ross. I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner. I’m here to see Vaughn McAlister.”

  Her brow made a V shape in response to this assertion and she glanced at her computer screen. Her desk was as neat as any I’d ever seen. There was exactly one personal effect, a photo of a gawky-looking preteenage boy. Otherwise, the most prominent feature was a brass nameplate: “M. Fenstermacher.” I was glad someone put in the “M.” part. Otherwise it would be easy to confuse her with all the other Fenstermachers around.

  I knew, from my days of high school language class, that “fenstermacher” meant “window-maker” in German. “Fenster” comes from the Latin “fenestra,” which is also the root for one of the world’s greatest words, “defenestration,” which Webster’s defines as “a throwing of a person or thing out of a window.” It’s also what M. Fenstermacher looked like she wanted to do to me at the moment.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t show you as having an appointment,” she said. “Is Mr. McAlister expecting you?”

  “He is,” I said.

  This brought another consternated look and another glance at the computer screen from M. Fenstermacher. Maybe the “M.” stood for “Miss,” because she didn’t have a wedding ring on her finger. She struck me as a woman who did not like surprises. Her immobile hairstyle, impeccable manicure, precisely applied makeup, and utterly clean desk suggested that I was standing in front of a bit of a control freak.

  “Wait here, please,” she said, rising from her desk.

  She rose and I got a whiff of Miss Fenstermacher’s perfume. I don’t know Chanel from chenille, but it smelled expensive. As she walked toward a set of double doors to her right, I saw her face was not the only part of her that was rounded. She rather amply filled out her gray skirt suit. She wasn’t really my type—I like them a little more natural than the painstakingly produced Miss Fenstermacher—and it’s not like she was going to win any beauty pageants. But in a (thankfully) bygone era, I’m sure there were bosses who would have chased her around the desk more than a few times.

  Just then Vaughn McAlister emerged from the double doors. Miss Fenstermacher brightened considerably upon seeing him. This nightmare that was an unscheduled appointment was about to be over.

  “It’s okay, Marcia,” he announced. “There was a last-second change to the docket and I was able to squeeze Mr. Ross in.”

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I said, playing along.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  I smiled at him. He smiled back. I extended a hand. He grabbed it. Vaughn McAlister was a real charmer—blow-dried blond hair, perfect teeth, firm handshake. I immediately recognized the type: he charmed people simply for the sake of charming them. Even if he couldn’t immediately predict the benefits, he figured there would be some eventually. It was what he did.

  He fancied himself not just as a player but as the player—the guy who could make things happen by sheer will and personal magnetism.

  What he perhaps didn’t understand is that part of being a mature newspaper reporter is being immune to such things. Most of us allowed ourselves to get charmed by a player once, in our early twenties, then learned our lesson.

  The only thing about him I found truly impressive was his clothing. He was wearing a sharply tailored blue pinstripe suit that had probably cost more than every pair of khaki pants I had ever bought and Italian loafers that had easily set him back five hundred bucks. Now I knew why Tommy had such a soft spot for him: shoe envy is one of Tommy’s tragic flaws.

  Vaughn and I tested each other a little bit, swapping a few quick ha-ha lines—about traffic, about weather—then dropping enough names so that each
of us knew the other was sufficiently connected. Then we gave up trying to impress each other.

  “Hold my calls, Marcia,” he said as he invited me into his office.

  Miss Fenstermacher would, I was sure, eagerly comply.

  * * *

  There were no more attempts at small talk as I followed him into his nicely appointed office and settled into a chair on the other side of his sleek desk and Cross pen set.

  “That’s quite a large project you have going down in the South Ward,” I said, hauling out my notepad so he knew we were on the record.

  “Yes, we’re very excited about McAlister Arms,” he said with appropriate earnestness. “It’s a mixed-use development, as you may know, so people will be able to live there, work there, and shop there. We’ve got the commercial space pretty well sold and we’re going to start opening up the residential units for sale soon as well. We’ve already had people inquiring about it. This is going to be a real crown jewel for Newark.”

  Of course it would be. You have to love developer hyperbole: what is actually a very common construction project, built to the same code standards and with the same base materials as everything else, is always a “crown jewel.”

  “Care to say who the anchoring commercial tenant will be?” I asked.

  “Not until the ink is dry on the contracts,” he said, giving me his best Vaughn McAlister smile. “But it’s a major national retailer. This is going to bring jobs to the people of Newark. We’ve written a first-source agreement into the lease, which means they have to use Newark employment agencies for at least fifty percent of their hires. We’ve also made our own promise to use eighty percent local labor during construction. This is going to bring jobs to this city. Make sure you put that in whatever you write.”

  It was a common gripe about development in Newark that it never ended up benefiting the people who lived there. I gave McAlister Properties credit for anticipating that criticism and doing something about it. I was about to ask another question, but I was interrupted by a knock on the door.