The Henderson Equation

by Warren Adler

  “It is only that, Mr. Gold,” Gunderstein said, refusing to be intimidated, Nick observed, unbending, obsessed.

  “Don’t you give a shit about what this will do to Henderson?”

  “That’s not the issue,” Gunderstein persisted.

  “You’re so fucking above it all. So damned superior.”

  “I’m not,” Gunderstein responded quietly.

  A sense of intimidation rolled over him, like a wave of thick molasses. He felt like an animal with his paw caught irrevocably in a trap. “Well, I’m not going to run your damned story, Gunderstein.” He was shouting now. Heads turned in the city room.

  “May I ask why?” Nick could see a slight tremor in his lip, the flushes around his pimples expanding.

  “I don’t have to tell you why,” he said, surprised at his belligerence. If only he could summon some justifying response, some caustic argument, a raw human response of antagonism. “This power tripping has got to stop.” He half hoped Gunderstein would see it as unworthy of him, a measure of his ignorance. Was he giving a good enough performance? he thought. Judging from the reaction of his one-man audience, he was failing abysmally.

  “You’re insufferable, Gunderstein,” Nick said, sitting down again behind the desk. “Why don’t you even argue for it?” he said, his voice weakening.

  “Because it speaks for itself.”

  “Yes. Yes. I suppose it does.” He could feel the bile of his own resignation. He paused again. It was difficult to do this without conviction. “I suppose you could walk,” he said quietly.

  “Walk?”

  “Quit. Hell, Harold, you don’t need the money. Besides, half the newspapers in the country would grab you.”

  “Who said anything about quitting?”

  “Harold, I’m rubbing your nose in it. Where the fuck is your self-respect?”

  By then, he knew that he had gone too far, although he could not find in himself the power to stop. He would not have been in this fix in the first place, he told himself, if it weren’t for Gunderstein and his infuriating ability to ferret out a good story.

  “All right,” he said, “it was a dumb remark.”

  “Sooner or later we’ll have to carry the story,” Gunderstein said. He got up and stood for a moment watching him. Then he turned and walked away. Nick reached for printed copies of the Sunday sections for review. But the words swam before his eyes. He wanted to call Gunderstein back, to plead his forgiveness.

  Unable to concentrate, he turned again to the wire-service copy, its large pica type clearly spelling out the day’s events in tight flat sentences. It was a light news days and the wire-service people were stretching their news sense, seeking ways to keep the words flowing, to satisfy the never-ending appetite of the member papers.

  He was interrupted by the sight of the budget session disbanding, the editors or their weekend substitutes beginning to walk back to their departments. He could see Margaret coming toward his office. He wanted to run, to hide in the adjoining small conference room. He had seen quite enough of Margaret.

  “Are you okay, Nick?” she asked, hovering over him, as he played at looking over the wire-service copy.

  “Of course,” he mumbled.

  She said nothing for a few moments, her eyes continuing to stare.

  “I’m genuinely sorry about last night, Nick. I hadn’t meant to ever say anything about that time with Myra. I made it sound as if you owed your job to me.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I just hope there’ll be no recriminations.”

  “Recriminations?” he asked, looking at her for the first time. She looked tired, aged, sagging. “Still worrying about your job, eh?”

  “I just want to be sure everything is kept on a professional level.”

  “Isn’t that the way it’s always been, Margaret? Very professional.”

  “Yes, Nick. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It shouldn’t make any difference.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  He could feel her struggling with herself, obviously searching for some lever to bond their understanding. For his part, he enjoyed her discomfort.

  “I’ve given Jennie the White House assignment tonight. There’s a big state dinner.” He felt a compulsion to laugh. Who did she think she was kidding? Surely she must know about Jennie, Jennie the ambitious ass-kisser, the betrayer, the spy. Was she thinking of him with such contempt that she assumed he could not know about Jennie? But then, he hadn’t known about Margaret.

  “That’s terrific,” he said with blatant sarcasm, the kind that couldn’t be missed. He knew she wanted to speak further, but he had already reached for the telephone, dialing Landau’s number. He could feel the responding ring through the adjoining wall, as Margaret turned. He noted that her upsweep was not so carefully arranged as usual, as if her toilette that morning had been somewhat distracted.

  “I’ll keep it all professional,” he shouted after her. “Professional as hell.” She moved quickly, her walk accelerating, as she passed out of his vision.

  “All right,” he said as Landau came in, dummy sheets in hand to show him how he had arranged the front page.

  “It’s a bullshit day,” Landau said.

  “So I see.”

  He looked over Landau’s news selections with mock attention, searching for changes, some one thing over which he could be assertive, simply for its own sake. Landau had apparently given special prominence to a story about the collapse of another Italian government.

  “Let’s pull that one inside, Henry.”

  “It’s the fall of a foreign government. Against today’s crop it’s relatively important.”

  “Just pull it off, Henry. Who cares about another Italian government falling?” He knew he was right. Landau shrugged. It was hardly worth making a stand, he had surely surmised.

  “What’s this?” Nick asked, looking over the budget sheets. His pencil pointed to a statement about aerosol cans.

  “More testimony about the dangers of aerosol cans, the gas in them. This scientist has told a congressional committee that the ionosphere, I think that’s what they call it, is deteriorating at a rapid rate. He says that at its present pace we’ll have no viable atmosphere in about two hundred years. Nothing particularly new in it, just another dire prediction about the end of the world.”

  “Put it on the front page,” Nick said.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Give it a snappy, scary head. A three-column banner. Make it look important. If the lead’s dead, rework it to give it more urgency.”

  “I’m not saying it’s not a serious business, Nick.”

  “That’s a double negative, Henry.”

  “Really, Nick. There’s nothing really new in it. I can show you piles of clips on it.”

  “Has anything been done about these aerosol cans? Has there been any legislation introduced to stop us from choking to death in two hundred years?”

  “Probably so. There’s been legislation introduced on everything. But it’s of no consequence.”

  “That’s just the point. Put it there, Henry.”

  Landau nodded. Tomorrow a whole industry would quake, a huge tidal wave of fear would cascade throughout the world. All those aerosol cans that dispensed their ridiculous wares. All that useless shit floating on a sea of gas that would destroy the world in less than two hundred years. He smiled to himself and searched the budget sheets again.

  “Here’s one,” he said, pointing again to a story slug that proclaimed “New York bankrupt.”

  “That’s another one we’ve done a hundred times before. So what’s new about Fun City going down the drain?”

  “You’ve become jaded, Henry. What ever happened to your sense of outrage?” He knew he was baiting him, but couldn’t stop.

  “I’m not jaded.”

  “New York City has always been the symbol of America’s innocence, all the exaggerations of the American dream, supersuccess an
d supermisery. Now it’s the symbol of America’s decadence and decline. It’s choking to death on its own indigestible dung. Make it urgent, Henry. Here, I’ll write the head.” He thought for a moment, ignoring Landau’s confusion, then started to print out penciled letters on a clean sheet of copy paper. Working quickly, he crossed out words and recounted letters.

  “New York Sinking in Quicksand,” he wrote, showing the scribbled head to Landau.

  “Who said anything about quicksand?”

  “Have someone get a quote to match the head.”

  “Are you all right, Nick?”

  “Come on, Henry, don’t be so self-righteous.”

  “I think it’s irresponsible.”

  “Please, Henry. No arguments. I’m just trying to hype up the front page on a bullshit day. Didn’t you call it that yourself? It’s a question of judgment.”

  “And degree.”

  He was in no mood for abstract moral arguments. He continued to ponder the budget sheets and look over the front-page dummy, now penciled over almost beyond recognition. It was enough, he thought.

  “That ought to do it,” he said, putting down the pencil, his weapon. Landau looked dejected, but said nothing, getting up and walking out of the office.

  When he had gone, Nick stood up, felt a slight quiver in his legs as he braced himself against the glass wall. In the city room the typewriters were still sounding out their staccato rhythm in ever-descending decibels, like small arms fire after a savage battle, a residue of anger. Pacing his glass cage, he could not seem to shake a vague sense of loss, and soon, his strength spent, he sat down again.

  When a news aide brought him the proof of the front page, he pored over it greedily, like a starving man taking his first sustenance. Landau had followed his directions to the letter, had used his head with the quicksand reference with quotes suitably documented to underpin the headline’s integrity. He deliberately kept the use of his editorial pencil harnessed. He had, after all, asserted his authority. He would only correct that which was blatantly offensive, which he proceeded to do, a series of changed words, mostly in headlines, and a quick rewriting of an awkward lead. When they brought him a proof of the editorial page, he felt less mercy, changed words vigorously, and passed it back to the composing room with his ubiquitous initials boldly imprinted on the upper right-hand corner. The sight of the proofs restored his energy, certainly his equilibrium, and he felt able to leave the city room without the tug of guilt that would assail him when he had missed seeing a final proof, a rare occurrence.

  Back at his apartment, he noted that Jennie had been there, had dressed and left him a note.

  “Off to 1600. See you later, darling. Love, Jennie.” It was scrawled carelessly, in keeping with the obvious hollowness of the words. Detesting the thought of her return, he threw himself on the couch in the living room, watching the bleak November night. It had begun to rain. The streets were glossy, reflecting the headlights of the traffic in the last gasp of the tepid Saturday rush hour.

  He could not have determined how long he had been asleep, only that his dreams seemed disjointed, the memory of them fading as the telephone bell sounded in the still room, a jangling intrusion.

  “A Miss Gates,” the downstairs receptionist said.

  “Who?” He had a momentary lapse, ascending as he had from a troubled sleep. It took him some time to remember who Miss Gates was. The scrap of recognition emerged as a quick image of a young braless girl in a tight T-shirt at Gunderstein’s place. Of course, Martha Gates.

  “Tell her I can’t see her.” He was treasuring his seclusion now. Looking at his watch, he realized that he must have slept for three hours. He felt oddly refreshed. Remembering his weakness earlier, he admired his recuperative powers.

  “No,” he corrected, “tell her to come up.”

  If it had been a simple memory of the Martha Gates at the office, the teary-eyed, helpless, long-haired blonde, he might not have changed his mind. In the bathroom, he doused his face with cold water, stuck his tongue out for inspection, and patted down his hair. His mouth felt furry, the backwash of the garlic from Duke’s pickles lingering. Sucking mouthwash from the bottle, he gargled and spat. Why all this precaution? he wondered.

  She stood in the doorway, her face indicating agitation, hesitating, on the threshold.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Gold,” she said, taking one tentative step in the hallway, then standing there, as if rooted.

  “It’s all right, Martha.” He turned toward the living room, felt her following behind. She looked out the window.

  “What a marvelous view,” she said, watching the lights.

  “Yes.”

  She unbuttoned her coat, leaving it on, as she searched, then found a chair to her choosing, straight-backed. He went to the bar.

  “Drink?”

  “If you have white wine.”

  He opened the little bar refrigerator and uncorked a bottle of Chablis, pouring it into a large wineglass and handing it to her. He noted that her fingers shook. Sipping lightly, she smiled.

  “Wonderful,” she said.

  Sitting down on the couch, he asked, “Well?”

  “It’s about the Henderson piece,” she said.

  “Now that was no mystery, Martha.”

  She sat with her knees together, shoulders stiff. The glass shook lightly. He felt embarrassed for her nervousness, knew what was sure to be forthcoming, explosions of disillusion, the expiring gasp of idealism.

  “Robert’s gone back, thoroughly discouraged.”

  “You seem to have struck up a fast acquaintance,” he said, wondering if he were being cruel.

  “Yes, we have,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Harold is more complacent. That’s because he doesn’t show his feelings.” She sipped the wine, then looked out the window again. “It’s wrong, Mr. Gold. It’s absolutely unconscionable. That story has got to be published.”

  “Why?” he asked, conveying innocence, he hoped.

  “You know why, Mr. Gold. The carrying-out of assassinations in the name of national policy by a man who could very well be our next president. What does America mean if we allow such things to happen? Don’t you see? It’s simply wrong, unjust. We have a responsibility.”

  “You’ll have to admit we’ve got a pretty good track record,” he said, the reference obvious.

  “But why stop now, Mr. Gold? We’re supposed to be vigilant, moral.” She took a long sip from the wine, half emptying the glass. Did he have to defend his position now to little Martha Gates, he thought, wide-eyed, young, unfinished, blonde, tight-assed Martha Gates? Despite his attempt to see her as a little ninny he admired her stubbornness. Why can’t a woman be like a man? he sang silently, smiling inwardly.

  “I needed an adequate explanation,” she said. “I took Robert to the airport. We both looked at each other like dummies. We couldn’t explain any of it to ourselves. I walked around the rest of the day like a nervous cat. That’s why I had to come. I know it’s simply not the thing to do. But I’m troubled, Mr. Gold. Maybe I’m still suffering from the effects of that man that committed suicide. But you see, I just can’t get it together.”

  “I’m afraid, Martha, I’m not going to be of much help.” Could he tell her of his own problems, his own sense of personal crisis, his own doubts and anxieties? He could see his own helplessness mirrored in hers.

  “I know you think it’s foolish of me to come here,” she said, flushed now. Gracefully, she slid her arms out of her coat sleeves, her breasts straining in her blouse as she pushed outward.

  It was then, perhaps, that the idea stirred within him, his own sense of being the instrument, the sculptor, and she the malleable clay. There was perverseness in it, he knew, since he could create the dialogue of her protestations from rote, dredged out of his own small preserve of innocence, isolated somewhere within.

  “Maybe I have an exaggerated sense of fairness,” she continued, the words coming swiftly now as she ha
d found her course. He got up and filled her glass again, as if it might stress his solicitude and interest. He hoped that she would perceive his concentration, would feel her role on center stage, the principal actor. He kept his eyes staring into hers as if plumbing limitless depths.

  “It’s the badge of your generation,” he said, knowing that the flattery would swell her pride. “Yours was the generation that dared to challenge the established order. You tore down the ramparts and taught us something about our destiny. In a way we’ve got a lot in common. We both toppled a President.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” she said, perhaps surprised at the ease with which she had broken down the first line of his defenses. “What’s wrong is wrong. Period. You can’t excuse flaws in one set of leaders that you condemn in others. The point is that it shouldn’t matter if Henderson’s career is destroyed because of the truth. The truth should uplift, teach, enhance, not destroy.”

  “What makes you think that’s the reason that the Henderson story won’t see the light of day?” After all, he had to put up some sort of a mock fight, he thought.

  “What else could it be?” She seemed suddenly confused, sipping deeply of the wine. He watched the glass tip, the fingers held delicately around the shiny bowl.

  “I still am not convinced the evidence is conclusive,” he said, setting her up for a rebuttal.

  She finished the wine and set the glass down on the ledge of the chair, precariously, it turned out. A hand gesture toppled it to the floor. He got up quickly, picked it up, went back to the bar, and filled another glass, which he returned to her hand.

  “We’ve been through all that, Mr. Gold. Surely there is enough to set in motion a chance for a fair appraisal, even a denial. Once the allegation is printed, he would have a right to make the denial. Or, on the other hand, he might confess. Frankly, he’d rise a notch in my own appraisal of him if he chose that route.”

  “You sound as if you were convinced of his guilt.”

  “I am.” She said it with a wave of her blonde head, a kind of imperiousness, as if his attention were titillating her. He was, he hoped, a lofty figure in her eyes, especially since he did, indeed, control her destiny, her job. Certainly she must be flattered by his interest, he thought, testing the assumption by placing his hand on hers. She might think it a fatherly act.