by Warren Adler
“It doesn’t matter,” Gunderstein said quietly. “That’s not for us to contemplate.”
“Only the story?”
“Only the story.”
“And if I choose not to run it?”
“You can’t,” Gunderstein said.
“But I can,” Nick protested.
“Not in good conscience.”
“Good conscience?”
Gunderstein nodded. Was it an implied threat? He would never know unless he picked up the gauntlet.
What had all this to do with conscience? he wondered. Self-interest was the paramount reason for all things, self-protection. It was in the rhythm of the evolutionary process, a part of the figurative food chain. The powerful eat the less powerful, while each transforms, developing new coping skills. They create new kinds of power, new life forms, in which the more powerful eat the less powerful and so on. He hung now by a thin thread over the razor’s edge.
“You could always take the story to the New York Times,” Nick noted, hoping that the suggestion might take hold. It was not Henderson who concerned him. Henderson, the confirming other source.
“I could.”
Would Gunderstein see a story in that, the refusal of the Chronicle to carry the story, the implied cover-up, that abominable word, by the world’s most powerful newspaper? And then would come the story of the quarter of a million, the avalanche of names, payoffs, a whole new Pandora’s box. Surely the Chronicle would respond with denials, would find, in the musty attic of the Times, something to prick the balloon of their unbearable self-righteousness. Then the two great newspapers would lock themselves in mortal combat, draining their energy in a great media war—an unlikely outcome. It was an axiom of the media never to attack a fellow purveyor, at least on a peer level. Economics, the old concept of property ownership, dictated as always the extent of media reach. He, Nick, might stand in the doorway, but in the end, as he now knew, Myra held the key. Okay, Charlie, he asked, the futility of the question heavy in his mind, what do we do now? Go crazy? Take the bullet? Or walk away, the prospect of a living death?
“I should submit it to the legal eagles.”
“There’s no libel here, Mr. Gold, not on our part.”
“When did you start to practice law?”
“Between us we know more libel law than a brace of lawyers.” It was the only visible sign of cockiness he had ever revealed. “A good reporter understands libel by instinct, because a good reporter only writes the truth.”
“That is the biggest crock of shit I’ve heard all morning,” he said, knowing it was the truth, knowing that there was no libel in the story. By now, he could only view himself with disgust, his own cowardice galling. But Gunderstein stood his ground, humility returning, the face impassive again, although the myopic eyes seemed to squint less and the red circles around the pimples had diminished.
“Have you shown this story to anyone?”
“No.”
“Martha Gates?”
“No.” His eyes had narrowed at the mention of her name. Had she told him? The outrage of it, he thought, the invocation of moral principles.
“I need more time, Harold.” He had framed the words carefully, more in tone than in meaning. It was necessary not to appear as if he were pleading. There was always the chance that Myra would understand, that reason could prevail. He searched for signs of her pragmatism, found many, invested her with her father’s intelligence and balance.
“Give me time,” he said, as if it were Gunderstein’s to grant. He could feel Gunderstein’s awkwardness in the face of the plea. He was, after all, the editor, not Gunderstein. The younger man stood awkwardly before him, shifting his weight clumsily from one foot to the other. Physically, he seemed so bland, almost frail. Perhaps in his very lack of formidability lay the key to his character.
“Let me read the story carefully,” he whispered, reaching for the telephone, his ultimate technique of dismissal. Gunderstein watched him for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back to the city room. When he had crossed the room and sat down at his desk, Nick reached for the story, refolded it, and put it in the inside coat pocket of his jacket. It was then that he called Jennie, the words belched like commands as she acknowledged them with glum assents.
Putting on his jacket and fur-lined leisure coat, which barely reached to the end of his jacket, he walked quickly from the city room, his eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Gunderstein’s eyes, which he knew followed him. His coat testified to his destination. Let him draw his own implications.
He could see her emerging from the cab, probing carefully for the curb, with panted legs. She was dressed in her own special version of what was expected for the game, a high-crowned fur hat, teddy bear jacket, a blaze of orange which he knew would match her lipstick. Seeing him, she moved gracefully, recalling for him the special moments of tenderness. He could have been quite content in his ignorance, he thought.
“Hail to the Redskins,” she said, falling in step beside him as they passed through the door to the special entrance. In the elevator they huddled in the crowd, light-hearted and bantering, as the cab moved slowly upward.
Faces turned as they arrived at the private suite behind the owner’s box. The elite were crowded around the bar, sipping Bloody Marys, the dominant personality Myra Pell, slender and carefully groomed in a beige pants outfit. She had been talking with Swopes, elegantly suited in a camel’s hair sport jacket and soft red shirt. Nick noted the familiar faces, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Senator Jack Martin, a long-shot presidential hopeful, Barry Halloran, the President’s Press Secretary, the swinging Ambassador from Iran, who sported a lovely wide-eyed showgirl type, clutching at his arm. Ambruster, the head of the CIA, his breakfast companion of a few days ago, Mrs. Hoffritz, the obligatory rich dowager hostess, recently widowed, already slightly smashed, the ex-vice presidential candidate Richard Melton, Melissa Haversham, the actress of the current hit television show, daintily sipping champagne, John Packard, the oil lobbyist, tall and stately with a deeply flushed face, and his pouchy wife, bloated by too many cocktails and canapes, both of them clutching large glassfuls of bourbon on the rocks. But it was the blue eyes of Burton Henderson that magnetized him for a moment, matching perfectly the blue sky that peeked in the distance. He smiled broadly into Nick’s face as his wife worked at keeping her eyes averted, the mantle of her past humiliation still visible. Behind him was Biff Larson, the Secretary of the Treasury, rakish in a shiny leather jacket. Nick felt his hand being pumped and grasped as Myra moved between him and Jennie holding each by the upper arm, the attentive hostess.
“And here’s Jennie,” she said. Without seeing it, he could assume that there was a special squeeze on Jennie’s arm, a knowing signal.
“So you’re the acid wit at the end of the by-line,” the Chief Justice said, grabbing her hand. Jennie’s eyes flashed furtively at Nick.
“Pungent but attractive,” the dowager said.
“It’s me,” Richard Melton said, grabbing Nick’s hand. “The old professional ex-pol.”
“I wondered where I saw you before,” Jennie said brightly. Once in the crowd, her spirits had perked up. Perhaps it had been Myra’s caress that stimulated her. She took a Bloody Mary from the bar.
“I’m great copy for the ‘What Ever Happened to’ columns.”
“What ever did happen to you?” Jennie asked.
“I joined the Mafia.”
“Well, at least you didn’t change your occupation.”
The Secretary of the Treasury laughed heartily, clinking glasses with John Packard.
“To the energy crisis, Biff.”
“Long may you profit by it, you bastard,” the Secretary of the Treasury said. Nick could not be certain if sarcasm was intended.
“Well, is that broken-down geriatrics ward going to win today?” Barry Halloran asked Swopes.
“Ask Melissa,” he said. “She’s just come up from giving the boys a p
ep talk.”
“It was marvelous. I’ve never been in a football locker room before. I’ve never seen so much manhood in one place,” she said winking.
“I’d say you must have inspired them,” the Iranian Ambassador said in his charming continental accent. The actress wiggled her hips playfully.
Beyond their chatter, Nick could hear the sound of the crowd, cheering the men who practiced on the field. Henderson came over and pumped Nick’s hand. He was relaxed and happy, oblivious to the ticket of his demise that bulged heavily in the inner pocket of Nick’s jacket.
“A great day for a ball game,” he said.
“Just great,” Nick answered with some effort, the words ejaculated with more force than was required.
“I’m really happy that you fellows have gotten together.” It was Myra’s voice, quietly intruding.
“You’ve got one helluva guy here, Myra,” Henderson said, the implied possessiveness not lost on him.
We’re pretty proud of him ourselves.”
“I understand that you were Charlie Pell’s best friend,” he said, his blue eyes flitting between his and Myra’s face. It was one of those unexpected remarks. He could actually feel Myra blanch.
“Buddies, those two,” she said cheerfully.
“I’ve heard fantastic things about him,” Henderson continued. How could he know he was treading on what was painfully private?
Myra moved away, heading for Ambruster. They began to talk in hushed whispers.
“I’m sure he feels a bit relieved as well,” Henderson said, his smile vanishing. “He’s taken so much flak lately he must feel like a piece of Swiss cheese.”
“Well at least he’s not running for anything,” Nick said. Henderson frowned briefly, then smiled.
“That’s one saving grace,” he said smugly, reaching out to catch Jennie’s hand.
“Now here is one sharp kid,” he said.
“That was quite a do the other night,” she said. Nick watched her aim her sense of womanness. It was her instinct not to miss a chance at latching on to power.
“I looked over your future home last night,” she said.
“So I read.”
“It’s real campy. Loved the backyard. And I do hope you change the cook.”
“Definitely.” He waved his wife over. Moving reluctantly, she sipped her drink as she came toward them.
“Jennie says we should change the cook in the new place.” Nick noted that Mrs. Henderson’s eyes seemed weary, glazed.
“His mousse was positively inedible.”
“Well have to look into it,” she said, unable to carry off the required bantering response. Henderson looked at her sharply, disapprovingly. Nick could sense the tension between them. She upended her glass and walked to the bar.
In a corner of the room, white-jacketed black waiters removed the silver covers of the chafing dishes, signaling the beginnings of the buffet. The smell of eggs and sausage permeated the room.
“Mmm, smells good,” the Ambassador’s girl friend said, apparently relieved to have found a topic of conversation. Nick watched the Ambassador’s hand slip down to caress a well-rounded buttock, caught his wink when he saw Nick watching.
“Soup’s on,” Swopes announced. None of the guests moved. It was considered gauche to be first in line. The slightly tipsy dowager came toward him. Nick braced himself, looking across the room at Myra, who winked playfully. Knowing what was to come, he tried to turn away, but she had already grabbed his lower arm.
“And how is Mr. Brezhnev’s man in Washington?” she said, lisping. Once the reigning Washington hostess, she had been systematically destroyed as a media figure by the shift in the Chronicle’s coverage, when the Lifestyle section replaced the old Society columns. Charlie had always suspected that she, along with others, had paid the reporters for her coverage, if not in cash, in other ways: lavish gifts, trips abroad. It could never be proved.
“We’ll freeze the bitches out,” he had said, actually compiling a blacklist. “If I see the names of these cunts in our paper, I’ll fire the lot of you,” he had shouted at a meeting in his office with the two Society reporters, long gone now, as they sat, guilt-ridden and pale. He had written down a series of names which he had forced them to memorize on the spot. He had wondered if they would make an issue out of it with the Newspaper Guild, but it had all blown over. Occasionally he had let their names slip in. They were, after all, a bit of nostalgia and one couldn’t avoid, for example, Mrs. Hoffritz’s massive contributions to the Kennedy Center and whatever worthy causes were the current fad. Besides, she represented a kind of caricature that added spice to the Washington scene.
“I’m no longer working for Brezhnev. Mao has made me a better offer, Mrs. Hoffritz.”
“There are lots of real Americans out there, just waiting for a chance to get you,” she said. A remembered phrase echoed in his mind, suddenly solving the identity of the writer of one of his persistent hate letters. He felt a strange kinship with her. Fryer of my gut, he chuckled.
“So it’s you,” he said mysteriously, knowing she would never understand. Inviting her might be one of Myra’s private jokes, he thought.
“Your dress is lovely, Mrs. Hoffritz,” he said, winking at Swopes, who led her away to the buffet table.
“She owns half the real estate in town,” Richard Melton said behind them. “In my day, all you had to do was knock Stalin and down would come a ten-thousand-dollar check for your campaign.”
“I always wondered what you fellows did with that dough,” Nick said.
“Don’t knock campaign funds, Nick. It kept a lot of us in groceries.”
“I know.”
“Standard practice in the industry.”
The buffet line had begun to form. Outside the din was increasing. He felt the bulk of Gunderstein’s copy in his pocket. He searched for Myra. She was talking to Henderson, the two of them alone now. Mrs. Henderson glared at them from the buffet line. He felt no pity for the poor woman, wallowing in her humiliations and misconceptions, caught in the web of her husband’s imagery. It was, after all, a comfortable misconception, since she could excuse her husband’s infidelity if it was necessary for the cause. Perhaps she too had made that sacrifice herself. He heard Myra’s familiar laughter. Starting toward them, he stopped, noted how banal it appeared, the two of them together, confident of their power. They seemed so innocent, two children at play.
“Ummm, delicious,” the Ambassador’s girl friend squealed as he spooned tiny chunks of scrambled eggs into her mouth. Beside her, Biff Larson in his tight-fitting leather jacket bent down and held his mouth open for a proffered bit of egg.
“Down his greedy gullet,” the Iranian Ambassador said, smiling. “Double the price of the next piece.”
“The Middle Eastern mentality at work,” the Secretary of the Treasury said with mock sarcasm.
“Oh, you mean oil,” the Ambassador’s girl friend shrieked, proud of her knowledge of current events.
“You should let her negotiate with us,” Biff Larson said.
“She drives a hard bargain,” the Ambassador said, winking to Nick, who was listening idly to their chatter.
“I’ll bet,” the Secretary of the Treasury said, also turning to Nick. The Ambassador held a hand near his mouth and whispered in Nick’s ear.
“She has an absolutely exquisite body,” he whispered.
The Secretary of the Treasury, who had imagined what the remark might have been, said: “Bribing the press again, Mr. Ambassador?”
“It is an old Middle Eastern tradition.”
“Bribing the press?”
“No. In my country we are the press.” He turned to his girl friend and blew her a kiss.
“You’re not giving things away again?” Melissa Haversham said. The Chief Justice, who had been talking to her, watched her hips move as she walked toward him.
“I’ll take them both,” the Secretary of the Treasury aid. “Just wrap them up and deliv
er them to my home.”
“In an unmarked brown wrapper,” the Ambassador’s girl friend said, apparently confused by their repartee, feeling the need not to be considered dumb.
Nick listened to the patter, the relaxed Washington talk. It represented a kind of special shorthand, understood, like Morse code, by both the sender and the receiver. On this stage nobody played for the audience, only for themselves, a tight little group, like the hardcore gamblers of a floating crap game.
Nick moved out of earshot, leaning against the far wall, balancing his plate. Outside the noise of the crowd grew louder. He ate by habit, tasting little, watching Myra circulate again, the Queen Bee offering herself for impregnation to the workers. He had the impression that she could feel his eyes on her, a laser beam, energizing her as she made her rounds. Henderson followed in her wake, the symbolism apt. Jennie completed the train, looking for a new place to roost now that she had lost him.
Again he felt for the folded copy in his jacket, rubbing its bulk, sensing the frantic beat of his heart beneath it. Myra was coming toward him now, a thin benign smile pasted on her lips.
“Are you all right, Nick?” she asked. He quickly removed his hand from his jacket.
“Fine.” He cautioned himself. Was this the moment?
“There’s a time to shut off the motor, Nick.” It sounded like an order.
“Cut him adrift.” He found himself saying it, despite the draining away of courage. But the players were being announced and the room had suddenly reverberated with the boom of the crowd, a wave of stamping and vibrations, drowning out intelligible sounds.
“What?” she said. But the noise persisted. He looked upward, watching the ceiling, waiting for the sound to die down. It seemed like the recurring dream of the unheard shout, the unreachable grip, where energy and motion defied real movement. If she had heard, would she have understood?
“Last call for drinks,” Swopes shouted above the din as the group clustered around the bar.
“Who do you like in the game?” Henderson asked, casual, unruffled, confident. Behind him Nick could see his wife, stern and dour, a note of hopeless resolution in her glazed eyes.
