Firebird_A Spy Story of the 1960's

by Noel Hynd

  AN ATTACK ON OUR FAMILY

  And then he wrote,

  Sam Rothman, who was shot early Wednesday morning, is more than a beloved friend to everyone who knows him. He is also one of the best sportswriters to ever pound a typewriter, cover a game, or profile an athlete in our decaying but still great city.

  Yet when his life was put in jeopardy in a Brooklyn storage warehouse, Sam was still aspiring to do what he considered grander things—as if his craft and brilliance were not rare enough.

  Sam wanted to be part of what we in journalism still stubbornly and egotistically call a “hard news” story. But rather than merely uncover or report such a story, Sam has now become a central part of one. In an irony he would have appreciated, in shooting a kindly widower nearing retirement, his assailants have signaled the beginning of their own rapid demise.

  Journalists are here to report news and inform the public. Naturally, we are human. We make mistakes. We sometimes offend or infuriate those whom we attempt to serve. That is part of the journalistic process.

  But we are, after all, not here to become targets any more than any other citizen. Any personal violence is intolerable. No human life weighs more than another. But in the shooting of Sam Rothman, the citizenry of this city has been attacked, from those who report the news to those who purchase a newspaper.

  Thus, it is a given that the resources of the New York Eagle will be fully dedicated to exposing the cowards who have imperiled our colleague's life. Similarly, the pages of this newspaper—and, one hopes, other newspapers around the city, state, and nation—will in time be alive with the full sequence of events which resulted in the assault on our colleague. This is a trail which will be exposed no matter how far it leads or how far into the past it travels.

  The New York Eagle is pledged from this day forward to provide a solution to this horrendous case.

  Cooper left the essay on his blotter. Then he walked to S.W. Murphy's office on the Sixth Floor. He left his “opinion piece,” as Murphy would call it, on the managing editor's desk. Murphy had a condescending way of pronouncing such pieces “intemperate” or “overly emotional.” He would then spike them. But who knew? Murphy was unpredictable.

  Cooper left a message for his staff that he would be in at ten that day: they should prepare the Irish Comics without him till he arrived. He sent an impassioned note to the administrative head of copy boys and asked for Topher Wilson to be “loaned” to obituaries for a day. Then he went home. He slept for five hours.

  When he awakened, he drank a cup of the previous day’s coffee that was still in his kitchen and phoned Kings County Hospital. Miraculously, Sam was unconscious but still clinging to life. The man had the heart and tenacity of a bull, but Cooper had always known that.

  Then for the first time in many years, he cried.

  Cooper returned to the Eagle at ten. He staggered through the morning. Few people could focus on their work. The story was everywhere, including rival New York papers. Other reporters were phoning—from the News, the Times, the Post and Newsday. They offered assistance. Out of town journals were picking it up, also. Marty Friedkin phoned in from a booth in the Midwest; Cooper told him everything that he knew and everything that had happened. Four times, Cooper tried to phone Margot. No answer, damn her.

  Chapter 29

  In the late afternoon, Cooper went back to the 86th Precinct in Brooklyn and gave a formal statement. He left around seven p.m. and drove to the hospital in Brooklyn, hoping to be able to get news or see Sam. The women at the nursing station in the Intensive Care Unit were cordial. But no one could see Sam. He was on life support. The next day, they said, would be critical.

  Cooper left his card and explained that he worked with Sam. He asked to be alerted if there were any news, one way or another. The nurses said they would do that.

  He returned to his car. He pondered stopping by St. Patrick’s Cathedral on the way home and putting in a prayer for Sam. A lapsed Catholic asking for divine intercession for his best pal, a Jew. Sam would have laughed at that one. But he would have appreciated it. At such moments, Cooper often reverted to the beliefs that he had been raised with: one of them was that God didn’t see skin color or religious persuasion. The God that Cooper sometimes believed in saw right and wrong, good and evil.

  Cooper postponed the stop at St. Patrick’s. But he mumbled the prayer in his car.

  He pulled out of the hospital parking lot. He would stop off somewhere for a drink and some dinner on his way home. He would sleep for a few hours then return to work.

  There were feelings within Cooper which fought with each other. Sam had been his best friend in the world. And Cooper had been to some degree responsible for Sam's fate, which now teetered between life and death. Why hadn't Cooper just let Sam come with him?

  Ridiculous. They both would have been gunned down. What good would that have done? He scanned in his rearview mirror as he crossed the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan. A feeling overcame him: he was being followed.

  On the Brooklyn Bridge, construction equipment hogged two lanes. Traffic crawled.

  Cooper tried to discern patterns within the headlights behind him. He exited the bridge in Manhattan. Two other cars veered off after his. He drove uptown on the FDR Drive, left it suddenly at 42nd Street and drove west past Second Avenue. Someone was following. It looked like a beaten-up import, but he couldn’t be sure. He pulled his pistol out of his belt, released the safety catch and lay the pistol on the seat next to him. He put a copy of the Eagle on top of the weapon in case the NYPD stopped him.

  He accelerated on 42nd Street, made a sharp turn and went north on Third Avenue. He lost the headlights that seemed to pursue him. He continued north cautiously, continuing to scan for any pursuer.

  He drove to 86th Street and turned west. He crossed Amsterdam Avenue. He parked his car on the north side of West 86th Street. He sat in the car and waited. His pistol was at arm’s length. He reached to it and put it beneath his jacket in his belt. No point to leave it in the car. Street punks could smell booty like that. It would be gone by the time he returned.

  He stepped from his car. At curbside, he found some discarded beer cans. He nudged them with his foot, forming a geometric pattern along the underside of his car. No one was going to slide underneath and leave an explosive surprise wired to the under-carriage without dislodging the cans. If an intrusion occurred, he would detect it easily. He set out on foot. When he entered the Old Dublin Bar, the air-conditioning was cranked. He went to the bar, sat down, and ordered a draft beer.

  Piels. God bless Burt and Harry: the last of the Brooklyn brewers.

  One world-class drunk coming up. This one's for you, Sam, he thought to himself. The beer arrived. It felt good going down. It was gone in less than a minute. He ordered another as he felt someone slide into the seat next to him. It startled him. He heard a female voice.

  “Aren't you even going to say hello?”

  He turned. He looked Lauren Richie squarely in the eyes. “Hello,” he said.

  “Much better,” she said. “I saw you leaving the hospital. I tried to signal you, but you were in your own world.”

  “That was you who followed me?”

  “Yup.”

  “I didn’t know you owned a car.”

  “I don’t. It’s a friend’s. I borrowed it. It’s a rambling wreck. So much so that not even a

  Puerto Rican would steal it.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. She laughed. “Yo soy boricua, pa' que tu lo sepas. I’m Puerto Rican,” she said. “I can say whatever I want.”

  “Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry. I guess you can.”

  “My family name was Cortez. My family spoke Spanish at the dinner table. I use my married name, Richie, so they can’t discriminate ahead of time.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Cooper, who liked any idea that allowed a reporter to get a drop on an interviewee. “What are you
drinking?” he asked.

  “Same as you.”

  Cooper signaled to the barman. A brewski arrived.

  “Why did you follow me?” Cooper asked.

  “Murphy called me in today,” she said. “Offered me the sports editorship of the Eagle,” she said. “Temporary until Sam comes back, if he does. If I don’t take it, Murphy hires a guy who’s the assistant sports editor of the Philadelphia Bulletin.” She paused. “I'd be the first female sports editor of a New York daily,” she mused.

  “Congratulations,” Cooper said. “And I'm sure that in terms of cheap publicity, Murphy will milk it for everything it's worth.”

  “I haven’t decided whether to take it or not.”

  “Take it. That's where the prestige will be. Plus the money. And no matter what you write, no one will put a pipe bomb under your car.”

  “Murphy gave me a couple of options. One is to stay in sports and edit the page. The other is to work with you on the story to which you're currently assigned. The Stanley Rudawski obituary. Sam's shooting. Wherever it leads.”

  “Murphy said that?”

  “Unless I was hallucinating.”

  “What else did S.W. have to say? He can never shut up.”

  “He now things the Rudawski story just could be big, very big, and you could use some help, even if it’s shoe leather. He also knew that I'd spent time with Sam. I'd heard from Sam what you were working on.” She sipped her beer. “Murphy also thought I could use some toughening up,” she said. “He said there was no way to get experience faster on the Eagle than to work with Frank Cooper. You want to slap me around for a few weeks? Metaphorically, I mean?”

  “I've never worked with an assistant in my life,” he said. “Not for hard news.”

  “S.W. also wants someone to keep an eye on you. In case you fall on your drunken ass.”

  “He told you that?” Cooper asked.

  “In so many words.”

  He looked away, then looked back to her. “Well, screw S.W.,” Cooper said.

  “He was dropping hints on that, too. You newspaper guys are a horny bunch. Sam, too.”

  “How did you put him off?”

  “Sam? I told him I was a dyke.”

  “You did what?” Cooper laughed. “Are you?”

  “Sure. Or maybe not.” Lauren answered. “Picture me sitting on a bar stool at The Bagatelle on 14th Street. You know, dressed up ‘high femme’ and sitting on my butch’s lap.” She winked. “Does that turn you on?” she asked.

  She grinned. When Lauren smiled, she was both very smart and very pretty. Cooper understood why Sam had been smitten. “You’re full of street sass, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Do they have edible food here? I’m starving.”

  He handed her a menu that was on the bar. “It’s an Irish place. Stick with the boiled potatoes,” he said.

  “I’ll do that.” Instead, she ordered a corned beef sandwich, which they agreed to split. They each also ordered a second beer.

  “I was in a bar for gay girls called Kookies on Eighth Avenue once,” Cooper confessed, loosening up. “I asked the wrong girl if she wanted to dance and her wolf nearly broke my nose.”

  “Oh, it happens,” Lauren said with a laugh. “Sam and I were just friends. Once a week I'd cook dinner for him at his place. Maybe once a week, he'd come over to my roach farm in the East Village.” The bartender set fresh beers before them. “Just shop talk.” She sighed. “I knew Sam was coming on to me a little. I couldn't mistake it. So I let him think I’m queer.”

  “How long have you worked for Sam?” Cooper asked. “I haven’t kept track.”

  “More than a year,” she said.

  “First job in New York?”

  “Second. I worked for the Village Voice for a few months in subscriptions. Then I saw the Eagle was hiring. I applied. Sam liked me. I had a good interview. We talked sports. I love baseball. Hockey. Plus, the Knicks. Sam really liked that I speak Spanish. He knew it would be useful for some baseball stories.”

  “Sam told me that.”

  “He took me out to Shea Stadium. I got to interview Clemente of the Pirates. You can get more out of people in their native language. They’re more comfortable, so they talk more.”

  “Makes sense,” Cooper said.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” she asked.

  “Maybe ten words. Took French in high school. Doesn’t do me much good right now.”

  “Serves you right,” she said. There was an awkward paused, then, “Look, Frank, may I

  put the cards on the table? I know the city. I’m from Spanish Harlem. I can get into more places than you because I’m younger and female. I can show you a hell of a lot of things you don’t know. You look skeptical,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you think that any story you've written,” he asked, “has ever given anyone a sleepless night?”

  “Of course not. They only give women soft news. It’s a miracle than I’m even on sports. If I didn’t speak fluent Spanish, I’d probably be doing wedding announcements.”

  “Well, there’s a big jump,” he said. “You may have great intentions, but I’ll be honest. I think what most of you J-schoolers do is junk. You can quote me.”

  “Well, fuck you, too,” she said.

  He shook his head, amused. “Jesus, you got a hell of a mouth on you for a girl.”

  “I can do it in two languages.”

  “Who cares? Spanish isn’t that important.”

  “It’s more important than you think. It’ll be more important in the future,” she said. “But while you’re telling me what’s wrong with me, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you.”

  “Oh, please do.”

  “You’re turning into a fossil at age fifty-five.”

  “I’m forty!” he said.

  “I know. Take it as an insult, that’s how it was intended. You think anyone under thirty will talk to you? If you do, you’re wrong. Nobody Cuban, Dominican or Newyorican will talk to you because you come across as a self-satisfied old blanco. You’ve probably missed a lot of good stories in this city.”

  “Never an important one.”

  “How would you know since you missed it?”

  The question hung him out to dry. How would he know?

  “Okay, so I’m a crusty old goat,” he said.

  “Good. We agree on something. I still want to do you a favor and work with you.”

  He sighed. Through the mirror behind the bar, he watched the entrance. That creepy sense of being followed was still upon him.

  “Yes or no?” she asked. “I need to tell Murphy tomorrow. That’s why I followed you.”

  “Enlighten me. What do you hope to gain by working with me?”

  “I gain experience. Sam warned me about getting pegged on the sports desk. ‘Do something else,’ he always told me. Do something bigger, grander. Swing your fists. Hit some bad guys in the nuts. Make enemies. Be a reporter.”

  “Okay,” he said. He drained his beer. “I’ll think about it.”

  She was suddenly angry. She slid off the bar stool and stood.

  “You thought about it too long,” she said. “The offer is rescinded. I shouldn’t have bothered. Fuck yourself!”

  She turned and stalked to the door. More than a little taken aback, Cooper watched her go. A single guy said something to her as she passed, probably trying to pick her up. She flipped him off, too. She didn’t miss a stride, said nothing and was gone.

  Cooper decided against another beer.

  “Wow,” he said to himself.

  He received the check and paid. When was back out on the street, he returned cautiously to his car, a feeling of disquiet all through him. He felt as if Sam’s protégée had kneed him in the gut. And he respected that. He was still turning it over when, half a block from his car, he noticed someone sitting on the car’s hood. His hand went to his gun. As he walked closer, the person waiting for him slid off the h
ood and turned to confront him. Cooper eased his hand away from his pistol and exhaled a long breath. He drew within a few feet of Lauren and stopped.

  “I don’t take no for an answer,” Lauren said. “You and me. We’re a team.”

  He checked beneath the car. The beer cans were still in place. No one had tampered.

  He looked Lauren squarely in the eye.

  “Last chance,” she said. “Don’t blow it. Yes or no?”

  Gut feeling: the words tumbled out of his mouth.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “Okay. Let’s do it. Yes.”

  Chapter 30

  The next morning, Frank Cooper sat at his desk, deep in thought.

  Want to plan your life? a terminally ill friend had once said to him. Envision your death and work backward.

  Recently, the phrase had often recurred to him. Envision your death and work backward. What would be said about him in his obituary? What would he say about himself? What were the great moments of his life? The triumphs? The defeats? The joys? The sorrows?

  With a pen and paper, he began working on his headline. He wrote,

  FRANK COOPER, 40

  What next? He let his imagination ramble. He continued. Then he had it:

  FRANK COOPER, 40

  WRITER FOR NEW YORK EAGLE

  SHOT TO DEATH IN NYC

  Well, why not?

  How many friends would show up? Who would send flowers? What would he list as his single, greatest accomplishment? Had there ever been one? Would there ever be one?

  He decided that there would. Yes, he told himself. Definitely! He would make sure there would be. He was in the middle of this thought when the telephone rang. He answered.

  “Frank Cooper,” Brett Molloy said grandly. “I've been thinking about you a bit. Sorry about the shooting on your paper,” he said. “How’s the sports guy doing?”

  “Sam Rothman. He’s clinging to life,” Cooper said. “Like all of us, one way or another. What’s up?”

  “I'm starting to think you and me, we might have some common goals. I'd like to explain things. In person. Can you come back down to Washington?” Molloy asked. “We can have a friendly chat. Maybe friendlier than last time.”