by Dan Newman
He suddenly cuts me off, and his voice comes through the phone as if the receiver is mashed tightly against his lips. It comes across tight, drawn and quivering, like a cable stretched to the point where the braided strands are beginning to part. “How sure are you about the man you said did this?”
I am jarred, off balance. “You mean Trots?”
“Yes, Trots.”
“It was him. Without a doubt.” I steady myself. “Are you okay, Mr. Dysart?” I hear a long breath drawn and exhaled, and then the sound of ice against crystal. “Mr. Dysart?” I ask again.
And then the tension is suddenly gone. He is quiet, contrite. “Look, Roland, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”
“No, it’s fine, Mr. Dysart. I understand.”
“I’m sorry, Roland,” he says. “Forgive me.”
And the line, much like Trots, goes dead.
• • •
“Well, I’m not entirely surprised, Roland,” Sheila says, putting her reading glasses down on the desk. “What was it, two years here at the Star-Telegraph?”
“Yeah. Nine months with you.”
“Nine months. Well, that’s some kind of record for sure.” She smiles, and then, “Of course, you know I’ll have to spin this and take at least partial credit for your speedy rise.”
I am glad, now, that I opted for appreciative and ever-so-slightly forlorn. Sheila asks a few harmless questions about the new role, not in any line-of-inquiry kind of way, but more collegial, and with perhaps a hint of maternal pride. At the end, she stands and shakes my hand, crushing it, then assumes the Superman stance with hands placed firmly on hips. If she’d had a pair of balls, she would have reached down and scratched them.
It’s decided that my last two weeks will be filled with the work of editing fellow scribes, proofreading, and generally tooling around with no real direction. There will be no more story development for me. No assignments. No travel. Just a series of pointless days punctuated by editorial meetings from which I’m carefully excluded.
I head down to Carroway’s floor, past his guard dog, Janet, without so much as a growl from her. Two years ago I wouldn’t have made it to the door, but today she just gives me a crisp smile and then drops her head back to the monitor. I knock once and Carroway peers over the top of his glasses and then waves me in. “Ah, Mr. Keene. Come to say your goodbyes?”
I am mildly annoyed that Sheila broke the news before I had a chance to do it myself. But then again, that is kind of her job.
“You already know.”
“Of course,” he says, smiling a rare warm smile. “This is a small town, Roly, and an even smaller business.”
“Well, I had wanted to tell you myself, seeing as you gave me, you know, my first break.”
Carroway crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Hmm. It’s a nice-sounding sentiment, but I don’t think even you believe that, do you, Roland?”
I say, without pretense, “What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re referring to how you came to the Star-Telegraph, I think Colin Dysart is the man you should be thanking. And if you’re talking about the immigration story that got you that first byline, then it’s really yourself you should be thanking.”
I shuffle awkwardly, ever the rookie in Carroway’s presence.
“Sit down,” he says, and then, louder and over my shoulder, “Janet, would you mind getting the door, please?” Janet obliges, and Carroway gives her the standard nod/smile combo. “She’s great but loves the gossip.”
“Yeah, she’s great.”
“So, off to the land of network television.”
“Yeah. I’m assuming Sheila gave you the details, so I won’t bother repeating it all, but I’m really looking forward to it.”
“No, I haven’t spoken to Sheila in days.”
I dig through the morning and can’t come up with anyone else I have told. My first stop was Sheila, and then I came here. “So who told you?” And then it dawns on me. Small town…smaller business.
Carroway sees the realization in my face. “Gordon and I go way back. We worked the police beat at the same time in our first couple of years.” He leans back dramatically in his chair, eyebrows raised and cheeks puffed out. “Christ, that was awhile back,” he says wistfully. “My start wasn’t as dramatic as yours, Roland. Still, it’s worked out okay.”
“So, Gordon called you today?”
Carroway smiles and shakes his head. “Nope.”
“—.”
“Sure, we’ve had a few chats about you, about the possibility of you in front of the camera. But it was Steve D’Angelo who told me it was coming.”
“After the thing on USA This Morning?”
“No, actually. He called it well before that—after your bit with the BBC in, where was it? Botswana or somewhere in southern Africa, I think.”
“Zimbabwe.” My mind is reeling and I’m trying to catch up with the activity that has been so clearly happening around me, without my having even the faintest idea. It’s a little flattering, for sure, but also kind of creepy. “So you and Gordon were—”
“He sounded me out about you. What kind of guy you were, if I thought you had a pair large enough for the TV game, if I thought you could pull off a report without editors reworking your script for you. Stuff like that.”
“So I guess I do need to thank you after all.”
“No again. I told him you were still too green. Don’t get me wrong, I told him I thought you would be great for it—given a few more years, but I guess he’s investing early.”
“Well,” I say haltingly, “Thanks—ish.”
Carroway laughs. “I’m sure you’ll be great, Roly. Plus it gets you away from here and out of certain people’s crosshairs.”
Carroway sees the blood run up from under my collar immediately—and perhaps the full body rigor as well. He smiles. “Do you think this latest move of yours has put the problem behind you?”
I’m stunned. What does Carroway know about me and Trots? How the fuck does he know anything at all? I stare blankly, wide eyed. Thoughts ricochet around in my head as I frantically jam puzzle pieces together and find nothing that fits.
Carroway continues. “You know, you leave enough bodies in your wake, at some point one of ’em’s gonna come back to haunt you.”
All I can do is go for the clarifier. He can’t know. He simply can’t know about Trots, about Chloe, about any of it. “What are you talking about?” is all I can muster. It comes out an octave too high and all squeaky with stress.
“Barret. I’m talking about Barret and the big step up you took on his back.”
My heart performs a full-gainer in my chest and Carroway interprets the shock on my face—which is really a spasm of relief—as horror: some kind of posttraumatic realization of having grievously wronged a genuine news somebody. “Now take it easy there, Roly,” he says. “I’m not saying Barret is going to wait for you in a dark alley and brain you with a baseball bat. Just that at some time in the future you’ll likely feel his influence in a negative way. That’s all.”
The blood roaring in my ears is calming, and I physically will the scarlet from my face with only limited success.
“Right, right,” I say, “but I never set out to get him or anything. He was just there, in the way, when I needed to move. It was nothing personal.”
Carroway shrugs in that noncommittal, maybe you have a point, maybe you don’t kind of way. “Look, if you ever get the chance, throw him a peace offering. Put it behind both of you. I’d just hate to see this fester and have it drag something up that didn’t need dragging up.”
I leap in with both feet. “Something like what?”
“Nothing. I’m just illustrating my point. I’m merely suggesting you try to do something good for the situation—should the opportunity arise. Bring things back into balance. That’s all.”
Do something good. Christ, it’s some kind of cosmic echo.
Again, Carroway leans dee
p into his chair, arms thrown back behind his head. “Just giving you the headlines, Roly. What you make of them, how you interpret them—well, that’s all outside the scope of what we do here at the Star-Telegraph.”
I think for a moment, and then ask a question that a real newsman would never have to. It feels crass somehow. Distinctly high school. “Has Barret said something?”
Carroway chews on the inside of his lip. “Mmm, sort of. I’m not sure what he’s up to, but my ear to the track tells me he’s looking into you at some level. Probably just hoping to find something embarrassing in your past. I like you, Roly. I have from the get-go. That’s the only reason I’m telling you this. I’m presuming nothing—we all have our share of skeletons—but if I were you, I’d make sure mine were well buried.”
35
I fade quietly from the Star-Telegraph and at the end of my two weeks, I pull a no-show on my last day in order to dodge the inevitable embarrassment of the poorly attended farewell party in the lunchroom. I get a few calls from well wishers, from the likes of D’Angelo and Sheila—and one from Carroway himself. I collect them all on the answering machine.
There’s one other call, not from a well wisher, and it’s the only one I return. I dial the number and listen as the tone warbles at the other end. It never finishes the first full ring. “Dysart,” comes the voice at the other end. It is commanding, secure, unflappable.
“Mr. Dysart. It’s me. Roland.” And then, because I foolishly believe he may not know who Roland is, “Roland Keene.”
“Ah, Roland. Appreciate the call back.”
I am about to speak but he continues. “I understand you’ve left the paper.”
“Yes.”
“Onward and upward. Look, are you available to come down for a lunch, perhaps a drink? I’d like to chat. This afternoon would be good. Let’s say two at the club.”
“I’m sorry, which club?” I ask, confirming I’m from another world entirely.
“The Empire Club. And you’ll need a tie.” And then he’s gone, the line dead.
The Empire Club—arguably the city’s most exclusive—sits at the center of the financial district, shamelessly preening in its tony address, welcoming a select few and casting disdain on all others. I’ve walked past it, but never dared to venture inside.
Two hours later I’m looking up at the red brickwork, the large, squatting white pillars and the black wrought iron fence that wraps around it all—carefully emblazoned with the club crest.
I brace myself and step inside.
The man at the desk looks up and smiles warmly. There is no spotlight, no henchman sharply raising his eyebrows. “Mr. Keene, I presume?” he says, still smiling. “Mr. Dysart is waiting for you in the Cumberland Room. Right this way, please.”
Upstairs, at the end of a long marble corridor lined with busts carved in polished black stone and paintings of pasty-faced dignitaries, I’m shown through double doors into a private members’ room.
The walls are paneled in rich woods, and in each corner four pinstriped wingbacks cluster together, creating semiprivate alcoves where groups can sip brandy and smoke fine cigars.
The only man in the room is Colin Dysart, and he waves me over from one of the chairs. The doors close behind me and I feel it in my ears, as if the room is sealed airtight. “Roland. Good of you to come. Drink?” he says, raising the crystal tumbler in his hand.
“Sure,” I say, then immediately regret my decision. He’ll ask me what I want and I’ll look like a fool and ask for something distinctly low rent, like a beer. I don’t know anything about wines and fine scotches.
Dysart stands and pours something amber into a glass, and now I notice that each wall has its own polished wooden table, inlaid with marble, upon which sit crystal glasses and decanters. “Here you go. Sit. Please.”
He crosses his legs and sips at the drink in his hand, eminently comfortable in these surroundings. I, on the other hand, perch on the edge of my chair, waiting for Dysart to speak. I don’t know why I was summoned here, and the not knowing is gnawing cruelly at my insides. But Dysart lets the moment ride. I, however, cannot. “This place is beautiful,” I say, looking up at the ceiling.
“Yes, it has its charms.” He sets his glass on the small table beside him. “So tell me, Roland, why the change to broadcast? I rather thought print was your preferred medium. And you’ve done quite well with us. Written some important pieces.”
“Well, thank you. I mean, again—I would never have had the chance without your recommendation to Ed Carroway.”
“Happy to have helped. But that was just a start—this thing at USBN sounds interesting.”
I’m reminded that the man before me wasn’t always a business tycoon. He was once a reporter, like me, and I can see that his interest is genuine, not small talk. “Yeah, I think so,” I say. “I had no interest in broadcast in school, but I was interviewed by a BBC news crew a little while ago and it kind of stuck. So I thought I’d give it a shot and see if it’s for me. Did you do anything on camera? I know you were a reporter early on.”
Dysart steeples his hands, touching his fingertips together just below his nose. He doesn’t answer right away, but then: “No, I’ve always been more interested in print. It’s in the writing. There’s something in a printed word that television and radio can’t match. I swear it has as much to do with the look of the letters, the way they sit on that white field, the curl of the font. It’s hard to describe, and I’ve been at this a while, but I really do love print.”
“They say you still read every word of every one of your papers.”
Dysart snorts, something close to a laugh. “I own fifty-seven newspapers around the world. It’s a wonderful sentiment—and God knows I’d love to sit and read them all—but it’s simply impossible.”
“Do you miss it?”
Dysart looks at me curiously.
“The writing, the reporting. Getting out, asking questions, building a story.”
He draws a long wistful breath and I can see him casting back, through the years, to a time when the Empire Club and all its luxuries were just a part of someone else’s life. “You know, I don’t think so. Doing what I do now seems to be working.” He glances at his watch, and I can see a deadline is approaching. He goes on. “But it has come at a cost, as everything does.”
I know there is more here, so I let the silence ride—despite a gnawing urge to lunge in.
“Excelling in anything exacts a sharp cost. In my case it’s been decisions around time—it’s become a commodity and I’ve had to make trades, some very hard ones. It’s paid off in business, but sacrifices had to be made in other parts of my life.” He reaches for the glass again and gazes at the light playing in the crystal. “I’m sure you can relate—even at this stage of your career I’d bet you can point to a few sacrifices of your own.”
Something large and immovable has appeared in my throat. What does he want? Dysart drains the glass and stands to refill it. I look around the room, relieved to see we’re still alone. “I hear you studied under Leo Bowman,” he says, returning to the seat. “Did you know he worked for me at one point?”
This catches me by surprise. “Professor Bowman? Really?”
“Absolutely. He covered the crime beat, as I recall, for a daily we ran in New York. He’s quite a legend in academic circles now, I hear.”
My mind flits back to a campus bar and the ridiculous, life-affirming permission slip I received from him. “Yeah, he’s the real deal. I really got along with him.”
“That makes sense. Did you know he was an orphan? Some common ground there for the two of you.”
I’m left momentarily stunned by this simple revelation, and as my jaw slackens the Professor’s voice floats through my head as clearly as if the man were sitting across from me now: Your circumstances, where you start from in life, Roly—that can’t be the definition of you. It’s what you do next that counts. I want to linger here, to think about the impact of his being
an orphan, but very quickly I am aware of something more pressing, something elbowing its way to the front. Sure, Dysart knows the Professor was an orphan, but what really has my attention is that he knows my story as well. What should have been apparent to me from the start now tumbles in on me like a collapsing mine shaft: Dysart has spent time looking into me.
I can’t tell if his comments about the Professor (and me) are just conversation fodder or if he’s subtly communicating his reach, but suddenly something inside me has finally had enough. The chit-chat has to stop. I need to know why I’m here and I need to know now. I take a steadying breath, and then: “Mr. Dysart, is there some reason in particular you wanted to see me?”
He smiles a contrite smile, and his head bobs up and down lightly. “Yes. Yes, there is.”
Whatever it is, it is decidedly difficult for him. This man has the power to sway entire economies, to influence elections and advise heads of state, but what he is trying to say now, to me, seems to wither him.
“Roland, I’m trying to find an easy route to the subject, but there doesn’t seem to be one. First of all, I want to apologize—for the call, a couple of weeks back—”
“Mr. Dysart, you don’t—”
“No, please let me finish. I’ve been—we’ve been—my wife and I…we’ve been going through a difficult time lately. Dealing with Chloe’s death. It was the same this time last year. You see, tomorrow would have been Chloe’s twenty-second birthday.”
“Oh shit,” I say, unintentionally out loud.
“You see, everything becomes magnified on important family dates, and when I called you I’d had a few scotches. Perhaps a few too many. Calling you then was a lapse in judgment, and I apologize.”
He sees I want to interrupt, to say it’s okay, but he gently half raises an open palm to stop me. He goes on. “Roland, one of the strange quirks of human nature I’ve been forced to confront is that my daughter’s death has become a kind of bottomless pit that I have to somehow fill. And I mean every day.” He places his hands on his face and runs them up through his hair, one hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. “I know rationally that I can’t do it, that there’s no satisfying that hole. But knowing that doesn’t matter. I have to do everything I can. I have to know everything I can. And I have to touch every part of what’s left of Chloe.”
