Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  “Where are we going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They reached the elevator, which opened just as he was pressing the button, and he pulled her inside.

  “What the hell?”

  “Just let me run the show, for once, okay?”

  She stood silently against the wall of the elevator on the opposite side.

  When the elevator door opened on the twelfth floor she got out and waited. He took her hand and led her down the hall. They stopped at a door, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a key, and opened it.

  They were in a pretty blue suite overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue with a step up to a study and a bedroom. On the table was a bucket with a bottle of champagne in it.

  She was determined not to say a word until he explained.

  “This is the honeymoon suite.”

  He announced it with such boyish satisfaction that she laughed.

  His face fell.

  “So?”

  “It’s ours.”

  “But we’re not on our honeymoon.”

  “It’s a preview of coming attractions. Maybe you’d understand trailer better. Isn’t that what the Brits call it?”

  “So you heard Julian was here and you’re jealous.”

  “Of course I’m jealous. I don’t want you fucking anybody else, goddamn you.”

  He really was jealous. She debated telling him that she hadn’t been to bed with Julian, then decided against it. Let him suffer.

  There was still a lot of anger and tension between them. “I love you. Don’t you understand that?”

  He was shouting.

  “Then why have you been putting me through hell for the last three months?”

  She was shouting, too. She certainly had not meant to.

  “Sonny, I…” he looked defeated. “I can’t tell you. But you have to trust me. I didn’t want to hurt you. It was killing me. But something had to be resolved. And it has been. All I want now is to make it up to you. Let me try. Marry me, please.”

  “Oh Des, I just don’t see how it can work. I’m a reporter. I can’t stand not knowing something. It would make me crazy. You’re telling me that for the last three months you have made me absolutely miserable, treated me like shit, hidden something from me that nearly ruined my life, and now I should just forget it? Marry you? Get on with our lives? You’ve got to be kidding. I’d spend the rest of our lives trying to get it out of you. And if I didn’t I’d end up hating your guts. Is that what you want?”

  “Yes, if that’s the only way I can have you.”

  “For God’s sake, Des. Tell me what it was.”

  “I think I’ve just changed my mind. I don’t think I could stand your interrogations for the next thirty or forty years. You’re right. Forget the whole thing. Forget I ever asked you to marry me. It would be a disaster. I’ve seen you at work. You’re too formidable. I’m no match. You’d destroy me.”

  It took her a moment to realize that he was putting her on.

  “You fucker. This is serious.” He looked at her a long time, trying to make up his mind.

  “As usual, you are a brilliant reporter,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t hide it completely from you. But yes, if it will make you feel better, it did have something to do with my family. I was sworn to secrecy. I have to protect that secret or it could destroy this person’s life. You have to trust me with the rest, Sonny.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” Now she was putting him on. “I think I know what it is. I’m going to tell you and I don’t expect you to respond. I just want to watch your face. Your Jesuit priest brother confides in you that he’s just tested positive for the AIDS virus. The last time you were in Boston you shared a razor and cut yourself. But wait, we’ve made love since then so it couldn’t be that…”

  Des broke into a huge grin.

  “Or maybe… your mother confessed that you are not your father’s natural son, and that your real father has died of a degenerative disease that is hereditary…”

  Des walked over and put his arms around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her while she was still talking.

  “Just tell me if I’m warm,” she said, when she came up for air.

  “You’re warm,” he said, kissing her again. “You’re very warm.”

  “Des, I can’t do this. I have to get back to the office. I have a meeting with Sprague Tyson.”

  “Fuck Sprague Tyson.”

  This time when he kissed her his hands were caressing her body, moving to undress her. “On the other hand, I have an even better idea.”

  * * *

  “I thought maybe we could go down to the cafeteria and get some tea… or do you not do tea either?”

  She was standing in front of Sprague Tyson’s desk in the middle of the newsroom. It was a little after four. She had just gotten back from the Willard. Her face was flushed and her hair, despite desperate attempts at combing, still looked disheveled. She hoped she seemed composed.

  He looked up from his notes. He studied her for a moment. His eyes flickered a bit in… appreciation? He certainly wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of reacting.

  “Actually, I’d rather we went somewhere more private. There’s a lot of confidential stuff I need to discuss with you. Why don’t you go down and get your tea and then maybe we could go to the conference room. It’s empty. I checked.”

  “Fine. I’ll be back shortly.”

  She was certainly not going to ask him if she could bring him something.

  When she came back he was already in the conference room.

  She sat at the table, deliberately leaving one chair between them.

  He had spread out his papers.

  “So,” she started out. She felt a little out of her element. She was an experienced reporter, but investigative reporting was a different kind of talent. She wasn’t completely confident dealing with this particular subject.

  “What have you got?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Was he questioning her ability to deal with it?

  “Try me.”

  He looked at her hard.

  “The problem is, I don’t know exactly what I do have. It’s little bits and pieces of the puzzle but nothing really tracks so far.”

  “Well, why don’t you start at the beginning. How did you get onto the story? What was the first thing that you learned?”

  Walt had taught her a trick early on. “You can’t let the fuckers intimidate you,” he had told her, “which they will always try to do. They know more and if it isn’t in your area of expertise you can feel very insecure. The fact is that it’s your ass on the line, not theirs. Eventually you’re going to have to explain it to the people above you and if you can’t you’re in deep shit. So ask the stupidest questions you can think of, as if you’re the reporter and you’re going to have to go back and write the story and you’re going to have to understand it.”

  “I think,” said Tyson, “that would be a waste of time. Why don’t I just give you the overall picture.”

  “Actually, Sprague, why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me what was the first thing you learned that made you think you had a story.”

  “You have to establish that you’re the boss,” Walt had told her. “They are reporting to you. It’s your right to know everything they know and they have to tell you.”

  “There’s a drug problem in this country,” he said.

  This was going to be difficult. He was belittling her.

  “Very good. Now go to the head of the class.”

  “I don’t think this is going to work, Allison,” he said. The muscles in his jaw were twitching.

  “It has to work, Sprague. I’m your editor. It goes to me first. You went to the Citadel, I’m told. You understand the chain of command. Perhaps you have a problem with my being a woman?”

  “No. I have a problem with your not knowing anything about the drug scene.”

  “A
nd do you have a problem with Alan Warburg not knowing anything about it? Because he is the executive editor and he’ll have to make the final decision about whether this story will run.”

  “Presumably it will have been edited carefully before it gets to him.”

  “Ah yes. And by whom? Walt Fineman, the managing editor and well-known drug expert?”

  “So what’s your point, ma’am?”

  “Insubordination will not be tolerated. You work with me or you work with nobody.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  This was not the end of it. She didn’t have the feeling she had won. But at least he didn’t get up and storm out.

  “Now, do you want to tell me what you know?”

  “I’ve been nosing around the Drug Enforcement Agency.” He was very businesslike. She noticed he didn’t say DEA. Was he patronizing her?

  “Who was your contact?”

  He paused.

  “An agent I met on a story in New Orleans while I was at the Savannah paper. When I got up here I called him. We’ve had lunch a couple of times. He’s put me on to something big. But I don’t know yet. He tells me the head of the DEA, Mike Garcia, is worried about what’s going on over at Justice. Apparently our illustrious attorney general, Roy Fox, has become friendly with some Colombian dame named Antonia Alvarez. She’s with the embassy working in the military liaison office. Her father’s one of the big landowners and tight with Alberto Mendez, the Foreign Minister. Foxy met her at some embassy party and has taken her out a couple of times. DEA has had their eye on Mendez for a while in connection with some drug barges that came in through New Orleans that were connected to one of his family’s companies. Anyway, Garcia apparently talked to the A.G. and he says he wants to keep it in Justice and has steered the DEA away from the story. Plus, he’s making noises about trying to consolidate the DEA into the FBI, which is driving Garcia crazy.”

  “It sounds like you’ve got several stories here. And maybe some that ought to go in the paper sooner rather than later. The FBI merger with DEA, for instance.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought of it… I mean, I don’t want to blow my sources…”

  She had him. He hadn’t seen two stories. Clearly the FBI merger plan with DEA was a great daily story and one that might not hold. It hadn’t occurred to him. She was in command—certainly for the first time ever with Tyson. Though she hadn’t really worked closely with him before. He had been out on his own since August developing sources. He was just now coming up with something.

  “As soon as we finish here we’ll go see Fineman about the merger story. And we’d better talk to Estrella. He’s covering the FBI and he might know something. Have you discussed this with him?”

  “No, but this is my—”

  “We can’t have him pick up the paper and read an FBI story. Maybe he’s working on the same lead.”

  “Whoa. Wait just a minute. I’ve been working on this one for three months—”

  “Tyson.” She was getting more self-assured by the second. “We’re all in the same army.”

  “Knock off the military metaphors, will ya.”

  She burst out laughing, in spite of herself, and detected a flicker of appreciative amusement.

  “Okay, back to the story. You’ve got one source so far. Your DEA friend from New Orleans. How good is he and where’s your second source?”

  “My source is the guy who won me the Pulitzer Prize in Savannah. My second source is Garcia. I was getting to that. I had lunch with him last week and I’ve been following up on some stuff he told me. The guy is ballistic about the possible merger. It’s not going to happen, at least I don’t think so, but morale in the DEA is in the toilet for a lot of reasons and one of them is this merger thing. His guys are getting paid shit, they’re getting their brains blown out all over Central America, they have no authority compared to the other agencies, and they have no political power where it counts. Also, Garcia does not trust Foxy. He’s worried about the A.G.’s relationship with Antonia Alvarez. He says she’s a real piece of work. Checkered past. The best private schools, university education, a lot of dough. She’s very much the ruling class but a real hell-raiser and has a perverse set of values. He’s also got several of his guys onto Mendez. Frankly, I think Mendez is in up to his neck in the Medellin cartel but I can’t prove it. I’ve got to go back to New Orleans and then I’ll have to go down and spend some time in Colombia. Garcia will keep talking to me. He’s so fed up he’s about to take a walk. I’m dead and so is he if anybody finds out that he’s talking to me. That includes Estrella. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I do. So here’s what we’re going to do. The merger thing is a story. You can get on that and do it yourself unless you think it will blow your sources for you. If you don’t want to do that we can let Estrella have it without revealing your sources. Let him use his own, check it out himself. We’ll go to Fineman on that right now. On the Antonia Alvarez-Foxy story, that may not hold either. Get on that and see what you come up with. The Mendez thing is big. Particularly if there is any possibility of a cover-up on the part of the A.G. I’d spend some more time at Justice. Hang around, develop some sources, see what you come up with. And see if they’ve gotten any wind of it up on the Hill. Lauren’s got to get cut in on the fact that you’re over there. The Hill is her beat and she’ll get her nose out of joint if you don’t.”

  “You don’t get it, Sterling, I can’t just tell them—”

  “You don’t get it, Tyson. These people cover these departments. That’s their job. If you go in there and big-foot them, they’re going to get pissed. You don’t have to tell them what you’re after, but you’ve got to let them know you’re around. Don’t be so sure they can’t help you. It’s so easy. All you have to do is flatter them, ask their advice, they’ll be happy to help. If you stumble on a story they can use they’ll love you. Trust me.”

  “What about Colombia?”

  “Check out the Antonia-Foxy thing first. If that’ll hold then go to Colombia.”

  “Okay.”

  She could tell he was impressed. She felt as though she had cleared a major hurdle in her job. Tyson was a challenge for any editor, new or old, male or female.

  “Now let’s go see Fineman.”

  She picked up her notebook and pencil while he gathered his papers from the table.

  As they started toward the door of the conference room she turned to him.

  “Oh, and Tyson.”

  He looked up and his eyes met hers.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “That’s an order.”

  * * *

  “Jesus, I’d rather be a lion tamer. I had no idea it would be like this. You’ve got to keep them up on their little perches and keep that whip cracking all the time or they’ll maul you.”

  They were having dinner at Le Steak in Georgetown. It was the night after their “lunch” at the Willard. Allison had told him then that she needed to think about marriage. She had thought about it. She had called him that day to suggest dinner. She loved Le Steak on a snowy night, dim lighting, candles on the table, the Côte du Rhône, steamy french bread and sweet butter, tangy salad dressing, juicy steak with fabulous sauce, and incredible french fries. Five thousand calories and the loss of a night’s sleep on a full stomach was worth the pleasure.

  Des was in a great mood, pleased with himself. He obviously thought she was going to say yes. He looked gorgeous.

  She felt quite shy. She wanted to keep the conversation on an impersonal level at first. There was so much to talk about it was easier to talk about nothing.

  She had already told him about Sprague. Now she was bubbling over with enthusiasm about his change, though slight, in attitude toward her.

  Des was less impressed than she thought he should be.

  “I say send the fucker back to Savannah and let him rot there. You don’t need to p
ut up with that kind of shit from anybody.”

  “I know, Des. But he could win the Pulitzer on this one.”

  “So what? What’s the Pulitzer worth these days, anyway? It’s a total farce and everyone knows it. It’s politics. It has nothing to do with merit. Look what happens when these prizewinners from small papers are hired away by the big ones after they’ve won. Most of the time they can’t hack it. They’re in over their heads. But they can’t just keep giving prizes to the same top papers every year. So these guys get screwed year after year in favor of people who can’t hold a candle to them. I don’t see why the big papers don’t just get out of the prize game altogether.”

  “We’ve been over this before. It means a lot to the reporters. We can’t do that to them. You sound like Alan and Walt. It ruins their spring every year.”

  “I still say that Tyson is overrated, and I can’t stand the idea of that little shit giving you a hard time.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you go beat him up? That will show him. My great big macho man.”

  “Maybe I’ll just do that. How about another glass of wine, baby? It will relax you.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk, Desmond Shaw?”

  “Just trying to loosen you up for the kill.”

  “I’m loose.”

  “So how about next week?”

  “That doesn’t give us much time?”

  “Time for what?”

  “Planning.”

  “What do we need to plan? We get the license, we get the blood tests, we get the judge, we do it.”

  “Des, for Christ’s sake, we’re getting married, not registering to vote. There’s a little more to it than that. We have to send out invitations, plan the party, get a caterer, get a dress, get wedding rings—”

  “Wait, wait, wait—”

  “There’s a lot to do.”

  “Sonny.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t go through all that again.”

  “All what?”

  “I can’t go through a wedding. I’ve done that. It would be humiliating. I just want to do it. We can celebrate later with our friends. But I just don’t want it to be a big fucking deal.”