by Sally Quinn
“I was just getting ready to call you,” said Jerry. “We’ve only got a few hours to make the changes. You don’t disagree that we make the changes? We’ve gone pretty strong with some names The Daily says are definitely out. Sonny must have talked to Kimball himself, for God’s sake. No way we can change the cover, though.” He was trying to sound calm. “New York is going to go bat-shit when they hear about this.”
“I don’t blame them,” said Des. “This makes us look like assholes. Even though The World has the same stuff we do. We have it solid on the three we went with, or at least on two, with Defense an almost sure thing. We talked to Holloway, and he’s Kimball’s coat carrier. Holloway said we could count on it. He must have talked to The World too. But shit, I talked to Rosey Grey myself yesterday.”
“Okay, look,” said Jerry, “we don’t have much time. I’ll call New York and tell them we’ve got to make some changes. We have four hours. I’ll meet you at the bureau. I’ll leave Sonny a note and tell her I’ve gone down to the office to clean up some last-minute details.
“I better get off the phone now. Damn, we sure don’t need this.”
“Hey, Jerry,” said Shaw.
“Yeah?”
“This sure as hell complicates my life… You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, Des. I know what you mean.”
* * *
Allison put the phone back on the hook. She stared at the ceiling. A crack was developing in it; it looked as if something were buckling. Probably water damage. The paint around the crack had begun to yellow. She would have to get the contractor. There was always something going wrong with the old house. It was at times like this that she thought about selling it and moving into a condominium. But she always decided against it. It was where she had been born. This house was her only remaining tie to her family.
This diversionary exercise kept her mind off the telephone call.
She had only suspected that The Weekly’s cover story was on the Cabinet. They had been really close-mouthed about it. Why hadn’t Des or Jerry told her? She knew why, and she was glad they hadn’t. If she had known, what would she have done? Tried to save them? Now they were going to look silly with cover pictures of guys who were not going to make the Cabinet. Suppose she and Des had been living together and this had happened? Suppose it happened again? Her allegiance was to her paper and to herself.
The hardest thing to think about was what Des was going to do. From the sound of his voice, he was plainly not happy. And there was something chilling about the way he had told Jerry that it complicated his life.
The other thing that gnawed at her was that she knew the leaks now. That little creep Derek Holloway was a leak. The President should have fired him long ago. He’d been peddling information to The Weekly since he’d been with the campaign.
So now what was she supposed to do about Holloway? Should she tell Kimball? That certainly wasn’t her role as a journalist. Her role was to report stories, not to tell the President-elect how to run his staff, and surely not to inform on leakers. She was supposed to use leakers, not squeal on them. She was sure that the Daily’s reporters had gotten their inaccurate reports from Holloway as well. He was probably leaking to everybody.
No wonder Ray Bradshaw, who had the byline on the Sunday story, wouldn’t tell his source. He probably thought Allison would tell her godfather and dry up one of his sources. She couldn’t figure out, though, how Holloway had gotten so many names wrong. Could it be that Uncle Rog was testing him?
Her other problem was the Vice President. Des had told Jerry he had talked to him. How could Rosey Grey have gotten things so screwed up? That didn’t make any sense either. They obviously weren’t trying to test him. The only thing Allison could think of was that Des had run the names by him and he hadn’t wanted Des to know he didn’t know so he had just nodded or shrugged or had said something noncommittal.
Allison had to get out of bed and get to the office. They would probably all be gleeful when they heard about The Weekly. The only thing she could hope for was that Holloway had gotten to the other newsmagazines as well. It wouldn’t hurt either if he had had a little chat with The New York World.
* * *
It was close to noon by the time she got to the office, and all the others were already there, bitching and griping. They were standing in a circle near the national editor’s office eating from a platter of Danish pastries. Allison was amused to see them all moaning about giving up their weekend. There wasn’t a reporter who wasn’t thrilled to be there. Working Sunday made you feel important. There was a big story and they were on it. Working in blue jeans was a little like camping out. It created a sense of camaraderie.
Allison slung her jacket over the back of her chair, dropped her bag on the desk, and walked a few steps to the group gathered around the national editor. Allen Warburg and Walt Fineman knew she had made that call the day before and the rest guessed.
Bradshaw, who had written the Sunday lead, was annoyed. “The World went hard with the three guys we say aren’t going to make it.” He took a sip of coffee and gazed at her.
Allison glanced at Walt.
“What edition did you read, Bradshaw?”
“The early. I got someone to read it to me last night from New York. I hope we know what we’re doing.” He was staring at Allison. He didn’t like her. She had brushed him off years ago. He had wanted the White House assignment before she got it, and now that he had a shot at it again she was outsourcing him.
“Then you didn’t see the later editions?” Walt didn’t like Bradshaw.
“No.”
“They’ve softened their story; they must have gotten a look at our first edition. They must have beaten their guy around the ears a little between ten and midnight.”
“Wonder who the newsmagazines are going with,” said Warburg.
“Well, you must know, Allison,” Bradshaw said. “Isn’t Jerry Mendelsohn staying at your house this weekend?”
“Just get off my case, will you, Bradshaw?”
“Relax, Sonny,” said Walt gently.
“Okay, Al. I’m sorry,” said Bradshaw, half-scared, half-pleased that he had struck a nerve with Allison. She was usually so cool.
“Can I talk to you a minute?” Allison asked Walt.
“Absolutely. Step into my office.” He showed her into his little glass room and shut the door.,
She told him about the phone call between Jerry and Des.
“Look, you’ve got to forget Des Shaw for now. I think you’ve got to get Roger Kimball on the phone and find out what the fuck is going on. Somebody is playing some kind of game here, and I don’t like it. If that Holloway creep is trying to use the press to further his own career, his plan is going to backfire.”
“Walt?”
“Yeah?”
“What should I tell Kimball about Holloway?”
“Just put it in the form of a question. Tell him that certain names are all over the press corps here and ask him if there is somebody on his staff who could be passing out bad information.”
“But what about Grey?”
“I think I’d ask him straight out if Grey knows. Don’t tell him why. Just see what he says.”
He looked at his watch. “You better get on it. We’ve got a lot coming in today and the desk is short a couple of people. If we’re going to lead the paper with this, I want to get it down early.”
He left his office so she could use his phone in private.
Kimball’s secretary answered the phone. She sounded harassed and irritated.
“Oh, hi, Sonny,” she said. Her voice was at once confidential and cozy. It made Allison a little uncomfortable. “So you want to talk to him too. Get in line, m’dear. So does everybody and his brother. He’s tied up in a meeting right now. How urgent is it?”
“Well, I’ll need him before my deadline. He knows what it’s about. I’d certainly appreciate it if you’d have him get back to me when he has a minute. I’ve g
ot to run. Talk to you later.”
It was almost five when Kimball called.
Bradshaw had written the lead for Monday, taking a few guesses, but they couldn’t do much without the names. Other reporters had been assigned individual Cabinet officers and were waiting too. Though they hadn’t been told it was Allison who was going to supply the names, they had a pretty good idea.
“Hi, honey,” said Kimball. “I’m sorry it’s so late. Loretta just gave me your message. I’ve been in meetings all afternoon.”
Allison mentioned to him that other journalists were all getting the same wrong information. He didn’t answer her question about a leak, simply indicated that he’d isolated the problem. She asked him if the Vice President knew who was going to be appointed to the Cabinet.
“He does now,” said Uncle Rog.
“Uncle Rog,” she said gently. She didn’t want to seem too eager, and she did feel a little guilty about taking advantage of their relationship. “I am on deadline. You were going to confirm the Cabinet nominations for me.”
Walt peeked in through the glass office. He gestured thumbs-up.
She motioned to him to wait.
“Confirm. That’s a clever word,” said Uncle Rog, chuckling.
She laughed too, though anxiously, as she looked at the clock. “Just force of habit, I guess.”
“All right. I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to give you the list of appointees which will be announced by me at a press conference in the morning. I don’t want you to think I’m going to make a habit of this, Sonny. But it burns my ass that somebody on my staff would mislead major news organizations, and at least somebody should get it straight. But you can’t use it for your early edition. I don’t think I made that clear yesterday.”
“Okay. Thanks, Uncle Rog.”
He gave her the list. They had most of it already. The bombshell was John T. Hooker, the irascible conservative Southern Democrat who was head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, as Secretary of State.
As she was about to hang up, Kimball paused. “Oh, and Sonny,” he said. “I have one more announcement, for publication.”
“What’s that?”
“As of this afternoon I have accepted Derek Holloway’s resignation.”
* * *
Allen and Walt were frustrated that Allison couldn’t get Kimball to let her go with the story for the first edition. “This is chicken shit,” said Warburg. “What difference does it make to him? I can’t see his reasoning. One edition. Why would he think all fingers would point to you if we had it in the early edition and not if it was in the later?”
“He’s giving copies of the Cabinet names to his staff around nine to start preparing bios. There’s no way they could leak it in time to get the first edition, so if we had it early it would be obvious that it had come from him to me. Besides, it’s moot. I promised. Let’s look at the bright side. Now The New York World won’t be able to recover. They won’t be able to get it from our first edition. We’ll beat them all night.”
“Well, fuck this,” said Allen. “What the hell are we going to lead the paper with for the first edition?”
His face brightened.
“Hey, Walt, have you got any bus accidents in Peru? Maybe there’s an earthquake in Turkey—and get art. Maybe a great picture of rubble and huts. C’mon—we’ve got a newspaper to put out.”
He started to head out of his office to break the bad news to the desk that they were going to have to fill for the first edition. He turned to Allison. “Hey, Brenda Starr, do you think you could give Bradshaw a hand with his lead for the late editions? You might get the clips on some of the appointees. Why don’t you put together a sidebar on John T. Hooker.”
This was not a request. Allison could hear the groans from the news desk as they heard the bad news. She walked slowly back to Walt’s office, where she had left her notes. She took them over to her desk, then turned to go to the library to get the clips. She glanced over at Warburg, who had turned away from the desk and was looking at her. She smiled. He smiled back, a little puzzled at how cooperative she was being.
Then, softly, through clenched teeth, she addressed him, still smiling, under her breath.
“Prick,” she said.
* * *
Jerry had called from the office to say that there were some last-minute details on the story. He would go back to her house after he finished and read the papers and watch the game. He had tried out the idea of going back to New York, but she had protested. She didn’t want to be alone this last night of the weekend. Jerry didn’t resist too much. Now that the cover was closed he really didn’t even have to be in on Monday.
She tried to call home before she started on the sidebar, but there was no answer. She tried again at seven thirty. She was beginning to get worried. Walt and Allen kept coming to her desk to stare at her computer. She felt so exposed with these computers.
She had written what she thought was a pretty good story:
He had amassed the kind of power and prerogatives it takes thirty years to do in a town like Washington, D.C. And still that elusive, most desirable of all positions evaded his tenacious grasp.
Until today.
Today, John T. Hooker, controversial, colorful, powerful Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, was named Secretary of State by President-elect Roger Kimball in a surprise move which…
“Bullshit,” said Warburg, standing behind her reading her screen. “This isn’t the fucking Living section. Knock off the first paragraph and lead with ‘Today, John T….’ ”
“You asked for a sidebar,” said Allison. “This isn’t the lead story in the paper.”
She couldn’t figure out why Warburg was mad at her, but she was certainly angry with him. Why was he picking on her? She had gotten the damn story for him. It was more than Bradshaw had done. What was his problem?
“Allen, I’ll handle it,” said Walt. “We’re all a little tired.”
Warburg looked at Fineman for a minute, then shrugged and turned away. “I didn’t ask for the great American novel, for Christ’s sake.”
Walt could see how annoyed Sonny was.
“Look,” he said, “Warburg just sees this case as the beginning of a long series of problems for all of us. He’s trying to work it out. He doesn’t like being told he can’t have the story for the first edition. It screws everything up and the desk is out of sorts and they blame him. He probably thinks you could have soft-talked Kimball into letting us go with it if you’d really tried.”
“But, Walt, I—” she protested.
“I know, I know. Look, let’s just get to the story. Tone down some of the adjectives and it’ll be fine.”
Jerry called about eight thirty. He sounded as if he’d been drinking. He was at the house.
“Are you coming home anytime soon?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
“I didn’t expect you to say you were thirsty.”
“What kind of nasty crack is that directed at your most trusty and reliable friend?”
Allison was amused. Jerry’s drinking always amused her. He could not hold his liquor.
“So who you been drinking with, ol’ buddy?”
“Just an ol’ buddy,” he said. “Nobody you’d be interested in.”
She tensed again.
“Des?”
“Let’s have Chinese tonight.”
“Did he say anything about Chessy?”
“Do you want me to go and get carryout or shall we eat at the restaurant?”
“Do you think he’s told her?”
“Why don’t we get carryout? You can pick it up on your way home.”
“What did he say? Damn you, Jerry, this isn’t funny.”
“Get moo shu pork with six pancakes, and don’t forget the hoy sin sauce. It’s nothing without the hoy sin sauce.”
“You know I’m going to get it out of you.”
She was partly terrified, partly amused, partly exasperated.<
br />
“And don’t forget the chopsticks.”
She burst into the house an hour and a half later, dumped the Chinese food on the kitchen counter downstairs, then ran up the narrow little stairs to the second-floor study to find Jerry listening to records, half-dozing over the World crossword puzzle. The fire was almost out.
“Wake up, wake up,” she said. “Now, what’s going on? Not one bite of moo shu pork until you come out with it.”
Jerry woke up immediately and laughed.
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell. But not before I’ve eaten. I can’t rat on my best friend on an empty stomach.”
After she had spread the food out on the floor on newspapers, serving Jerry his plate and watching him eat a pancake, she pounced.
“Jerry, please.”
He could see she was serious, that he had pushed her far enough.
“He’s going to tell her tonight.”
Allison gasped. Jerry put out his hands as a warning.
“Assuming he isn’t too drunk.”
“How drunk is he?”
“Pretty drunk. But,” he said brightly, “you know Des. Most people can’t tell when he’s had a few too many.”
She moaned.
Jerry grabbed her hand. “It’ll be okay, Sonny. I promise you.”
She didn’t seem appeased.
“Listen, Sonny, the guy’s really in love with you. You’re the first. It’s gonna be hard for him and a lot harder for you. Basically he’s just a Harp, and to him women have always been whores or Madonnas.”
She was staring into the fire.
“Are you hearing what I’m saying to you, Sonny? It’s important.”
“I hear you,” she said finally, her gray eyes lifting up to his filled with either fear or gratitude, he couldn’t tell which.
* * *
It was about nine thirty Monday morning when the phone rang. Allison had just gotten her tea and had carried it upstairs to the living room with the paper.
It was sunny in the living room, a beautiful early-winter morning, bright and clear. A slight wind was blowing the branches outside her window, the last dead leaves whipping past as if they were calling to her to come outside and play.