Hard News

by Mark T Sullivan

  “You said everybody would want to kill her,” Blitzer said.

  “She taped everything. And then testifying and all. I figure it that way.”

  “Any friends she had that we should talk to?”

  “I never really met any of them if she had them, except for Delta Ann Porter,” he said, glancing at Mary again. “That’s the one in the tape with me and Carol Alice. We found her working the Boulevard near Sixty-sixth Street, the McDonald’s there.”

  Blitzer wrote Porter’s name down. “You think the guys who beat you had something to do with Carol Alice?”

  “Maybe she taped the wrong person. Maybe they thought I might have the tape. Now I even regret knowing the bitch.”

  “John Wayne’s kid gets religion,” Croon said.

  Kemper tried his best to act defiant. He didn’t succeed.

  The Slotman’s

  Blues …

  EIGHT O’CLOCK AT THE Slotman’s Bar and Grill. The proprietor, the famed Slotman himself, patted his ample middle and analyzed the tension level. Not bad, he thought. Paranoia can be generated midweek.

  It helped, of course, that Ralph Baker, a.k.a. Roy Orbison, slumped at the bar. Having one of the city’s journalism burnouts drowning himself front and central always heightened anxiety. Which created a mad liquor lust among the other editors and reporters present. Which fattened the Slotman’s retirement portfolio.

  The Slotman closed his eyes to carefully gauge his latest stress enhancer. A decrepit jukebox. Its metal-walled speakers turned any song, reggae, rock, country, or classic, into an irritable music mayonnaise with the steel-drummed timbre of second-rate calypso. By the time the music traveled twenty feet it melded into an undulating dissonance that forced standing patrons to turn toward the bar for another round. Just last week Prentice LaFontaine had dubbed this neurotic Muzak “the Slotman’s Blues.”

  The Slotman grinned. Perhaps News would come tonight. He frayed nerves better than any jukebox. LaFontaine was bad for morale and good for business.

  “I’ll have a beer, Slotman,” Augustus Croon said.

  The barkeep broke into a greasy smile. A photographer who hung with a woman hooked on tragedy. It was only a matter of time before he was slung low over the bar railing to talk old times with that leather-clad wonder, Ralph Baker.

  “Sure enough, Croon,” he said. “Coming right up. How about you, Abby?”

  “Seltzer water with a twist of lime,” Blitzer said.

  The Slotman cringed. If only Blitzer would encounter a calamity so ghastly that she’d fall off the wagon. The thought of the mutual funds he could buy with her nightly business warmed his attitude considerably.

  The Slotman’s real name was Corey Tuft. For twenty-five years he’d been a journeyman copy editor. Worked for every paper in the city at one time or another, rising to the position of slotman at the old Chronicle. Though the position had ceased to exist at almost every modern paper, in its day being slotman meant power. From the central position on the rim of the copy desk he had acted as final arbiter on questions of grammar, word choice, style, and coherence. The slotman also held sway on issues of story placement and headline size, these last two most important because they could make or break an article’s impact.

  The Slotman loved the news business. But he never let romanticism cloud his vision. Five years before The Chronicle folded, he stunned everyone at the paper by taking a buyout. He knew computers would eventually render his position impotent. Sure, some papers would continue to use the term to signify the reigning copy chief, but the slotman’s power to navigate the publication of the paper like a riverboat captain would dwindle and finally end. He foresaw the personal repercussions: a slow panic as the emasculation loomed, anger, denial, high blood pressure, sleepless nights, more coffee at the beginning of the day, more booze at the end.

  That awareness led to his current career. The Slotman figured if slotmen were doomed to extinction, newspapers themselves were candidates for the endangered species list. Lots of anxiety. Lots of paranoia. Lots of self-medicating. He leased this bar downtown. He had steaks flown in from Omaha. He plastered the walls with framed copies of extra editions from the various papers and installed a big-screen television that was always tuned to CNN.

  As stomach acid geysered forth during the final year of The Chronicle, the Slotman made more money than he had in the previous decade. Though business fell off after The Chronicle published its last edition, word of the terminal diagnosis of other newspapers in other cities was enough to keep the anxiety of most hard news workers at subterror level. That meant a hopping bar. That meant a happy Slotman.

  Things were looking up these days. Everyone knew The Post or The Beacon would rest in the coffin soon. The Slotman had a year-to-year lease on the dump. He planned to make a minor fortune on the agony of the war’s final battles, then retire to Tucson to bake his skin to the consistency of iguana hide.

  The Slotman drew Croon’s beer, poured Blitzer’s water, and brought the drinks to the table.

  “We’ll have New York strips with baked potato and salad,” Blitzer said. “McCarthy’s buying.”

  The Slotman did a little jig! McCarthy, the personification of news angst, was coming in! He scribbled down their order and bopped away.

  To pass time until McCarthy arrived, Blitzer and Croon decided to draft a list of the top ten tragedies in the United States this century. She argued that the Hindenburg disaster took precedence over the San Ysidro massacre. Croon disagreed, pointing out that the mass killings at the McDonald’s restaurant near the Mexican border were the work of a lunatic while the dirigible explosion resulted from unforeseen natural conditions.

  “This is how I see it, Abby,” Croon said, turning philosophical. “I think the delusions of man result in more profound pain than the acts of God.”

  Blitzer shook her tiny head. “The Hindenburg wasn’t solely an act of God.”

  “Sure it was. The wind blew, created sparks, and the whole thing exploded. ‘Oh the horror!’ Remember?”

  “I remember. But it was man and God at odds. The Hindenburg designers knew they were taunting the natural order flying a balloon filled with flammable gas.”

  “A tragedy. No doubt about it.”

  “Man against God. Best kind of tragedy, Croon. Even the Greeks knew that.”

  She swirled the ice cubes against the side of her glass. “Man and God at odds. Woman and God at odds.”

  She burst into tears.

  The ex-SEAL stood, alarmed. He’d never seen Blitzer so much as choke up, let alone sob. This was like witnessing Arnold Schwartzenegger turn all blubbery. “Abby, Jeez. … Uh, jeez. Are you all right?”

  She sat up straight and drew in a sharp breath. “It’s nothing, Croon. Just a little tired. Probably hormones, too. I need … I need to go to the bathroom.”

  She eased herself up from the table and moved methodically to the back hall, leaving Croon totally befuddled. Life had always been so cut-and-dry before Abby Blitzer. Lieutenant says swim the three miles through rough surf, you swim. Editor says get the picture, you get the picture. But who gave the orders when it came to that little redhead? He considered the foam in his beer. Perhaps a rereading of Sophocles would help him to understand. Perhaps it would help him fill the expanding hollow in his chest.

  McCarthy tapped Croon on the shoulder. “How’d you guys do tonight?”

  “Hey, Gid,” Croon said. “We did real well. Abby will be back in a minute. Just off to powder her nose.”

  As McCarthy slid into the booth, Prentice LaFontaine came through the door followed by Isabel Perez. The Slotman did a quick two-step and a spin behind the bar.

  “Mind if we join the brain trust?” LaFontaine asked.

  “Sure, News,” McCarthy said. He made room for them. “Find anything in the county records about Burkhardt?”

  LaFontaine related his discovery of the sealed criminal record and the backdated loan documents. Blitzer returned while News recounted his int
erview with Thomas P. Whitney. Aside from the minor bags about her eyes, Blitzer radiated composure. Croon mooned at her as if nothing had happened.

  When LaFontaine had finished, McCarthy asked, “Officially the loan was worth the risk, what about unofficially?”

  “I was hardly in a position to inquire of his private thoughts,” News said. “He had his P.R. gargoyle hovering over his shoulder. I didn’t even bring up the sealed file.”

  “So find him off-hours and ask,” Perez suggested. “He’s a part owner of that new Irish place on Fourteenth Street. Place is booming. Jackson goes there from time to time.”

  “How is dear Kent?” LaFontaine asked.

  “Insufferable as ever,” Perez said. “We had a big run-in this morning. The mayor had his daily press briefing. Chief Leslie was there, too, acting all blustery with his newfound position. They were talking strategy, how they’re going to deal with Barnes.”

  “And how’s that?” Blitzer said.

  “They figure with Barnes’s ties to the Silicon Valley he’s got the Bay Area wrapped up,” Perez said. “They’ll focus their efforts on the rest of the state.”

  “So what was the run-in?” McCarthy asked.

  “I’m sitting there, being the perfect number two, saying nothing while Kent asked all these insider questions about polling and stuff. Yawn, yawn. I get to thinking about what that homicide detective said in your story about possible police involvement in the Gentry killing. I ask old T. Lawrence if it troubled him that some of his employees may be under investigation in connection with killing a woman who claimed corruption went higher in the department than street level?”

  “You coldhearted Latina,” LaFontaine said. “His answer?”

  “Oh, you know T. Lawrence, he could convince you Charlie Manson would make a fine media consultant. He smiled and said ‘Of course it’s troubling. But the fact is we’re investigating and got one of the best detectives on the force supervising.’ ”

  McCarthy snorted. “Fisko is more interested in task forces than investigations.”

  “Anyway,” Perez said, “T. Lawrence goes on about what you and Rivers have already written. That Gentry was an unreliable informant. That she was a hooker who led a life that probably placed her in a psycho’s zone of opportunity. Blah, Blah Blah.”

  “So what’s the beef with Jackson?” Blitzer asked.

  “I’m getting to that. After it breaks up he asks me if I’m trying to quote ‘Tilt the odds out of our favor with the campaign.’ End quote. Then he starts lecturing me on the rules of political reporting.”

  “Jackson’s a right-wing butt-head,” LaFontaine said. “There are no rules in political reporting. Just swallow the pablum, go back to the newsroom, and vomit it on the page.”

  “Not according to Kent. He says, Rule number one: If you’re going to create a political scandal, make sure you’ve got the inside dope. It’s like going to the racetrack, he says: You want a longshot to come in, you better spend time in the stable, talking to the grooms. He claimed all I’d done was jeopardize our relationship with the campaign.”

  “He has a point,” McCarthy said.

  “He’s just so cocky about it,” Perez said glumly. “Then he says if I want to do something ‘constructive,’ I should review the campaign finances. He doesn’t have time.”

  “Did you?” Croon asked.

  Perez drummed her fingers on the table. “I felt like his lackey. But it seemed better than nothing. I went to the election board and asked for all the contribution documents to the mayor so far this year. The clerk comes back with a stack five feet tall. I almost cried.”

  “So I guess that’s out,” LaFontaine snipped. “It’s not like you to break a sweat.”

  Perez shot him a withering look. “It’s sitting beside my desk as we speak. I plan to spend all next weekend putting it into my computer. A database. I figure it’s murder to put it in, but once it’s there I’ll be able to look for the needle in the haystack. Trends, biggest givers, stuff like that.”

  The Slotman arrived with steaks for Blitzer and Croon. Seeing the steaming slabs of beef made them all forget the hundreds of stories The Post had run about the evils of red meat. They ordered the same.

  “Wouldn’t this just drive Margaret Savage insane?” Perez said.

  “A vegetarian’s nightmare,” News agreed.

  Everyone laughed except McCarthy, who doodled absently on a napkin.

  “What’s the matter, Gid?” Blitzer asked.

  He told them about the court hearing that afternoon. “The kids, probably even Carlos, were too young to remember all that went on, but I don’t know how I’ll keep my face straight, you know, telling them it’s a good thing Owens is coming to visit.”

  The table fell silent. McCarthy took a sip of beer, then looked at Blitzer. “Enough depressing thoughts. Tell me about Billy Kemper.”

  She laid the facts out tersely in the classic news structure of descending importance: how Billy Kemper had been jumped inside the house, how Gentry liked to tape people then listen to it, how it had been with Gentry and Delta Ann Porter.

  “This story’s getting legs,” McCarthy said, happy at the new information. “One break-in I can buy. But two and a beating included, she was into something rugged.”

  “Blackmail?” LaFontaine suggested.

  “It would figure, wouldn’t it?”

  “So Mr. Kemper’s attacker may have been a cop?” LaFontaine asked.

  “That’s the best bet,” McCarthy said. “If I can prove it.”

  The Slotman arrived with the rest of the steaks and a second round of beers. They waited until he’d gone before resuming the conversation. The Slotman was a notorious blabbermouth; he’d squeal to The Beacon to create bile-producing competition.

  McCarthy took a bite of his steak, then tapped the edge of his plate with a fork. “Do we know what was said was on the phone tape that Billy heard?”

  Croon said, “He described it as harmless sex stuff. There was something about the caller asking Gentry if she’d wear ‘that little red doohickie for him.’ ”

  “Doohickie?” LaFontaine sniffed. “What is it about heterosexual men and red? I must say I find the hue a total turnoff.”

  “It’s not like you’ve had a chance to be turned on lately,” Perez said, sensing an opening in News’s ordinarily impregnable defensive wall.

  “My pseudo-sapphic goddess, I am merely waiting for the right Adonis to come along.”

  “Becoming discretionary in your old age, News? Been over a year, am I right?”

  “And what of dear Isabel? Found a little Gertrude Stein to keep you warm at night?”

  Perez choked on a chunk of steak and had to spit it out into her napkin.

  “Enough, you two,” McCarthy cut in before the argument got out of control. “A little red doohickie is not the sort of leverage that gets Gentry’s place broken into.”

  “Depends on who’s wearing the red doohickie,” Croon said. “I mean, if it was a prominent guy?”

  “Don’t malign cross-dressing now,” LaFontaine interrupted. “Look at how far it got J. Edgar.”

  “Let’s be serious,” McCarthy insisted. “Gentry, not the caller, wore the doohickie, so, sorry News, it’s a red herring.”

  They all groaned. Blitzer said, “What your saying is they were after a tape. The question is which one and what was on it?”

  “Who’s on it is probably as important,” McCarthy said. “But if those were cops who beat Billy, then you have to take it to the next logical step. Someone higher up than street level cops.”

  LaFontaine let a thin whistle escape his lips. “You don’t suppose T. Larry himself?”

  “A nice fantasy, but where’s the connection? Gentry’s a street hooker. I figure our bad boy is some rogue captain. And what are there, thirty-five, forty captains on the force now?”

  “A lot of territory to cover,” Blitzer said.

  “Too much,” McCarthy said. “I filed a piece toni
ght about the break-in at her condo and that she taped people. But I’m going to stay quiet about Billy Kemper until I’ve had a chance to dig deeper. I owe his father.”

  “Then what’s next?” LaFontaine asked.

  “Figure out who was on the tape that everyone seems so interested in.”

  Perez laughed. “Good luck. About the only person who’s going to know that was getting blackmailed.”

  McCarthy shook his head. “At least two sources knew—Gentry and the person being blackmailed. Two raindrops make a lot of ripples.”

  “You gonna find Delta Ann Porter?” Croon asked.

  “Got to,” McCarthy said.

  Blitzer said, “I know I bitched about doing your work for you, but there’s a tragedy drought right now, and all this has got my interest. I’d be glad to pitch in.”

  “Thanks,” McCarthy said. “But I’ll see if I can find Porter myself. If I need you, I’ll call.”

  “Anytime, Gid,” Blitzer said. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go. The scanner squawks bright and early.”

  The sight of the group rising sent the Slotman into a tizzy. They hadn’t disturbed anybody! Sometimes life just wasn’t fair. McCarthy brought up the rear as they elbowed their way through the crowd. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Nice follow story, McCarthy,” Karen Rivers said. She was standing with a knot of Beacon reporters he recognized by their collective resemblance to stiff-collared models in a Lands’ End catalogue. Rivers wasn’t wearing her glasses tonight. If it wasn’t for the smarmy expression on her lips, McCarthy would have been tempted to call her attractive.

  “I don’t follow often, Karen, but when I do, I do it well,” McCarthy said. “Breaking any news?”

  “I’m working on it,” she said. “You?”

  “Read it and weep tomorrow.”

  Rivers coughed nervously. Then she pushed out her chin. “I think you’ll be the one weeping.”

  “I don’t cry,” he said. He turned away, doing his best not to react when he heard Rivers say: “Classic has-been.” The stiff shirts all laughed.