Hard News

by Mark T Sullivan

“Let that happen when it happens,” Milk said. “We had a deal.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “When’s this going in?” Dusk asked.

  “We’re going to try for tomorrow.”

  Dusk crushed the cigarette package and began to shake violently. “Tomorrow? Christ, I don’t know …”

  “It’s better that we move quickly,” McCarthy said. “Get it out in the open. Homicide’s right behind me. If it’s printed, they have to act righteously.”

  She waved the crushed package in a gesture of helpless agreement. “Okay.”

  McCarthy got up to leave. As he opened the door, Laura Milk cut loose with her strange cackle. The Milkman looked at Dusk. “We got to get her fed, then get out of here before it gets light.”

  McCarthy shook Milk’s hand, then Dusk’s. He glanced at the white rat sniffing at the cage door and left.

  He leaned his head on the roof of his car and chuckled. A hit, a goddamned contract let by cops! Cops with motive. His teeth and then his whole head spreading to his body pulsed with the electrical current of giddy knowledge. He jumped and did a three-sixty in the air. The best story he’d gotten in years, maybe ever! Think of the headlines! Think of the sick gut feeling Karen Rivers will get tomorrow about this time when the phone rings and some panicked early morning editor wakes her!

  Think of what Connor Lawlor will say. Think of the expression on Ed Tower’s face when he knows I’m back.

  In the eastern sky the first pale fingers of light glowed incandescent. McCarthy gazed at the rosy, otherworldly display and smiled. The dawn was no longer a sickening event. His longest night was ending at last.

  Part 2

  DON’T KILL THE MESSENGER

  Her Story Ain’t Doodly-Squat …

  THE POST’S CITY EDITOR slipped up to the long bank of open cubbyhole mailboxes in the back hallway of The Post newsroom. From his briefcase Stanley Geld took two interoffice memo envelopes. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then popped one into Bobbie Anne Pace’s box and a second into Neil Harpster’s.

  He smiled, then rushed off toward the city desk. It was only 9:00 A.M., but Claudette X was already there. She held up the front section of The Beacon to him, then whipped it down on her desk.

  “McCarthy’s history.”

  “What?” he said, still thinking about his surreptitious deed. “Oh, yeah, I saw that. I’ll be putting together his discharge package this morning.”

  “You seem real upset.”

  Geld shrugged. “No one said this was a socialistic business. No one’s entitled to a job. McCarthy made his choice, now he suffers. Anyway, I got other things on my mind.”

  Geld went off toward the elevator. Claudette X shook her head. Geld was acting weird these days, but what else was new? As for McCarthy, they had no choice now. McCarthy had disobeyed her direct order by not showing up to work night cops. Because of that The Post’s coverage of the Lester Hale fiasco lacked a crucial angle: the ballistics report on why Teddy the Pony died in the shoot-out.

  Karen Rivers had the ballistics report story on A-l, right next to her latest scoop on the Gentry slaying. That piece included an interview with the estranged brother McCarthy was supposed to have followed up on. Gentry’s brother told Rivers that as a teenager she developed an unsavory reputation in her hometown for sleeping with middle-aged businessmen, then leveraging money from them in return for not telling their wives. It had all blown up when one of the wives tried to shoot Gentry, and she’d run away.

  The executive assistant city editor swiveled in her chair. Only a handful of reporters had arrived yet. Most of those who were here were still talking about the resurrection of Roy Orbison. She allowed herself to feel agreeable and sad about that at the same time.

  Claudette X had remained with the old reporter long into the night as he framed and fitted his article. Four coffees and three splits of vodka later, they had gone together to the plant to watch the first edition roll off the presses.

  “Great story,” she had said simply.

  “Best I’ve had in years,” Baker replied. He held the paper as if it were fine china. His story began in bold print at the top of the page above one of Augustus Croon’s photographs of the SWAT team subduing Lester Hale while he clung to the dead pet horse.

  Abby Blitzer’s roundup jumped off the right side of A-l. A shadow box alerted readers that Margaret Savage had an obtuse opinion on the entire event in the Metro section. The P.C. Oracle believed Hale drew his rage less from his treatment by the U.S. Postal Service than from the fact that society used the term “Albino” to describe him. She considered it psychologically brutal and proposed “Melanin Challenged” as an alternative. She planned a follow-up story on the symbolic import of the pony’s death.

  “So this is it for you,” Claudette X said to Baker. “Connor says you’ve got next week off. You’re retired as of now. How does it feel?”

  “I don’t want to take next week off,” he protested.

  Claudette X crossed her arms across her massive chest. “Not too many people drive a home run into the bleachers on their last at bat. You’re only Ted Williams if you make this your last at bat.”

  Baker adjusted his glasses, gazed up at the huge editor, and felt the urge for a double vodka. “I guess so, it’s just that …”

  “Just nothing,” Claudette X said. “You should know better than most that this business is cruel to those who stay too long.”

  He scuffed his black leather boots on the cement floor. “It’s just … well … I don’t know how to leave.”

  Ordinarily that would have annoyed Claudette X. This day, however, she’d witnessed a miracle. She summoned up as much empathy as she could muster and put her densely muscled hand on the old reporter’s shoulder. “I don’t think anyone knows how to leave something they love, even if the infatuation is memory and the love has become painful. In the end you just try to walk out with as much dignity as you can.”

  “A newspaper is all I know.”

  “You’re thinking about tomorrow. That’s something different,” Claudette X said. “I’m talking about the leaving—with the crowd cheering.”

  Baker watched the gigantic presses thunder with the force of his own words on paper. Claudette X watched, too. He turned finally and put out his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for being a kind person.”

  Claudette X winced. “I wasn’t being kind. I’m not kind! Ralph. I was … I was.”

  The rock star reporter smiled at her embarrassment. “Dear Abby would have been proud of you,” he said. He picked up another copy of the paper off the stack, tucked it under his arm, and walked through the plant door into the foggy night.

  Sitting at her desk the next morning, Claudette X wished every reporter who’d stayed in the business past burnout could leave like Ralph Baker. But the plain truth was that the majority would dwindle like the Zombie, embittered, wondering how the riptide of current events had eventually worn them down, left them far from shore, drowning in a filthy brine they didn’t understand.

  She pondered for a moment how well she was swimming these days. No nightmares last night. Probably too tired for it. But she knew they threatened every time she shut her eyes.

  McCarthy stumbled into the newsroom. His salt-and-pepper hair flying in six directions, his white polo shirt stained with coffee and peanut butter and blood. Bags hung under his eyes. His mouth was swollen.

  “McCarthy!” she roared. “You’re fired!”

  McCarthy turned bleary-eyed to her. “Do that and you’ll be the sorriest editor alive tomorrow morning.”

  She picked up The Beacon. “You seen this? You’re fired!”

  “My tale is red-hot, her story ain’t doodly-squat!”

  She stopped, his words like water on her fury. “You got it, you got the hit?”

  “Close enough,” he said. He sat on the edge of her desk and related all that he’d learned from Dusk and Milk.

  “They had her killed,�
�� she said in awe. “I don’t believe it.”

  Geld arrived. “You’re fired, McCarthy.”

  “Hold it, Stan,” Claudette X said. “You won’t believe this.”

  She had him repeat it all again for the city editor. Geld took notes, thought about them, then said, “Connor won’t publish without attribution. Too explosive.”

  “What are you talking about?” McCarthy demanded. “We know Fisk is after them for the same reason. I just got there first.”

  “We don’t know that,” Geld said. “You’re assuming it.”

  “No offense, Stan, but you haven’t been on the street in ten years,” McCarthy said. “You couldn’t see the connection here if it bit your thigh.”

  “McCarthy,” Geld bristled, “I may ride a desk, but I still know news and this story will sit until you get attribution.”

  “I want Connor to make the call on this one,” McCarthy said.

  Forty-five minutes later they all trooped into Lawlor’s office, Claudette X, Geld, Ed Tower, and McCarthy. As they seated themselves, Neil Harpster and then Bobbie Anne Pace, who’d gotten wind of the story, arrived from opposite ends of Lobotomy Lane.

  Lawlor glanced at them and waved them off. “No need to make this more complicated than it is. I’m sure you both have business to attend to.”

  Harpster fiddled with his tie knot, nodded awkwardly, and left. Pace curled her hand into a fist, made as if to say something, then followed Harpster. Geld shut the door behind them, then sat, a bizarre expression plastered across his face.

  Geld’s facial cast unnerved Claudette X so much that it was a long time before she realized McCarthy was telling the story again, how he’d tracked Gentry, how her house had been broken into, how Billy Kemper had been beaten, how Delta Porter and Tabor were on the run, how Dusk had overheard Click Patrick and Diego Blanca talking about having Gentry killed.

  Lawlor sat forward in his chair, his chin in his hands. He squinted at McCarthy. “How many times has Dusk, or Evers, or whatever she calls herself been arrested?”

  McCarthy shifted in his seat. “Dozens.”

  “Hardly an unimpeachable source,” Tower observed.

  “It takes a snake to know a snake,” McCarthy replied.

  “That’s my problem with this whole story, it’s filled with snakes,” Tower sniffed. “Whores and killings, it all strikes me as a seedy world The Post has no business chronicling.”

  Everyone in the room, including Lawlor, groaned.

  “You’re outvoted on that one, Ed,” Lawlor said. “The plain fact is that it’s a hell of a story. But I’d be more likely to publish if our serpentine source would use her name. If she knows she’s going to be called eventually to testify in public, why not?”

  McCarthy threw up his hands. “These people are all paranoids.”

  Lawlor pushed back in his chair. “This would be like dropping an A-bomb on The Beacon. But, damn it, the story comes from a shaky source.”

  Tower added, “And we intend to let a reporter with a troubled past tell it.”

  The tips of McCarthy’s ears burned, but he said nothing.

  Tower went on, “One must be clear-eyed about crossing thin ice.”

  “You saying we can’t publish?” McCarthy said. “Because if you are, I’m gonna quit and take this across the street.”

  Lawlor broke into a toothy smile. “That’s the first time in nearly two years I’ve seen the old McCarthy passion. But son, I agree with Ed, we can’t publish.”

  “There you are,” Geld said.

  McCarthy stood, fists clenched.

  Lawlor waved a finger at him. “Even an old horse like me can see this story’s a keeper. What we don’t have is a vehicle with which to print it. By that I mean some source with more credibility than this Dusk or whatever she calls herself that we can pin this on without wading into serious libel problems. Basically, because of the anonymity you granted, you are asking we, The Post, to call these two officers killers, am I right?”

  McCarthy hated to admit it, but he said, “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. You know we can’t do that without giving some damn attorney the keys to my dwindling bank accounts. We need an authority to call those two cops killers.”

  The seven sat silent, thinking. After nearly five minutes, Lawlor snapped his fingers and said, “You saw this homicide lieutenant staking out their house.”

  “Fisk? Yes.”

  “So he’s probably heard the story somewhere or a version of it.”

  McCarthy saw immediately where the editor was going. “So I tell Fisk that I’ve heard the story straight from the source and I know he’s following it …”

  Geld broke in, “And you get him to admit it’s a prime vein of the investigation in return for the specifics.”

  “And we back door the story into print on Fisk’s admission that he’s looking into it,” Claudette X finished.

  Lawlor drummed his open palms on his desk. “And tomorrow The Post publishes a story that gives Harry Plake and the rest of The Beacon staff the peptic ulcer of a lifetime.”

  Everyone, with the exception of Tower, grinned like idiots. Lawlor spun in his chair to look over at The Beacon newsroom. “I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

  Then he turned serious. “So what are you waiting for? Get that lieutenant on the horn. This will have to go through every damned lawyer I have before 9:00 P.M. tonight.”

  McCarthy bolted for the door.

  “Gideon!” Lawlor yelled after him.

  The reporter stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  Lawlor said, “I still don’t excuse you your recent transgressions. But I would be remiss if I did not tell you that you can be one hell of a reporter when you want to be.”

  McCarthy smiled at the editor-in-chief. “Thanks, Connor. It means a lot.”

  When Geld and Claudette X had returned to their desks, Tower remained behind.

  “Ed?”

  Tower shut the door. “I have a problem with this story.”

  “So you said.” Lawlor seemed preoccupied.

  “I think we put the paper in a very awkward position if we publish this.”

  “Out with it, Ed.”

  Tower cleared his throat. “This will be extremely embarrassing to Ricardo’s campaign. We’re saying cops under Chief Leslie ordered a contract murder. Leslie’s Ricardo’s campaign manager. I wonder if we do a disservice to both of them by acting on the word of a street whore.”

  Lawlor picked up the roll of magnets from the desk. He didn’t reply for several moments, then said, “I don’t give a damn what effect this has on the campaign. We are not in the business of taking sides.”

  Tower’s skin turned magenta. “That’s not what I …”

  “That’s exactly what you meant, Ed. I know you have to deal with these folks at social functions. So do I. But our job here is to get at the truth and let it play out. Ricardo’s been a good mayor, the best, I think. Leslie’s been a good chief, probably the best, too. One bad story won’t hurt either of them.”

  Tower made as if to argue. Lawlor cut him off. “End of discussion. I’ve got some calls to make now.”

  Tower clenched his teeth and slowly walked out.

  McCarthy made repeated calls to Fisk’s office the rest of the morning. Only when he told his secretary that The Post was about to publish a story that would blow the Gentry case wide open did Fisk finally call about two in the afternoon.

  “What’s up, McCarthy? Need a quote so you can follow up Rivers’s latest?” was the first thing the diminutive lieutenant said.

  “Gee, Fisko, you get any better with your quips and you’ll get your own late-night talk show,” McCarthy replied.

  “My agent’s taking meetings in Hollywood as we speak,” Fisk said. “Now what do you got? I have to be somewhere in ten minutes.”

  “Out in front of Larry Milk’s house, perhaps?” McCarthy asked.

  The silence on the other end was so profound McCarthy wanted to cheer.<
br />
  “Larry Milk?” Fisk said finally. “I don’t believe …”

  “I saw you staking out the place yesterday, Lieutenant,” McCarthy said. “Too bad, I got to Larry and Christine first. Heard the whole thing. Sounds like you got some bad bad boys in your department.”

  Fisk didn’t say anything for so long that McCarthy thought he’d passed out.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “I’m here,” Fisk said at last. “Tell me what she said.”

  An oblique admission of interest. Not enough to print the story. McCarthy needed a clear confirmation.

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” McCarthy said. “You’ve got an idea what she overheard and this is a prime avenue of your investigation, correct?”

  Fisk hesitated. “Told you before, McCarthy, I don’t discuss the particulars of an ongoing investigation.”

  McCarthy decided to bluff. “Too bad. I guess you’ll have to read about it in the papers tomorrow. Kind of look strange to the average reader to see the newspaper opening up an angle the homicide supervisor hadn’t even considered, especially when it seems that two police officers might be involved in the murder.”

  Fisk cleared his throat, “You’re prepared to publish?”

  “We are,” McCarthy fibbed.

  “I’m going to have to get back to you. Will you be there in five minutes?”

  “Awaiting your cheery voice with bated breath,” McCarthy said. He hung up the phone and smiled. Lawlor was right; he hadn’t had this much fun in years!

  “Wipe that silly smirk off your face,” said Prentice LaFontaine, who’d just arrived at his desk. “I’ll have you know you missed the best gossip of the year. Last night Roy Orbison sang better than Buddy Holly.”

  McCarthy’s smile intensified. “I heard.”

  “I’m surprised to even see you here this morning. Ms. X was all set to give you notice last night.”

  “I seem to have redeemed myself.”

  LaFontaine saw he was serious. “The lady of the night talked?”

  McCarthy wiggled his eyebrows.

  “My, my. Next thing we know, the Zombie will deliver a soliloquy from Hamlet right in the newsroom. Or heavens! I’ll write something!”