McCarthy turned. Lawlor came up close behind him and nudged the reporter forward. “Open the door. Smile.”
And then they were out in the newsroom. Several of the Stepford Editors who’d heard the muffled shouts emanating from the editor-in-chief’s office looked up, but seeing the cheerful expressions on the two men’s faces, they returned to their computers.
Geld approached from his Glasshole. “Connor, I have a question about …”
“I’m sure you can make that decision on your own, Stanley,” Lawlor said briskly. “That’s why I promoted you. Gideon and I are off to the Slotman’s for a drink to finish hashing out a story he’s been working on.”
“Decision?” Geld said. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Good man,” Lawlor said.
McCarthy kept moving, mouthing to the various reporters who looked up at him: “Help me. Help me please.”
But they were too engrossed in deadline to pay any attention. He stopped as two editors arguing about the fine points of one of yesterday’s headlines passed. Lawlor bumped up against McCarthy’s back with the muzzle of the little gun and he pushed on.
They continued through the newsroom and had passed by McCarthy’s desk, almost to the door that led to the elevators, when the blow came. It was a spinning roundhouse Shotokan karate kick perfected on thousands of boards and hapless sparring partners that caught Lawlor flush in the rib cage. Bones snapped. The editor crumpled in his tracks.
Before McCarthy knew what had happened, the Zombie had the gun in his hand and was holding it to Lawlor’s head.
The living dead reporter looked up at McCarthy, his irises the inner core of a nuclear reactor, and broke the decade of self-enforced silence, “I’ve suspected he was wrong for years. Go write it.”
From all corners of the newsroom, editors and reporters surrounded them.
“Let me go!” Lawlor screamed. “They’re both madmen. McCarthy threatened to kill me in there. Stein’s obviously part of it.”
Ed Tower took two steps toward the Zombie, who altered the angle of the gun slightly to stop the editor’s advance.
“Gideon?” Claudette X asked.
“He faked the Pulitzer Prize thirty years ago,” McCarthy said. “He knew about a huge sex scandal involving Burkhardt and the mayor and Gentry. He covered it up. News figured it all out and he killed him for it.”
“Lies!” Lawlor screamed. “McCarthy’s a plagiarist, a disgraced reporter! I won the Pulitzer! They’ll believe me, not you!”
McCarthy’s smile was cruel as he knelt before the editor. “No, they’ll believe me.”
He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a running cassette recorder taped to his chest. “I’ve got Fisk. I’ve got Burkhardt. I’ve got you. All talking.”
Lawlor struggled with the terror of a trapped animal, but the Zombie’s viselike grip held him prone. “I won’t let you write it! This is my paper! The Post is my paper and I control what goes in it!”
“But you don’t control The Beacon,” McCarthy said.
Behind him Karen Rivers appeared. He popped the tape and handed the guts of the story to the opposition.
“Sometimes,” McCarthy said, “minor crimes, even in journalism, can be committed for the greater good.”
Acknowledgments
I AM INDEBTED TO countless fellow journalism survivors for all the great stories, gossips, and intrigues that festered and warped in my mind over the years. Many of you don’t know how much you helped. Special appreciation must go to my former partners David Hasymeyer, Rick Shaughnessy, and Joe Cantlupe, and my editor Todd Merriman, for teaching me much about the business of being an investigative reporter. And to cohorts Ann Krueger, Jeff Ristine, and Preston Turegano, for teaching me too much about the strange dynamics of newsroom politics.
I am indebted to fellow print reporters Tom Bowman, Jim Erickson, Brigid Schulte, Andrea Sand, and Jacqueline Swearingen, who suffered as readers and critics of the early drafts. Writers Damien Slattery, John Glionna, and Mel Allen offered advice and boosted my morale so many times I can’t thank them enough.
Thanks also to my agent, Linda Chester, and her patient associate, Billie Fitzpatrick, who provided invaluable counsel in finishing the manuscript, and to Sarah Gallick, my editor.
But my undying gratitude upon the completion of this novel must go to two people: Kazuo Chiba, my Aikido sensei, who gave me the courage to walk away to follow my dream, and Betsy, my wife, who led the way.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1996 by Mark T. Sullivan
cover design by Heather Kern
978-1-4532-6876-6
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