“My age,” I said, “is increasing all the time, and nothing is happening. What do you want?”
The old man’s voice got tight, and I had a glimmer of how he’d managed to triple the family fortune at a time newspapers all over the country were going out of business.
“No, goddammit, Cobb, we’re here to talk about what you want. Why are you hanging around Sparta?”
“I like the local newspapers.” This was amazing. “Also, I’m going to be a witness at a trial. If it goes that far.”
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“It means I’m going to prove he’s innocent, that’s what it means.” Grant looked disgusted, and Mr. Whitten was turning red. They both had things they wanted to say, but I got there first.
“But forget about that for a minute. Are you sitting there with the thought in your mind that you’re going to run me out of town? How do you plan to do it, short of mob violence? You print things; did you ever hear of a document called the Constitution of the United States?”
That really upset Mr. Whitten. Patriotism was his. How dare I refer to the Constitution in an argument against him?
He snarled at me. “Listen, you little guttersnipe—”
That made my day. I had never heard anyone (except me) spontaneously utter the word “guttersnipe.”
“—and listen well. I can arrange things so that you—”
“Mr. Whitten!” Grant cut in sharply before his employer could say anything that could be used against him later. Mr. Whitten shut up, and took a few moments to get control of himself.
I spent the time thinking. “I could arrange things so that you—” the old man had said. So that I what? Fall nose first down a flight of concrete steps?
I already had the Organic Hit Man after me (I was sure of it, even if Chief Cooper wasn’t), and he had to have been hired by somebody. On the other hand, it’s kind of silly to issue a threat about something that’s already been tried. If that was the threat Mr. Whitten was about to utter. I mean, he could have been about to say, “I can arrange it so that you never get a copy of one of my newspapers that doesn’t make your fingers black and disgusting from cheap ink.” Or something equally innocuous.
Damn Grant, anyhow, for interrupting him. I began to wish I had Brenda with me; she had the knack for handling him, if that episode at the cemetery had been any indication.
Mr. Whitten was calmer now. He opened his mouth again, but this time he gave out the sweet sounds of reason.
“Now, listen, Cobb. Your devotion to your friend is understandable, even admirable. But you must ask yourself if he deserves this devotion.”
“Go on,” I said.
“He doesn’t, you know,” Grant put in. “You’ve made all sorts of sacrifices for him. I understand you even quit your job.”
“It wasn’t that great a job,” I said.
“And for what?” Mr. Whitten was carrying the ball again. “For a young man who spends years developing his body into a deadly weapon, then, in a fit of anger, unleashes all that power against my daughter!”
There was a lot of anguish in those last two words. Mr. Whitten hid his face in his hands.
My turn now. “Mr. Whitten, your grief is understandable and, though you might not believe it, to a certain extent I share it. I want to see the murderer punished. I want to see all murderers punished. I just don’t think Dan is the murderer.”
He looked up from his hands with tears in his eyes. “You know he is!”
I was suddenly very aware of being in the fishbowl. In spite of everything, I was embarrassed for the old man. I looked around. There were no noses pressed against the windows, but that didn’t mean the reporters didn’t have some idea of what was going on. Nobody goes into journalism if he doesn’t have an extra measure of curiosity.
“This is pointless,” I said. “We’re all getting upset arguing questions that will be decided in court.” I got up to leave.
“Wait a minute,” Mr. Whitten said. “Sit down, Cobb.” I sat. The old man was disgusted, whether at himself, or me, or both of us, I couldn’t say.
“You’ll never prove him innocent,” he said.
“I think I will.”
“You’ll just stir things up. Confuse things. You can’t prove he’s innocent, because he’s not, but—”
I interrupted again. The sympathy I had felt for a moment was rapidly disappearing. “Nobody has to prove he’s innocent. The district attorney has to prove he’s guilty.”
He nodded grimly. “I know. That’s why, with your running around and confusing everything, you might create a loophole to let that murderer go free.”
“And?”
“I want you to stop. I want to know what it will take to make you stop.”
So that was it. Any sympathy that was left died in that instant, replaced by a cold contempt.
“I see. Well, I’ll just bet you’ve got a few ideas already, haven’t you?”
Grant took over. Grant was very suave. “Well, Matt, seeing as how you’re out of a job currently, and knowing how Whitten Communications is always looking for good people—”
It was the first time in my life he had ever called me Matt. I didn’t like it much. “I could come to work for Whitten Communications?”
“I think that could be arranged, Matt,” Grant said.
“Of course, we wouldn’t want to make this public too soon,” I said.
“No, that wouldn’t be ... tactful.”
No, I thought you bet your patrician ass it wouldn’t be tactful. We’d be in front of a grand jury so fast your fillings would melt.
“You could,” Grant oozed, “take a vacation first.” The old man nodded, eyeing me warily as he did so.
“I always wanted to visit Australia,” I said wistfully.
“I hear it’s a wonderful place.”
“Only thing is, it’s very expensive to go to Australia.”
“That could be ... ah ... taken care of.”
“Oh,” I said. “How nice. Shall we talk about exactly how it can be taken care of?”
Grant’s mouth dropped open. This was too raw, even for him. First you announce you’re corrupt. Then later you talk over dollars and cents. That apparently was the way it was done in his set.
“Right now?” he asked.
I grinned amiably at him. “Sure, no time like the present. Hold on just a second, though, all right?” I stood up again. “Grant, would you mind opening the door for me?” I held up my hands.
Grant was too stunned to ask what I was up to. He opened the door without a word.
I stood in the doorway and yelled to the city room at large. “Hey! Everybody!” Heads popped up from behind word-processing terminals. “May I have your attention please? Can you all come down to Mr. Whitten’s office? Your boss is about to offer me a big bribe to go away and let my best friend rot in jail, and I want witnesses!”
It got a big laugh from the crowd, which was gratifying. Even more gratifying was the yelp of anguish it got from the two in the office.
“Get out of here!” the old man said. He was practically screaming.
“I’m going, all right. I’m going to take a shower, and burn these clothes. You make me very sick.”
I walked out and strode through the city room. There were smiles on several faces. Apparently Les Tilman wasn’t the only journalist left in Mr. Whitten’s employ.
There was a loud crash behind me. I jumped, then spun to see what the hell was going on. I was just in time to see the splinters of one of the glass walls of Mr. Whitten’s office falling from the frame. The old man had thrown a bottle of ink at me, through the glass. His aim was good, but his throwing arm was a little weak. The ink bottle was spinning at my feet.
I picked it up in my clumsy, two-handed way, and walked back toward the broken window. Glass crunched under my feet, and it occurred to me that I didn’t want to fall down on this stuff. Still, I was committed to the gesture. I’ve always believed God watch
es out for romantics.
I stood in front of the jagged hole in the window, cradling the ink bottle in my hands.
“You know, old man,” I said, “you spoke before of a man who spent years turning himself into a deadly weapon. Well, under the right circumstances, anybody can become a deadly weapon. You can, for example, use a newspaper to destroy people, people who haven’t been convicted of anything yet. What kind of consideration does someone like that deserve?”
I looked at him for a moment, holding his eyes and making sure he got my point. Then I said, “I think you dropped this.” I lifted my arms and softly tossed the ink bottle on the desk.
God does watch out for romantics. As the bottle hit the desk, the stopper came out of it, and Grant and A. Lawrence Whitten both got splashed with ink. Very symbolic. And it served them right
CHAPTER 23
“Here are some more tempting ideas you might try.”
–Ed Herlihy, “Perry Como Presents the Kraft Music Hall” (NBC)
SHIRLEY ARNSTEIN WAS WAITING for me outside.
“Is this a coincidence? Are you going my way? Answer the second question first.”
She laughed. “Yes, I have a car in the parking lot. No, it’s not a coincidence. There’s something I wanted to tell you about, and I couldn’t find you. I just went down the list of people who might know you until I got to Les Tilman, and he told me you were here.”
Typical Arnstein efficiency. Les Tilman was undoubtedly the best source in town, so naturally Shirley had latched on to him during the two days she’d been in Sewanka.
“He said you were talking to the Big Boss. Anything interesting happen in there?”
I shook my head. “A crashing bore,” I told her. “That’s a joke which I will explain later, if you’re interested. What’s your news?”
Shirley’s eyes were bright. “You’ll never guess,” she said. If she has a fault, that’s it. She hoards her discoveries the way a kid hoards cookies.
“NBC has gone out of business,” I suggested as Shirley led the way across the blacktop.
“No, but ComCab has,” she said over her shoulder.
I stopped in my tracks. “What?” I demanded. I’m renowned for my ability to ask shrewd and penetrating questions.
“Well, not completely out of business. But they’re not hanging around for the end of the cable franchise competition here.”
“Are you sure?” Stupid question. Shirley was always sure.
“Mmm-hmm. I went looking for Sparn—I still haven’t been able to talk to him face to face, you know—and at the hotel, they told me he’d checked out. I dug up one of the committeemen, and sure enough, Sparn’s told them he had to leave town. He hoped it wouldn’t affect ComCab’s application, but it would have to, wouldn’t it, Matt?”
It was practically unheard of, pulling out at this late date. It costs a lot of money to apply for a cable TV franchise, even if you do it honestly. But practically all of that money is spent up front. ComCab’s big investment, legal or otherwise, had already been made. Why pull out now? It was like throwing all that money away. The representatives were there to answer questions from interested members of the public. The committee would look very bad if they were to award the franchise to someone who wasn’t there.
When we reached the car, I said, “Did Sparn give anybody a reason for leaving?”
“Sort of. He told the committeemen he was needed back in Rochester to confer on a presentation in a major city.”
“I bet the good representatives of Sewanka loved that. Does anybody believe him?”
“For the record, they do. Of course, if any of the committeemen have been receiving gifts from Sparn, they’ll suspect something is fishy.”
That made me smile. “Boy, they sure will. I wonder how many of them will be honest men and stay bought and vote to give ComCab the franchise anyway.”
“Harris is coming back tonight. Do you want to talk to him tomorrow morning? He told me he thinks he’s found out something important.”
“To the Network,” I said.
“Of course, Matt. Harris thought you’d be interested to hear it, though, anyway.”
“Sure,” I said. “What the hell. Give me a call when you’re ready, or better yet, come on over here. The fewer knobs I have to turn, the sooner these damn hands will heal.”
Shirley said that sounded fine to her. She dropped me off at Dan’s apartment, I turned one more knob, went inside, threw myself across the bed, and tried to take a nap.
I got one, if you call five minutes a nap.
The phone rang. I swore at it, but I answered it. I always answer the phone. It was Chief Cooper.
“I understand you paid a little visit to the local newspaper today, Cobb,” he said.
I rubbed my eyes without thinking. It turned out to be a good idea—nothing has ever made me wake up faster than the scraping of adhesive tape over my eyelids.
“I was invited,” I said.
“Raised quite a ruckus, didn’t you?”
“I did not. I was insulted and offered a bribe. The bribe was even more insulting than the insults. All I did was yell a little.”
“You didn’t spill ink on old Mr. Whitten and his assistant?”
“Do they say I did?”
“They sure do. Mr. Whitten called me personally, a few minutes ago.” That figured. Grant would have had too much sense.
“Well, then I must have done it,” I said. “Actually, it’s a game the old man invented called KoKo the Klown roulette. He throws an inkwell at me, then I throw it back. We do this until it comes open and one of us gets covered with ink.”
“I told you, Cobb, I hate jokes.”
“Me, too, goddammit!” I listened to that going across the wire, and I was astonished to discover I really meant it. “I’m tired of that senile old jerk trying to get me to dance for him because he has money, and because he thinks my friend killed his daughter.”
I took a breath and calmed down. “Listen, Chief, here’s what you do. You go investigate this whole incident. Question everybody who saw what was going on. Unless he’s managed to terrorize his whole staff into lying for him, you won’t be arresting anybody unless I press charges. Against him. Have we got a deal?”
“All right, Cobb,” he said. “Just cool down. I just want to make sure you keep your nose clean.”
“Sure. Right to the point of holding the Kleenex for me.”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
I told him I’d try, and he grumbled a little, then hung up. The chief was beginning to remind me of Lieutenant Cornelius U. Martin, Jr. of the NYPD, who has known me all my life, and who functions as a combination friend/conscience/mother hen/ nemesis whenever our paths happen to cross. I wondered if all cops were like that, or if it was something I brought out in them.
I didn’t wonder about it too long, though. I went back to sleep.
I woke up to find myself looking into Eve Bowen’s dark blue eyes. That is a wonderful way to wake up. “Hello,” I said.
“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” she said. “Do you always sleep this much?”
“Only when I can.” I started to rub my eyes, but this time I caught myself. “What time is it?”
“Six o’clock. I’m a punctual person. You really are, you know.”
“I really are what?”
“Beautiful when you sleep. You look like a little boy. You even hold your arms as if you had a Teddy Bear in them.”
“I forgot to bring my bear. That’s why I had to cultivate you this trip.”
She smiled and looked happy and kissed me. “Anytime, Matt.”
I felt good. That worried me. I said, “Eve, I have been treated rotten by many women in the past.”
She was changing out of her work clothes. No hurry, no blatant seductiveness. Just natural and beautiful.
“I’ve been stepped on by men a few times, too,” she said. “So what?”
“If you’re going to break my heart, do it now, okay? Bef
ore I start to depend on you too much.”
She did exactly the right thing. She came over to me and ruffled my hair and said, “Idiot.”
I put my arms around her. “Sit down and tell me about your day.”
“Routine,” she said, with the shrug of a freckled shoulder.
“Well, wait until you hear about my day.” I told her, in detail.
“This is getting crazy, Matt,” she said when I had finished.
“Getting crazy?”
“I don’t know what any of it means.”
“I don’t either. How many freckles do you have?”
She laughed. “What does that mean?”
“Serious scientific inquiry. How many?”
“I don’t know, thousands.”
“Well, you’re going to find out. I’m going to kiss every last one of them. Take the rest of that stuff off.”
“Oh, Matt—”
“Come on, woman! I may be a helpless invalid, but my brain still cries out for knowledge.”
She kept laughing, but she complied. She had lots of freckles. After a while, she wasn’t laughing. We didn’t have dinner until a long time later.
CHAPTER 24
“You don’t have to ask for it—he knows what you want.”
–Catherine Deneuve, Chanel No. 5 commercial
DAN’S MAIL CAME EARLY the next morning. There was the usual stuff—some bills, some junk mail, nothing personal. One envelope was from the Whitten College Alumni Association. It said Dan could spend a great vacation at a low price because of the Association’s group rates. Computers are great ironists sometimes. A human envelope addresser would have known that Dan was likely to spend his vacation this year in scenic Attica.
A little later, Brenda Whitten showed up. I was watching “Agony of Love,” the Network’s longest-running soap opera, and thinking that it had happened at last—that my life had finally become as confusing and foolish as the script of the show.
A car horn went off, and Brenda called my name from the parking lot outside. I lowered the volume, then went to see what she wanted.
She wanted in. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, with one hand holding her crutches and the other on the railing.
Killed with a Passion Page 15