Drop Dead Punk
Page 12
“We must close up shop today. We bargained, fought, even begged to the bitter end, and this is that bitter end. You’ll all get two week’s pay. I’m sorry; that’s it.”
Garfield looked around at the faces below him, lowered his head, and got off the desk.
This being a crowd of journalists, many had questions. People pushed toward Garfield’s office. Taylor turned and moved against the surge. There wasn’t an answer Garfield could give that would help.
Crossing back to his desk, Taylor felt numb. The MT was family. It had taken him in, taught him the job he loved, and become his home when he lost his mother, then his brother Billy. He hadn’t felt this hollow since receiving the telegram informing them that Billy was missing in action. Some others figured out what Taylor already knew and returned to their desks, shaking their heads, frowning. Two reporters were crying.
The presses wouldn’t even run tonight. The Messenger-Telegram would go out with a whimper, not a bang.
Taylor went to another floor to get a cardboard box for his two Rolodexes and the notebooks containing stories he was working. He’d thought people might hang around and reminisce about the paper. He was wrong. The newsroom cleared quickly. As Taylor left with his small box, Worthless was still cleaning out his desk.
People did want to reminisce, it turned out; they just wanted to do it while drowning those memories in booze. The paper was waked at Keen’s Chop House on 36th Street. The bar-restaurant, one of the oldest in New York, had been a favorite of the staff from the time the MT’s offices were in a garment factory building on Seventh Avenue.
Reporters and editors filled the bar and spilled into the saloon, where Taylor stood with his second beer. Above him, hundreds of clay churchwarden pipes lined the ceiling, as they did throughout the dining rooms of Keen’s, one sign how far back the place went. Taylor wondered if ancient Cyrus Garfield had dined here. Had kept his pipe here. How long did he hope his paper would last?
Probably forever. Publishers are never short for ego.
He found he couldn’t drink as fast as the others. Some were already pounding shots. A lot of beer might help with the emptiness inside. Fill the hole with Rolling Rock. He imagined the ugliness of waking up with a hangover and no job. Something more than that held him back. Two women from the features desk and a sportswriter were already so sloppy they were hanging on to one another. He didn’t want to go out that way. That was his dad’s way. Samantha was still back at the boat. He hoped. He wasn’t showing up there trashed.
How am I going to tell her I’ve got nowhere to run the story?
Novak, a whisky on the rocks in hand, smiled into Taylor’s face. “Journalists have fun at the worst times.”
“Occupational hazard. What are you grinning about?”
“Not here. What are you doing tomorrow?”
The question was ridiculous but he gave it a serious answer. “Working on the story, I guess. Don’t know what else to do.”
“That’s Taylor. Always on the story. How about sometime in the afternoon at your grandfather’s place?”
“Sure. Two o’clock.”
They both watched more people arrive, including journalists from the other papers as it got toward lunchtime. The wake of a newspaper was a big deal in the business and always a well-attended affair. The guild of scribblers never wanted to see a title go under, but knew the importance of properly drinking it into the grave. The newcomers bought drinks for the Messenger-Telegram staffers. After a while, a few ended up in quiet conversations in one corner of the saloon. Faces were serious. The MT people were the ones who anyone would consider the stars of the dead paper.
Before walking off, Novak nodded in that direction. “Looks like a job fair. See you tomorrow.”
Taylor went up to the bar, already rethinking his desire to stay on this side of sober. Tom Sabatini, an older reporter from the huge cop shop at the Daily News, stepped up next to Taylor.
“Really sorry.” Sabatini signaled to the bartender. “I got that.”
“Thanks.”
Sabatini also studied the impromptu meetings in the corner. “It’s like they’re pawing over the body.”
“Don’t blame people for trying to land a job. Things are bad.”
A silence opened between them, filled with the question Taylor couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“Listen Taylor, if things weren’t what they are, I’d go to the boss ….” He trailed off.
“I know. I get it.”
Sabatini polished off his martini. “You probably already know. You’ve got a rep, man. A loose cannon. Great stories, you know. But editors are such control freaks.”
“Aren’t they always?”
New plan. Time to start drinking seriously.
Before he could order, Laura Wheeler walked in the door. Here was a way his day could go badly that he hadn’t even anticipated. She looked down the bar with dark brown eyes. Black hair. Beautiful. Her eyes found his.
Shit.
She came straight over. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, thanks. You made the right move. Clearly. Where’s Derek?”
“On assignment in Israel.”
“I see.” Sounds so much better than on assignment in Queens. “Can I get you something? Glass of wine?”
“Shouldn’t I buy?”
She should because she still had a job, but he ignored the question because she also still had a piece of his heart. Taylor ordered Laura the red wine she liked. He backed up his beer, looking longingly at the bottles of whisky, each a rule ready to be broken.
Laura lifted her glass. “You still get the best scoops. The ones no one else knows what to do with. I’m going to talk to one of my editors.”
“How many do you have?”
“Lots. My paper has lots of editors.” She didn’t exactly sound pleased with this.
“The Times is never going to hire me.”
“Why not? You’re the best. Give the place a shot.”
“I don’t have the degree they want. I don’t write the stories they want. A dead teenager in Greenwich?”
“Think what you’d do with that.”
“Run away screaming. If I’m the best, why Derek?”
Laura blinked twice at the change in subject. “I don’t want to go into that here. We talked.”
“Let’s talk more.”
“Today’s bad enough. Don’t.”
Bad enough for me. It was the snappy comeback he couldn’t make himself say. There must be another one. He just couldn’t think of it with the paper closing and the beers and Samantha back at the boat. He couldn’t think of anything nasty to hurl at her. Asking about Derek was the best, or worst, he could do. He wasn’t the type. He liked her too much. Still. He was saved from the stretching silence by two MT staffers who came over to talk to Laura. She’d been popular in the newsroom, far more than he was. Which, for Taylor, only served to remind him the newsroom was gone forever.
He left his half finished beer on the bar.
Taylor climbed the ladder to the top deck of the houseboat with a case of Rolling Rock, full-sized bottles.
Samantha sat on one of the beach chairs with a half empty bottle of wine next to her. “Having a party?” she asked. She had on her baggy jeans and his sweater.
Mason gave Taylor his traditional tail wagging, circling welcome. “How you’d get him up here?”
“A bit dicey. Had to do something after half an hour of crying. Oh, and the old guy who walks him was pissed off. Said he should get word ahead of time if he’s not needed.”
“Great.”
“Why all the beer?”
“An Irish wake.”
The pretty smile faded from Samantha’s face as he settled into the second chair, scratched Mason’s head, and opened a beer.
“Who died?”
“The Messenger-Telegram. Yesterday was the final edition.”
“I’m so sorry. You’ve worked there a while, right?” She filled her glass.
Through three beers, he told of his arrival at seventeen, time spent as a copy boy, the move up to reporter and then how he landed the job covering the police beat, the only job he ever wanted to do. Taylor wasn’t the type to brag. He let his stories do the talking. However, she was a willing listener, and as it was a night of endings, he told her about a couple of the scoops that made his name. The corrupt vice squad in Harlem and the murder of the McNally teen back in March.
“Not sure what I’m going to do now.”
She put her hand on his arm and leaned toward him. “You’ve got a dead paper. I’ve got a dead career. We’re a matched set.”
He closed the rest of the distance and kissed her. Her mouth was sweet from cheap white wine. She pushed her hand through his hair. They stood because they couldn’t get any closer in the beach chairs. They kissed as a three-quarter moon lit the deck and the Long Island Sound. Taylor reached his hand down and grabbed her rear, pushing her hips toward him. She let out something between a sigh and a moan.
They necked. He ached for more of her. “There’s no romantic way to get down these steps.”
She laughed. “No there isn’t.”
“Plus I’ve got to get this idiot down.”
She laughed again. “Shall we meet downstairs in the bedroom? But Mason stays—what’d you call it?—amidships.”
“Definitely.”
Samantha disappeared down the stairway. Taylor considered the implications of leaving Mason up here. Really annoying whining. Or taking him down after having consumed six beers. Possible drop to the blacktop. He’d risk that rather than the noise.
As he entered the cabin, Samantha dropped her bra to the floor and slid into the bed. He undressed and joined her. They kissed again. He reached down to slide off her panties and found frills and lace.
“This hardly seems regulation.”
“I’ll show you regulation.”
She rolled on top and kissed his lips, chest, nipples, then slid herself down onto him. They made love like two people with nothing to lose.
They lay together entwined, their breathing still coming quickly. Taylor volunteered to go upstairs and retrieve the booze.
After he got back, Samantha lay on top of him—the bunk wasn’t much more than a single—resting, occasionally rising on one elbow to sip her wine.
She finished her glass. Taylor set down a beer unfinished for the second time that night. It was a strange evening indeed. They made love again.
Chapter 16
The Daily News had the best headline. Of course. It wasn’t the masterpiece of eight days ago, but it was still pretty good.
THE MT
IS EMPTY
The subhead gave the details. “Insurance Co. Gives Up on Daily; CEO Cites Concern Over City Bonds.” Taylor would have to wait for the Village Voice to read the blow-by-blow on the behind-scenes efforts to save—in the end, actually kill—the MT. The Voice was the only paper in town that covered what really happened at the other papers. For Taylor, that was the only reason to read it. The hippy-dippy stuff was getting old.
His hangover glowered out at the world from behind his eyeballs as he sat in a booth at the Oddity. He hadn’t been able to sleep after Samantha dozed off. Back on the top deck, he’d put away another six. He’d woken up in the beach chair, shivering, with empty bottles around him and the sky still dark. So much for his self control at Keen’s. He’d gone downstairs and fallen onto the couch and into blackness until Samantha woke him around ten. She’d laughed darkly and declared them both train wrecks.
Samantha was across from him now. Grandpop refused to let Taylor sit at the counter when he had a guest in the place. He hated that. It made him a customer, which he certainly wasn’t. He’d worked in the Oddity from the eighth grade on, first for the fun of it, then for the badly needed cash money of it. He’d probably be working here again in two weeks when the money ran out. The one nice thing about a booth was that Grandpop could only hover so much. As surrogate father and only surviving grandparent, he took it on himself to worry about Taylor’s romantic future, all the more so since he’d convinced himself Laura Wheeler was the one. Laura was gone. Now, the Messenger-Telegram was gone. The old man took that personally, very personally. He acted more upset than Taylor.
“They close the paper that my grandson works at?” The rhetorical question came in his heavily accented English.
Taylor answered anyway. “I don’t think my working there had anything to do with it one way or the other.”
“What do you mean? Best reporter in all of the city. Best cops reporter in all of New York.” Grandpop stood at the booth with the round glass coffee pot. He wore his work uniform of white apron over T-shirt and dungaree overalls.
Samantha smiled at this as she ate her hash and eggs. They’d both ordered greasy breakfasts as a hangover cure. She was a woman after his own heart. He knew from long experience the food would cut the hangover’s symptoms, but the effect would be temporary. The headache and stomach flips would come roaring back, worse than ever. The only real cure was sleep. That or hair of the dog, maybe after he met with Henry Novak. What else did he have to do today? There was also the problem that hair of the dog was number five on his list of rules, right behind don’t drink your breakfast. How much did the rules matter now?
“The end of the Messenger-Telegram was a bit more complex than that.”
Grandpop slapped the Daily News. “They dare to call it Empty. I offer no papers in The Odysseus. Nothing replaces the Messenger-Telegram until your new job.” He topped off their coffee cups.
“Suit yourself.” Taylor poured in lots of half and half and added two packets of sugar.
“I go on too much. I will let you sit with your nice friend.” Grandpop’s concern for Taylor’s love life trumped his concern for Taylor’s career. “Please let me know if you and the miss would like anything.”
He wanted an introduction. This time, Taylor had to be rude. Samantha was still on the run, and there were a lot of ears in the Oddity—cabbies, truck drivers, even cops who worked the Upper Eastside, maybe some from her father’s precinct.
After his grandfather gave him one last concerned glance and left, Samantha leaned in. “He reminds me of my dad. The way he worries. How am I ever going to survive on the job? Will I ever meet someone?” She sipped her coffee. “Guess we know the answer to the first.”
“We don’t know any answers yet. That’s what we’re missing.”
“What are you going to do with those answers?” She looked meaningfully at the Daily News. “Or don’t you read the papers?”
“I’ll freelance it. I get a story on Dodd’s killing that no one else has and someone will buy it. Believe me.”
“How about you write it for me?” Henry Novak stood at the booth. “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a chair over from one of the tables and straddled it.
“You’re working already?” Taylor didn’t mean to sound surprised, but he was.
“I am. I’ve got a job for you too. Don’t know about your friend.”
“She’s set. Where?”
Henry looked at Samantha, realized there was no point in asking anything more and took a piece of bacon from Taylor’s plate. “I’m starting a local wire service. The City News Bureau. Very small at first. I’ve already lined up four radio stations as clients. They want fresh stories, stories they’re not getting from the AP, which as you know, come from the newspapers anyway. They’re tired of hand-me-downs.”
“You’re starting ….” Taylor was now pretty much stupefied. “When did you do this? Last night at the wake?”
“No, of course not. You know I go to all those meetings of business leaders.” Taylor nodded. “Met several station managers. They
started complaining about their news coverage, and I started thinking.” Taylor continued to look at Novak in amazement, and Novak read the look. “I know, I know. I didn’t really put much effort into interviewing and writing. Any of the work at the MT. Too damned boring. What I learned I like is cutting deals. I goddamn love selling people on an idea. Best thing is, I know people like you who will do the stories better than I ever could. Started working on it about three months ago. The writing was on the wall at the MT. We’ll get more stations. Most of them don’t have reporters. With scoops like the ones you get, like the one about the briefcase—”
Taylor hissed, “I told you not to say anything.”
“Calm down, man. I haven’t. When our radio clients get a story like that—money and corruption, not in any of the papers—they’re going to eat it up.”
“How are you paying for this City News Bureau?”
“My dad. He’s got money. You know that. Small pharmaceutical company in Jersey. In his immortal words, ‘This is real business. Better than that bullshit you’ve been wasting your time on.’ Say yes. It’s a paycheck and someone’s going to run your stories.”
“Reading them between Top 40 songs.”
“Just come over to the office and talk about it. The Paramount Building, 1501 Broadway.”
“Times Square? You’re not squandering the old man’s money.”
“Right in the middle of the city’s top crime district. Perfect for you, no?” Novak stood up. “I’m only talking to five other people. A couple others from cops, a GA guy and a rewrite man. Like I said, small.”
“I’ll think about it.”
What else is there?
“You’ll come through, Taylor. You always do. Worth never got that. I hear he’s begging for a nightshift over at the Post. See ya.”
Taylor shook his head. He’d have bet any money nothing would top yesterday’s surprises. Henry Novak becoming a businessman and offering Taylor a job did just that. His whole world had been turned upside down. How could he get excited about this offer, though? He might want a paycheck, but what a huge step down! His stories read out on a handful of radio stations rather than a byline in the Messenger-Telegram.