stories were true.
So here I was, back in my nothing hometown.
“Right,” I said. I planted the soles of my boots against the edge of my computer stand. “But if you don’t do good stories, you have no business either.”
“That’s very true,” Philo said. “But I think you would agree that ‘good’”-he held up his hands and waggled his fingers to signify quote marks-“is a subjective matter. We can count the dollars coming in, and we can count the dollars going out, right down to the penny. But good stories and bad stories all look the same on a balance sheet, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. If the stories I’ve done about the new rink showed up on your balance sheet, they’d be entered on the ‘bad’”-I waggled my own quote marks-“side of the ledger, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I had written a few stories for the Pilot suggesting that the rich guy building the new rink might not have all the money he needed to build it, that it wasn’t clear where he was going to get it, that he might have to cut a few corners to get the rink up in time for the state hockey playoffs in March, as everyone in town had hoped. It was as though the entire town believed that a new sheet of ice set beneath a shiny new roof with a nice new concession stand and four new locker rooms with showers that actually spewed hot water would make the River Rats winners, as though it had nothing to do with whether they were fast and tough and determined enough to beat the powerhouse Compuware and Mic-Mac and HoneyBaked Ham teams from downstate.
For Philo, it was actually a simpler matter. He had been dispatched to the Pilot by his CEO uncle to fix the finances. He would not be judged on whether we hung plaques on the paneled walls for our sterling reporting and writing and photographs but on whether we paid the bills and had some left over to transfer into Media North’s bank accounts. The rich guy building the rink was offering us a blank check that-assuming it cleared-promised to solve Philo’s problem, at least for now. The guy just wanted us-that is, me-to go a little easier on him.
I can’t say as I blamed him. Hell, a new rink sounded great. I didn’t like ice-cold showers any more than the next guy. And I really couldn’t blame Philo. He was a smart young man with a bright future who was trying to prove he could walk the tightrope between elusive truth and hard reality. I had tried it once myself and fallen flat on my ass.
“Hell,” I said, “the Internet’s going to save us anyway, right?”
“Go ahead and laugh,” Philo said. “The world is speeding up, my friend. The earth’s spinning faster on its axis. People are going to want their news now”-he snapped his fingers-“instantaneously, pronto, immediatement. The Web will get it to them when they want it, where they want it, how they want it.”
I stared past him at the clock on the wall: 7:28. Mom wouldn’t be up for a while. I wanted to get over there before she turned on the news.
“How about a coffee with cream? Can the Internet get me that? Or do I have to walk all the way over to Audrey’s?”
“Forget the Internet,” Philo said. “Look, Gus. I know-I know all of this ad stuff sounds, well, shitty probably, especially to a guy who’s done such exemplary work-”
“Work that got me fired.”
“-not just in Detroit but here in Starvation, those stories you did last year about the old hockey coach here-”
“No, no, no, Philo, you haven’t been spending enough time listening to the codgers at Audrey’s. That was all the work of another reporter who’s since gone on to greener pastures. Man, I couldn’t write my way out of a-”
“Goddammit!” He slammed a hand down on the top of my desk, rattling the pens and pencils in my Detroit Tigers beer mug. “Stop fucking with me.”
I took my feet down.
“Whoa,” I said. “Settle down, man.”
Philo took off his glasses and pointed them at me. “I know what you’re capable of,” he said. “I’ve read your stories, including what you did at the Times. I know you can hang this guy like that silly stupid loser hanged herself last night. All I’m asking is that you give him a fair shot.”
“How have I not given him a fair shot?” I said. “He doesn’t return my calls.”
“Have you spoken with his lawyer?”
“I thought you read my stories. The lawyer’s quoted: ‘No comment.’”
Philo rubbed his eyes. He slid his glasses back on.
“‘No comment’ just isn’t good enough,” he said.
“You want me to put a gun to his head?” I said.
“Come on, Gus. I think we both agree that this rink-that any new building around here that employs actual people-would be beneficial. But Mr. Haskell has now halted construction because of your stories.”
Laird Haskell was the rich guy building the rink. I knew why he was dodging me. He and I had a past Philo didn’t know about.
“Bullshit,” I said. “He stopped building because he didn’t have the money, because he was taking cash from Peter to pay Paul and his subcontractors walked.”
Philo sighed. He looked up at the ceiling. The poor kid was doing his best. I doubted Columbia had prepared him for this, especially the amoebic water stain he must have seen blackening the ceiling panel over his head.
“Haskell,” he said, “would like to meet with you.”
“News to me. When?”
I got up out of my chair and pulled out my cell phone. No wonder I hadn’t gotten a call from Darlene. I had left the phone off. I kind of liked the thing but I was still getting used to it.
“Today,” Philo said. “I’m waiting to hear the precise time.”
“He called you?”
“Not exactly. But I’ll get back to you.”
“Happy to meet with him. Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
Philo walked back to his desk and, standing, punched a few computer keys. He didn’t say so in the first place because he’d wanted me to hear about that ad opportunity first.
“Time still not certain,” he said. “But it’ll be at his house. Someone else will be with him. His lawyer, I assume.”
“Great.”
“You know the house?”
“I’ve seen it once or twice.”
You could step outside the Pilot and see it from Main Street, the biggest house on the lake, peering out from the northeastern shore.
“Thank you,” Philo said. He looked up from the keyboard. “Would you mind bringing me a coffee? No cream, four sugars?” He reached into his pocket.
“I got it,” I said. “Back in a few.”
As I started out of the room, Philo called after me, “Hey, Gus.”
I stopped and turned to face him.
“Yeah?”
“Hockey’s really a big deal here, isn’t it?”
“You’re catching on.”
“Where I grew up, we play lacrosse.”
“Tough game. You never saw hockey?”
“Well, not in Annapolis, but they had it in D.C., I guess, but it wasn’t… I don’t know… it wasn’t like it seems to be here.”
“No, not like here. Here, it’s everything.”
Outside on the sidewalk, I turned my cell phone on. There was indeed a message. Waiting for it, I felt the dry morning cold rush down the open neck of my coat and thought of Darlene asleep the night before, the warmth of her bare shoulder blades against my chest.
“Hey,” I heard her say. She wasn’t quite whispering, but she was trying to keep her voice down. “I’m guessing you’ll be at Audrey’s. Don’t believe everything you hear, OK? I’ll try you later. Love you.”
“Me, too,” I said, dialing her back. I watched Audrey’s as I listened to three rings and a click followed by her
