“He worked with you on the Tribe stories, yet accepted no credit for them.”
Jack said nothing.
“What did you say your relationship is with Mister Fletcher?”
“Relationship?” Jack would be damned before he would state his “relationship” with the member of the Board of Directors of Global Cable News, Consulting/Contributing Editor Irwin Maurice Fletcher.
He would be damned if he would tell every turkey who gobbled, especially one who could influence his career positively, that the above described Irwin Maurice Fletcher was the real and natural father he had always heard about, read about, read, dreamed about…
And that Jack had arranged to meet for the first time ever only the week before …
That The Tribe expose was Jack’s story …
And that Jack had gone well out of his way to suck the aforesaid Fletcher senior reluctantly into the investigation of the story, to see what his father was really like …
And so that his father could see what he, Jack, was really like.
Not his style.
“Yes. I mean, we’re puzzled as to why he gave you these stories on The Tribe, worked with you, then sent you to us. Why didn’t he use our own people?”
“This was my story,” Jack said. “I set it up. Mister Fletcher didn’t become involved until nearly the end of the investigation.”
“So.” Blair smiled knowingly. “You involved him in it so you could have access to Global Cable News.”
Jack said nothing.
“Very generous of him,” Blair insisted. “Typical of him, I must say.”
Blair handed a thick, folded paper across the desk to Jack.
“Lucky for us,” Blair said. “Lucky for you. I couldn’t stand the sight of those people, myself.”
Jack unfolded the paper. It was a check drawn on a Global Cable News bank account for a large sum of money. It was made out to John Faoni.
“That’s nice,” Jack said.
“Commensurate with our appreciation,” Blair said. “Your stories on the Tribe made quite an international splash. Shouldn’t be surprised if they won us some prizes.”
“Let’s hope,” Jack said. He was puzzled by the large amount of the check. “So … I get one of these every week?”
“Pardon?”
“What, what…” First, Jack had asked what his assignment would be, and had had no answer. “Just what will my annual salary be?”
“From … ?” Blair let the preposition hang in the air.
Jack realized he had let a proposition hang in the air. A presumption. “Global Cable News.”
“You’re not an employee of Global Cable News, Mister Faoni.”
“But…”
“We looked at your work as a favor to Mister Fletcher. It just happened to work out. This time.”
“You’re not offering me a job?”
“Of course not. We don’t even know you. You arrived here looking like something washed up on the beach, carrying a sack of videotapes and computer disks, which we were able to use. I understand we had only one phone call from Mister Fletcher. If we hadn’t had that, you never would have gotten in the door.”
“I had the story!”
“And we gave you credit. And”—Blair’s gray eyes looked at the check in Jack’s hand—“payment.”
Jack looked down at the check. “You’re paying me off?”
“With thanks. Didn’t Andy tell me you’re still in journalism school somewhere?”
“I can’t go back there. Not at this point.”
“Well, wait till the term rolls ’round again. You have the money in your hands for a nice vacation. My wife and I are very fond of taking the train trip across Canada. Magnificent scenery. Excellent service.”
“You’re not offering me a job?”
“Things are tight here now, Jack. There’s so much competition in this business. We have difficulty, you see, in persuading all American businesses they should spend as much as eighty percent of their gross income on advertising. A few still resist the idea. We’re not exactly laying people off, but we are not replacing people who leave for one reason or another. What we need are young people with experience. Just because you’ve worked on one story we do not consider you experienced.”
“It was my story. My name was on it. It was a great story. You said it should be a prizewinner.”
“Yes.” Blair smiled. “We’re very grateful to Mister Fletcher.”
Jack tightened his jaw. He was sorely tempted …
He had to remind himself of what was his style, and what wasn’t.
“Naturally,” Blair said softly, “we hope that if you ever come across another story like The Tribe you’ll talk to us about it first. Maybe a little earlier in the investigation of the story…. We have more experienced people here. I mean, that story really should have been a team effort.”
“‘A team effort’?” Jack could not imagine a t.v. film crew swarming The Tribe’s encampment and getting much of a story. That wouldn’t have been journalism; that would have been publicity.
“We would have liked to have vetted some of the things you undoubtedly did to get that story with our legal department, for example. We can only hope that legal repercussions won’t develop from your work. I’m advised there are certain concerns that might be raised regarding privacy issues.”
“You’re worried about being sued by White Supremacists for my invading their privacy?”
“You were on private land. The computer system you broke into …”
“Lor’ love a duck,” Jack said. “You television wallahs just want pictures.”
“And of course you started the story while you were in prison, didn’t you?”
“You don’t understand that? I was placed in the prison—”
“I know what I’ve heard. One never knows what’s true.”
“One doesn’t?” Jack’s mouth was dry. “Isn’t that what this business is about?”
“Oh, sure.” Blair’s smile was sardonic. “That’s what I mean, Jack. You need experience. Go back to school. Go somewhere you can do lots of stories. Develop a first class resume. Right now … left school … prison … white supremacists … who knows what you are … a diamond in the rough, maybe …”
Check in hand, Jack rose from his chair.
“It’s been nice meeting you, Mister Blair.” He reached his arm across the mahogany desk. Blair rose and shook Jack’s hand.
“Hope you don’t mind my giving you a little fatherly advice,” Blair said. “You got credit for this big story, but it’s ours now. We bought it. It’s over. And essentially you are untried. You lucked out, once. This is over. It’s a big, dirty world out there, no one owes you a living, go back to school, get a job, get married, have kids, who knows, you might be happy in some other line of work altogether. …”
Still holding Blair’s hand, staring into his gray eyes, Jack said, “Sorry you fell overboard. My door is always closed to you.”
“What?” Uncertainly, Blair chuckled.
Jack said, “Bye.”
3
“Vindemia. Good morning. How may I help you?”
“Will you ring the American Girl Rose Suite, please?” Jack asked.
“Ringing.”
Again, Jack was using Andy Cyst’s phone.
“No answer, sir, in the American Girl Rose Suite.”
“I’m calling for Ms. Shana Staufel.”
“I doubt Ms. Staufel would be in her room at 11:30 in the morning, sir. Hold on.” Jack held on. At the moment he didn’t much care what this personal telephone call cost Global Cable News. “Sir? I’ve tried the outdoor pool, the
