Mumbai. It's well known that the arts editors always offered exclusive scoops to gossip rags in exchange for the rags making the Gazette seem like a hip place to work. If the definition of hip was Jack warbling Kenny Rogers while Wallace played acoustic guitar, both men having consumed their body weight in JD, then yes, I suppose you could call the Gazette a hip place to work.
I took an empty seat, trying hard not to meet any of the stares directed my way. I noticed several people staring at my bandaged hand, which I self-consciously tucked underneath the table. Wallace sat down at the head, and finally the eyes left me for more succulent meat.
'As I'm sure you're aware of this morning,' Wallace said,
'the reaction to Henry's story about the link between this killer and Billy the Kid has been off the charts. Based on our website traffic, it is the Gazette' s most e-mailed article since we expanded our web capabilities three years ago. We've received dozens of phone calls, many supportive, many not so much, not to mention queries from at least three film scouts inquiring about film rights to the story. Needless to say we've struck a nerve with this article, and considering the demand
I'd like each section to consider reporting on the phenomenon from a different societal perspective.'
After a quick tug at his goatee, the arts editor piped in. 'We can do an overview of the most famous movies, music, television shows and books to explore the legend of Billy the Kid.
An IMBD search came back with at least two dozen films where the Kid was either a main or substantial supporting character. And you'd be surprised how often his name is dropped in contemporary music and literature.'
Deborah Gotkowski, the business editor, said, 'I have a call in to the tourism bureau at Fort Sumner. I'd like to know how much revenue they take in on a yearly basis from their various museums and tourist attractions, then analyze that data and compare it to the ten cities who receive the largest percentage of their revenue from one specific tourist attraction.'
Jonas Levinson, the science editor, said, 'We can do a comprehensive look at the DNA techniques Professor Vance was attempting to use, and determine whether they could actually tie Catherine Antrim to the alleged remains. That would have to have been some groundbreaking stuff.'
I heard a loud grunt from the corner. It came from a large man wearing a rumpled sports jacket and a white shirt with a moon-shaped mustard stain. Frank Rourke was the
Gazette' s sports editor, a man I'd never met, though I did enjoy his recent articles about steroid abuse in baseball.
Unlike most city sportswriters, Frank wrote from a fan's perspective rather than writing as if he was the moral axis of the sports universe. He never chided athletes for their faults. That would have been the pot calling the kettle black, considering
Frank had written two books-one about his marriage as a full-time sportswriter, the second about his divorce as a fulltime sportswriter.
'I think the Knicks are looking to acquire a backup point guard for a playoff push. Maybe I can claim this Bonney guy is coming up in trade talks.'
'You should do that,' Jonas said. 'I bet most of your readers would believe it, too.'
'My readers could beat your readers to death with one arm tied behind their back.'
'I could throw your readers a tube steak and they'd forget all about it.'
Frank leaned forward, half his body over the table. 'Are you calling my readers stupid?'
Jonas shrugged. 'If the GED fits.'
'Fuck you, and fuck this kid, Parker,' Rourke spat. 'I've been at this paper twelve years, I ain't never been so much as given a handkerchief by you assholes. Now we're sucking his dick about all this 'groundbreaking' reporting? Please. Once this twelve-year-old milk monitor earns his stripes he can come in here. Until then I'm not listening to this shit.'
Rourke stood up and made a grand spectacle of tucking in his shirt, shooting his cuffs and storming out. There was silence for a moment. Jonas's face showed a combination of pride and white-as-a-ghost fear, as though Rourke might be waiting for him at his desk with a pair of brass knuckles.
'Are we through?' Wallace said. 'Because time is wasting and every other paper in town is looking for us to trip so they can pass us. I want a push on all fronts. Our early morning newsstand numbers are our highest in six months. Henry, I want you to stay on the murders. Jonas, I want you to look into the attempts made by Largo Vance and others to test the
DNA contained in Billy the Kid's grave. Deborah, you look into the effects it could have on the present day economics of
Fort Sumner and other towns such as Hamilton that are supported by this industry. I want all discoveries to be shared directly with the office of Chief Carruthers.' Wallace paused a moment. 'Most importantly, there's still a killer out there.
If we can, in any way, aid the investigation and incarceration of this sick man, we owe it to the citizens of New York to do so. Err on the side of caution. If you think you have something that would be of use to investigating officers, run it by me and I'll make the final call. But get out there and report your asses off, and have your staff do the same. This is a story that reaches back over a century. And if you're like me, you all have that feeling, your pulses are racing a bit, you have that zing in your step because you know you're on the verge of a great discovery. Grab it. Let's make a great paper. Good luck.'
And with that, Wallace dismissed us. I walked out with him. He put his arm around my shoulders, made it clear so the newsroom could see. This public display of solidarity was to let the newsroom know he was on my side.
'You're the lead dog on this,' Wallace said, soft enough so only I could hear it. 'But stay the hell out of the battle zone.
The job of a journalist is to report the news, not become it.
I've read too many briefs regarding your run-ins and injuries this past year.'
'That's not my fault,' I said, agitation in my voice, my blood pressure rising. 'What happened last year was out of my hands. What happened yesterday won't happen again.'
'You say that like a stupid kid playing in traffic just sure he won't get hit by a car. Until he does. You're a reporter,
Henry, nothing more. It is your job to write and investigate the news. Neither Harvey Hillerman nor I want to see your name appear in the Gazette in any capacity except as a byline for the foreseeable future. If you can't comply with that, we can find a position here that will keep you safely behind a desk. Evelyn's assistant recently left to get her MBA, I'd be happy to put in a good word.'
Being Evelyn's assistant held the same appeal to me as mopping up the public toilets at Shea Stadium. I knew where Wallace was coming from, but if a freak wanted to break into my house and Ginsu my hand, there was only so much I could do about it. Then again, if the Gazette had to keep defending me, readers would be smart enough to realize that the lady doth protest too much. It would only be a matter of time before my byline overshadowed the story I was telling.
'I'll be careful,' I told Wallace. 'This is too important to me. I won't muck it up.'
'You're damn right you won't. So report it right. Now get to work.'
I went back to my desk, mentally riffling through all the work I had to do in order to get a fuller picture of Brushy Bill.
As I walked past the other desks, I noticed most of my coworkers were gathered by the pantry. As I rounded the corner, they made an awkward attempt to stop giggling. I started toward them to see what was up, but then smelled something unmistakable in the air.
I looked over at my desk, noticed a paper bag sitting on my keyboard. As I got closer I noticed that a) my desk smelled absolutely rancid, and b) there was a small brown splotch at the bottom of the bag. I didn't need to get any closer to know somebody had put a bag full of shit on my desk.
I forced a smile, picked up the bag, walked it to the pantry.
The other reporters parted as I approached. I dropped it in the trash, washed my hand, and said, 'Looks like someone forgot their lunch.'
I wasn't laughing as I returned to my desk. A killer was still out there. And despite what Wallace hoped, he wasn't planning to stop.
