53
Louie Grasso picked up the phone. He gently placed the receiver to his ear and wondered if there was anywhere near this godforsaken building he could grab a shot of whiskey to throw in his coffee. If the rest of the day went the way his first half an hour did, he'd quit his job by noon. He'd been working the lines at the Dispatch for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had he heard such anger due to a story. Goddamn Paulina Cole, at some point she was going to get them all killed.
Louie took a breath, said, ' New York Dispatch, how may
I direct your call?'
'You have two choices,' said the man with the Southern twang on the other end. 'You can either put this shithead Ted
Allen on the phone or that sassy bitch Paulina Cole. Your choice, either one will do, but I'm not hanging up until one of those worthless dung heaps is on the line.'
Louie recited what his boss had told him to after the first barrage of calls came in.
'Any complaints you have regarding Ms. Cole's article in today's edition should be addressed in the form of a typewritten letter or e-mail directed to the New York Gazette public relations department. Your concerns are duly noted. They will be responded to either individually or as a whole.'
'Listen, I got my whole extended family just waiting to call in as soon as I hang up, and my grandma Doris is ready to hop on the plane and whack Allen upside the head. So I'll fill out your stupid forms, but I hope you're ready to repeat those directions another few thousand times this morning. So 'duly note' my ass.'
Louie sighed as the line went dead. He drained his coffee and picked up another one of the dozen lines that hadn't stopped flashing in hours.
' New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?'
Paulina had just hung up the phone when James Keach appeared in the doorway. Sweat was streaking down his face, and his work shirt looked several different shades of blue.
'This is not the time, James.'
'I need to know what to do. People are calling me asking for a statement. Some guy from the Associated Press, another one from the Times. I don't know how they got my number.'
'Our company directory isn't a secret. What are you telling the people who call?'
'I've been hanging up on them.'
'Good,' she said. 'You say one word to anyone who doesn't work inside this building I'll roast your nads in my
Foreman Grill. Now get.'
Keach disappeared.
Paulina turned back to her computer. Her inbox had three hundred new messages, and another ten were appearing every minute. They all bore colorful subject headings like you're wrong and eat shite and die and does your mother know you lie for a living?
Never in her career had Paulina witnessed such an onslaught of offended readers, and that was counting the time they ran a still photo from Pamela Anderson's sex tape with her nipples blocked out. Hundreds of angry readers were calling in, demanding her head, and every new message was directed at the story she'd written for today's Dispatch. The story Henry Parker had dropped on her lap. That sneaky shit knew it would provoke this response. He wanted that story to run, but didn't want the Gazette to go through exactly what the Dispatch was right now. She'd have to remember to send him a cyanide fruitcake for Christmas.
Once the brushstrokes are painted, the picture becomes clear as a Midwestern day. One hundred and twenty-seven years ago, a lie was told, and that lie has been perpetuated for generations by deluded, smallminded townfolk whose entire lives and economies live and die on the wings of a myth. Once you know the truth of Brushy Bill Roberts's identity as Billy the Kid, once you know how William Henry Roberts burned his house down with his family inside, once you know that
William's mother had an affair with a millionaire man of God (with his father's blessing, no less), you know that a hundred years too late, the truth has come to collect its revenge.
Soon the facts will prove that William H. Bonney did not die in 1881 in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. He and his bloodline lived on. This country has been living in denial for years. And it is because of this veil of ignorance that nine people are dead, with another young woman fighting for her life.
If there is any justice in the world, if the truth is regulated at all, then the entire citizenry of New Mexico, Texas and all those who convinced themselves that the nightmare was over will wake up to the violent reality and confront a demon who manifested himself right here, today.
Never had Paulina seen such an outraged reaction from a
'concerned' group of citizens. But to her surprise, many of the protesters were from far outside the delusions of Texas and New Mexico, and the sandblasted states who perpetrated the myth. She'd only received about twenty messages from
Fort Sumner, ten or so from Hico and Lincoln County, but the vast majority were from New Yorkers, Californians. She had even received harsh rebukes from several members of
Congress, writing to say that at best her article was in poor taste, and at worst a selfish attempt to discredit one of the most enduring legends in history.
She didn't bother to respond to the irony of calling a mass murderer an 'enduring legend,' but therein, she supposed, was the point.
William H. Bonney, despite his violent history, was now considered a hero, a vigilante, a romantic icon. And having read the dozens of articles about William Henry Roberts's deadly spree, she knew that more than a fair share of 'concerned citizens' considered him the same way. Roberts was a bandit, an outlaw. And like Bonney's Regulators years ago, he was purging the landscape of those who poisoned the well.
Yet unlike other articles she'd written that had stirred up controversy, there was no joy at the Dispatch at the prospect of increased circulation. There were no high fives in the hall or talk about holiday bonuses. Nobody from senior management had stopped by Paulina's office to congratulate her on a terrific story. In fact, nobody had come by at all. And if there was one thing that frightened Paulina more than anything, it was silence.
Ordinarily she might respond to one or more complainants, just for kicks. But today she merely forwarded all the messages to their PR department. They'd be earning their paychecks this week. Then one e-mail popped up in her in-box that made her forget all the others.
The sender was Ted Allen. The subject heading read We need to talk.
She took a deep breath before opening the message.
…hurts the credibility of our newspaper…
…true or not the Dispatch had been placed under a mag nifying glass…
…witch hunt…
…my mother grew up in Texas…this is akin to pissing on the Pope's grave…
He requested her presence in his office in fifteen minutes.
The Dispatch' s legal team and PR department would be on hand. She had no doubt her job would be safe, but this fire had to be handled with extreme caution.
Henry had gotten away clean. She couldn't mention his name. If the public found out she'd received information from a reporter at a rival paper, the Dispatch would lose its credibility faster than Jack O'Donnell downed a shot of whiskey.
Take credit for your successes, take credit for your mistakes, hope the former outweighed the latter.
Paulina picked up her phone, dialed James Keach's extension.
'Ms. Cole?'
'Where is Henry Parker right now?'
'I…I don't know. Work, I assume?'
'Find him. Then call me. You have half an hour.'
She hung up, stood up, smoothed out her skirt and headed for Ted Allen's office.
