54
There was no stopping it; the juggernaut had begun lurching forward. Reports stated that the Dispatch was receiving more complaints and hate mail than at any point in the last ten years. The most since they ran a story about a presidential candidate paying off a cocktail waitress with whom he'd had an affair. The complaints weren't about the story, of course, but of a photo on page one in which readers claimed they could see more than fifty-one percent of her left butt cheek.
Nobody ever said people didn't have their priorities straight.
The gossip websites and blogs claimed that Ted Allen was considering canning Paulina Cole. They paid her to piss people off, under the maxim that controversy created cash, but now it looked like she'd pissed off too many people who spent the cash. Challenging an American legend, as well as asserting that a beloved (and deceased) clergyman had an extramarital affair, was too much to handle.
The story on William Henry Roberts was out. It was public.
And despite the protests and pitchfork-waving townsfolk, there would be inquiries. There would be investigations. This kind of scandal could not be covered up.
When I got to my desk my voice-mail light was blinking.
I checked it; it was from Largo Vance.
'Hey, Henry, I don't know how she got it or why, but I have a feeling I have you to thank for Paulina's story, you little devil you. With any luck those pussies in D.C. will have no choice but to exhume the proper body this time. If they screw this one up they'll have more important people than yours truly to answer to. Anyway, the wool's been pulled down long enough. Now catch that Roberts prick and then give me a call. I have an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue with your name on it.'
Before I could hang up the phone I saw a shadow hovering over my desk.
'Hey, Jack,' I said.
'Hey yourself. So, read any good stories today?'
'I just got in a minute ago. Why, is something breaking?'
'Something already broke,' Jack said. He opened up a leather valise and pulled out a copy of today's Dispatch. I'd passed it on the way to work but didn't bother to buy a copy. I knew what would be on the front page, and ignoring some basic sentence structure I was pretty sure I knew exactly how the article would read. Jack opened it, spread the paper across my desk.
Looking back at me in a salacious full two-page spread were the glistening veneers of Mark Rheingold, a faded family portrait of John Henry and Meryl Roberts with their two young children, and a photo of Ollie P. 'Brushy Bill'
Roberts at the deathbed of the man claiming to be Jesse
James.
The headline read: Sex, Murder, And The Gun That Won
The West.
Not Paulina's finest hour as far as headlines went, but she more than made up for it with the story. I scanned it quickly while Jack stood there. She covered all the important bases: Mark Rheingold's affair with Meryl Roberts, the fact that John Henry likely knew about it and approved.
And their son William's disgust at the shaming of Billy the
Kid's legacy.
'You have any idea where Paulina got these leads?' Jack asked. 'Seemed to me you were on top of this story a week ago, and all of a sudden Jackie Collins is scooping you.'
I held up my hand, still sutured together. 'In case you forgot,
I had a bit of an altercation a few days ago. Oh yeah, my ex is in intensive care. Oh yeah, and I broke it off with Amanda. So pardon me if I've been off my game for a few days.'
'Come on, kid, I don't buy that for a second. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you haven't had, you know, stuff on your mind, but the day you get scooped on your own story is the day I start drinking wine coolers and dating British women.'
'What do you want me to say?'
Jack looked me in the eyes. I held his gaze, unsure how to respond. Then he stepped back.
'You don't need to say anything. I know what you did.'
'Really? What's that?'
'Doesn't matter. I understand why you did it. But if you ever fucking do it again, I don't care if you're Bob Woodward the second or spawn of Jimmy Breslin and Ann Coulter, I'll stuff your body down the trash compactor and make sure you never work at this newspaper again. Understand me?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Of course not. Glad to see you understand. If Wallace asks-which he will-tell him exactly what you told me.'
'I will.'
'And Henry,' Jack said, his eyes growing soft. I'd never seen the man show a tender side, and it unnerved me. 'I want you to know I'm sorry about Amanda and Mya. I know I said some things a while back, I don't know how much you actually listened to and how much you passed off as the loony ramblings of an old idiot, but everyone lives their life differently. I never found the same kind of happiness a lot of others have, but that doesn't mean what I did is the right way to live.'
'Right or wrong, you made a career to be proud of.'
A small choking sound came from Jack's chest.
He said, 'You know what I consider the best story I ever wrote, Henry?'
'It wasn't Michael DiForio?'
Jack laughed. 'No offense to the guy who tried to rub you out, but not even close. No, it was February third, 1987. Not just because that's the day Liberace died-not a lot of people paying attention to human interest stories that day-but I wrote a piece about a woman in Nebraska who'd lost her husband to cancer and her son to a carjacking. Childless and widowed at forty-one. She'd never worked a day in her life, and suddenly decided to join the police force, and became a cadet on her forty-second birthday. Her name was Patti
Ramona, and I remember she told me that if she saved just one life doing her job, if she prevented one family from going through what she went through, then their deaths wouldn't sting so much.'
Jack coughed into his hand.
'A week after the article came out, I got a letter from a man in Idaho, Robert something, his name escapes me. Robert had lost his wife and daughter and had been dying of loneliness for a decade. Robert told me the moment he finished reading my story he went out and became a volunteer firefighter. He said thanks to Patti he knew his life could still have a purpose.
You see what I'm saying, Henry? You don't need a whole city to remember you. If you make your mark on just one person, change one life for the better, that's the noblest thing you can ever do. It's easy to be a celebrity. It's harder to actually mean something.'
He clapped me on the shoulder and left without saying another word. I watched him turn the corner and disappear.
And then I was alone.
Sitting at my desk, my mind was blank. I didn't know what to write about. I stared down at the paper Jack had left on my desk. My phone was silent. E-mail inbox empty. I had a sudden and terrible feeling of deja vu, remembering walking the streets of Manhattan after Mya had been attacked a year ago. Getting drunk and hoping the needle in a haystack would cross my path. I remembered the anger and sadness, a dangerously potent mixture. I felt that way now.
It was easier when there was a story. Something to focus on, something to prevent my mind from wandering. But right now all I could focus on was that emptiness. And hope it didn't consume me.
And suddenly everything changed.
I saw Wallace running from his office down the hall.
Evelyn followed from Metro, her short legs having trouble keeping up. Then two more got up and ran after
