Swift’s eyes were almost glowing, and he clapped his hands sharply to emphasize his last point.
“You’re talking about yellow journalism,” I said.
“Indeed, and disabuse yourself of any notion that the epithet bothers me in the least,” Swift said. “It made mass-circulation newspapers possible and, I like to think, it made people who wouldn’t otherwise pay attention to anything other than their own immediate personal concerns and needs at least partially aware of what was going on beyond the sight of their own limited horizons.
“Let me tell you, I am not one who believes the twaddle that man is inherently a noble creature. I believe people, most people, are driven by two rather simple motivations that go back to the cave. Fear. That’s why so many work at jobs they abhor to feed and clothe and shelter themselves. Lust. Nature’s way to impel us to reproduce. Greed and jealousy—functions of fear and lust. The higher intellectual and emotional motivations, as we might call them, are taught—and in crisis, when survival is at stake, sloughed off.
“Look at your own American story of the Donner party, reduced to cannibalism when the choice was to survive or conform to so-called civilized values. And the same thing happened just a few years ago when that plane crashed in South America.
“My point in this, old boy, is that we can prattle on all we want about the holy mission of journalism and about the people’s right to know, but at bottom we succeed only when we serve the perceived needs of those who plunk down a quarter for what we produce. Yes, there are many who want to know about the plight of the snail darter and the artistic triumphs of the New York Philharmonic, and there are newspapers and magazines and television networks to give them what they want. But there are many, many more who want to read about crimes of passion and the foibles of the high and mighty—about dotty senators, if you will. I did not make it that way, but I recognize it as reality, and it doesn’t make me feel guilty or debased to serve those people. And I don’t give a moldy fig for the elitists in our business who think I should.”
This, I figured, didn’t really require a response, unless it was going to be good-bye. “Well, I guess my reality is that I better get cracking on this piece. Grace looks like he’s getting antsy.”
“Yes. I have some things that need attention as well.”
I rewrote the story about the senator, checked with Grace to make sure we both had the same marching orders, and went oft to the Next Door to see if Liz was around.
She was, sitting at a table where Farley Free was holding forth to a half dozen or so of the staff.
“…so I told him, this story isn’t going to win us any popularity contests. But he’s a stubborn son of a bitch. The piece is going to be at the top of the sports page tomorrow.”
“What now?” I asked, sliding a chair up to the table.
“Oh shit, Bob, I walked into one with that bastard Swift. We got word today that the fullback at Central High had been dropped from the team without explanation. They’re having their spring practice to get things lined up for next season. I did some checking and found out that the kid had made a pass at the tight end in the shower.
“I talked to the coach and the principal and both said it was the first time, but the kid admitted he’d had homosexual impulses for a long time and agreed that he couldn’t very well stay on the team after this incident. Both the coach and the principal said that was going to be the end of it, so I decided, what the hell, who was it going to help to label the kid a queer, not to mention we had nothing official to back it up.
“So, thinking the good sports editor keeps his M.E. up to date, I told Swift I was going to run a piece about the kid being fired from the team “and say it was for breaking training rules. Like I should have expected, he hit the roof and insisted we do a story with the homosexual angle—a big story—and the head he wrote for it, God! Gay Back Gets Sack.”
We chewed that over a while and I gave a play-by-play of my adventures with Knocko. By the time we got up and left, it was near nine, and I was running on empty.
Liz drove us home and as we opened the door, the phone was ringing. I picked it up and it was the most excited Frank Sanders I had heard to date.
“Bob! Where the hell have you been? Listen, we’ve got the break we’ve been waiting for. My source down in Chicago came through. I’ve got the proof—on paper—that the mob owns the CR&P—and the plans for what they are going to do with it.”
“Go broke paying libel settlements, probably,” I offered.
“Oh, you mean the story about the senator. Hell, he’s not about to sue and get the story one paper ran into the court records, so any paper can safely run it. Besides, with Knocko’s name on it, the CR&P can plead innocent by reason of insanity.
“But listen up, Bob, I need some stuff from you and Liz before I can get started on this. Can you get me copies of the incorporation papers? And anything on that helicopter—you know, any licenses or documents on file, maybe at the airport?”
“Sure, I’ll get what I can together tomorrow.”
“And tell Liz I need photos of Shiu and Swift if there are any in the files. She shouldn’t try to take new ones—too much chance of spooking them. Also, if she took anything of the helicopter… it turns out to be an important part of all this.”
“Yeah? How?” I asked.
“I’ll fill you both in tomorrow night if you’ll bring the stuff up here. If you can leave after five, you can be up here in time for dinner—a victory dinner. I’m buying.”
Liz had been head-to-head with me listening. She nodded and I told Frank we’d see him about 7:30. Liz walked over to the window of the apartment as I hung up and started for the bedroom.
“Bob! Come here! There’s that Kenny again!”
I went to the window to see a car pulling out of a parking place on the side street two stories below. The angle was too acute to have any chance of reading a license plate number.
“You’re sure it was Kehler? It’s pretty dark down there.”
“He was in the bar tonight before you came in. He was wearing a black-and-white-checked jacket. That’s what I saw out the window.”
She paused, a frightened look on her face. “Bob, he came out of the side entrance of this building—the basement entrance.”
All thought of sleep vanished. Carrying a flashlight and a softball bat that had been deposited in the back of a closet years ago, we went down to the building cellar. There was no sign that anyone was or had been there. I found the telephone junction box in a corner. It had no lock and opened easily, but there was nothing in it that looked wrong and nothing that indicated it had been tampered with.
“Look.” Liz pointed at several gray clumps on the floor. We bent down. I shined the flashlight on them. They were cigarette ashes—their cylindrical form still intact. Liz blew at one and it scattered into powder. “Unless this place is airtight, those things are fresh,” she said.
Not sure proof, but enough for me. “Come on, we’ve got to call Frank back.”
Frank’s phone didn’t answer. We tried again at ten o’clock and at eleven. We debated setting out for the university town right then, but decided there was no sense going off half-cocked. Liz told me to get some sleep and she would keep trying to call. I was only dimly aware when she crawled into bed and said in my ear, “I got him. He said not to worry.”
The next morning over coffee, Liz said she finally got through to Frank just after midnight. “He sounded a little uptight, but kept saying he was all right. He just said Uh huh’ when I told him about Kehler and what we found in the basement. Oh, he also said I should remind you to look up Mr. Murphy today”