Grace and Al Wilks were working at the copy desk and trying not to appear interested in what was going on across the room. I sat down with them and said, “Well, Stanley, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
Grace didn’t smile. “That’s been going on for half an hour. I don’t think Swift has said six words.”
“Yeah, but when he does it’ll probably be to pin the blame on somebody else,” Bicker muttered. “I’d hate to be Farley today.”
Just then, Swift stood up behind his desk and waved at Shiu. His high-C voice came through the glass, but not enough to be understandable. Shins head disappeared.
which meant he had sat down in one of the chairs in the cubicle. Swift sat down and continued to talk at a lower decibel level.
“He’s just picked up the phone,” Grace said. “Here comes something.”
In the front of the room, the phone rang at the society desk. Mary Frasci picked it up, listened a moment, and hung up. She dug around in the wire basket on her desk and then headed for Swift’s lair carrying a sheaf of papers. She looked about as happy as a suckling pig arriving at a wolves’ convention.
Mary was with Swift and Shiu for about ten minutes. She came out with a relieved, dazed look on her face and walked over to Grace.
“Mr. Swift says I should tell you to save room for a three-inch box on the front page. I’ll have the copy in ten minutes or so.”
“About what?” Grace asked.
“About the paper sponsoring discount youth tickets for the rock concert this weekend.” Mary looked smug.
“Come on, Mary, what’s this about?” I said.
“Really, that’s what they’re going to do. I think it’s supposed to take the steam out of that,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the front of the building where the chanting and clapping could be heard. She went to her desk and began working on her terminal.
“A rock concert?” Bicker said. “More damn foolishness.”
“Maybe not,” Grace said. “It might help. I read those tickets for the concert were going for twenty-five dollars, and there might be a lot of those kids who’d appreciate a break on that.”
“Bribery,” Bicker said.
“’You damn betcha,” Grace replied. “Right down this outfit’s alley.”
The concert was running two full days at a place called Turg’s Turf & Tree Farm about eleven miles out of town.
Turg had been defoliated with Old Testament-class infestations of gypsy moths, cinch bugs, and cutworms all in the same season a couple years back and had been trying to stay afloat by renting his acres out for touring concerts.
The old boy had been a Farm Bureau right-winger and a Jerry Falwell fundamentalist when he was growing fescue and elms, but lately had taken to reading Rolling Stone, driving Italian sports cars, and wearing his shirts open to the navel. He had enough gold chain around his neck to moor the Love Boat.
The next days paper had the front page box offering concert tickets for $6.50 to high school kids who presented their student IDs at the CR&P classified counter. That drew an even bigger crowd of kids than the previous day, but this time they were in a relatively orderly line waiting to get into the lobby. The gays and the boycotters were still in front, but they weren’t getting much attention; a couple of days later, both gave up.
I was involved in none of these festivities, but was spending my days sitting by my phone at the statehouse pressroom and my nights doing the same at home. In the middle of the second day, I called Phlager.
“Listen, this isn’t going anywhere. If they were going to ask for something to return Frank, they would have contacted somebody by now,” I said.
“Yeah, I was talking to Creston about it a few minutes ago. Tell you what, we’ll keep our people on your phones here and Sanders’s up there, but you don’t need to sit by. Stay in touch… we may need you.”
“How about Liz?”
“Well, I guess she could come back too if she wants. I’ll call her,” Phlager said.
I felt liberated but not a hell of a lot better. It was obvious that every day that went by without word made it worse for Frank. I waited a couple of hours and called Liz at Franks apartment. The phone was picked up, but there was no response until I said, “Liz, Liz, are you there?” a couple of times.
Then a deep male voice answered. “Mr. Wartovsky? Miss Sanders has gone out. I’m not sure where, but she took the car that was here. Oh, and I’m sorry, but would you mind not ringing this line? It sets off the recording and tracing stuff every time.” He gave me a number where I could reach Creston if I had to get through.
That made me feel worse. I didn’t know if Liz was on the way back or what. I sat around the pressroom until nearly 8:00 and finally gave up and went to the Next Door.
Grace and some of the staff were there as usual. I sat down for a beer and a burger. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“Well, it looks like this rock concert deal is getting real big,” he said. “Swift wants pieces promoting it every day—mentioning of course that the civic-minded CR&P is helping the kids get to see it. He sent Diana Osky to Des Moines to do some pieces on the featured band that is going to be here. Doralee’s totally pissed that she didn’t get the assignment, although when she found out Shiu was flying Di down there, she cooled off some. She’s scared stiff of that guy.”
“Shiu flew Diana to Iowa? In what, the helicopter?”
“No, I think he rented a small plane so they could get back here tomorrow early. Tandee went, too. By the way, do you know when Liz is coming back? With Whine gone, we’re out of luck for pictures.”
The question irritated he more than it should have. “No, damn it, I don’t know. I thought she was checking in with you.”
“Okay, Fob. I just asked. We’ll bump along.”
I went home and waited to hear from Liz. Nothing. The next morning I called Creston at the number the trooper had given me.
“Where c he hell’s Liz Sanders,” I demanded.
“Whoa, Bob. What’s under your saddle? She’s staying with a friend on campus—said it was getting her down to sit around her Dad’s place. I talked to her this morning and she sounds some better. You want the number?”
“No,” I snapped. “Next time you hear from her, you might tell her that if she wants to keep her job, she ought to check in with the city editor.” I hung up. Doralee wasn’t the only one with a case of the red ass.
I checked out the statehouse pressroom, made a quick round of the agencies, and carried a small sheaf of handouts over to the paper. “My computer’s acting up,” I told Grace. “I thought I’d work over here and keep from losing copy every half hour.”
He nodded and I sat down at Diana’s empty desk to compose some deathless prose about the number of potholes that had been repaired by the state highway department since the spring thaw, and the outbreak of swine cholera that the agriculture department had snuffed out in the western part of the state. After an hour or so, Shep Carley came over with some sheets of wire copy and said Grace had asked if I had time to put together a primary campaign story from the separate pieces on the candidates. It kept me busy until Diana and Tandee walked into the newsroom about midafternoon.
I got up from the desk, and Diana plunked her notebook and purse down. “I was just keeping your terminal warm,” I said lamely.
“No problem, Bob. But I guess I better get to work. Grace wants a long piece on the band, and it took us so long to get back I’m going to be under the gun.”