“Uh-huh. Anyone in particular?”
His smile became rigid. “No comment,” he said evenly.
No wonder. “One more thing,” I said, “and then I’ll let you go. I happened to check your campaign disclosure and noticed that you’ve received a sizable contribution this last year from Tiptree. Can you tell me why?”
He blinked at my knowledge of this tidbit of information, but remained in control. “Tiptree has been a good friend of the St. Louis community,” he said, as if reciting from a campaign fact-sheet. “It’s employed thousands of people over the last several years and has been a growing part of the local aerospace community. As such, we have mutual interests at heart.”
“I see. And Project Sentinel … is that …?”
“A great technological achievement, as Mr. McLaughlin said during his opening remarks.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have to go. I have someone waiting in my office to see me.”
“Yes, well, thank-”
The screen blanked before I finished my sentence.
I went back to my column, this time incorporating the remarks Estes had made about the raid during our interview. They didn’t make much of a difference, except that it was interesting to note how Estes’ “peaceful police action” contrasted with the mob panic, tear gas, and gunfire I had seen and heard.
I finished the piece at about six o’clock, as green-tinted twilight seeped through the windows. By then most of the staff had already gone home; John and I were the last two people left in the editorial department. Jah stopped by to give me the contact sheet of the photos I had taken. I found the shot I had taken of Beryl Hinckley, and John glanced at it under a magnifying glass as he put on his overcoat, memorizing her face for the meeting he was supposed to have with her later that evening.
“You want me to come along for the ride?” I asked after Jah left. “I could help identify her when she-”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Pearl snapped.
I shut my eyes, cussing under my breath. I wasn’t aware that Bailey was just outside the editorial cube. He had been shutting down the production department’s photocopy machines when he overheard our conversation. Overheard, helclass="underline" the bastard had been eavesdropping.
“You let John take care of his own stories, Rosen,” he said, glaring at me over the top of the partition. “All I want from you is your column and whatever else I specifically assign you. You hear me?”
Here it comes. The second chew-out of the day. Before I could muster a reply, John cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said, “but I asked Gerry if he would help me out on this. He saw something at the Muny last night that … ah, might have something to do with what I’m working on.”
It was a good lie, and Pearl almost fell for it. His eyes shifted back and forth between us, trying to decide who was putting on whom, before his basilisk stare settled on me. “Did you get your column written?” he demanded.
“Sure, Pearl … uh, Earl. Got it finished just a few minutes ago.”
He grunted. “Good. Then tomorrow I want you working on the Arch story we talked about at the last staff meeting. Deadline by next Friday.”
The assignment in question was a no-story story about why the Gateway Arch hadn’t collapsed during the New Madrid quake. Why hadn’t the Arch fallen? Because it was built well, that’s why. When some dopey Wash You intern had suggested the piece, I had argued that point and added that the quake was old news; besides, who needed another feel-good piece about things that hadn’t fallen down and gone boom? The TV stations, the Post-Dispatch, and the local shoppers had already published so many of these yarns that a new category in local journalism had been tacitly created to encompass them: Courageous Firemen, Heroic Pets, and Gee Whiz It’s Still Standing Upright.
But Pearl had assigned it to me anyway-largely, I suspect, because he wanted to see how well I jumped through hoops. I was about to protest that this was a useless assignment when I caught John’s stern expression out of the corner of my eye and shut up. Since I was already walking the tightrope, I might as well show off my other circus tricks.
“And the next time you decide to take off with John,” Bailey went on, “you might have the common courtesy to tell me first. We got a tip this morning from some lady out in Webster Groves. Squirrels are back in Blackburn Park for the first time since the quake-”
“And there was no one here to cover it,” I finished, snapping my fingers and shaking my head. “Aw, gee, I’m sorry I missed it. Sounds important.”
John coughed loudly and covered his mouth with his hand, this time to disguise the grin on his face. Bailey shot a harsh look at him, then focused on me again. “I’m the editor here, Rosen, and you’re the reporter. Understand? Just to teach you a lesson, I want you to call this lady back ASAP-”
“C’mon, Pearl-”
“And don’t gimme me that ‘Pearl’ shit or I’ll have you over in copyediting faster than you can say Oxford English Dictionary.”
Translation: shape up or ship out. Unless I wanted to end my career at the Big Muddy proofreading pasteups and checking the grammar of the stuff sent in by the freelancers, I had better content myself with writing about squirrels and pretend to like it.
I didn’t say anything, because anything I was likely to have said would probably have had me at the copyediting desk by Monday morning. Bailey gave me one last sour look, then picked up his jacket. “See you tomorrow, gentlemen,” he said. “Don’t forget to lock up behind you.”
Then he strode down the center aisle between the cubicles, heading for the front door, where his son was waiting to drive him home.
“He’ll get over it,” John whispered. “Just lie low for the next couple of weeks and let him chill out.” He opened his desk drawer, pulled out Dingbat, checked the battery LED, and slipped it into the wallet pocket of his trenchcoat. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“Forget it,” I said, waving him off. “It’s my fault, not yours.” I paused. “The offer’s still open. If you want me to go with you to Clancy’s …”
He shook his head. “Better not. I think I ought to do it alone this time.” He tapped the proof shoot with his fingernail. “Your friend might get leery if she sees both of us.”
I nodded. He was right; the story was the most important thing, not who covered it. I began to turn off the rest of the lights. Since I lived just upstairs, it was my job to close down the office on the way out the back door. John picked up his gray fedora and walked past me as he headed toward the front door, then abruptly stopped as if a thought had just occurred to him.
“Do me a favor, though,” he added. “Let me know how this bit with the squirrels turns out.”
I tried not to be irritated by his seeming condescension. My friend was attempting to take an interest in my work, making me feel as if it was something that really mattered. He was on the trail of a murderer, and I was stuck with some silly-ass story that would only wind up as a small piece in the front section, if it saw print at all.
“Sure, man,” I mumbled. “I’ll let you know.”
“Could be interesting,” he said hesitantly, realizing that he had said the wrong thing. “You never know …”
“Right …”
He turned around again. “See you in the morning.”
“Catch you later,” I said.
I set the office phone so that it would ring upstairs, shut off the lights, made sure all the doors and windows were locked, then climbed the back stairs to my apartment. It was a warm and humid night, so I cracked open the windows and warmed up a can of SpaghettiOs on the hot plate while I caught a rerun of some old cop show on TV. Robert Urich and his wisecracking buddy caught the bad guys after a car chase; such a surprise. I had no idea what the story was about, but it made me forget how awful my dinner was.