“Corner of Olney and the river,” Tuckerman said. “A warehouse with a convent across the street. I’ve got two men on the way out there.”
“What kind of a convent?”
“Sort of home away from home for wayward girls,” Tuckerman said.
Poole looked at Terrell. “I read your piece on Caldwell’s neighborhood rallies. You think the crowds are on the level? The college kids, the housewives, the quote little people unquote — are they sold on Caldwell, or do they go out just to lose themselves in the commotion and noise?”
“They look sensible to me,” Terrell said.
“Nobody who stands listening to a politician is sensible,” Nelly said.
“Don’t qualify everything so much,” Terrell said. He had always known Nelly was a jerk. “Have the courage to generalize.” He turned to Tuckerman, who was idle for a moment. “Do you know Frankie Chance, Tuck?”
“Just not to speak to,” Tuckerman said in his soft whispering voice. “He’s a snotty little punk. Does odd jobs for Ike Cellars. Runs Ike’s zipper when Ike is tired. But he’s no clown.”
“How about his girl, Eden Myles?”
“I heard they had a row, a month or so ago. She’s been working in Ike’s club, The Mansions. Still is, I guess. But she had a split with Frankie. She’s a pretty cute dish, Sam. She was arrested a few years ago for driving her car along the sidewalk on Astor Place. We used a picture of her taking a swing at old Jim Corrigan down at the Twenty-Sixth District.”
“How the hell do you remember all those details?” Poole said.
Tuckerman smiled faintly. “It’s like breathing. Some nights I lie awake and I find names and addresses crowding into my mind — stories going back twenty years. Accidents, fires, shootings, and lots of little stuff. Jennie Edwards, age 9, 2123 East Seventy-Third Street, taken to St. Jerome’s Hospital and treated for dogbite. Hell, Jennie Edwards has kids of her own now. It’s quite a legacy, isn’t it? A handful of local news stories.” The police speaker cracked and another alarm sounded for the warehouse fire. “That’s three,” Williams said, glancing up at the clock. He turned to Poole. “We’ll want as much as we can get for the Postscript. Let’s see how we can make room on page one. That fire is a big one.”
“The foreign aid story can go inside,” Poole said. “It’s served its purpose.”
“Sent the blood pressure up at the Merchants’ Club at any rate. Okay...”
Terrell envied them in a way. They had definite hour-by-hour demands on their skills and energy. They caught the news on the run and packaged it competently for the public’s effortless consumption. Terrell had worked with them for eight years, and then Mike Karsh had called him in to tell him he would take over Kehoe’s column when the old man retired to his farm to raise chickens. Karsh had been at his desk, beautifully groomed as always, and giving the impression that he had a dozen more important things on his mind. Everyone who talked to him had the uneasy feeling he had been squeezed into a very tight schedule.
“It’s a piece of blank paper on page three,” Karsh had said, glancing up at him with sudden intensity. “It’s blank paper, mind you, about the size of your two hands. But multiply that space a half million times — our circulation as of this morning — and you’ve got a piece of paper big enough to sky-write on. Get me? You’ll stand in a pulpit taller than any skyscraper in the city. I want you to do a good job. I think you will. You’ve learned this raunchy trade of ours pretty well.”
“Most of it from you, Mike.”
“That’s right.” Karsh had smiled up at him then, and Terrell had the feeling he was going to say something else. But Karsh changed his mind. Reaching for his phone he had said, “Well, that’s all, Sam. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Mike.” There was a bond between them, but Terrell knew Karsh was far too fastidious to attempt to put it into words.
Now Terrell glanced over his shoulder toward Karsh’s glass-walled office. He would have liked to get his opinion on the tip he had just received, but Karsh was in conference with Max Ryerson, his sports editor, and a professional golfer who had signed to do a series for the Call-Bulletin’s syndicate. Karsh was dominating both men, Terrell could see; he went on like this for sixteen hours a day, more like a battery of pure energy than a fallible human being.
Tuckerman sat down beside Terrell and dropped a huge arm over his shoulder. “When are you coming back to work for us?”
“And give up my freedom? I’m through for the day, and you’ll be pulling that car for another seven hours.”
“You work like a dog, and the column shows it.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure, I mean it. It’s good.” Tuckerman glanced down at the silent police speaker, then lit a cigarette. “About Frankie Chance. He’s strictly bush, but he’s dangerous.”
“I’m not doing a Mafia story.”
“Listen, chum, this big shining toy is going up for grabs on election day. People will get stepped on in the general crush. Make sure you’re on the sidelines.”
“If I need a bodyguard, I’ll yell.”
“Good boy.” Tuckerman winked comically at him, then lumbered back to his chair beside the police speaker.
Terrell picked up his hat and coat, left word at the switchboard that he was going out, and then cabbed across town to the Vanderbilt Hotel, where Caldwell had installed his campaign headquarters. There was something symbolic in this choice, Terrell thought. The Vanderbilt was uncompromisingly plain, innocent of chromium plate or neon signs, an old-fashioned place, true to an honest and straightforward tradition. The city itself had been that way too, decades ago, solid and sturdy, consistent with the characters of the sea captains and merchants who had built her into one of the nation’s major ports. But the city and the old Vanderbilt had damn little in common at the moment, Terrell thought.
Caldwell’s campaign headquarters were on the third floor, in an ornate ballroom with mirrored walls, gold columns and a gilt ceiling that was fantastically cluttered with carved cherubs and cupids. A dozen or so college girls sat at card tables distributing campaign leaflets, lapel buttons and automobile stickers to anyone who wanted them. They might have been stamped from a press, Terrell thought; cashmere sweaters, single strand of pearls, tweed skirt and loafers — and all burning with conviction and self-sacrifice. Mayor Ticknor had called them “Caldwell’s Virgins” and someone else had said, “Ward heelers or round heelers, take your choice.” However you took them, they were a potent force, Terrell knew, these dead-serious college girls.
Caldwell’s photograph, was at both ends of the room, smiling self-consciously down on his busy volunteer workers. He was a handsome man, forty-five or forty-seven, with even features, a good jaw, and mild, intelligent eyes. There was nothing distinctive in this picture; except for a lock of hair that had got out of place, he looked a bit like a bank teller or the high-minded agent in a life insurance advertisement. In person he was more formidable, Terrell knew. Something simple and honest and stubborn went from the man to his audience. Terrell had seen and felt this happen. They should have tried for a better picture, he thought, something more informal and engaging. But Caldwell’s advisers were all dedicated amateurs. They went about their jobs bluntly and awkwardly. They scorned tricks. They were sold so completely on Caldwell that they didn’t bother selling him to the people.