Now it was all different. A tall, balding doctor came out of the emergency ward, and Terrell caught his arm. “The girl they just brought in,” he said. “How is she?”
“Not too good. You’re a friend of hers?”
“That’s right, I’m a friend of hers.”
The doctor removed his glasses and polished them on his clean white smock. He looked much younger with the glasses off; his eyes were mild and clear and intelligent. “She was injected with considerably too much morphine,” he said. “That was sometime this morning, I gather. Then she spent the day in a tank — the treatment for violents, you know. Wet sheets from head to foot. She’s completely disoriented now. Out of sheer fright, I’d say. And the morphine has affected her respiratory center.”
“Will she be all right?”
“I don’t know. I’d say yes, with some qualifications. We’re giving her oxygen, and an antidote for the morphine. She’s had the raw material for a lifetime of nightmares packed into a very short period of time — that will give her trouble. She’ll need help.”
“Yes, sure,” Terrell said.
“Why don’t the police clamp down on places like that nursing home?” the doctor said. “It’s staffed by quacks who have no more business treating patients than a two-year-old child. A two-year-old would do less harm, in fact. It wouldn’t be quite so callous and sadistic. Why don’t they close them down?”
“I don’t know,” Terrell said.
“You see plenty of cops at the ball games,” the doctor said. “Cheering the home team and stopping a fist fight every month or so. Why don’t they put them to work where they’ll do some good?”
“That day may be coming,” Terrell said.
“I’ll be surprised.”
“I think you will,” Terrell said. “When can I see her?”
“Not for a couple of hours anyway. You can leave a message if you like.”
“Thanks, I’ll give a phone number to the desk.”
“She’s had a rough time; be nice to her.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Terrell said.
As Terrell entered the reception room the door opposite him opened and a Call-Bulletin photographer named Ricky Carboni came in and put his bulky camera on the floor.
“Sam boy,” he said, “how goes it?” Ricky was an old-timer, a big, balding man with dark eyes and a quick, warm smile. “Where’s the girl?”
“You mean Connie Blacker?”
“Yeah, how is she? Ready to be immortalized?”
“She’s in no shape for pictures, Ricky. Not for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll have to wait then, and think about my overtime adding up, tick, tick, tick, with every passing second. Karsh said to get a picture — regardless or irregardless.”
“Karsh? What the hell is going on, Ricky?”
“Don’t ask me. Or ask away if you like, but don’t wait for a sensible answer. Karsh just tore the Night Extra into tiny scraps. Everything’s out except the want ads. And the whole damn daytime staff is back putting a new edition together. I thought you were working when I saw you. Everybody’s in. Williams, Tuckerman, all the photographers. Aren’t you glad you’re in this racket? Think of all the little people sleeping their lives away while we get the chance to run around in the dark. Well, I’m going to find the poker game. Take it easy.”
“Sure,” Terrell said. He went outside and one of the patrolmen said, “We’re riding in, Sam. Need a lift?”
“Thanks, I’m going back to the shop.”
“It’s on the way. You in a hurry? Smitty here likes to get a little daily practice with the siren.”
“No, I’m not in a hurry.” Terrell climbed into the squad car and lit a cigarette. This was very accurate, he realized; he was in no hurry to see Karsh. But he had to see him. One more time...
The lights were on in the city room, and the atmosphere was one of hectic tension; a cluster of men were busy at the city desk and copy wheel, and alongside them the picture editor was briefing two photographers who looked as if they had just been yanked from their beds.
Terrell stopped inside the doorway at the end of the room, and let his eyes drift over the various groups putting the edition together. Normally the Night Extra was put to bed by a staff of three. But now everyone was in; Williams handling the city desk, Tuckerman hunched massively beside the police speaker, and all of the top writers and reporters from the daytime shifts.
Karsh stood directly behind Williams, one foot propped up on a chair, talking urgently and imperatively to Ollie Wheeler. Occasionally he punctuated his points by pounding his knee, and every now and then he turned away to take a quick look at the clock above his head. He was perfectly groomed, elegantly turned out in a dark blue suit with a flower in the lapel. His face and eyes were bright with a tense, good-humored excitement, and it was obvious to Terrell that the whole staff was reacting to the challenge of his personality. He was running every phase of the show; even a stranger would have picked him out instantly as the mainspring of all this seemingly disorganized activity.
Terrell dropped his coat over a chair and walked toward Karsh and Wheeler. He could see the city behind them as a dark mass visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. A few pinpoints of light gleamed from tall buildings, but most of the city slept quietly in shadowed silence.
He stopped beside Karsh, and Wheeler, who saw him first, said, “Here’s Sam now. Where’ve you been, Sam?”
Karsh turned to him, a quick, easy smile lighting his face. “You’re just in time. I want you on the main story — every detail in chronological order. Don’t waste time on the Parking Authority — just mention it as if the readers knew all. They will when they read Ollie’s piece. He’s doing a special story on that mess.”
“I’ll get started, Mike,” Ollie said.
“Yes, get with it.” Karsh was still looking at Terrell, but his manner was business-like and impersonal. “Bridewell issued a statement half an hour ago — owned up to all his crimes, including not curbing his dog several years back. The mayor can’t last much longer than it takes city council to get in session. They’re licked, Sam, really smashed.”
“And I’m supposed to write the big, hot story,” Terrell said. He lit a cigarette and flipped the match aside. “The works, eh? All stops out?”
“Certainly. Chicanery in high places will sell more newspapers than faithful dogs and kindly old schoolteachers.” Karsh spoke with his characteristic incisiveness, and nothing in his manner indicated that this was more than a routinely important story. “Get started now,” he said. “We’ve got about half an hour before the edition goes in.”
“And how do I handle you?” Terrell asked him coldly. “How do we tint and shade the image of Mike Karsh? Are you portrayed with an arm around Ike Cellars’ shoulder, and a hand reaching for the public trough?”
Karsh winced slightly. “No metaphors, please. Never oversell a good story. Play my part for what it’s worth. No cover-ups — but don’t get off on a tangent. Stick to the straight line. Eden Myles was murdered by a hoodlum named Rammersky.” Karsh’s voice rose and fell with the monotonous insistence of a metronome. “Rammersky was hired by Ike Cellars. Caldwell was framed. Here’s how and why. Bang that home and forget about subtlety and a graceful prose style.”
Tuckerman looked up then and covered his phone with a huge palm. “Mike,” he said. There was an unmistakable significance in his tone and as Karsh turned to him, a silence settled around the immediate area of the city desk.
“What’s up?”
“Ike Cellars,” Tuckerman said. “For you.”