The first clipping made him smile. "Sanderson Bowls Perfect Game," and then a brief account of how a Louisville, Kentucky, policeman had rolled 300 in a policeman's league bowling tournament. The story brought the man alive to Tobin and for the first time he found himself wondering about Sanderson as a human being-the way, he supposed, archaeologists wondered about Egyptians on the site of digs. What had made Sanderson happy or sad? What had he liked to watch on TV? What failures had he endured and triumphs enjoyed (aside from that one perfect bowling game)?
The next two clippings were more like Iris Graves's notes-virtually meaningless because they had no context.
HARBURT MAN PERISHES IN TRAILER FIRE
Twenty-six-year-old William K. Kelly was found burned to death yesterday in his house trailer on Puckett Road.
Preliminary investigation indicates that Kelly fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand. Fire authorities believe the blaze started in a couch on which Kelly slept.
The second clipping read:
SANDY CUMMINGS WINS MISS INDIANA
Sandy Cummings, a twenty-three-year-old doctor's receptionist from Muncie, was crowned Miss Indiana last night in an event that was telecast statewide for the first time.
The clipping went on to detail runners-up and all the usual hype put forth by officials, one of whom said, "This shows you that not all our young people are out hurling rocks and picketing."
Tobin had the sense that the clipping-like the photo-dated from the sixties.
But what the hell did it mean?
The next tape Tobin watched was a Roger Corman movie called The Man With the X-Ray Eyes, a very good remake of the Ray Milland original.
He was about halfway through it-real time; no fast forward with a film like this-when Don Rickles (in what was apparently his movie debut) tells the Milland character that he knows all about him and could turn him in for a reward.
It was that last word, "reward," that gave Tobin the idea.
He called collect.
When you call New York from somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, you tend to run up a bill rather quickly.
He asked for the entertainment editor and just hoped that the man or woman-Tobin was not a reader of the rag and so had no idea which-would recognize Tobin's name from his various TV appearances.
A receptionist put the operator through to a second person and then a male voice said, "Conroy."
"I have a collect call from a man who says he's Tobin, the TV critic. Will you accept charges? He's calling from aboard a cruise ship."
"Is this a gag?"
The operator sounded irritated. "I'm too busy for gags, sir." Ma Bell might have learned to grovel for business following deregulation, but she had yet to get herself a sense of humor.
"Is this really Tobin?" Conroy said.
"It's really Tobin," Tobin said.
"You are not permitted to speak, sir," the operator said, "until Mr. Conroy accepts the charges."
"All right, for God's sake, I accept the charges." When the woman rang off, Conroy said, "Bitch." Then, "So what can I do for you, Tobin?"
"I'm on the same cruise ship where Iris Graves was murdered."
"Say, that's right. Poor Iris. She was one hell of a woman-and I don't mean just looks-wise, either. Good reporter."
"That's one of the things I wanted to ask you about."
"What?"
"What she was working on."
"Can't tell you because I don't know and wouldn't tell you if I did."
"You still pay $10,000 for your lead story?"
"Yep. They can call us what they want but they can't say we don't pay our writers."
"Writers" was stretching it where Snoop was concerned. Generally, Snoop got its stuff from waiters, parking lot attendants, and hospital officials-its Liber-ace AIDS story had been leaked by an orderly, for example-and then one of the staffers just "worked it up," doing a little what they liked to call "enhancing" along the way.
Other less genteel folks called it lying.
Tobin couldn't resist. "Do you pay twice as much if the story happens to be true?"
Conroy surprised him by laughing. "Everybody I know who knows you says you're an asshole and, boy, they're right."
"Thanks."
"So in other words you've got a story you want to sell?"
"Well, I can't write the story without some help from you but if you go along, I think I can piece together something you'd really like."
"You think you can find out who killed Norris as well as Iris and this guy Sanderson?"
"Yes."
"You got any hunches right now?"
"Not right now. But speaking of Sanderson-that would be my first question."
"So we're going to make a deal?"
Tobin knew there was a special place in hell for people who worked with Snoop but he also knew that $10,000 was the equivalent of five appearances on "Celebrity Gardener."
"Just one thing," Tobin said.
"Way ahead of you. You want me to absolutely guarantee you your anonymity."
"Right."
"Because you'd be ashamed to be associated with a rag like ours."
"Right."
"But you'd be more than happy to take our money."
"Right."
"What a hypocrite."
"Were they working together?"
"Iris and Sanderson?"
"Yes."
"No."
"You're sure?"
"I talked to her the day she died. She said she was getting close to finishing her story but that there might be an even bigger one because of Sanderson."
"And that's all she said?"
"Right."
"So what was her story?"
"I'm not sure."
"I thought we were supposed to be cooperating."
"Actually, it's true. I was on vacation and she suddenly took off on this cruise. All she told me was that she was going to expose a very big scandal about 'Celebrity Circle.'"
"And that's all?"
"That's all. She had this thing-she hated talking about stories before they were finished. Bad luck. I know a lot of fiction writers who are like that."
"She use the word 'payday?'"
"Huh-uh."
"She say anything about any of the panelists on the show?"
"I told you, she didn't like to talk about the story."
"You want to give me your phone credit card?"
"You serious?"
"Of course I'm serious. I'm going to have to reconstruct what Iris was working on and since I'm in the middle of the Pacific, the only way I can do that is with phone calls."
"I thought you TV guys made a lot of money."
"Not when you do 'Celebrity Fitness' and stuff like that."
"You need the money, huh?"
"To be honest, yes."
Conroy said, "Then let's make it I approve the phone tab up to two grand and I pay you eight grand if the story goes in as our lead."
"I'm paying for my own phone calls?"
"Two grand's more money than you had five minutes ago, Tobin."
Tobin swore.
"And we won't use your name. I promise you."
Tobin said, "Deal."
27
"You're not going to the costume party?" Cassie McDowell said.
"I just haven't come up with a costume yet."
"You've only got about an hour or so before dinner." She herself was ready to go as Bo Peep, complete with bonnet and petticoats and big, clunky children's-book shoes. "You like it?"
"You going to invite me in?"
"Really, I need some positive reinforcement. Now, do you like it or not?"
"It's cute. Now, are you going to invite me in?"
He was in the corridor outside her door. Passengers got up in rigs ranging from Donald Duck to Darth Vader squeezed by. He felt foolish standing out there, as if they all knew that she wouldn't let him in.