"Sorry," she said.
The gal who set the type for the monitor was never in a hurry. "It's okay, you got the tag story, just before the editorial. I got plenty of time."
As Liza was leaving the room, a secretary called to her, "Phone call, Liza. It's urgent."
"Not now, Sally, it's two minutes to six. I can't take it, get a number, please."
"I think you'll want to take this one ... it's Mr. Howe."
Charles Gordon Howe, two minutes before air time.
She went into Sally's office and picked it up. "Hello?"
"Miz Gunn, this is Charles Gordon Howe."
"Mr. Howe, it's less than a minute to air time and I've got a very hot story working and I really don't have time right now to-"
"I'm aware of the time. I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't a matter of urgency. It is my station, Miz Gunn."
"Right, Mr. Howe, but it's my career. Call me back at six thirty-one. Bye."
She started back out the door. "Thanks, Sal."
"Sister, you got more guts than a gladiator," Sally said.
Eliza headed for the studio.
III
It was out. He was going to fight. The Gunn interview would leave little doubt about that.
Caldwell stared out the window of his office, a bright, cheery room, its walls covered with abstract paintings, and watched the shells, thirty floors below and half a mile away, gliding across the placid Charles River, and his mind drifted back to one glorious day when he had helped row Harvard to an unexpected victory over Yale. But the dream passed quickly and he took off his suit jacket, pulled down his tie and wearily climbed the circular iron stairway that led to the penthouse apartment on the floor above.
He would write a statement and tell the whole story in his own words. For days he had been writing and rewriting it in his head. The allegations were false, but if the examiners dug deep enough, there were other things.
The penthouse was much warmer than Caldwell's office. Two bedrooms, two baths, a small kitchen and a large living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave him an unrestricted view to the north, east and south. The apartment had been decorated by Tessie Caldwell, who knew her husband's taste well. The furniture was strictly antique, the drapes yellow and white. Plants abounded, and against the wall between the bedroom doors was the only painting in the room, a six-foot-high Jackson Pollock, its dizzying colors dominated by yellow. A secretary dating back to Daniel Webster stood near the sliding glass doors leading out to a wraparound balcony.
Caldwell was so engrossed in deep inner conflict that he did not see the visitors until the older one spoke: "Hello, Johnny, you had us worried."
The voice was soft, textured by the South but not of the South, a voice that Caldwell knew could be reassuring one minute and patronizing the next. It belonged to Senator Lyle Damerest, a grandfather of a figure with white hair that flowed down over the collar of his tweed jacket, a bow tie and a gnarled shillelagh to support a game leg from a slight and unpublicized stroke. He was the senior Senator from Virginia and the country's ranking congressman in terms of longevity. For thirty-one years he had represented his state. He had been on two Cabinets, was head of the Armed Services Committee, and had more back-room power than any living legislator. He was consulted on major issues by Democrat and Republican alike. Nobody, not even the President, would risk scorning Damerest.
The man with him was virtually nondescript: medium tall, medium heavy, blond, crew-cut hair, dark-gray suit, no distinguishing features. He held a zip-open briefcase under one arm.
"Ya needn't worry. We took the private elevator. No one saw us come up," the senator said.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Caldwell asked.
"I was a hop and a skip away. Somebody heard you'd surfaced and called me."
"No, I mean what're you doing in Boston?"
"Been up here for the last two days. On the q.t., been stayin' with friends. We've been worried about you."
"You said that. And who's 'we'? And who are you?" He looked at the nondescript man.
"This is Ralph Simpson. Federal marshal."
"How d'ya do, sir," Simpson said.
Caldwell nodded to him.
"He's got the subpoena," Damerest went on.
"What subpoena?"
"You've been subpoenaed to go in for questioning. No charges, yet. If they come, it'll be the Fed. Violation of the government banking statutes. What I'm tellin' ya, laddie, it can be avoided."
"Really?"
"All your friends are behind you, Johnny. I've talked to the boys on the banking committee and to the federal judge here. I think the way this can be handled, the judge will recommend that the entire matter be investigated by the House committee. The whole thing will blow over. Ya just need to bite the bullet for now." The old man smiled, but his flinty eyes narrowed.
"I don't think so," Caldwell said.
"Oh? And why not?"
"I don't intend to be a whipping boy."
"'Whipping boy' is it!"
"That's the way it feels."
Damerest stood with his hands thrust deep in his pants pockets, his shoulders hunched up under his ears, leaning slightly toward Caldwell, as if about to make a point to the Ways and Means Committee. "Shit, son, you just got on the wrong side of the old farts on Wall Street. We can unruffle their feathers."
"The hell with 'em. They been down on First Common since my grandfather ran the show."
"I know, son. Your father and I were classmates together. He footed the bill for my first campaign. I couldn't of raised scratch feed without him."
Caldwell had heard the stories many times since he was a kid. "The bastards were after him, now they're after me. Besides, I didn't always agree with Dad, you know that. I won't put up with any heat right now. None of us can afford it."
The old senator smiled, that warm, grandfather smile that hid the heart of a vulture. Caldwell had watched him smile his way out of more than one tight spot. Now the old bastard was using it on him. "Easy," the senator said quietly. "They got your balls in the doorjamb for the moment."
"Bullshit. Why did it happen?"
"It got by me."
"Nothing gets by you, Lyle. Nothing this big."
"What can I say." The old man took out a red bandanna and wiped his forehead. "Good God, it's hot in here. You always keep it like this?"
"The housekeepers do that," Caldwell said. He slid open one of the glass partitions and a gust of cold air shook the drapes.
"Ah, better," the senator said. "Look, just take a peek at the papers Mr. Simpson brought along. It will be handled very quietly. You two can just go down to the Federal Building and ..."
Simpson walked over to the antique secretary, opened his briefcase and reached inside.
"And how about you, Lyle?" Caldwell said.
"Hardly appropriate, me goin' along with ya. I can do a lot more, stayin' in the background."
Simpson had both hands in the zip-open briefcase. He unscrewed the cap of a small bottle and tipped its contents into a large ball of cotton he held in his other hand.
Damerest said, "I talked to Tessie. She seems to be handling it all very well."
Simpson took his hands out of the briefcase. The cotton ball was in one hand. He was directly behind Caldwell, who said, "She's used to character assassination. They did everything but burn her father at the stake."
Simpson stepped close to Caldwell, the hand with the cotton ball behind his back. The senator moved up close to Caldwell.
"I was very reassurin'," he said.
He moved suddenly, wrapping his arms around Caldwell, pinning the banker's arms to his sides and squeezing him sharply. Air rushed out of Caldwell's nose and mouth.
"What in hell-" Caldwell gasped, but he never finished the sentence. Simpson jammed the cotton against Caldwell's nose. As he gasped, the acrid odor of chloroform flooded through his head and dulled his brain. He began to thrash, to hold his breath.
The sen
ator clutched him again, harder. Caldwell's breath gushed out. He gasped again. His brain was paralyzed. Damerest could feel him growing limp. He squeezed him again. Caldwell's eyes bulged and stared over the cotton swab, like those of a terrified animal. Then they went crazy, crossing, uncrossing, finally rolling up under the lids. As Caldwell sagged, Simpson grabbed him around the waist, twisted him sideways and dragged him through the open door to the balcony.
IV
The show was three minutes old when the hot-line phone began flashing. Chuck Graves, the unflappable anchor man, was in the middle of the opening news segment. Eliza picked it up.
"This is Sid down in the news room. We got a hot fiash-Jonathan Caldwell just took a Brodie off the First Common Bank building. He's all over Market Street ... We got the Live Action truck on the way ... that's all I know for now." The line went dead.
Liza sat like a statue with the phone frozen in her hand. She cradled the receiver quietly for a moment, then she slipped away from the set and ran out to the hallway, grabbed the hotline phone on the wall and dialed the editing room.
"Is Eddie still there? It's Eliza, tell him it's important ... Eddie, listen to me-Caldwell just jumped off the bank building ... I know, I know ... Is it on the chain? Can you get it back long enough to drop those two thirty-second segments back in? ... Don't worry, I'll take full responsibility ... Eddie, you're a love ..." She hung up and returned to the set.
They finished two more segments and were into sports before the news room called back and confirmed that it was definitely Caldwell. She gave it to Graves, who made that announcement at the end of the sports segment but he had little else to go with.
Perfect. She had all she needed.
In the booth, the assistant director was counting out of the sports slot. "Okay ... ready Max ... and three, two, one ... and roll tape and kill camera three, kill Wally's mike ... and camera three on Liza. Jeez, look at her—she'd look great in a garbage bag ..."
"She's got the best ass in Boston," Tubby said wistfully.
"I'm talking about her face, Tubby—Thirty seconds, get in a bit tighter on Jackson ... camera one on the weather map ... lookin' good—You can't even see her ass, she's sitting down."
"You can sure see it when she stands up," Tubby said.
Liza was still scribbling notes to herself, changes she would make from the crib sheet she had already rewritten twice, part of it after she had turned the story in to be typed for the monitor. Her adrenaline was roaring. The AD's voice crackled in her ear: "Ready three on Liza and let me have a voice check on Liza ..."
"Hi, my hair is green and my eyes are-"
"Good, and we have a one-minute cutaway and then back to you, Liza, and you have five minutes before the editorial. We're running about two seconds ahead right now .. , lookin' good ... and okay, camera three ... and four, three, two, one ... you're on, Liza ... and ready Liza's tape ..."
She looked straight into the camera, leaning forward just slightly. "Good evening, this is Eliza Gunn with Hotline Report. At five-fifty-eight today, two minutes before we went on the air, Jonathan Caldwell, president and chairman of the board of the nation's second most powerful banking institution, fell or jumped to his death from the thirty-second floor of the bank his father started sixty years ago. At three o'clock this afternoon, two hours before his death plunge, I interviewed Jonathan Caldwell in a garage in Boston's North End, talking with him about the scandal that has brought his bank close to failure, and has brought disgrace to one of this country's most powerful business and political families ..."
In the control room, the monitor girl said, "Man, she's nowhere near the script. She's really straying."
Tubby got restless. "Buck, tell the floor director to give her four, three and two minute time cues. If she goes over we'll lose the editorial and the Old Man'll chew my ass off."
"He'd die of old age before he could finish," Buck said and speared his finger into the floor director's mike button.
"Very funny," Tubby said. He walked to the control board and pressed the loudspeaker button: "Liza, cut your close in half ... you went almost twenty seconds over on the intro."
Buck's voice came on again as Caldwell's interview rolled on the monitors: "Okay, we're coming up on thirty seconds on the tape. Remember, keep it short, Liza, we're very tight ... And coming up on end of tape ... four, three, two, one. What the hell, the tape's running long-"
"Cut it," Tubby cried.
"I can't cut it now, he's right in the middle of talking about—Wait a minute, here we go: Ready three ... and ready..."
"Goddammit, goddamn," Tubby bellowed. "We're already forty seconds over! I told her five minutes. Four for the tape and a thirty-second live shot going in and coming out. Pull the plug on her. Get her off there."
"I can't do that, she's right in the middle of her closeout," the AD said.
"I don't believe her," Tubby boomed.
"Kill the editorial?" the AD asked.
Tubby scratched his head frantically.
"Kill the goddamn editorial. I don't fucking believe herl"
"It's a good shot, Tubby."
"I don't give a doodly fuck if she's breaking World War Ill, I gave her five goddamn minutes and look at her ... she's acting like she's doing a thirty-fuckin'-minute sitcom, fer Chrissakes."
"She's closing out now," the AD said. He shoved a button. "Chuck, we're right on it, so get out fast. And there she goes ... now, four, three, two, and out ... and take three, Chuck's mike ..."
In the studio, Graves gave his usual confident smile. "And that's the news," he said. "Charles Graves, see you at eleven."
The AD flipped switches and sagged in his chair. "That's a wrap," he sighed into the mike.
"Goddammit!" Tubby Slocum bellowed. "I told her five minutes. Did you see the floor director give her a minute and then thirty seconds? She went right on. A minute and twenty-two seconds over. Goddammitl" He stormed out of the control room.
Liza gathered up her things and winked at Graves. "Nice," she said.
Graves smiled. He had been a newsman for twelve years and he knew a good news break when he saw one.
Tubby was waiting for her when she came out of the studio. He waddled along beside her as she took giant steps down the hall toward her office.
"Dammit," the fat man snapped, "I told you five minutes. I stretched to give you five minutes. Five ... not six plus." His face was the color of a boiled lobster. "From now on when I tell ya-"
She stopped and Tubby had to catch himself to keep from running over her.
"Tubby?"
"Yeah?"
"Was it a good shot?"
"What's that got to-"
"Was it good or not?"
"That ain't the point. The point is, I'm the producer of this goddamn show. I can't have the talent running all over me-"
"Tubby?"
"What, fer Chrissakes?"
"Was it a good shot?"
"So it was a good shot. You know it was a good shot."
"Gave you a good show, didn't it?"
"Lizzie ..."
"It's Eliza ... E-liza. Bye."
She blew him a kiss and went into her office, kicking the door shut behind her.
"Ah, damn," Tubby said forlornly. As he turned toward the studio, he yelled back at her door, "Being a producer around here is like trying to direct a Broadway show full of deaf-mutes."
The phone was ringing when she entered the office. She dropped her clipboard and notes on the desk, took a deep breath, stared at the phone and lit a cigarette.
Well, shit, she thought, I can't avoid it.
She snatched up the phone. "Gunn here," she snapped.
"Very nice," the voice said. Howe's voice was a deep, quiet, paternal rumble. He never raised it and he rarely showed anger. He didn't have to.
"Look, Mr. Howe, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to be rude..."
"My dear, I have been a newsman all my life. I didn't inherit this business, I started it. Myself. I
know a good news story when I see one. Although I must say I am deeply sympathetic toward Johnny Caldwell. He was a good friend. That's not why I called, however. I have an assignment I'd like you to consider."
She tried to remain calm. Charles Gordon Howe, calling her. "An assignment?"
"Not in your regular line."
"You mean it will take me away from the show?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"That really depends a lot on you. Are you free right now? I'll have my car bring you over."
"Look, Mr. Howe, I've been doing investigative reporting for almost three years and I've got a good reputation. To leave the show now ..." She let the sentence hang.
"Mmmm." The deep rumble. Seconds of silence. She was getting uncomfortable.
"I've been watching you very closely ... May I call you Liza?"
"It's E-liza, but everybody does."
"All right, Eliza. I think you may be the best television reporter I've got. That's why I want to discuss this with you. Of course, there's a bonus in this- "
"It's not the money," she said quickly. "Well, I mean, of course money is important. It's just that, people forget you fast. Three months and they won't know who I am. How long will this take?"
"I'm not sure," Howe said. "What do you know about Francis O'Hara?"
"Frank O'Hara? The reporter?"
"The same."
"Uh ... well, I know he was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and passed over. He was in intelligence for several years before he became a reporter. Uh ... he wrote that great series on the CIA for the Washington Post a couple of years ago-"
"Not bad," Howe interrupted.
"I didn't know it was a quiz," she said.
Howe chuckled. "Ray Pauley told me you were a feisty one," he said.
"What about O'Hara?" she asked.
"Let's settle the question of the bonus. What do you want?"
"I don't know the job."
"Let's say ... You'll be off the air for two months. What do you feel is an equitable agreement for two months of air time?"
"I want a shot at New York ... or Washington."
"You think you're ready for New York—or Washington?"