Hillerman, Tony (24 page)

“That’s part of not playing God,” Cotton said. “It’s not enough to just think it’s true.”

Korolenko turned from the window, walking slowly back behind his desk. He stood there, leaning on his knuckles, staring at Cotton.

“How can you say you don’t play God? Is destroying a good young man not playing God? Let me tell you what happens when you print that story. You say Roark cleans his own nest and survives. But here’s what happens. George W. Bryce is District Attorney in this judicial district. George is part of what Clark is building in this state. He’s Clark’s boy. While Roark is asking the Attorney General to investigate, George Bryce is summoning a grand jury. Some of this stuff you have is criminal and a lot must be at least on the border. And I don’t have to tell you how a D.A. can manipulate a jury. He can string it out from now until primary day. And Roger Boyden will be right at Bryce’s elbow, looking for the dirt and telling George where the damage needs to be done, doing Clark’s hatchet work as he always does.” Korolenko stopped, took a deep, sighing breath, looked down at his hands and then back at Cotton. “Boyden’s already at it, you know. Ever since he flew in from Washington he’s been collecting the mud for the primary campaign. You know how it will work with Boyden and Bryce. There’ll be a dozen indictments released the day before the election. And what difference does it make if the court throws half of them out six months later? And what difference does it make if the trial jury finds them innocent? He builds the impression that Roark’s administration is a mare’s nest of corruption.” Korolenko paused, with the orator’s instinct for impact. “And you’ve ruined the best hope this state has had.”

Cotton said nothing. He was thinking of Boyden. Boyden—who had been AP’s second man at the statehouse for ten years before becoming Clark’s press secretary. Boyden—who would know exactly how to start a political reporter hunting where Boyden wanted a hunt made. Boyden—who would have access to the sort of information given to McDaniels. He saw with sudden certainty that Boyden must be the author of those three unsigned and arrogant letters. On the other end of the string which had pulled McDaniels and now pulled him was Gene Clark’s hatchet man. The fourth letter, the one addressed to him, was another matter. Flowers wrote it, probably. Or someone working with Flowers.

Korolenko was talking again. No anger in his voice now. Just a flatness. “So what do you decide?” Korolenko was asking. “Do you print it?”

But the decision was made. Or maybe Janey had made it. If she believed in him, the copy had already been handed to Rickner, had already been teletyped to the city desk, already converted into part of the day’s merchandise of news, capped with a headline. And what would it say? graft found in statehouse, state corruption aired. He thought of Paul Roark. Roark behind his desk, with his wry smile, discussing his future. He saw Roark the man, with a razor cut on his chin and wrinkles around his eyes, and he turned away from the thought. The headline wouldn’t shout, paul roark’s hopes slain, gov. roark’s career ends.

“Look, Governor,” Cotton said. “It’s not as black as you make it. Roark has his own access to the press and you know it. And we’ll be watching Bryce. He can’t get away with much and the Governor can make it clear that he wasn’t personally . . .”

Korolenko held up his hand. “Then you intend to print it.”

“I haven’t told you all of it,” Cotton said. He was talking fast, desperately wanting the old man to understand. “Not quite. When Mac died last week. That wasn’t an accident. He was working on the same story and somebody pushed him over the railing and then tried to get his notes. And Robbins. That wasn’t a hit-and-run case. He was driving my car, and the next night I got a death threat. And three days ago they tried to kill me. It was . . .”

Cotton’s voice trailed off, stopped by the pain in Korolenko’s expression. The old man’s face was bloodless, slack. What was it? Shock? Or grief?

Cotton half rose from the chair. “Governor, are you all right?”

Korolenko turned away, one bony hand on the gun-case door. “I’m all right,” he said.

Cotton looked away, out the window, out at the sleet blowing through the barren trees, out at the gray, cold, bitter world. “How could I suppress it? I could run away again. I did it once and I could do it again. Run away and leave it. But damn it, Governor, the people need to know about it. You’ve got to believe in them. You’ve got to believe in something. Can you understand how I feel about it?”

Korolenko’s voice was dim, barely audible in the silent room. “I can understand,” he was saying. “And you can understand what I’m doing, and why I have to do it.”

Korolenko was holding the pump shotgun, its barrel pointed approximately at Cotton’s chest. He could see the blackness of the muzzle and above it the bright bead sight. “But knowing you’re the kind who understands won’t make it any easier,” Korolenko continued. “It makes it harder.”

“Put it down, Governor, put down the shotgun.”

“I can’t possibly let that story be printed.”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Cotton said. And he laughed, a laugh touched with hysteria. This was beyond reason, beyond belief. He sat back in the chair, dizzied by this, trying through the alcohol and fatigue to digest it. “You wouldn’t do it.”

“I would,” Korolenko said. “But you need to know why that story can’t be printed. Not ever. If it is, if it gives Bryce the leads for a grand jury there’s no hope for Paul or the party. No hope.” Korolenko raised his left hand slowly from the desk top and rubbed it downward across his face—wiping away something invisible. “Because the grand jury will find that Midcentral Surety is the principal—almost the only—contributor of funds to the Effective Senate Committee. And it will find that the Effective Senate Committee bank account has been used to pay for Paul’s precampaign expenses. Underwriting the organizing costs.”

Cotton stared at the shotgun. None of this was real.

“You’re telling me Roark sold out,” Cotton said.

“The Governor doesn’t know about it. Not unless he’s guessed. But you can see that doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. The voters would never believe it. The point is Bryce’s grand jury would have subpoena power. It would tie everything in your story right to the Governor’s campaign.”

The shotgun wasn’t loaded. Korolenko, the bird hunter, wouldn’t keep anything loaded in his gun case. It probably wasn’t loaded. This was just a desperate bluff. “But for God’s sake,” Cotton said, “how could Roark possibly not . . .”

“Come on,” Korolenko said. His voice was impatient. “You know how it works. There are always approaches. Every day. Every campaign. A trucking company would like to contribute ten thousand dollars to a campaign fund and it would appreciate a little sympathetic understanding by axle weighers at the ports-of-entry scales. Or a real-estate developer would like to kick in to the kitty and he could afford to do it if he was fairly sure where interchanges would be located on one of the interstate highways. Or the State Manufacturers Association is looking for a place to spend its political-action funds and it wonders if the Governor would veto any bill increasing workmen’s compensation rates. Or Citybank and First National and Financial Trust would like to help finance a campaign, but they’re worried about a proposed branch banking law and they want a little reassurance. You’ve seen it.”

“Sure,” Cotton said. The shotgun had dipped. It pointed now about at Cotton’s lap. “But there’s a little difference, Governor. In cases like that you can argue that all the contributor is buying is someone who sees things his way. What Roark sold was a license to steal. And . . .” Cotton paused, choked suddenly by his anger. “And a license to murder. How much did Paul charge for the lives of McDaniels and Robbins?”

“You’re very moral, aren’t you?” Korolenko’s voice was shaking. “Let’s talk about morality then. What happened to those two men shouldn’t have happened. You can’t forget it, and you can’t forgive it, and you go to your grave thinking about it. But let’s talk about murder. You were covering the Legislature when the Taxpayers Association had the votes in the Appropriations Committee to gut the Health Department budget. This state damn near had tuberculosis under control then. But the testing program went down the drain and the outpatient medication project was cut, and the rate slipped back up again. And the home nursing program was chopped back. And the sanitation inspections. And how many died because of all that? And six years ago, when Governor Hill vetoed that income-tax bill and cut back on the Welfare Department budget. I remember reading in your
Tribune
about a suicide that year. You remember that? Turned on the gas in the hovel she was living in and killed herself and her three kids. And you remember the note? She said her relief check had been cut from $160 a month to $118 and she just couldn’t feed ’em. If you want to talk about morality, there’s all kinds of morality. And there’s all kinds of murder.” Korolenko paused, staring at Cotton. “And, as I told you, Roark didn’t know about it.”

“He had to.”

“He didn’t have to, and he didn’t. All Paul knew was what we told him. If Jason Flowers was named chairman of the Highway Commission and a couple of changes were made in the State Park Commission, we could assure ourselves of adequate financing for a statewide senatorial primary. That’s all he knew. It’s been done by every administration.”

“We? We would be you, and Congressman Gavin, and who else? And how much money is ‘adequate financing’? And where did it come from?” As he asked the questions, Cotton realized Korolenko couldn’t answer them—not with an empty shotgun. What he was really asking was, “Governor, is the shotgun loaded? Would you really kill a man?”

“It was $200,000,” Korolenko said.

The shotgun was loaded. Cotton felt his stomach tighten.

“About half of what it will take,” the old man was saying. “But in cash. On deposit.” Korolenko put the telephone receiver on the desk top and dialed while he talked, still cradling the shotgun on his right arm. “It’s there for the early organizing, where it attracts the bandwagon boys, the bet hedgers. With that much to start we can run a $500,000 campaign. Clark can’t raise much more than that and it’s all we’ll need. It means we can tie up television time in advance. And we pay an agency for the effective spots and the slick TV telethons and have a committee working in every county. And it means . . .”

The receiver Korolenko held against his ear made a squawking noise. “This is Joseph Korolenko,” the old man said. “Get Jason Flowers on the phone. Right now. It’s important.”

The receiver squawked again.

“Call him out of the meeting, then. Tell him he’ll talk to me now or he’ll go to jail.” He looked back at Cotton. “And it means organized labor knows we can win and the unions will go all out. And it means all those who would help if they weren’t afraid of Clark will help because they see a chance to be rid of him. With early money, we’ll have our share of the uncommitted professionals. There won’t be any more of this trying to campaign by borrowing cars, and using borrowed credit cards, and signing notes, and hiding from the bill collectors, and finding the prime TV time all contracted by the other side before you get the cash to—

“Flowers. I’m standing here holding a gun on a reporter. He’s got you cold. I gather you turned out to be pretty greedy. Anyway, he has all your dirt dug up. I want you to . . .”

Squawk, squawk-squawk. Squawk-squawk-squaaawk-squawk.

“Shut up,” Korolenko said. “It’s John Cotton. Your connections seem practiced at taking care of problems like this. I gather they took care of McDaniels and Whitey Robbins.”

The telephone made fast unintelligible sounds.

“Wait a minute,” Cotton said.

“That or go to prison,” Korolenko said. “I don’t care about you, you son-of-a-bitch, but I care about Roark. Don’t talk to me. Just do whatever dirty thing you have to do. I’ll keep him here.”

“Wait,” Cotton said. “Governor, it’s too late.”

Korolenko was listening to the sound from the telephone, looking at Cotton. “Yes,” he said, and hung up.

“It’s too late. The story’s already filed,” Cotton said. “I teletyped it to the
Tribune
this morning—just before I came out here.”

Korolenko held the shotgun in both hands now, pointing approximately at Cotton’s throat. His eyes were fixed on Cotton’s. Somewhere in the old house a timber creaked. A flurry of sleet rattled against the window.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“If it’s true, it’s all over with. Roark won’t have . . .” Korolenko stopped. “When will it be printed?”

Cotton thought about it. But there was no use thinking. Either Janey had believed in him or she hadn’t. “It should have made the mail edition.” He glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “That’s on the street in less than a hour.”

“We’ll wait,” Korolenko said. He lowered himself wearily into the chair behind the desk and sat, looking at the shotgun. Almost, Cotton thought, as if he couldn’t believe it was in his hands.

“I believe you’re lying,” Korolenko said slowly. “Because why would you come here if the story was already at the paper?”

“Because I wanted to be done with it. Done with it once and for all. I wanted to tie up the loose ends, clean it all up, put it in a package so I wouldn’t owe the
Trib
a thing. And then I was going to quit.”

“Quit? Isn’t it a little late to quit?” Korolenko laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Why not stick around and watch? The man who dynamites the dam should enjoy the flood.”

Cotton ignored it.

“What’s Flowers going to do?”

Korolenko laughed again. “He is going to wring his hands, and feel sorry for himself. And then he will call whoever it is . . . probably a man I can think of in Chicago . . . whoever it is who arranged for McDaniels to be pushed and for you to be shot at. And he will tell this man what I told him. And then he will walk into his private bath and wash his hands thoroughly.”

“And somebody will be coming here after me. The people who tried to kill me . . .”

“That’s how I understand it. But now we’ll all wait. If the story is in today’s
Tribune,
all of this is done and over with. There’s no more damage left for you to do.”