Rough Justice (4 page)

“Yeah. It's tough, all right.”

“It was meant for your father.”

“He owned a chain of papers. They were on a campaign against the governor, exposing his links with the mob.”

“Robert Walsh,” I said. “Your old man's Robert Walsh.”

“That's right.”

“I didn't get that. I didn't make the connection.”

She leaned forward again and the light played over her hair. When she smiled now, I could make out the laugh lines around her mouth. And the steely glint in the gray eyes. She was smart, I could tell. She was smarter than me. A bad thing in a boss. It made me nervous. “I studied English literature at Princeton. You probably know all this. Journalism at Columbia?”

“I've heard it around,” I said.

“When I graduated, I got a job on a little paper called the
Wallkill Record
. All by myself, no connections. I was very proud.” One corner of her mouth lifted. She held me with that gaze. “I covered church meetings, barbecues. Town board twice a month. And after half a year, the editor—very sweet guy by the name of Porky Hindenburg—he sat down on my desk, put his fatherly hand on my shoulder, and said, ‘Emma, you're going to have a long and happy career. Just as soon as you stop trying to be a reporter.'” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “And he had that right, too.”

“You stank, huh?”

“Like a senator's soul. Ned would've been the reporter in my family.”

She took a deep breath, sat back finally. I felt like her grip had loosened on me. I stretched my neck out of my shirt collar. The collar was damp.

“Well, there's a lot of money in advertising,” I said.

“Yes, there is. Yes, there is. And it's taken me twenty goddamned years to get up the courage to leave it and try this business again. And this time, I used every connection I had.”

I gave her a nonchalant wave. “Okay,” I croaked. I cleared my throat.

“Now,” said Emma Walsh very quietly. “Now, let me tell you what you are going to do for me.”

I blew out a stream of smoke. I waited for it.

She said, “If I tell you to learn the computer, John, you are going to learn the computer. If I tell you to get your feet off the desk, you are going to get them off, fast. You don't have to call me ‘ma'am,' but when you talk to me out in that city room, you better
sound
like that's what you're calling me, you hear?”

I didn't say anything. I was plotting her destruction.

“And if we're in a staff meeting,” Emma Walsh went on, “and I'm telling the assembled multitudes about the all-new perky, perky
Star
, you are not going to snicker, John. You are going to nod your head and rub your chin thoughtfully.”

“Like this?”

“Not bad, but work on it. Work on it till you get it right.” She sat straight. Her long hair framed her face. Her voice was even. Her eyes were calm. “Because if you will do that—if you will do all those things, John—then I will make this the newspaper of your dreams.”

She paused long enough for me to say, “What?”

“You heard me. I will back you to the limit. To the wall and beyond. I will give you space if you need space. I will give you time if you need time. I will put the front page on ice for you. You understand?”

“Uh—no.”

“Because while I play office politics—which I am very good at—and while I convince the People Upstairs that we are going perky as a kitten in a ball of twine, I want you to blow this fucking town apart.”

I may have stared at her. I probably did. My brain was racing to catch up with hers, but kept losing it in the stretch. I could only make another nonchalant gesture—a little turning of the hand this time—and keep trying to figure her angle.

And she said: “I want all those crooks of yours on the public payroll, John, my dear. I want the federal homeless aid that's being fed into the pockets of slumlords. I want all those wiseguys and good-fellows who're running the unions. And I want Dellacroce, not just indicted, but sent away. I want all those bastards, every one. And I want you to get them for me.”

She fell silent, her gaze unwavering, her mouth turned up in a faint smile.

I placed my cigarette carefully at the corner of my lips. I pulled on it slowly, stalling for time.

“Man,” I said then. “I'll bet your dog food sold like blazes.”

“Top of the line, Johnny,” she told me. She smiled wanly. “Now, how you gonna make me look good today?”

I rubbed my chin. I gazed into those gray eyes. I didn't know—I couldn't tell—what was going on behind them.

“You need an ally out there,” I said.

“I do.”

“You could use me that way. Give me nothing.”

“I could.”

“Then you might make it look like I've sold out.”

“I might, that's true.”

Still those eyes, those smart eyes of hers, didn't waver.

“If I find one perky word in any of my stories, I'll come after you with a blowtorch,” I said.

“I'll be waiting. Now what've you got?”

I watched her, studied her. She still didn't give an inch, didn't reveal anything. I laughed. “All right. I've got a cop.”

“I like that. Good. One cop?”

“Yes, but a very big one. And a very dirty one. A lieutenant named Tom Watts.”

“A lieutenant, yeah, good.”

“A few years back he was a captain named Tom Watts, only then I found out he'd turned an entire precinct into a drug operation.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I wrote a bunch of stories about it, but I never could nail him directly.” I got to my feet and paced up and down in front of Emma's desk. She watched me, half-smiling, her eyes sparkling. “Watts didn't much like being broken, though. So one day he picked me up. On a pretense. For questioning. And he beat the shit out of me.”

“Oooh, bad move.”

“I promised—I promised I'd have his badge for that.”

“Good. Good. And now …”

I stopped pacing. I leaned on her desk, looking down at her. She looked up at me. I could see her red sweater rise and fall with her breath.

“Are you dicking me around, lady?”

“You won't know until you try me, will you?”

“Fifteen years ago, Tom Watts helped some mobsters kill an informer. They buried him alive.”

The half-smile vanished from her face. “Have you got that solid?”

“I've got it awfully good. A deathbed confession from a cop who was in on it. They'd admit it as evidence in a court of law.”

“If this is just a vendetta …”

“It's a vendetta, all right. He sucker-punched me.”

“I want it solid, John. That's all I ask.”

“Give me a day. It's an old case. No one will beat us. Give me till tomorrow, tops.”

“I want it solid,” she said, “because if the mob thought they could buy a cop, there must have been more than one …”

“That's it. That's it.” I smiled at her. “There'll be cops all over us.”

Slowly, as she looked up at me, a flush rose into the managing editor's round cheeks. It was a nice color. It went with the sweater. She stood too. She held her hand out again. I took it. It was very warm. It was almost hot.

“There could be hell to pay,” I told her.

“So I'll pay hell.”

“By tonight, Watts'll know I'm after him.”

“Let him know.”

“The cops could go silent on us. The commissioner could call upstairs. He's friends with Bush.”

“That's my job to think about. You let me do my job. You just be good to me, Johnny.”

“Think perky,” I said.

“Fuck perky,” said Emma Walsh. “I want to make this a newspaper.”

I went to the door. I felt a little rush of blood go through me.

“I'm gonna thank you for it,” I said.

4

“How was she?” McKay was right where I'd left him. And Lansing was perched on the cabinet again.

“Don't you people have desks?” I asked.

“We were hoping to get your desk,” said Lansing. “Now that you're going opera-side.”

“Come on,” said McKay. “How was she?”

“I don't know yet.” I sat down in front of my typewriter. “She's attractive, anyway.”

Lansing went grim. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know. Just …”

“Like, real attractive?” said McKay.

And Lancer said again: “What does that mean?”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I'd say real attractive, yeah.”

“Oh, you know,” said Lansing. “This is really … I mean … this is …”

“What?” I said. “What?”

“Well, here's an accomplished, educated, successful executive, and all you can think about are her legs.”

“Who said anything about her legs?”

“How're her legs?” asked McKay.

“Good. Good legs.”

“Jesus!” Lansing came off the cabinet.

“Hey,” McKay said to her. “Just because we think she's attractive, doesn't mean we don't respect her as the boss.” He turned to me. “Does she put out?”

I laughed. “Shut up.”

“I'm serious,” said Lansing. “It's not funny.”

“She's serious,” I told McKay. “It's not funny, she's serious.”

Lansing frowned at me. “Anyway, I thought she was forty-something.”

“Lansing,
I'm
forty-something.”

“Oh, why is age always such a big issue with you?”

“'Bye,” said McKay.

“Come back here, you bastard.” But he was already gone.

“And she's married,” Lansing told me. “To a very, very wealthy lawyer. They live in Westchester.”

“So what?” I said. “So she's married. She's my boss. So what?”

“Oh—never mind!” She stalked off to her own desk.

“So she's married,” I said to myself. “So what?” I started to look over my notes. “Shit,” I said. “Shit, shit, shit.” I took a sip from my coffee. It was stone cold. “Fran!” I screamed. “Get the fuck over here!”

I snatched up the phone. I dialed the U.S. Attorney's office. I couldn't get Ciccelli. I asked for Gerard. I got put on hold.

“What!” It was Fran.

I wedged the phone against my shoulder as I lit a cigarette. “Why are you in such a bad mood today?” I asked her.

“Because I'm trying to make a good impression, damn it!”

“So don't bring me cold coffee.”

“Not on you. On
her
. And you keep yelling at me like that.” Her eyes filled. “I don't mind usually.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “
Please
get me some coffee. Or I'll kill you.”

“You owe me twenty bucks.” It was Gerard on the phone. “That Hershiser is unhittable. What a game. What a great game. You get to see it?”

“Uh, not, no …”

“Oh Jesus, Wells, what an incredible game. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I'm doing a series on gambling in the U.S. Attorney's office.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Or, if you prefer, I need you to dig something up on a fifteen-year-old murder case.”

Gerard said he'd get me what he could. I hung up.

Gershon, one of our photographers, wandered past.

“Wells,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “It's perky. Pass it on.” He went by.

“Hey,” I called after him. “Perky's not … it's not so …”

I shook my head. I picked up the phone and called my best source on the cops, Lieutenant Fred Gottlieb.

“Hear the one about the dirty cop who helped bury a snitch alive?” I asked him.

“Eesh.”

“Fifteen years ago. Guess who.”

“I know who. Who doesn't know who?”

“It's around?”

“Off the record?”

“Not for attribution. You're a highly placed, badly dressed police source with a high forehead.”

“Not for attribution, I've heard the story.”

“Who were the mob guys?”

“Woof. Let me see. Marino was one.”

“The same Marino you just found in the car trunk.”

“The same one, only alive. And Tommy the Blond was another. That's all I can remember hearing.”

“Thanks.”

“Who's badly dressed?”

I hung up.

“We're going perky, Wells. Load for bear.” It was Vicki. Rafferty was standing next to her.

I swiveled to them. “Hey. Grand Central's across the street, okay?”

Rafferty laid a hand on my shoulder. “I just want you to know, John, that we're all counting on you to risk your job standing up to her so that we can smile and fawn and degrade ourselves in front of her and then pretend to support you when her back is turned.”

“Listen,” I told him. “There are plenty of worse things than perky.”

“Emphysema?”