Thief of Words (3 page)
“Besides, he’s kinda cute. Looks like Richard Dreyfuss or Steven Spielberg, one of those gray-haired bearded guys. I know I promised I’d never try to fix you up again. But you didn’t really believe that did you? Please go out with him as a personal favor to me. And to Becky. I swear this is the last fix-up from me if you do it. We all want to see you happy.
“xoxo Laura
“P.S. It’s too late to say no. I already gave him your e-mail address and told him you couldn’t wait to hear from him.”
J
ack DePaul eyed Laura suspiciously. “Goodbread, I know your tricks; you’re trying to divert me. You know exactly why I’m here. It’s City That Reads time and guess whose turn it is to cover it?”
He paused, then said, “What do you mean, ‘Do I have the woman for you’?”
“You asked me if I know anyone you could meet. Remember? It was just last week. Early Alzheimer’s is a terrible tragedy, Jack.”
“Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten… about Alzheimer’s. So, who’s the woman?”
“Her name is Annie Hollerman. She’s a literary agent in D.C. She’s great. She’s smart and funny and has fiery red hair that goes down the middle of her back. She got divorced a couple years ago from the world’s most exacting and unpleasant man. I told her about you and she said she was very interested. By the way, she’s my best friend. If you mess with her I’ll break every one of your appendages—and your glasses.”
“Mess with her, or mess around with her?” said Jack, leering. “You know what I mean, buster.”
“She said she was interested in me?” asked Jack, the bantering tone suddenly absent. “What did you say about me?”
“I said you were nice—for a slime-sucking editor type.”
“Laura!” exclaimed Jack. His horror was unfeigned. He knew Laura’s general position on the subject of editors.
“Oh, relax, Jack. I just told her who you were and what you did. And she said she couldn’t wait to meet you. So e-mail her right away. Right now, this very morning. She’s waiting to hear from you.”
“Did you really say I was nice?”
“Do I really have to cover the City That Reads festival?”
I
t wasn’t until 3:45 that afternoon that Jack DePaul summoned up the courage to send Annie the following e-mail:
“Annie,
“Laura Goodbread tells me you’re fabulous. I trust her in these matters, she is a very careful reporter. If you, too, trust her in these matters, would you care to meet for lunch? I know this e-mail stuff is pretty impersonal, but it’s also less embarrassing if you just want to say no. In any event, I’ll now have to read the authors you represent to show you what a great guy I am.
“Jack DePaul”
Laura had called Annie three more times that day, asking if she’d gotten anything from Jack. Finally, on the fourth call at 5:30, Annie reported that indeed she had gotten something from a [email protected].
He was funny, Annie gave him that. But what would she tell him when they got to the résumé part of the lunch? She couldn’t tell him everything. With other dates, it was easy. She’d say, “I used to be a reporter,” and they’d smile and move on to another subject—themselves. But a fellow journalist would want to play Journalist Geography: Where, when, who owned the chain, and why’d you leave the calling?
What to do? A polite no, or should she take a chance?
The nagging voice in her head started again. But then she thought about Monday night salsa boxing. Plus, it had been more than eight months since she’d gone on a date. And worse, her underwear was getting tattered and she didn’t even care.
She hit the reply box in jdepaul’s e-mail and a blank form appeared. She put her fingers to the keyboard, but they didn’t move. Should I answer him? Maybe I’ll just lie, never mention I was a reporter. He doesn’t have to know every minute of my life.
It wouldn’t actually be a lie, more like an omission. Hell, it’s lunch, not an interrogation. Maybe it won’t even come up. Where’s the damn J key anyway? For that matter, where is the A, or the C, or the K?
Her hands poised over the keyboard. Should I, shouldn’t I? Twenty years ago, her fingers had hesitated the same way over the send button. One push of her finger had sent a story to her editor, a story that changed her life.
Should I, shouldn’t I?
Her index finger found the J key.
“Jack,
“Yes, I trust Laura about most things. And yes, you must read my authors. I suggest starting with ‘Confessions of a She-Devil.’ Would you like to call to make arrangements?
“Annie”
To which Jack replied:
“I will read ‘She-Devil.’ Why don’t we make arrangements this way: I like the notion of meeting you sight/sound unseen/unheard. It’ll force us to set up a rendezvous involving black fedoras or pink carnations in the lapel and secret passwords. Don’t sit down to lunch with anyone who doesn’t say: ‘There are storm clouds over Lisbon.’
“Jack”
Sight/sound unseen/unheard. He was a romantic. Annie liked that. She replied:
“Jack,
“There are many wonderful things about being in my 40s, one of them is not memory. So if a woman with red hair comes up to you and says in a fake cockney, ‘The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain,’ do not call the police; all she could remember of the passwords is that they had something to do with weather in Europe. If you want to make Laura a fulfilled person, lead this woman to a table and order lunch. If you’re curious to see what I look like, you can check my agency’s web page.
“Annie”
Within minutes of receiving her e-mail, Jack DePaul wrote back.
“Annie,
“Alright then, meet me Wednesday at Donna’s at the Baltimore Museum of Art, 12:30. You’ll know me in this way: I’m of average height, maybe on the short side. Short brown beard and hair shot through with white. People say I look like Steven Spielberg. I’ll be wearing the newspaper editor’s uniform: tie undone, sleeves rolled up, cheap sport coat slung over a shoulder. Friendly smile, wary eyes. I’ll say: ‘If you’re not Annie Hollerman, this is very embarrassing.’
“I haven’t visited your web page yet. I probably won’t before we meet. Why have preconceptions? Though, truth is, I already have at least one: this will be fun.
“Jack”
Just as Jack hit the send key he heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, DePaul.”
Jack, startled, looked up from his screen a little guiltily. Standing by his desk was the regal figure of Kathleen Faulkner. She was carrying a black briefcase in one hand and a gray jacket in the other.
“I’m heading out a little early today. Wondered if you had thought any more about that Washington lobbyist story.”
He appraised her coolly. She looked down at him with brown eyes that hinted at absolutely nothing.
“I want it for next Sunday,” said Jack. “But it’s going to take some work. The concept of illuminating details hasn’t made it to the D.C. bureau yet. And you know my feeling about illuminating details.” He curbed his desire to glance ostentatiously at Kathleen’s ring finger.
“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Jack—you know what you want.” She said this with a slight smile. “I wish I could be so certain.” She placed her coat across the briefcase and, as she moved past him toward the exit, touched him lightly on the shoulder with her free hand.
“I’ll ship the story over tomorrow,” she said. “By the way, Alex Beyard called. He’s not going to this year’s management conference. His paper’s cutting back on trips, and everything else. He couldn’t believe the
Star-News
was still sending us all. Anyway, have a good evening.” Kathleen walked briskly away.
J
ack stared at Kathleen Faulkner’s back as if trying to read hieroglyphics. What the hell was that all about? It had been six months of peaceful nothing. Now this sudden bit of ominous innocence.
Three days ago, she had offered him a piece from the Washington bureau. A day later she had e-mailed him: “Need to talk to you about the lobbyist story and other things.” From anyone else, it would have been completely normal newsroom business. But this was how it always started and restarted with Kathleen, when she wanted to worm her way back into his life.
He watched her disappear around a corner. Why do I feel like I’m back in the soap opera from hell?
Jack turned to his computer, thankful for work to take his mind off Kathleen. He called up the master list of unedited stories. First up was something by feature writer J. R. Thelman slugged “Firehouse 773.” He opened the file and began reading.
“It was a hot, dusty August day. The noon sun had burned away the shadows and when they came back eight hours later they brought no relief.” Jack reread the sentences on his screen, made a whimpering noise, and slumped in his chair.
Arts editor, Mike Gray, looked up from the adjacent desk. “That doesn’t sound good. What’s up?”
“J. R. Thelman,” Jack replied.
“Let me guess,” said Gray. “His story starts: ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ ”
“Close. ‘It was a hot, dusty August day.’ ”
“Why does J.R. begin every story with a weather report?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t take it any longer,” Jack said. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Good thinking, Jack,” said Gray. “I can see those management training classes have really paid off.”
Gray’s phone rang and he turned away, leaving Jack to face the hot, dusty August day alone. He glanced at his watch (wasn’t it time for a meeting?) then at his coffee cup (it was full), then checked his bladder (it was empty). He forced himself back to the screen. The problem, he knew, wasn’t the lede of J.R.’s story. In fact, the second sentence wasn’t half bad.
The problem was thirty years in the business, a twenty-year marriage he didn’t mourn, and three years of promises from Kathleen Faulkner. Six months ago, she’d made her choice: she’d moved back in with her husband while she was still sleeping with Jack. Jack swore he was finished with her and her lies, as he’d sworn many times before. Now she was back.
Problems. His neck was getting wrinkles; hair was sprouting from his ears; his right shoulder ached; words wouldn’t come, names were lost; rock and roll was dead. The problem was middle age.
The problem was Willoughby Treffle.
Jack remembered it more clearly than he remembered last week, though it had happened thirty years ago. It began when a rich dowager from Oakland, California, had bequeathed $100,000 to the city for public art. The municipal arts council spent $50,000 of the money on a commission for a statue to be placed in a prominent spot downtown. A local artist named Santino proposed a huge work—nearly twenty-five feet high—made from twisted steel girders. He called it
Civic Duty.
It was a piece of modernistic claptrap; naturally, the arts council loved it. A year later, it was erected in an open square facing the courthouse. Howdy Doody, as it came to be called because the girders grinned like a big set of choppers, soon became the target of graffiti artists and snide newspaper columnists. It also became the soapbox for Willoughby Treffle, the city’s favorite gadfly.
Every day, Willoughby stood on the base of Howdy Doody and harangued passersby. Willoughby was against everything from the city’s housing policy (he had once been denied a housing voucher) to vegetarians (Willoughby liked steak). Aside from his oratory, Willoughby had other distinctions: he had a barfly’s thick red mottled nose, he always wore a black business suit covered with campaign buttons, he sold miniature American flags (three for a dollar), and he was vertically challenged. Will Treffle was a dwarf.
In 1972, the city council voted to disassemble the statue. They claimed that if radical war protesters booby-trapped
Civic Duty
the resulting shrapnel could kill hundreds. The fact was, no radical had ever considered the statue a target. The fact was, all the judges at the courthouse hated the thing. However, the day workmen showed up with trucks and cranes, war protesters did, too. They knew a photo op when they saw one.
Enter Jack DePaul, eager young metro reporter for the
Oakland Tribune,
who knew a story when he saw one. The courthouse square that morning was a pandemonium of protesters, workmen, cops, news crews, and innocent citizens called for jury duty. In the midst of the confusion, a tie-dyed protester climbed the statue and began shouting something through a megaphone. Immediately the TV cameras turned. Not to be outdone by TV, Jack climbed up after him. But he didn’t get far. About five feet up, Jack felt himself losing his grip. He reached out to grab on to the protester’s foot, but the man kicked him away. Down Jack fell, right on top of the flags, buttons, and diminutive body of Willoughby Treffle.
“The Midget Mash,” as it came to be called, was all over the TV news and for a few weeks afterward Jack was a minor celebrity in the Bay Area. His account of the statue protest led page one in the next day’s
Tribune
(Will Treffle wasn’t mentioned) and became his prize barroom tale for years (it once got him into the bed of a San Francisco anchorwoman). It was an exhilarating time to be a journalist: the world teeter-tottered every day between upheaval and possibility. The air seemed charged with extra oxygen. No one sneered in those days at a passion for truth or justice or peace, love, and understanding. In those days.
Jack scrolled down to the end of J.R.’s story and read the last paragraph. Then he checked the story’s length. At least fifteen inches too long, no matter how well written. He returned to the lede again with a sigh. It had been a long time since he’d knocked over a dwarf. The problem, he knew, was Jack DePaul, not J. R. Thelman.
G
reat, this Jack DePaul guy’ll think he’s having lunch with Rocky Raccoon.” Annie examined the dark circles under her eyes as she looked in the bathroom mirror and cursed herself for staying up so late.
She’d read until 1:20 the night before because she’d stupidly promised three different authors she’d get back to them today. Rick Kantley wanted to know if he should agree to his editor’s changes on his new military thriller. That would be affirmative. And if he were really lucky, the editor would rewrite the whole damn thing. Kantley made Tom Clancy read like Hemingway. But his books hit the best-seller list and he was a dream to deal with. The other two authors were first-timers with solid, salable proposals.