Tycoon (10 page)

“Now, that's the way to read news! My God, Bets, compared to that staccato ass Walter Winchell, this man is . . . Well, he has dignity! God, what I'd give to get him to Boston!”

J
ACK ASSIGNED
M
ICKEY
S
ULLIVAN TO FIND OUT ALL HE COULD
about Curtis Frederick. Mickey reported that Frederick had been a print journalist originally, starting at the Cleveland
Plain Dealer,
then had moved to New York, where he became a political writer for the
Herald Tribune.
When the newspaper decided to have its lead stories read on the air, it handed the assignment to Frederick because of his smooth baritone voice. Within six months he switched to the
Times
station, WQXR, because he felt it was more committed to quality newscasting. Mickey told Jack that it looked as if Curtis Frederick could be lured away to Boston.

Jack arranged to meet Frederick over dinner in a suite at the Waldorf. He chose a room-service dinner because he suspected the newscaster would not want to be seen in public with the owner of other radio stations.

For this meeting, Jack took Kimberly with him. Mickey Sullivan came, too, but he would not appear at the dinner.

“I may know something about Curtis Frederick that you don't know,” Kimberly said as they were dressing.

“What is that?”

“Wait a minute,” she said as she focused all her attention on snapping a strap from her garter belt to her stocking. “He was educated at Yale. Graduated in 1921. My friend Brit Lowery's husband graduated in 1922.1 thought he might know this Frederick, so this afternoon I got her to introduce me to her husband, Walter Lowery. He does in fact know Frederick and still sees him occasionally.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” said Jack dryly.

“Perhaps because that's not terribly difficult to do, my dear. Anyway, Frederick is thirty-eight years old, which means he was exactly the right age to be drafted into the army in 1917—which he was.”

“I knew that.”

“Okay. The French liked him enough to award him the Croix de Guerre, and the Americans liked him enough to award him a Silver Star. He'd had two years at Yale before he was drafted, so he finished in two years after he was discharged.”

“I knew all that.”

“Then let me tell you something you don't know,” Kimberly said with ice-cold precision. “Mr. Curtis Frederick is a
fairy!”

“Kimberly—”

“He's kept his secret very well. If half a dozen people know it—”

“It's
despicable
that anyone should—”

“Boys who live in college dorms learn things about each other that no one else ever finds out.”

Jack drew deeply from the Camel he was smoking. “Jesus
Christ!
You say not half a dozen people know. If Lowery told
you—”

“I explained the circumstances, that you were thinking of hiring Frederick and making him—”

Jack began to pace. “Well, what do I do now?”

“Hire him, if you want him.”

He stopped in the center of the room and stared at her. “Five years from now my star newscaster—”

“If somebody finds out what nobody has found out in twenty years . . .”

Jack ground out his cigarette in an ashtray. “I don't even know what they
do
,” he muttered.

Kimberly grinned. “The hell you don't. You're not
that
naive. Anyway, five minutes ago you thought he was the best newscaster you ever heard.”

“I can't hire him without mentioning it. And I don't know how to mention it.”

“I'll take care of it,” she said firmly.

N
OTHING ABOUT
C
URTIS
F
REDERICK'S
A
PPEARANCE SUG
gested that he was a homosexual. He was a rugged-looking man, with a long, strong face, great bushy black eyebrows, steady dark eyes, a craggy nose and jaw, and a wide mouth with thin lips.

After saying no to a Scotch and asking instead for a gin, he sat down and lit a Chesterfield from a slender sterling silver case. His superbly tailored black suit was single-breasted, which was unusual for that year, and his necktie was black and narrow. The man had style, and it was not the style of 1935.

“Well, Mr. Frederick,” Jack said, “who is going to be elected President of the United States next year?”

“Franklin D. Roosevelt,” Frederick said without hesitation, “will be reelected in a landslide.”

“No chance it will be otherwise?”

Frederick shook his head. “No chance.”

“You've met him?” Kimberly asked.

Frederick nodded. “Oh, yes. In 1921, for the first time. I wouldn't have predicted then that he'd ever be elected anything more than a congressman from the Hudson Valley.”

“How well do you know him?” asked Jack.

“No one knows him,” said Frederick. “The biggest mistake anyone can make in politics or journalism is to think he knows Franklin D. Roosevelt. His career is based on making certain that no one knows him.”

“Then I take it you don't like him,” said Kimberly.

“I like him very well—in the context of the men who might replace him. In that context, he's a giant among pygmies.”

They had two more drinks before their dinner arrived. Jack had ordered the best the hotel offered: caviar, pheasant . . . He became aware, though, that Curtis Frederick was not impressed with the meal. He ate it and obviously enjoyed it, but it had
been wrong to suppose a fine meal with fine wines would have any influence on his judgment.

“My WCHS broadcasts with greater power than WQXR,” Jack said midway through the dinner.

“WLW in Cincinnati, 'the nation's station,' broadcasts with even greater power,” Frederick pointed out with a shrug. “But I wouldn't identify with WLW for a million dollars a year.”

“Well, let's put it another way, then. What do you want from broadcasting?”

Frederick smiled at Kimberly, then at Jack. “I want the prestige of WQXR and the power of WLW or KDKA.”

“I can't give you that much power,” said Jack. “I approach it, but I don't have it yet. On the other hand, I'm syndicating. I have three stations and may have five or six in time. So far as prestige is concerned, a broadcaster
makes
it. You contribute to the prestige of WQXR. You can contribute to the prestige of WCHS and its affiliated stations. Is your broadcasting prestigious? Respected? That's up to you, my friend. If I sent you out on five times the power of WLW and you spieled trash, you'd just be delivering high-powered trash. The world of broadcasting is full of that.”

“A
Boston
station?”

“We're not a clear-channel service, so-called. You can't hear us in Chicago or Atlanta. But you can tune in WCHS in Boston, Providence, New Haven, Hartford, Albany . . . We have some listeners in New York City. We'll have more. I plan to lease a telephone line, so some WCHS programming will go out simultaneously on WHPL. I suppose you have a following in New York. Those with good receivers can pick you up from Boston, but those with cheap radios will pick you up from White Plains.”

“People are putting radios in their cars, you know,” said Frederick. “A lot of businessmen listen to my morning news in their cars on their way to their offices.”

“White Plains is twenty-five miles from Manhattan,” said Jack. “Even radios in automobiles can pick up stations twenty-five miles away.”

Curtis Frederick smiled. “Am I being rushed?” he asked in a tone of mock innocence.

“I am trying to establish a programming schedule that will
mix entertainment with information in such a way that the stations will make money and still provide a public service. When I heard you for the first time, I decided you are the man I want to head my news department.”

Frederick shook his head. “I'd make a poor department head, Mr. Lear. I'm a reporter and broadcaster. I couldn't administer a candy store. Don't want to.”

“As head of my news department you'd do exactly what you're doing now. I'd want you to choose the stories to broadcast, then broadcast them.”

“You understand,” said Frederick, “that most of the news you hear on radio is taken from the papers or wire services. We don't send out reporters to get news for us—except occasionally.”

Jack glanced at Kimberly, then took a sip of wine. “Suppose I hired an assistant for you. Suppose we sent him to Washington. Suppose we sent him to the political conventions next summer. Better yet, suppose we sent
you
to the conventions in Cleveland and Philadelphia and you broadcast directly from there.”

“You make it all sound very interesting,” Frederick replied.

“This will be a big decision for you,” Jack said. “There are details to work out. I want us to get to know each other better. You used the word ‘rush.' I am rushing you, in the sense of a fraternity rushing a prospective member. I do not want to rush you in the sense of asking you to hurry up and decide.”

“Maybe you should come up to Boston for a weekend, or two or three weekends,” Kimberly suggested.

“Yes. Maybe I should.”

“And of course bring Mrs. Frederick,” she added. “If there is a Mrs. Frederick.”

Frederick didn't see Jack frown at Kimberly.

“I'm afraid there is no Mrs. Frederick. I've never been married.”

“Uh-oh!” She laughed. “You'll be the cynosure of all eyes in Boston. I'll be able to introduce you to a dozen or more lovely women who'll want to know you—that is, if you don't mind.”

Frederick shrugged. “That should be an interesting experience,” he said.

1936

C
URTIS
F
REDERICK JOINED
L
EAR
B
ROADCASTING IN
1936. H
E
immediately brought prestige, but years would pass before he brought in revenue.

He was attracted by the academic community and leased an apartment in Cambridge, half a mile from Harvard Yard. His brother, Willard Frederick, came up from New York with him and rented a smaller apartment in a building across the street. Willard was working on a biography of William Lloyd Garrison, and the Boston libraries would be of immense help to him. Willard was a shy man who was easily flustered. Jack tried in vain not to dislike him.

Curtis Frederick was not at all disturbed by the Lears' unwillingness to include Willard in their circle of friends. “Willard,” he said, “is his own sort of man and would not fit in. He has his interests and is very happy pursuing them.”

As she had promised she would do, Kimberly found female companions for Frederick. He was gracious to them, seemed in fact to go out of his way to court them, and soon convinced Kimberly that the rumor about his sexual proclivities was probably unfounded.

Betsy sat down across the table from Jack in an Irish pub in Southie. She was angry.

“All right! You
let
this happen! You
let
it happen, goddammit!”

Jack shook his head. “Bets, I swear to you I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know about it until you told me.”

“What's she trying to pull?”

“Bets, I don't think Kimberly is trying to pull anything. When we talked about Curtis moving to Boston, she said she'd introduce him to some women. You're divorced. I think she innocently supposes the two of you might—”

“She knows about you and me!
That's the point.”

“No. She doesn't know about us. If she did, she'd—”

“Do you mean it? She doesn't know?”

“Bets . . . she doesn't guess. I'd know if she did. She's not capable of that much subtlety.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

Jack shrugged. “Go out with the guy. Or don't if you don't want to. What harm could it do?”

“What if he tries to put the make on me?”

He glanced around the room, then put his hand on hers. “You can handle that, Bets. And how you handle it depends on your judgment at the time.”

“You mean you wouldn't care if I let him?”

“I can't marry you, Bets. You know that. I can't give up John and Joan. I
can't!
If you find something good with somebody . . . Well, Curtis Frederick's a first-class guy.”

Betsy lowered her chin and stared down at the table. “Thanks, Jack . . . . Oh, thanks one hell of a lot.”

K
IMBERLY POURED TEA.
S
HE SAT WITH
B
ETSY
—M
RS
. O
TIS
Emerson—in the living room of the house on Louisburg Square. She wore a beige linen dress embroidered in a floral pattern with green and red thread. In her movements, her clothes, her manner, she was the epitome of Boston elegance
—meaning that she was strikingly beautiful, and precisely restrained by practiced dignity.