The Echo of Old Books(65)
“The problem is with me, Goldie.”
She looks confused but a little relieved too. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I’m leaving the paper. Leaving New York, actually.”
She stares at me, stunned. “You’re . . . what?”
“This isn’t what I want to do. I don’t think it ever was. I wish I’d realized it sooner, but I realize it now.”
She pushes to her feet, her face like a storm cloud. “You can’t be serious!”
“But I am. I leave tomorrow. Chicago, then California.”
There’s a pause, a beat of confused silence as she glares at me. “If this is a shakedown for more money—”
“It’s not a shakedown, Goldie. I’m just finished.”
“You’re about to deliver the scoop of the decade. You can’t just bail! What about the story? Is it finished?”
“No. And it won’t be.”
“You said your sources were solid, that everything was checking out. What happened?”
“Nothing’s happened. I just decided I can’t go ahead with it. Even if I could absolutely prove what I’ve been told, which I probably can’t, it’s wrong to print it. Dragging up some poor woman’s illness, putting an entire family through the wringer over something that might or might not have happened more than a decade ago. That isn’t news. It’s ghoulish speculation meant to bring a man to his knees, and as much as I despise the man in question, I’ve decided I don’t want to be part of it.”
“This is about her, isn’t it? Your precious Belle. She batted those pretty eyes of hers and you’ve turned to jelly. I knew you had an itch for her, but I never figured you for a guy who’d be led around by his zipper. How could you be so gullible? When you know what’s at stake! Her father is a dangerous man, a menace to everything this country’s supposed to stand for, and he’s got his eye on a congressional seat. Your story would put an end to those aspirations.”
“I don’t dispute any of that, and I share your loathing, but you’re going to have to find another way to make a case against him, because I can’t put my name on the kind of story you’re hoping to run. When you approached me about coming to work for you, I told you I wasn’t interested in writing tabloid stuff, but that’s exactly what this piece is shaping up to be—which is why I’ve decided to scrap it.”
She sneers at me across the desk, hands splayed open on the blotter. “You got plenty interested when you met her, though, didn’t you? Moved right in and cozied up to them all. Where were all your scruples then?”
Her words find their target, and for a moment, I’m silent. There’s truth in what she says. I did cozy up to you. I convinced myself that it was in the interest of truth, that I was serving some high-minded journalistic purpose, but the lie collapsed the moment I kissed you.
“I’m not proud of any of it,” I tell her quietly. “But when this started, I thought you wanted a legitimate piece, an exposé on a shady man with political aspirations. Instead, it’s turned into a smear piece full of innuendo and lurid details no one’s ever likely to prove.”
She rolls her eyes and snorts out a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and caught yourself a case of conscience. I hope not, for your sake. It can be fatal in this business.” Her eyes narrow suddenly, glittering and feline as they study me. “Or is it something else you’ve caught? Something with long legs and a trust fund.”
I let the remark pass, refusing to take the bait. “That’s my business.”
“And the Review is mine. This isn’t a courthouse; it’s a newspaper office. My job—and yours—is to print the news where we find it. What the public and the police choose to do with it is their business.”
“It’s not my job anymore. That’s what I came in to tell you. I’m done.”
Her face hardens. “Well, I guess I finally know who you were saving yourself for. Not that there was ever much doubt.”
“Goldie . . .”
“Get out.” She looks petulant suddenly, a child denied a toy that never really belonged to her. “Clear out your desk and go. You won’t be hard to replace. And when I do replace you, which will take about five minutes, it’ll be with someone who understands the job. Go to California and write your damn novel. It had better be good, though, because you can bet your neck you’re finished in this business.”
I’m headed for my desk when I hear my name over the din. I turn to find her in her office doorway. “Leave your story notes. All of them. Your contacts and your sources. Every last scrap.”
“It’s my story.”
“And it’s my newspaper. I paid for the notes. The ink they’re written with, the paper they’re written on, and yes, the words themselves when you wrote them. I paid for it all.”
I stare at her, disgusted that in spite of everything I’ve just said, she’d still consider pushing ahead with the story. I respected her once, embraced the things I thought she stood for, but she’s become so caught up in her need to topple one man that she doesn’t care who else she hurts in the process. I’m also aware that if she does manage to piece the story together again, my fingerprints will be all over it. Suddenly I’m very glad that I’ve kept the grittiest details to myself. I can’t stop her from digging it all back up when I’m gone, but I won’t help her do it.