Rune poked at a white square of vegetable - some kind she'd never run into before. Sutton gazed off across the restaurant as she mused, "Sometimes we have to do things for the good of the news. We have to put our own interests aside. When I started out I was a crime reporter. They didn't want women in the newsroom. Food reporting, society, the arts - those were fine but hard news? Nope. Forget it. So the chief gave me the shit jobs." Sutton glanced at Courtney but the girl didn't notice the lapse into adult
vocabulary. The ancherwoman continued, "I covered autopsies, I chased ambulances, I did arraignments, I walked through pools of blood at a mass shooting to get pictures when the photographer was kneeling behind the press car puking. I did all of that crap and it worked out for me. But at the time it was a sacrifice."
Something in the matter-of-fact tone of Sutton's voice was thrilling to Rune. This is just what she'd sound like when talking to another executive at the Network, an equal. Sutton and Dan Semple or Lee Maisel would talk this way - in low voices, surrounded by people wearing huge geometric shapes of jewelry, sitting over the tiny bones of hostage birds and drinking eighty-dollar-a-bottle wine. "Like you want me to be a crime reporter? I don't-" Sutton said, "Let me finish." Rune sat back. Her plate was cleared away, and a young man in a white jacket cleaned the crumbs off the table with a little thing that looked like a miniature carpet sweeper. Most of the mess was on Rune's side.
"I like you, Rune. You've got street smarts and you're tough. That's something I don't see enough of in reporters nowadays. It's one or the other and usually more ego than either of them. Here's my problem: We've just lost the associate producer of the London bureau - he quit to work for Reuters -and they were in the midst of production on three programs. I need someone over there now." Rune's skin bristled. As if a wave of painless flame had passed over her. "Associate producer?" "No, you'd be an assistant, not associate. At first at least. The bureaus in London, Paris, Rome, Berlin and Moscow'11 feed you leads and you and the executive producer will make your decisions on what you want to go after." "What does Lee think?" "He's given me the job of filling the spot. I haven't mentioned you to him but he'll go with whoever I recommend." "This is pretty wild. I mean, I never thought that's what you were going to say. How long would I be over there?" "A year minimum. If you like it, something more permanent might be arranged. That would be up to Lee. But usually we like to shift people around. It could be Paris or Rome after that. You'd have to learn the language." "Oh, I took French in high school. 'Voulez-vous couchez . . .'" Sutton said, "I get the idea." Rune asked a passing waiter for a glass of milk for Courtney. "And a straw? The kind with the bend in them." He didn't grasp the concept and Rune let it drop. She said to Sutton, "I don't want you to think . . . I mean, I'm grateful and all - but what about Randy Boggs?" "You said yourself you don't have any evidence." "I still know he's innocent." No emotion in Sutton's face. Rune said, "Somebody tried to kill him in prison. They stabbed him. If we don't get him out they'll try again." Sutton shrugged. "I'll assign a local reporter to pick up for you." "You would?" "Uh-huh. So how 'bout it?" "Uh, would you mind if I thought about it?" Sutton blinked and seemed about to ask, What the fuck is there to think about? But she just nodded and said, "It's a big decision. Maybe you should sleep on it. I won't ask the other people I'm considering until tomorrow." "Thanks." Sutton motioned for the last of her wine. A young waiter scurried over and, with alternate glances at her freckled chest and the crystal glass in front of her, emptied the bottle. She looked at her watch. She said,
"And the check, please."
Outside the restaurant the three of them paused. "That is one amazing car," Rune said as a glossy midnight-blue stretch Lincoln Town Car turned the corner and slowed. "Don't you wonder who rides in those things?" Sutton didn't answer. The car eased to a stop in front of them. The driver hopped out and ran to the door, opened it for Piper Sutton. Oh. Sutton said, "You'll give me your answer tomorrow?" "Sure." "Piper, we're late," a man's voice called from the limo. "Good night," the anchorwoman said briskly to Rune and started toward the Lincoln. A man leaned forward to help her in. It was Dan Semple himself, in a beautiful gray double-breasted suit. He glanced at Rune, then kissed Sutton on the cheek. They disappeared into the blackness of the car.
"Thanks-"
The door closed and Rune and Courtney were left looking at their mirrored images for the few seconds it took for the driver to get back inside and speed the limo away from the curb.
"-for dinner."
16
London was the problem. Ever since she'd read Lord of the Rings (the first of four times) Rune'd wanted to go to the United Kingdom! the country of pubs and hedgerows and shires and hobbits and dragons. Whoa, and Loch Ness too.
She'd thought about it for a couple hours and decided that any sane person in the world would accept Piper Sutton's offer in ten seconds flat.
So Rune was a bit curious why she was dropping Courtney at one of her loyal, expensive baby-sitters and then giving the cabdriver an address on the Upper East Side. He took her to an old apartment building, dark brick with lion bas-reliefs in dirty limestone trim. She walked into the immaculate lobby, hit the intercom and announced herself. The door opened. She took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. When she stepped into a tiny corridor, she realized there were only four apartments on the whole floor.
Lee Maisel opened the door to one, waved and let her into a rambling, dark-paneled apartment. He didn't shake her hand; he was dripping wet.
She followed, noticing an elephant's foot in the corner; inside were a half-dozen umbrellas and canes. Several of them ended in carved faces: a lion, an old man (Rune thought he was a wizard), some kind of bird. Maisel had been doing dishes. He was wearing a blue denim apron, water-stained with Rorschach patterns and taut over his belly.
"When I called . . . Well, I hope I didn't interrupt anything." "I'd have told you I didn't want to be interrupted." Maisel returned to the cumulonimbus of suds. "The bar's over there." He nodded. "Food?" "Uhm, I just ate." Maisel dove into the dishwater again. Surrounded by implements - scrapers, sponges, metallic scrubbers like tiny steel wigs. A typhoon crashed over the granite countertop. A pan surfaced and beached itself on the Rubbermaid, and he examined it carefully. His face was pure contentment. She envied him; cooking and cleaning were loves that Rune knew she would never cultivate.
In the living room, a projection TV set was showing an old movie, the sound low. Bette Davis. Who was the dude? Tyrone Power maybe. What a name, what a face! Whoa, men looked good back then. She could watch him for hours. Finally Maisel wiped his hands and said, "Come on." They walked into the living room. Rune paused, looking at a framed newspaper article on the wall. From the Times. The headline was: "TV Correspondent Wins Pulitzer." "Excellent," Rune said. "What was it for?" "A story in Beirut a few years ago." She asked, "A Current Events segment?" "No. It was before we developed the show." He looked at the article slowly. "What a beautiful city that used to be. That's one of the crimes of the century, what happened there." Rune skimmed the article. "It says you got an exclusive." But he was troubled. "It was a mixed victory," he said. "We did what journalists should do -we looked under the surface and reported the truth. But some people died because of that." Rune recalled the incident from the information Bradford had brought her. Remembered too that Lance Hopper had stood up to the criticism and defended his news team.
"Come here," Maisel said, his face brightening. He led Rune down a long corridor, lit by overhead spotlights. It was like an art gallery. "Hey, this is pretty cool." There were dozens of framed maps, most of them antique. Maisel paused at each one, told her where he'd found it, how he'd dickered with the booksellers and vendors how he'd been taken by some and gypped others. She liked the New York maps best. Maisel pointed to a couple of them, describing what buildings were now on the spots that the maps showed as just fields or hills.
Her favorite was a map of Greenwich Village in the 1700s. "That is fantastic. I love old New York. Doesn't it just do something to you? Okay, you're out on the street eating a Nedick's with onions - I really love those pickled onions - and you suddenly think, Wow, maybe I'm standing right on the very spot where they rubbed out a gangster or where two hundred years ago there was an Indian war or something." "I don't eat hot dogs," Maisel said absently and she caught him glancing at his watch. They walked into a lowlit den, filled with leather furniture and more maps and framed photos of Maisel on assignment. They sat. He asked, "So what's up?" Rune said, "I got an offer for something and I don't know what to do about it." "Publishers Clearing House?" he asked wryly.
"Better than that." She told him what Piper Sutton had said. Maisel listened. She got almost all the way through before she realized that his face was growing a frown. "So she offered you the Brit spot, huh?" "I was kind of surprised." She could see in his face that he was surprised too. "Rune, I want to be honest. No reflection on you but it's a tough assignment. I had a couple people more senior in mind. I'm not saying you couldn't get up to speed but your experience is . . ." "Like pretty much not there." Maisel didn't agree or disagree. He said, "You're a good cameraman and you're learning a lot with the Hopper story. But producing involves a lot more than that." He shrugged. "But I asked Piper to fill the spot. It's her call. If she wants you in the job it's yours." He looked across the room. More antique maps. She wondered what country he was focusing on. "I'm pretty tempted," she said. "Wonder why," he said wryly. "Couldn't be more than ten, fifteen thousand reporters in the country that'd kill to have that assignment." Maisel stretched his feet out straight then curled one up under himself. He was wearing bright yellow socks.
"But," he said, "you're worried about the Boggs story." She nodded. "That's the problem." "How's it coming?" "Slow. I don't really have any leads. Nothing solid." "But you still think he's innocent?" "Yeah, I guess I do. The story'd still get done. Piper said she'd assign someone local to finish it." "Did she?" "Yeah, she promised me." Maisel nodded.
After a moment Rune said, "She doesn't want me to do this story, does she?" "She's afraid." "Afraid? Piper Sutton?" "It's not as funny as it seems. Her job is her whole life. She's had three disastrous marriages. There's nothing else she can do professionally; nothing she wants to do. If this story goes south she and I, and Dan Semple to some extent, will take the flak. You know how fickle audiences are. Dan and I are worried about news. Piper is too but she's an anchor - she's also got public image to sweat." "I can't imagine her being afraid of anything. I mean, I'm terrified of her." "She's not going to have you rubbed out if you tell her you're going to stay and do the story." "But she's my boss . . ." Maisel laughed. "You're too young to know that bosses, like wives, aren't necessarily matched to us in heaven."
"Okay, but she is Piper Sutton." "That's a different issue and I don't envy you having to call her up and tell her that you're declining her offer. But, so what? You're an adult." More or less Rune thought. She said, "I don't know what to do, Lee. What's your totally, totally honest opinion about my story?"
Maisel was considering. A gold clock began pinging off the hours to ten P.M. When it hit eight he said, "I'm not going to do you any favors by being delicate. The Boggs story? You take it way too personally. And that's unprofessional. I get the impression that you're on some kind of holy quest. You-" "But he's innocent, and nobody else-"
"Rune," he said harshly. "You asked my opinion. Let me finish." "Sorry." "You're not looking at the whole picture. You've got to understand that journalism has a responsibility to be totally unbiased. You're not. With Boggs you're one of the most goddamn biased reporters I've ever worked with." "True," she said. "That makes for a noble person maybe but it's not journalism." "That's sort of what Piper told me too." "There's government corruption and incompetence everywhere, there're human rights violations in America, Africa and China, there's homelessness, there's child abuse in day-care centers . . . There are so many important issues that media has to choose from and so few minutes to broadcast news or newspaper columns to talk about them in. What you've done is pick a very small story. It's not a bad story; it's just an insignificant one." She looked off, scanning Maisel's wall absently. She wondered if she'd find an omen - an old map of England, maybe. She didn't. A minute passed. He said, "It's got to be your decision. I think the best advice I can give you is, sleep on it." "You mean, stay up all night tossing and turning and stewing about it." "That might work too."
The Twentieth Precinct, on the Upper West Side, was considered a plum by a lot of cops. The Hispanic gangs had been squeezed north, the Black Panthers were nothing more than a bit of nostalgia, and no-man's-land -Central Park - had its very own precinct to take care of the muggings and drug dealers. What you had in the Twentieth mostly were domestic disputes, shopliftings, an occasional rape. The piles of auto glass, like tiny green-blue ice cubes, marked what was maybe the most common crime: stealing Blaupunkts or Panasonics from dashboards.
