The Stringers, page 30
Rather than defy them, I had obeyed their illegitimate claim to authority, excused the absurdity of their requirements, and then gotten drunk to avoid confronting this truth. Ultimately, it had taken desperation on my part to attack them, not with the sword, but the pen, but only after they had exhausted all other options available.
I glared at the typewriter as I revisited the preceding scenes in my mind—my arrest, the interrogation, the night of torture, the final offer from Cutman, Casey’s plea for cooperation. During it all I had defended myself, albeit with a weak and untenable position. It hadn’t occurred to me at the time to make demands of my own—or that I, not they, operated from the morally superior position. I had harmed no one, yet for speaking the truth I had suffered and they had looked upon me as though they had a divine right to treat me as they willed.
If mercy was to be given, it was out of compassion—the compassion a killer has upon his victims or a thief upon the owner of the possessions he covets. This sort of compassion had once tempted me, but it did no longer.
My reading had also shifted my attitude toward newspapers, though not wholly. Like all others around me, I had regarded them as the rot of society, producing trash stories written for the debased pleasures of riffraff and degenerates. Now, they were on some level one of the few remaining checks against an institution that controlled all aspects of our lives. It was the one place left where one could find an unfiltered voice, even if one didn’t care for everything that voice had to say. Having spent the majority of my life condemning them, deeply entrenched emotions within me still clung to this bias instilled from years in a society that had shared a unified opinion on them. The reporters didn’t help change my sentiments. My assessment of the ISA, despite my friendship with Casey, had been reached.
As for the newspapers, I was not quite ready to decide. I could take comfort, though, in the knowledge that no matter how unappealing or amoral some aspects of them might be, the people I would be working with, presumably for the indefinite future, were not trying to control me.
If they did, they would find me willing to leave rather than submit. On that, I was determined. The day it was necessary for me to choose between my convictions and McCullen’s will, I would leave. I had promised myself that before shaking hands with him, and I had the feeling he perceived that vow in my face.
***
I shot my head up from my bent posture as Port’s voice raced through my ear.
“God Almighty, kid, what the hell are ya writin’, a friggin’ novel?”
I looked over at my pile of typed notes, which had accumulated into a sizable pole. I smiled and shrugged.
“Just practicing,” I said.
“Yeah, well don’t tell those fellas that.” He gestured subtly at one of those suited men in the back. One of them was gazing at their white rose as if to sniff it. “They don’t like to hear that one of the writers is wasting good paper or ink on somethin’ besides copy. Make sure they don’t look at it.”
I nodded and took the papers and shoved them inside one of my desk drawers and brought out my notepad. I went to write on it, but stopped and tapped Port on the shoulder, noting he had no story occupying his time at the moment.
“Who are those men?” I asked.
“Who? Them?” He turned his head.
“Yes.”
“Whadya mean who? Ya want their name and phone number? Gonna ask ’em out?”
“Funny. No, what are they here for? What do they do? Why do they watch everyone like we’ve done something wrong?”
Port glanced at one of the suited men at the end of the aisle, then leaned close to me and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“Officially, they’re here to protect us from any saboteurs, assassins, or troublemakers who managed to get past security downstairs. They’re paranoid, all right, as ya can tell.”
“I see…and unofficially?”
“Unofficially, they’re McCullen’s muscle. They’re triggermen, except their triggers are pointed at us, not our competition. I suppose a sadist could call it an incentive for us to do our best. One fella said the Chinese when they were pullin’ boats up the Yangtze River paid fellas to whip them so they’d work hard. I say that’s dandy, if ya an idiot. No offense to half the newsroom and their Chinese ancestors. But I didn’t pay these fellas to eyeball me like I’m possibly a turncoat or something. McCullen’s a real piece of work, that’s what.”
“So they aren’t writers?”
“No, they sure as hell ain’t. Probably couldn’t say the full alphabet if they tried.”
“What’s with the suits and white roses?”
“Suits are their uniform, a way of identifying each other on the street so they don’t shoot the wrong SOB. The white rose is way of taking credit for a kill. They leave it in the hands of their victims. No idea why they don’t stick with lilies. They’re cheaper.”
One of them passed near us and Port threw open his notebook and managed to convince him he was too buried in work to be bothered. When he left Port eyed him carefully and then looked at me with a smile.
“Ya gonna need to learn fast, kid, so listen good. I don’t know what Tom told ya, but I assume he’s a little idealistic with you. Don’t be dumb. Tom’s a good guy, but sometimes he got his head in the clouds and thinks things can be a certain way. They ain’t, and they ain’t ever gonna be.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“Tom didn’t tell ya things the way they truly are.”
“Such as…”
“For one, this.”
Port reached behind my chair, ranking my holstered revolver out of my coat and slapped it against my trousers and then grabbed my hand and pressed it hard against the thick, smooth leather.
“That stay there at all times, hear?” he said. “That piece is the only thing that will give ya a peace of mind. Nothin’ else will cut it.”
I sighed in discomfort, handling it like a poison. “I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”
“We’ll be ready for ya funeral if ya don’t, and a short one it will be, most of ’em we bury at sea, or in the Sound, as it be the case. We don’t got no room for the squeamish or timid. I know ya ain’t a killer, kid, ya wanna be a reporter or a stringer. But ya can’t have it the way ya want it. Even now, workin’ this desk, ya keep ya piece ready and ya better be prepared to use it.”
“Why would I need it in here? Aren’t I safe here with armed men protecting us?”
“Sure, kid. But who gonna protect ya from them if they decide they don’t like ya? They may not kill ya, but it’s amazin’ how much pain a man can deal with and still function around here. I’ll keep it short. The only thing these triggermen respect is violence, force, and that’s why they don’t go all the way and play roughhouse with us, ’cause they know if they do they’re gonna have a fight at the O.K. Corral, and they know damn well if that goes down it ain’t gonna be okay for them.”
“I don’t understand. I thought people here would at least get along on some level so everything works.”
“Oh, we do. We do. This newspaper is the best and every snot-nosed upstart from here to the Cascades knows it. But that don’t mean we love each other like a big family. The writers and stringers do all right. Ya’ll see. But these fellas with their oversized cannons stuffed in their pockets and their swanky suits are all scum. If it weren’t for this newspaper, they’d be thieves or killers or whatnot rottin’ in some state pen.”
“Why don’t they work for the ISA, then?”
“Probably ’cause they ain’t got the pretentiousness ya need to hurt someone or ruin their life and tell ’em while ya doin’ it that ya doin’ it to keep them safe and for their own good. At least a thief and a murderer don’t pretend they’re doin’ it to keep the person safe from bad people. They’re scum, like I said. But they ain’t delusional, either.”
I looked over at the clock, surprised to find it was nearly noon. My first day had transpired thus far quickly, but nothing had happened, yet. I wasn’t sure I wanted that to change.
A minute later, the big hand and small hand on the clock united and a bell went off. All but a handful of the writers stood up and hurried over to the corridor over my shoulder. I glanced at them and then at Port.
He answered my unspoken question as he got up.
“Lunch. Brought anything?”
“No. I seemed to have forgotten about it. Or I didn’t think of it at all.”
“Relax, kid. I’ll get ya somethin’. It won’t be much, but it will keep ya alive until we’re done today.”
“I can get it. No need to trouble you.”
Port laughed and pushed me back into my chair, giving a solemn grin. “Stay put, kid. This mess hall of ours ain’t for ya type. I’ll get it this time.”
He left. I gazed about the empty newsroom, listening to the crackle of laughter resonating through the corridor like a crowd of ghosts crying out for someone to listen to them. I stared at my phone, whishing Tom would call, if for nothing else than to give me something to do. I finally gave up on that small hope and pulled out one of the books from my bag and held it in my lap, aiming to keep it hidden from prying eyes. It was impossible to determine the political landscape of the newspaper or the personal philosophies that governed their lives, and although the book in questions vindicated much of their chosen profession, I was unwilling to risk a confrontation at that point. I had articulated my newly found beliefs to some extent in front of Tom, but elsewhere I planned on keeping it close to the chest.
After some time had passed, I decided I did not care to be alone in that room. The silence was acceptable. I had grown fond of it somewhat, acquired a likeness to it. But silence by itself was nothing. It was the ambience, the quality of the silence that made it either comforting or unsettling. And this was the kind of silence that preceded something terrible.
Each door and entrance to the door was empty. I looked down and realized I had reached for the revolver, my finger pressed against the trigger. Aghast, I flung my hand away as if I had touched melted steel.
Footsteps approached. Port emerged from it with a plastic tray in his hand. He chuckled as he slid it over to me and took out a cigarette. I caught the tray, which had a ham and cheese sandwich and a small paper bowl of tomato soup.
“Eat up, kid,” he said. “And hurry. They don’t give us long.”
“Thank you.”
“No sweat.”
I shoved the sandwich into my mouth and rinsed it down with the soup, which had already gotten cold. It tasted salty and bitter, and had a few pathetic pieces of an unknown meat in it.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Whatever ya want, kid.”
“For the record, I’m not a kid. I’m a man.”
“How old are you?” Port asked.
“Twenty-two.”
“Yeah, well ya ain’t twenty-two in this place. There ain’t no ages. Just kids, men and dead men walking. It’s good to be a kid.”
“I’d prefer you call me Roy,” I said. “I already have Tom calling me a kid.”
“Roy? As in Roy Boy?”
I frowned. “No. Just Roy.”
Port shrugged. “All right, Roy. Was that the question?”
“No. My question is why are you acting like this toward me? What do you stand to gain? Or is there something you want from me?”
“Hell, no! Look kid—er, Roy. I haven’t been here as long as Tom. I’ll give him that. But we ain’t the same breed. He’s got that sentimental side to ’im. Me, I’m just smart. A fella gotta have friends. Ya need ’em to survive. Ain’t no loners or such in this world. Ya need help all the time. But ya can’t force people to help ya. Ya have to prove yaself worthy. As some genius once put it, ‘to make a friend ya gotta be one first.’”
“Is that it?” I asked.
“No. The other is tough to hear, but here it is. Without me, ya won’t last a week. Tom figured that, even if he don’t say it. I’m not a saint. Neither is he. But I might need ya help someday, and I’m willin’ to help out a young fella like yaself survive long enough to stand a chance.”
“You have a family?”
“Ya mean a wife, two kids and a white picket fence?” Port joked. “Nah. Maybe kids, but ain’t my fault the gals don’t tell me!”
His blunt and open demeanor made it easy for me to ask questions I never thought I would find myself asking someone I had just met, even as a journalist.
“How many have you killed?” I asked.
Port answered the question with a cavalier dismissal. “I don’t keep count. Too many.”
“Ever feel remorseful?” I asked.
“Nope. Why should I?”
Thinking a switch in subject was in order, I pointed at my dormant phone and explained to Port what Tom had told me. Port seemed nonchalant as he spat into a can.
“Then just wait,” he said. “Nothing ya can do.”
“But what if he’s late?”
“Then he’s late.”
“And I’ll catch hell,” I said.
“…yeah, but not too much. They’ll want to save some of it for Tom, too!”
Port’s reassurance failed to alleviate my trepidations about Tom. I remembered what Tom had told me to do; keep my mouth shut, but everything else open and alert. I was not to make a spectacle of myself.
Ironic. If I did, it would be his fault.
The afternoon passed without any significant event, save for the momentary dispute between two of the triggermen that was shortly resolved by a yell from one of the offices. As if on cue, everyone took out their cigars and cigarettes and briar pipes and saturated the air with a thick, suffocating layer of smoke. And it only settled after an editor reminded that that just because the smoke detectors were turned off didn’t mean they could try to mimic a fire. I mutely thanked him.
I checked the clock again. And I started to suspect a prank. Was Tom capable of that? Or was it too serious a business to permit humor like that? I had no way of telling.
I didn’t get a chance to decide. Suddenly the room’s pale lights dimmed even more and dark red beams flashed like police sirens. My heart leapt up into my throat as alarmed voices rang out and men flew out of the office doors, some of them clutching their telephones as they pulled them out by the cords. I went to stand up, but Port grabbed my arm and pulled me down.
“Easy,” Port said.
“What’s happening?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Is it that bad?”
“No, but it ain’t usually good.”
The voices fell quiet as the door to the news editor’s office flung open. The writers froze and strained their necks as they turned to gaze at Olan as he walked with two men flanking him.
He was short, no more than five-four, and had a thin frame. His oil-black hair was a tussled mess, which he combed with both hands. There was a noticeable absence of any leadership qualities in him, but when he confronted someone, they snapped to attention and gave him full deference as he spoke in an unusual accent, neither West Coast nor of any foreign intonation. It was as if he had picked up his English from a dozen separate places.
Most prominent were his two shoulder gun holsters with two nickel-plated pistols that glistened under the regular lights as they returned and the flashing red beams faded.
Olan marched to the center of the room, his hands on his hips as he gazed at us through the cigarette smoke with a severe expression.
“Listen good!” he yelled. “We just got word that those sons of bitches at the Journal got to the same source as ours for a front page story we planned to run today. I just heard from McCullen. We’re switching the deadline to three o’ clock.”
Curses and other vile words that defied my vocabulary were exchanged and muttered and exclaimed. Olan slammed his hand down on a writer’s desk, his countenance reddening.
“Ya better tell ya stringers to get their shit in by three, or else they ain’t gonna be in this issue. And no, we don’t make exceptions this time! I don’t care if ya stringer is writing a story on Armageddon! If he’s late, we’ll find out about it tomorrow.”
“But―” a writer tried to say.
Olan clutched one of his holsters and jerked his head at the writer, who lowered his chin and turned his eyes away, the room falling perfectly silent.
“Next person to argue gets one,” he said. “Got it?”
He took the continual silence as an affirmation on our part, but he went on about how we needed to beat the Journal to the presses and as we the newswriters worked to get our issue out the rest of the newspaper would be doing their part to ensure ours reached the eastside of Lake Washington and the Bellevue-Metropolitan Area before anyone else.
No more than a second passed after he had finished before the writers threw on their headsets and grabbed their phones and drummed their fingers as they flicked lighters aflame and plopped more tobacco between their frantic lips, muttering and praying godless prayers, urging their stringers to get their stories in immediately.
Two thirty-five. They had twenty-five minutes, hardly anytime.
I was tempted to ask Port what Olan meant by the other side of the newspaper doing their part, but he was already pouring a secular fire-and-brimstone sermon down from his desk pulpit onto his stringer on the other side of the phone, promising a fate slightly worse than purgatory yet not nearly as horrific as eternal damnation if he didn’t get the rest of the facts on the church foreclosure on time. It remained a mystery how Port could write such a story in the limited time frame, but I held back my doubts, realizing that as everyone else was bustling and typing and taking notes and outlining stories I sat there conspicuously staring at my phone like an ancient pagan would at an altar awaiting a god’s blessing for a prior sacrifice. The blessing did not come, and suddenly I felt someone’s presence behind me, though I dared not move, fearful of what or who was there. I held my breath, hoping that feeling would vanish.
Olan’s harsh voice rang into my ear. Every hair on my body stood up.
