Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

“You may be out of a job in the morning.”

At last the weary voice said, “Come on over.”

Davo hung up.

When the cab pulled up in front of Vincens’ house, the downstairs lights were on. Vincens met them at the door, looking very small and very helpless in a gray robe that matched his gray hair.

“Come back to the kitchen. I’ve got some coffee on. You’re Miss Fay, aren’t you?”

They followed Vincens back through the house and sat around the kitchen table while Bill Davo told once more the story of the deception.

When he was through, Vincens said, “That was a broken promise, Davo. I don’t know why I trusted you. Should have kept my mouth shut... Well, it’s done now. I can see why you thought it wouldn’t go any further.”

They sat and looked at Vincens. His shoulders slumped and he stared down at the porcelain top of the table, his mouth slack. He murmured, “A long time ago I figured that I’d be a crusader. I’d use the power of the press to clean up the rotten spots in this fair land. Hah! Ended up as a hack dancing on the end of a string. Three kids. One in the first year of college. Come home, laddie. Daddy’s unemployed.”

Suddenly he balled his small fist and banged it on the table so hard that the cups danced. He looked up with a mad light in his eyes. “You know, damn it, I’m almost not sorry! I’ve been on the dirty end of the stick for so long that I began to think I belonged there. Then, after eight long years I make one little gesture of revolt and that’s the one that creams me. Hell, I’ll become one of those guys that clean out sewers with a long pole. It’ll be cleaner work... Run along home, kids. Let an old man lick his wounds.”

They didn’t move. Davo bit at dry lips.

Jane said softly, “How about really doing it, Mr. Vincens? How about going out in a blaze of glory? How about hitting this town tomorrow morning with a front page that’ll tear the heart out of the organization?”

For a moment, the fervor of her words got him, and he straightened up, a new light in his eyes. He slumped again and shrugged. “Grandstand stuff. What good will it do? Maybe if I get down on my knees in the morning and lick Stobe Farner’s shoes he’ll let me stay on. I’m too beat to do anything else.”

Jane leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Stobe doesn’t know about it yet. Bill locked up his man down in the Amberton. We still have time. Maybe the people of this town will come to life and lick Farner if they know the facts.”

“Look, lady. The morning edition is locked up, ready to roll. Stobe has got spies all over the place. And besides, the public wouldn’t give one single damn. Not in this town. The ones that vote throw it just the way Farner wants it thrown.”

Bill said, “But if you get tossed out in a blaze of glory trying to upset Mr. Big, won’t that give you a better rep to land a good job on a real paper? At least you would be taking a shot at killing the dragon.”

Vincens scuffed at the gray stubble on his chin with the edge of his thumb. “That’s not a bad thought, Davo. Hmmmmm. Not bad at all. But it’s going to be rough. Very rough.” He glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Nelly! Not much time.”

They heard him at the phone. “Sam, is she rolling? Not yet? Good! Unlock the first page. No, leave it as is. We’ll give ’em a bargain. Two first pages. Who cares? Wait till I get there.”

Vincens dressed in a matter of minutes. Davo had the cabdriver gun it on the way to the newspaper building. Vincens ran up the stairs ahead of them, filled with sudden and surprising energy. His gray cheeks were flushed and his voice had a new edge in it. He shucked off his coat and shoved Davo and Jane into a small office adjoining the newsroom.

“Miss Fay, you type out Bill’s statement and your own in detail. Put everything in you can. Names, places, times, people. Everything. I’ve got to yank some people out of bed and get them down here. Tonight we’re putting out a paper!”

Jane sat at the typewriter. Davo paced back and forth in front of her. He started: “Up until thirteen days ago I was employed in the city engineer’s office. The following story explains why I was fired, beaten up, threatened. It is a story of graft on a large scale. It is a story of little men who are planning to milk the public of hundreds of thousands of dollars...”

The typewriter rattled, and the words spread across the paper. Facts. Figures. Names. An indictment of all that was vicious in Amberton. And all that was sly and diseased in the hearts of Farner, Wescott, Danerra, Hoe...

The rain had stopped. The gray dawn touched the mists rising from the river. The specialists, giving Johnson Vincens odd, sidelong glances, had slipped into their coats and left. The trucks were lined up at the side entrance for the morning edition. The drivers were across in the bean wagon, drinking coffee. The building was shuddering with the thump and roar of the big presses. As the copies piled up, men slid them away from the press, tied them and slid them down the chute to the waiting trucks. The first truck was filled and roared away.

In the office of the managing editor, Davo and Jane Fay stood behind Vincens reading the new page one, the ink still damp.

FARNER AND WESCOTT ACCUSED OF FRAUD... DANERRA IMPLICATED... FORTUNE IN HIGHWAY SWINDLE

Fat, wet headlines. Pictures of Farner and Wescott. Facts. Figures. A cut of Western Boulevard.

Vincens smacked his palm against the wet sheet and said, “I like it!” At that moment the presses stopped. They looked at each other. Vincens’ face suddenly acquired new lines. He led them in the crazy run down the stairs, down to the room where the presses stood silent. The pressmen stood in a small group. Two stocky men, their faces shadowed, stood by the presses, hands shoved deep in their pockets.

“What goes on here?” Vincens demanded.

“Stobe Farner’s orders,” one of them said flatly. “No paper published today.”

Davo stood motionless as Vincens took a slow step toward the two men. And another. “There will be a paper today.”

“Not this one,” the nearest said, and spat on the top one of the pile by the press.

Vincens took another slow step toward them. His face was a gray mask, his eyes wild. His fists were clenched tight.

“Don’t get excited, mister. Back up. Back up, I said!”

Vincens took another step. He was five feet from the nearest one of the two. The man’s hand came out of his pocket, gray morning light glinting on the blued steel of the gun he held.

“Back up!” the man shouted.

Vincens reached for the gun, moved in close. The sound of the shot smashed hard against the concrete walls, the silent presses.

Vincens backed up then. He took two slow backward steps, holding both palms tightly against his stomach. He didn’t fall. He let himself down slowly and carefully, bracing with his elbows and knees. He went over onto his side and died with his eyes open, with his face suddenly washed into the cool and placid look, that familiar look — of the battlefield... or the morgue.

The man who fired the shot looked stupidly at the gun in his hand.

The other said, “You poor damn fool!”

The man with the gun wheeled and crashed two shots into the intricate gears of the press, walked with quick steps to the door. They left without a backward look.

Jane Fay sobbed then. She sobbed, turned and half ran from the room. Davo felt ill. One of the pressmen walked, as if in his sleep, toward the phone on the bench along the wall.

There hadn’t been time for Stobe Farner to have gotten a copy of the paper. Davo realized that somehow Vittano had gotten loose, had gone to Farner with his information. Farner had probably phoned Vincens’ home, found he was out and guessed at what had happened. Then he had moved fast, sending two men with instructions to find out what was being printed and stop the presses if they thought it necessary. It wasn’t the sort of job Farner would tackle himself. Not with the tough intelligence on his payroll.