Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

Two decades ago, when the Dispatch hired me right out of Providence College to cover high school sports, those presses churned out a quarter of a million copies a day. Now they printed less than half that. The Dispatch ’s news staff once numbered 340, but there were only 80 of us left-if you counted the 5 interns who worked for free.

At three P.M., Pemberton ventured out his glass-walled office in the middle of the newsroom and gathered what was left of the news staff around him. Lomax stood by Pemberton’s side. They both looked grim.

“As you are all aware, the newspaper industry is experiencing difficult times,” Pemberton began, and I felt the air go out of the room. “Over the course of the last two years, we have been forced to make significant cuts in the Dispatch ’s news budget, including a number of regrettable staff reductions. This week, I was informed by the publisher that the cuts we have made to date have not been sufficient to restore the newspaper’s financial stability. Therefore, we are taking the following steps:

“Effective a week from tomorrow, the Dispatch will cease publication on Saturdays. This measure will reduce our printing and delivery costs by fourteen percent. In addition-”

“Why Saturdays?” Gloria shouted.

Pemberton looked alarmed at the interruption, then said, “Because, Miss Costa, Saturday is the weakest advertising day of the week.”

“But what if there’s news on Friday?” Gloria said.

“There’s always news on Friday,” Carol Young, the sports editor, grumbled. “It’s a big night for sports scores.”

“And we’ll report them in our online edition,” Pemberton said. “Now if I may be allowed to continue?” He held up his right hand, asking for silence, and then pressed on.

“In addition,” he said, “we are compelled to make further reductions in payroll.”

The staffers present released a collective groan.

“We wish to accomplish this without additional layoffs,” Pemberton said. “Therefore, we are reducing the work week of all news department employees, with a commensurate reduction in pay. Effective next Monday, each of you will be assigned to work four eight-hour days a week. Ed Lomax is revising the schedule for next week and will post it by five o’clock, so please check the bulletin boards before you leave for the day. That is all.”

With that, he turned and slipped back into his office.

“Hold on,” Lomax shouted as the group began to break up. “Mr. Pemberton forgot to mention one last thing. When the supplies on hand run out, you’ll all have to buy your own pens and notepads.”

That set off a stampede for the supply cabinets. I watched the mayhem for a moment and then sidled up to Lomax as he headed back to the city desk.

“The copy editors might actually work four days a week,” I said, “but most of the reporters care too much about their beats to do that. Hell, most of us have been working six days a week for five days’ pay as it is.”

“I know that, Mulligan.”

“Know what pisses me off most about this?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Waiting till three o’clock on a Friday afternoon to break bad news,” I said. “It’s one of those cheap tricks you can find in every management textbook. Pemberton figures that after we fume all weekend, the anger will die down by the time he comes back to work Monday morning.”

“There’s a hole in your theory,” Lomax said.

“What?”

“Pemberton won’t be coming back on Monday.”

“Why is that?”

“His job has been eliminated.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Now I get to do my work and his.”

Monday morning, the newsroom was as quiet and empty as Fenway Park in January. I’d just started working on the day’s obits when Mason wandered in, dragged a chair into my cubicle, and dropped into it.

“I finally have something on that thing you asked me to look into,” he said.

At first I drew a blank. I’d given him the campaign contribution lists weeks ago, and a lot had happened since then.

“I didn’t know anything about the porn business,” he said, “so I read everything I could find online. One of the things I learned is that most American-made porn is shot in the San Fernando Valley, but that some of it also comes out of Miami, Las Vegas, and Ypsilanti, Michigan.”

“Ypsilanti? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting,” I said, “but how does any of this help us?”

“I figured there’s a good chance Maniella has a studio in one of those places.”

“But you looked and couldn’t find it, right?”

“Not at first.”

“Oh?”

“Most pornographers aren’t as secretive as Sal Maniella. Wicked Pictures, Vivid Entertainment, Digital Playground, and a bunch of others with more, uh, more colorful names even have listed phone numbers. So I made a dozen blind calls and asked to speak to the owners. A couple of them hung up on me when I told them who I was, but most of them were eager to talk about Maniella.”

“How come?”

“They don’t like him. The guys I talked to-a couple of them were women, actually-said Maniella is notorious for stealing their best girls.”

“I see.”

“They also think he rats them out to the authorities.”

“For what? It’s a legal business.”

“One guy said a couple of his actors-which is what he calls them-contracted HIV. He said he was dealing with it, but somebody reported him to the California State Health Department. Couple of others said someone called the cops on them for employing underage girls.”

“Were they?”

“They said it wasn’t their fault, that the girls had convincing fake IDs, but the studio heads-which is what they call themselves, like they’re DreamWorks or something-are facing criminal charges.”

“And they blame Maniella?”

“For some reason, they’re sure it was him, yeah. Couple of them said they’re glad he’s dead. Saved them the trouble of shooting him themselves.”

“So what did they tell you that’s going to help us?”

“That the Maniellas have a studio in Van Nuys. Big brick warehouse just off the San Diego Freeway with no sign on the building.”

“That all you got?”

“There’s more. Once I knew he was operating out of Van Nuys, I combed through the governor’s campaign contribution list looking for people with addresses in or near there: Glendale, Burbank, Santa Clarita…”

“And?”

“And I found sixty-two.”

“That’s a lot of Southern California residents with an unnatural interest in getting the governor of Rhode Island reelected,” I said.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Any of them named Hugh Mungus or Lucy Bangs?”

“I don’t think those are real names, Mulligan.”

“Run the same check on the contribution lists for the legislative committee chairmen?”

“Not yet, but I will. I’m betting that will give us more names.”

“That it?”

“Only twelve of the names I came up with have listed phone numbers,” he said. “I called them, but they hung up on me.”

“A lot of people just use unlisted cell phones these days.”

“That’s true. I guess one of us needs to fly to California and knock on doors.”

“The paper will never spring for it,” I said.

“Can this wait a couple of months?” he said. “I was thinking of taking some vacation time at the end of January.”

“Knocking on doors isn’t much of a vacation.”

“I’ve got three weeks coming,” he said. “I’ll spend the first week on this and the rest lying in the sun in Malibu.”