C Corwin - Dig

In my hazy imagination I could see that pink Buick, too. I could see the anguish on Rollie’s face. I could see him walk slowly to the apartment building door. I could see his cloudy eyes and the debate that was raging behind them, his anger taking the affirmative, his better judgment vainly arguing the negative. I could see his trembling hand try the heavy latch. See him wince when the latch depressed with a quiet click. I could see him slip inside and stare up the steps. I could see his fingers tighten around the neck of his trophy, the bones of his knuckles pushing hard against the stretched white skin.

I gave James a tug and headed back down Hester Street. “Now remember,” I said, as if he’d seen all of the imaginary things I’d seen. “This is only a scenario. And you know what a scenario is, don’t you, James? It’s a theory unencumbered by evidence.” I looked back at the apartment building and in my imagination saw Gwen’s pink Buick make a wild U-turn and speed off into the fuzzy night. “And I don’t have any evidence, James. Not any real evidence. All I have is that old letter from David Delarosa and a whole truckload of cockamamie assumptions.”

Monday, June 18

I learned long ago not to give story ideas to reporters. They smile at you like you’re five years old, give you a sickly, “Oh, that’s a great idea!” and then they never do them. And if by some miracle they do write the story, they never do it right. So I just keep my mouth shut and let them come up with their own brilliant ideas.

That’s why Louise Lewendowski was more than a little surprised when I ambushed her in the cafeteria. “I’ve got the neatest idea for a feature,” I began. I’d made sure I had an extra cinnamon twist on my tray.

The kolachky lady yodeled at me. “You do?”

I slid the sweet roll across the table and made my pitch. “The other day I was visiting my old friend Gwen Moffitt-Stumpf and-”

Louise took the sweet roll and the bait. “You know Gwendolyn Moffitt-Stumpf?”

I pawed the air. “Oh, yes. We ran around with the same crowd in college. We still see each other every now and again.”

She was leaning forward on her elbows, nibbling on the cinnamon twist like a rabbit. “I hear her new house is a regular palace.”

“Nothing regular about it,” I said. “Which strangely enough leads me to the idea I had. Her husband, Rollie, you see, has the most incredible den. It’s just spectacular. And I was thinking, wouldn’t that make a great Sunday feature for Louise? The dens of Hannawa’s powerful men. You could do Rollie’s den, the mayor’s, some of the corporate presidents. Our readers would just eat it up, don’t you think?”

“That is such a great idea,” Louise said. I could tell by the size of her eyes that she really meant it.

And so by the time we headed back toward the newsroom the story idea was firmly planted. “I just hope they’ll go for it,” Louise worried. “You know how private men can be.”

I was brimming with good advice. “I wouldn’t go directly to the men themselves,” I suggested. “Go to their wives. They’ll see it as a great way to show off their husbands as well as their decorating talents. And their husbands won’t be able to say no.”

“You’re right-that’s the way to do it.”

“Of course you’ll want to get the men in the photos. Ties off. Feet up.”

“Of course.”

I pretended to have a sudden brilliant thought. “You know who you should get to shoot it? Chuck Weideman.”

Louise’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “Weedy?”

“Absolutely. He’s been shooting the city’s bigwigs for a million years. He wouldn’t be the least bit intimidated by them or their wives. I bet he’d get some terrific candids. They might even start your story on Page One.”

Louise was not exactly known for her hard-hitting journalism. I’m sure she could count the number of Page One stories she’d had on one finger. “You think he’d do it?”

“He just might,” I said.

We reached the newsroom. I felt like a skunk. A very happy skunk. “If you do go ahead with the story,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Gwen it was my idea. I wouldn’t want her to think I was taking advantage of our friendship.”

Louise gave my shoulder an empathetic squeeze, like it was a fresh roll of toilet paper. “Of course, Maddy.”

An hour later I slipped back to the photographers’ studio, the windowless bunker where the paper’s photographers pretend to work. Weedy was busy playing solitaire on his computer.

Weedy has as much professional integrity as anyone else at The Herald-Union. He’d also sell his own grandmother into white slavery if it meant a Page One photo credit. And of course that’s why I put that bug in Louise’s ear about him.

I sat on his desk and spun his monitor around so he’d pay attention. “Weedy,” I said, “you know I’m not the kind of woman who wallows in frivolity.”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Or plays bullshit games.”

“If you say so.”

“So if I were to give you a tip-as murky as it sounded-you’d take my word for it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Good. Because if Louise Lewendowski asks you to shoot a story for her, I would strongly recommend that you don’t try to pawn it off on somebody else.”

Weedy winced. “And why’s that?”

“Just happily accept the assignment and keep my name out of it. Okay?”

He studied my face. “Okay.”

I handed him the Post-it I had pinched between my thumb and index finger. “And should you by chance find yourself in a room with a mantel full of trophies, discreetly see if there’s one with this engraved on the front.”

He read the Post-it aloud: “First Place, State of Ohio Collegiate Debate Tournament, Columbus, 1956-57.” He put the tiny square of sticky paper in his shirt pocket. “Not to sound like the glory grubbing bastard I am, but what exactly might I gain from this despicable act of subterfuge?”

I allowed myself a grin. “Either nothing-or just maybe the most important photo you’ve ever taken.”

Thursday, June 21

When I got to work I found a big sack of kolachkys on my desk. Good gravy! I could have danced around the morgue like Ginger Rogers. I divided the kolachkys into three piles. Six for me, six for Eric-a necessary bribe so I could enjoy my six-and twelve for Weedy. I headed straight for his desk with his share.

“Good news for Morgue Mama?” I asked, dangling the bag in front of his face.

Weedy did have good news for me. The features editor had given Louise the go-ahead and he’d been assigned to do the photos. In fact he was going to do two of the shoots that afternoon: Mayor Flynn in his den. Rollie Stumpf in his. I dropped the bag in his waiting hands.

The rest of the day was absolute torture. I marked up that morning’s paper. I had lunch at Ike’s. I dug out the files Doneta Deetz needed on the 1927 Apple Creek Bridge disaster-the county engineer was warning it could happen again if commissioners didn’t come through with the budget increases he’d requested-and I watched the elevator for Weedy and Louise.

Finally they appeared, at ten minutes after four, carrying big red cartons of McDonald’s French fries, giggling like a couple of fifth graders returning from a field trip to the local mental hospital. I wanted to charge at Weedy like a bull, screaming “Well? Well?” Instead I got busy clipping meaningless squares out of the sports section with my black-handled scissors. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Weedy flirt his way through the newsroom. With Carol Voinovich. With Cheryl Presselo. Even with Margaret Newman. I watched him wash down his fries at the water fountain. I watched him turn toward the morgue. I watched him wipe his greasy fingers on his pants. Reach into his shirt pocket. He finally reached my desk. He smiled and handed me the Post-it. He headed for the men’s room. I pulled my reading glasses to the end of my nose, lifted my chin and read. Scribbled below the inscription I’d given him were these three words: No such trophy.