Дональд Уэстлейк - Baby, Would I Lie?

“Fax?” The nasty voice was suddenly wary. “What do you mean fax?”

“Oh, don’t you have our fax number? It’s four-one—”

“I know the fax number! Wait a minute, Radwell. Are you saying you want this order in writing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With my signature, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In other words,” Scarpnafe said, “you think this particular use of journalistic technique might go one small step further than First Amendment protection would cover, is that it?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Scarpnafe, uh, you know, the courts, the judicial system, they get a little antsy if they think you don’t take them seriously.”

“Radwell,” Scarpnafe said, on solid ground again, “how many judges and prosecutors do you suppose read the Weekly Galaxy on a regular basis?”

“Outside Florida, sir? Probably not very many.”

“We take our readers seriously, Radwell. No one else in the world. Do you understand that?”

Of course, he did. It was what made life at the Galaxy so challenging. “But, sir, Mr. Scarpnafe, uh, state courts, you know. It isn’t like some movie star gets mad at us, sues for a couple years, gets tired. State government, uh, outside Florida, they could probably do more to us than we could do to them.”

“Hmmmmm,” Scarpnafe said. As with any satrap, he found it discomfiting to be reminded of the limits of his power.

Grasping the moment, lowering his voice in an attempt to sound both supportive and self-assured — two lies in one inflection — Binx said, “Mr. Scarpnafe, sir, I have some experience with situations of this sort. My team and me.” (Might as well spread the responsibility in case something went wrong.) “We’ll get you great stuff, guaranteed, everything within the range of possibility. More than anybody else on any other paper, I can promise you that.”

“What about the other papers, Radwell?” Scarpnafe demanded, leaping away from that uncomfortable area where he had no control. “And magazines. And television people, too. MTV, isn’t that what they call it?”

“One of it, yes, sir.” Now here was something to feel pleased about, proud of. Permitting just a trace of self-satisfaction to creep into his usual obsequious manner, Binx said, “We have many of them in our charge already, sir. Unless the Christian Science Monitor shows up, I think we’ll have the media pretty much under control. That’s print and broadcast both, sir.”

“Good.”

End with the devil saying good segue out of this. “And speaking of that, sir,” Binx quickly said, “I probably should go back over there now, make an appearance, keep them all happy.”

“Remember what I said, Radwell.”

Had to get that in there, didn’t you? “Oh, I will, sir,” Binx said. “It’s engraved on my... brain.” (He was going to say heart but decided to be less accurate.) “Well, I’m off to the open house.”

Well, yes; but if he didn’t want to empty that suite over at the Palace, he should shower first. So he did.

The shower was good; the vodka and Sprite was better. Binx bopped around the party, cheery and eager, too cheery and overeager, sweating again already but not even caring anymore, greeting old friends and new, dismayed at how many of these goddamn friends were new and just how horribly new they were, not letting it get him down, managing to touch this female rump, that female waist, the curve of some other female breast, most of them younger than they used to be. You know, your young firm female flesh is very nice, but this is ridiculous. Here are these girls, six feet tall, weighing less than a hundred pounds, encased in leather and rubber, and perched on top of each is the face of a twelve-year-old. Granted, a twelve-year-old on uppers, but still.

Jack Ingersoll, over there, across the room. There’s an old friend, goddamn his eyes. Jack Ingersoll, compact, clean, self-contained, like a lumberjack on his day off, moving through the party like a census taker.

We used to work together, Binx reminded himself, squinting across the crowded room at this recent arrival, this guy clutching a bottle of beer and moving slowly, inexorably through the room, dropping a word here, a word there, counting the house, clearly counting the house.

He’s doing what I’ve been trying to do, Binx thought. He paused in gnashing his teeth to knock back a little more vodka and Sprite. He’s doing what I’ve been trying to do, and he’s so much better at it.

There was a complicated hate-hate relationship between Binx Radwell and Jack Ingersoll, at least from Binx to Jack, dating from when Jack was also a Weekly Galaxy editor. In fact, once Binx had clawed his way back up to his own second posting as editor, he’d inherited Jack’s team — the Down Under Trio and Mary Kate Scudder and Chauncey Chapperrel and the rest. All except the ones who’d left — Sara Joslyn and Jack himself, gone off to a happy life of non-marital sex and legitimate journalism up in New York; and, of course, Ida Gavin.

Jack Ingersoll was everything Binx wanted to be; Binx admired Jack with a hopeless, helpless infatuation. Jack was self-assured, straightforward, stoic, and single, everything Binx was not. What could Binx do, poor man, but clothe that envy and admiration in the thickest, heaviest cloak of hatred and then overcoat the whole package with a fawning smile of false camaraderie? Nothing; so that’s what he did.

But not just yet. First, another vodka and Sprite. Standing on line at the handiest bar, Binx brooded on the meaning of Jack’s presence here. Trend had sent Sara down to cover the Ray Jones trial. Trend was not topical in the way the Galaxy was and would not actually cover the trial until it was all over. So why would Sara’s editor follow her? And why, knowing the Galaxy as well as Jack Ingersoll did, would Sara’s editor, having for no comprehensible reason followed her to Branson, Missouri, then come here ?

I must be clever, Binx told himself hopelessly, as he ordered his fresh drink. I must be cleverer than Jack and find out what he’s up to. Because, damn his eyes, he’s up to something . And Binx, with the instinct of the field mouse when the shadow of the hawk passes by, knew without question that whatever Jack was up to, it bode no good for Binx Radwell. No good at all.

Slinking forward like a minor footpad in Dickens, Binx actually washed his hands together as he at last stood in front of Jack Ingersoll, amid the milling throng; or, that is, the free hand washed the hand holding the vodka and Sprite. “Jack! Long time no see!”

“Well, Binx,” Jack said, saluting with his beer bottle, “ you look like shit. Sara tells me you’re an editor again.”

“You can’t keep a bad man down,” Binx suggested.

“Very true.” Looking around. Jack said, “Do I see some of my former unindicted co-conspirators here?”

“It’s mostly your team,” Binx said, feeling proud and humble and furious at the humility and embarrassed by the pride and defensive over all. “The Aussies and Don Grove and everybody.”

“Gee, Binx, it sure brings it all back,” Jack told him. “And I don’t miss it for a second.”

“Oh sure you do. The fun, the camaraderie, the thrill of the chase.”

“The terror, the pressure, the Valium, the heart attacks, the failures. And now I understand you have an even more vicious management than before.”

“Oh shoot,” Binx said, “if you want to talk reality .” Then he cleared his throat. He liked it so much, he did it twice more. Then he said, “Uhhhhhhhhh, how come, uh, how come, uh, how, uh, come, you’re here ? Here.”