Стюарт Вудс - Indecent Exposure

“Send him in,” a voice echoed from the big room.

As the door opened, Finch could see a table set for two on one side of the room, which was, in fact, a library containing thousands of volumes. A surprisingly young man sat at a large table before a carved marble fireplace. “Come in, Alfred,” he said.

“It’s Al,” Finch said, taking the extended hand.

“And I’m Charley,” Fox said. “Have you been here before?”

“First time I’ve been inside,” Finch said. “Was this Christian St. Clair’s personal library?”

“Yes, with every book he loved beautifully bound,” Charley said, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “Nearly five thousand volumes on two decks.” A spiral staircase led to a mezzanine with still more bookcases.

“Shall we sit down? Lunch is on its way up from the kitchen downstairs.”

“Certainly,” Finch replied, happy at the warmth of his reception. Charley Fox must have been doing his homework, reading the weekly reports he’d sent up from Florida. Finch was being made to feel right at home in this imposing mansion.

The two men sat down, and a waitress appeared through a hidden door with a bottle of champagne — Dom Pérignon, Finch noted, not the cheap stuff. She poured some for Fox to taste; he did so, then she poured two glasses. It went down wonderfully well.

“Have you been reading my weeklies?” he asked.

“Your reports or your magazine?”

“Hopefully both.”

“I’ve certainly been reading your reports. My taste in magazines doesn’t include Just Folks .”

“Well, I don’t love everything we publish, myself, but it’s all grist for our particular mill, and our audience is constantly growing.”

“Of course,” Fox said. “I understand you have to publish to the popular tastes.”

“I’m glad you do, it saves me from making that particular sales pitch. Christian St. Clair had a little trouble dealing with it in the beginning, but as our circulation grew, he came to understand the business we’re in.”

The waitress came in with a cream soup, and they started to eat.

“I’m thinking of shutting down Just Folks ,” Fox said.

Finch thought he hadn’t heard him correctly. “How’s that again?”

“I’m thinking of shutting down your magazine.”

Finch put down his soup spoon and took a gulp of his champagne. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you — you said you’ve been reading my weekly reports.”

“Yes, and for the first time I took a good look at the magazine,” Fox said. “In fact, I found an article which mentioned an acquaintance of mine in rather an unseemly light.”

“Which piece was that?” Finch said, fighting to keep his breathing under control.

“The article about our new secretary of state, Holly Barker, which featured a photograph of a gentleman named Stone Barrington.”

“I thought the piece mentioned him favorably,” Finch stammered.

“Oddly, Mr. Barrington didn’t see it that way. In fact, he was very embarrassed by the reference to him.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Finch said. “I’ll be very happy to instruct the editor to issue a fulsome apology, if you think that might make Mr. Barrington feel better.”

There was a pause while Fox took a sip of his champagne. “I understand you have an article about Mr. Barrington in your upcoming issue,” Fox said.

“That is correct,” Finch said. “Is there some problem with the piece?”

“The problem is, it practically accuses the man of murdering his wife.”

“Well, the piece never quite says that,” Finch said. “In fact, our lawyers have approved it with hardly any changes.”

“Al, surely you know who owns your magazine now.”

“Why, of course, it’s Triangle Partnership, isn’t it?”

“Do you know who represents the corners of the triangle?”

“Well, I assume you are one.”

“That’s correct. Another is Michael Freeman, the CEO of Strategic Services, the security company.”

“Ah, big outfit.”

“Yes, indeed. And do you know who is the third corner of Triangle Partnership?”

“No,” Finch said weakly, but he was beginning to suspect.

“Our third partner is Stone Barrington,” Fox said.

“Oh, my God,” Finch muttered, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

“God cannot help you now,” Fox said. “Now, I want you to follow my instructions precisely.”

Charley Fox looked across the table at the sweating man opposite him. “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Finch replied, mopping his face with his linen napkin.

“Then I want you to call the New York offices of Just Folks and speak to the editor, Hazel Schwartz. I want you to instruct her to stop the presses, if they have already started, then to excise the Barrington piece from the new issue and substitute something else. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Finch replied. He set the phone on the table and dialed the office number.

“Put it on speaker so I can hear both sides of the conversation,” Charley said.

Finch pressed the speaker button.

“Oh, and fire Gloria Parsons. Tell her if she isn’t out of the building with her personal effects in fifteen minutes, Security will come and throw her bodily out of the building, preferably out of a window.”

“Yes, sir.” There goes getting laid tonight, Finch thought to himself. The number was ringing.

Hazel Schwartz and Gloria Parsons sat in the editor’s office, sipping from their own bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“I can’t wait for the fuss to start,” Hazel said. “This is going to be such fun.”

Hazel didn’t have long to wait for the fuss to start; her phone rang. She pressed the speaker button. “This is Hazel.”

“Hazel, this is Al Finch.”

“Good afternoon, Al,” Hazel said. “We just went to press with the new issue.”

“Hazel,” he said, “stop the presses.”

“What is this, a game?”

“Stop the presses.”

“Al, do you know what it would cost to stop the presses, then start them again?”

“Hazel!” Finch shouted. “Stop the fucking presses!”

“All right, Al, I’ll call them immediately.”

“Replace the Barrington piece with something else, then restart.”

“Al, if your problem is the Barrington piece, the lawyers have already vetted it within an inch of its life. It’s fine.”

“Replace the goddamned Barrington piece!”

“I’m calling right now, on another line.” Hazel picked up her cell phone and called the printers. She asked if the issue had gone to press and was told it had. “Stop the presses,” she said, being sure that Finch could hear her. “I said stop the presses! We’ll reformat the issue and get back to you in an hour or so.” She hung up. “There, Al, did you hear that? I stopped the presses.”

Across her desk, Gloria was mouthing, “What’s wrong?”

“I heard you, Hazel. Now call Gloria Parsons into your office and fire her, effective immediately.”

“What?”

“If she isn’t out of the building in fifteen minutes, call Security and have her thrown out.”

“I get it, Al, I’ll speak to her immediately.”

“Call me back on my cell when it’s done, and tell me what you’re substituting for the Barrington piece.”

“I will, Al.” Hazel hung up.

Gloria exploded. “What the fuck is going on? He just upped my raise to three hundred!”

“You heard him, it’s all about the Barrington piece.”

“Barrington must have gotten to Al somehow. How did he do that?”

“How should I know? Anyway, you heard Al — you’d better clear out your office and get out before I call him back. I’ll call you later, when I’ve found out what’s going on.”