Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

He sank back on his pillow. What had he missed? He hadn’t spent enough time talking to sources at Sexton or Converse. He’d alienated Cullen Ferguson when he should have been stroking him. He hadn’t cultivated enough sources on the go-team. Mike McGill couldn’t be everywhere. Eddie Conklin had invited him to call when things quieted down, and he hadn’t done it. It was one of the things he’d planned to do today. If he’d done it last night instead of going to dinner, instead of chasing some wild theory about a conspiracy, he might have been able to match the Times’ story. While a tie wasn’t as good as a win, it was a damned sight better than an outright loss.

“I blew it,” he said softly. “I totally fucking blew it.”

Pace could read his colleagues’ reactions in their body language when he walked into the newsroom at 9:15. He could feel them watch as he walked to his desk; he could see them glance up from their newspapers and look away as quickly. A few made eye contact, their expressions running the gamut from sympathy to accusation. Paul Wister’s back was turned. He believed Paul knew of his presence but deigned not to turn around.

Pace saw that someone had put a copy of the Times on his desk, the same edition he had bought on the way to work. Now he had redundant reminders of his failure. He tossed one of the papers aside and started reading the other. Justin Smith’s story was centered on the front page under a subdued two-column headline. Typical of the Times. It never shouted. The headline in the Chronicle would have been six columns, bold and black.

The intercom on Pace’s telephone beeped softly, but still he jumped.

“Pace.”

“Come in the office.” Schaeffer’s voice was soft and calm; Pace wondered at the editor’s control. He expected outrage, and he was prepared to accept it. A pound of flesh for an unforgivable error. It wouldn’t even the score, but it would close the gap.

As Pace passed Wister’s desk, the national editor rose to follow. Double-teamed. Double trouble.

Pace stopped inside Schaeffer’s office and allowed Wister to duck past him and sit in an occasional chair on the right side of the editor’s desk. The reporter took the sofa.

Schaeffer looked up from the newspapers on his desk. He had the Chronicle, the Post, and the Times. Pace wondered what the Post had written.

“What happened?” Schaeffer asked. Nice. Clean. No preliminaries. No trying to hide the reason for the meeting.

Pace cleared his throat and looked straight into his editor’s eyes. “I honestly don’t know, Avery. I talked to my source in Hangar Three as late as last night, and he didn’t say anything about this.”

“Would he, if he had known?” Schaeffer asked.

Pace was honest. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he didn’t know,” Wister suggested. “The NTSB probably got onto this from data in the black boxes, and Smith’s source probably is inside the NTSB.” He turned to Pace. “I thought you knew somebody at the lab.”

“I do,” Pace acknowledged. “He was first on my list to talk to today.”

“A day late and a dollar short,” Wister snorted. His voice became hard. “The Times didn’t have this story in the first edition. That means one of two things: Either Smith didn’t get it until later, or they held it for later editions to prevent anyone else from catching up. I suspect the first and doubt the latter. You don’t hold an exclusive for a tactical advantage. That means the story developed late, and Smith was around to sweep it up. Where were you last night?”

Pace felt a hollow spot develop in his stomach.

How’s this sound? I was with a rookie suburban reporter and a cop, chasing unicorns.

He answered the question, and he pressed his story even as Wister tried to interrupt, determined to make them understand there was a police captain out there who was getting ominous vibrations about the car accident, too. During the telling, he saw Schaeffer listening intently. Wister kept shaking his head.

“Damn it, Pace, we told you to follow up on dead time,” Wister exploded. “Obviously, last night was not dead time!”

“I had no way of knowing that, Paul,” Pace insisted.

“Then you haven’t got the right sources,” Wister snapped.

Schaeffer finally stepped in. “Okay, we’re not going to get anywhere chewing each other to pieces. It’s plain that I’m not happy about being so far ahead and then losing the momentum, especially to an out-of-town newspaper.”

Involuntarily, Pace glanced at the Post on Schaeffer’s desk.

“The Post was beaten, too,” Schaeffer said, picking up on Pace’s glance.

“But since the Post wasn’t in the lead, it didn’t have as far to fall,” Wister pointed out. “You not only got beaten, Pace, you got stomped. Around here, that’s unacceptable.”

Pace was tired of the abuse, tired of the pressure, tired of Wister, even tired of the consuming good heart of Avery Schaeffer.

“Do you want my resignation?” he asked.

Schaeffer sat forward in his chair so abruptly it rocked on its pedestal.

“God, no,” he said. “We’re disappointed. I’m sure you’re disappointed. But those guys get paid, too. They weren’t going to roll over and play dead for you. I’m concerned because we lost sight of our objective. I’m not sure I know how to prevent it. You thought you had a hot lead on what would have been an incredible story. I don’t like to put too close a rein on a reporter with a good idea, but we didn’t have the right mix of priorities.”

“So what now?” Pace asked. “Where do you want me to go from here?”

“We have to catch up,” Schaeffer said with distaste. “Find out if the Times is right or wrong, although I doubt Justin Smith is wrong. We’ll have to do something for tomorrow. Call your friend at the NTSB lab. Maybe he can give you more details. Do the best you can.”

There were a few moments of awkward silence.

“Look, Steve, nobody goes through a career without getting beat now and then. It’s never pleasant, but it’s not the end of the world. The sun will still rise tomorrow, and there will be a new edition of the Chronicle. Go back to work.”

Pace nodded and rose to leave. He noticed that Wister remained seated, apparently waiting to say something to Schaeffer privately. The reporter figured he was to be the subject of the further discussion. Schaeffer might accept the defeat and live with it; Wister never would. He expected perfection from himself and from everyone else and was loath to accept less. Pace knew for a certainty his relationship with the national editor had deteriorated, perhaps beyond salvage.

When Pace returned to his desk, he found a message from McGill. It asked that the reporter call Hangar Three. It wasn’t a call Pace was in a mood to make.

“I was as surprised as anyone by the Times story this morning,” the pilot said. “I wanted you to know I wasn’t holding out on you.”

“I know. Thanks.”

“You weren’t the only one unhappily surprised, by the way. I had breakfast with Lund, and the story was news to him, too.”

“What?” Pace’s reaction was more a bellow of disbelief than a question.

“I’m not kidding. And boy, is he pissed about the leak.”

“I’m not sure I believe him. He’s not above leaking it himself and lying about it.”

“Lund’s okay. He’s a good bureaucrat.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“That’s your prejudice.”

“Acknowledged.”

“You’re in an even lousier mood than I expected.”