Эбби Луби - Nuclear Romance

“You’re writing about what?” Bob sat up straight in his chair and spun around to look at the low, gray clouds darkening the Hudson. He put Lou on speaker phone as he chomped on one of Stella’s homemade sandwiches.

“Tritium in the water? From the plant? What’s this all about, Lou?”

“The girl’s death. They found tritium in her blood.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“Do you want to give me a formal response?”

“To what? Are you suggesting its tritium from the plant?”

“People have suggested just that.”

“What people?”

“Union of Concerned Scientists, NIRS.”

“Oh, yeah. Well they would be saying stuff like that. They’re always hard on nuke plants. That’s their whole existence.”

“Can you give me a quote, Bob?”

“You know, Lou. You really should stick to sports. It’s simpler than nuclear power, easier to grasp.”

You hard ass. “Let me run down a list of facts for you, Bob. A seven-year-old girl died when she ingested river water. Her blood showed tritium. The closest place that could emit tritium is the plant, right across the cove from the beach. It’s a good chance the water poisoned the girl, Bob. Now do you want to say something?”

“Yeah. No comment.”

“Fine. No comment it is.”

“Wait. You can’t print a story like this. You don’t have any evidence.”

“The girl’s blood test.”

“It’s speculation, and you know it.”

“Yup. I do know it. Good-bye, Bob.”

He jammed down the phone, suddenly regretting it. What the hell. He got out his notes and started typing up the story.

“Wow. This is big, Lou,” Owen said, reading the story off his screen. “Only one problem.”

“What?”

“You have to change the tone. You can’t allege ALLPower had anything to do with the girl without a decent comment from Stalinksy.”

“I’m not alleging—I’m suggesting. For God’s sake, Owen, where else would radioactive particles come from? The kid’s lollipop?”

“Look, Lou. It’s a great story, and you’ve done a great job. But ALLPower is a big advertiser with us; it’s our revenue base. In a way, they pay our salaries—your salary. Get a better response from Stalinsky to keep it balanced, okay?”

“Listen to yourself, Owen. I thought editorial and advertising were separate. Now and always. It’s how newspapers are supposed to run. Where’s your goddamn spine?”

Owen slumped back in his chair. “If we lose them as advertisers we could fold, get it?”

“How do you know we’d fold? We’d get other ads, for Chrissakes.”

Owen turned away from Lou and looked at his computer screen. Lou stood there. He wouldn’t move until Owen said something. They would wait each other out, they’ve done it before. In the newsroom reporters knew sparks were flying.

“Call Stalinksy and then revise. And don’t kid yourself. I’m sharpening my editing sword.”

“And I’m shaking in my boots.” Lou tore out of the office. Feckless little bastard , he thought, and he headed straight for the kid interning with the paper.

“Hey, Paul. You got a smoke?”

“Sure. But didn’t you quit?”

“Who are you? My mother?”

The kid fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Need matches?”

“Yeah. Sorry about snapping.”

He headed out the side door and lit up. It had been months since he smoked. The first long drag shot deep, sating his lungs and easing his misery. He needed nicotine, especially if he had to call Bob back, begging for a better response, like a dog with his tail between his legs. He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, stubbed it out, and made the call.

“Sorry, Mr. Padera, Bob just stepped out. Can I take a message?”

“Yes. Ask him to please reconsider his comment and call me back by deadline. That’s in an hour.”

When she hung up, Bob’s secretary poked her head in his office.

“It was him, Bob. He wants another statement.”

“I’ll bet he does. Let the guy stew. He ain’t getting nothin’ from me.”

The headline dominated the morning’s paper, but the eye-catcher was the subhead:

Stella gasped when she picked up the paper outside her front door. Bob was straightening his tie in the bedroom, and when he walked into the kitchen the paper was on the table.

“Read it. It’s not pretty.”

“Must I?”

“How could you say ‘no comment’? That’s like pleading guilty! What were you thinking?”

“Guy has no evidence. It’s a bogus article, I can tell you that right now, Ma.”

“He’s talking about lethal radiation getting into water that kids swim in. And cancer! Anyone at the plant got cancer?”

“You’re making too much out of this. No one is getting sick, either at the plant or living nearby.”

“There are other studies. Look at the list in the sidebar next to the story. This Padera is a decent news reporter. Easy to understand.”

“Yeah—don’t kid yourself. He has an agenda and is treading on thin ice,” Bob blurted out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s this ‘poor boy done good,’ failed athlete, now heady with the power of the press. He’s after white, corporate America, and he’s targeting ALLPower. Surprise, surprise.”

Stella’s eyes popped out of her head. She took a full, deep breath and ended up exhaling a torrent of words.

“Oh my God—what am I hearing? How do you think your father and I started out? Your grandparents ran a laundromat in the South Bronx, and we all worked our way through school so our children—you—wouldn’t have to struggle like that. You are biased and way off base, Robert. I seriously doubt this reporter has an agenda to bring down a powerful utility corporation.”

“This guy insinuates all sorts of crazy, damaging stuff about us. We could snuff him out if we wanted to.”

“Snuff him out? What the hell are you talking about? Is there a nuclear power mafia? Did they replace concrete shoes with a drink spiked with tritium?” Horrified, she whispered, “Are you really my son?”

“Come on, Ma. ALLPower is a multibillion dollar corporation. This guy is just one reporter. We can’t let him run amuck, influence people and politicians, and make us look bad.”

“Oy.”

“You could be a little more compassionate about your son’s job, Ma. I work hard and bring in good money.”

“Yeah. Money without morals. It’s not only kids who swim in that river, there’s a million fish there? What about them?”

It was like the old battles. Mother and son plunged right back into a verbal skirmish, just what Stella hoped to avoid. She tried to cool it and take a step back.

“Look, this is getting us nowhere. At least let me worry about all this—I’m so good at it.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Okay, okay. Perhaps I’m jumping to some unfounded conclusions. I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

“You? An open mind?” her son said scornfully. “This should be interesting.”

He found his briefcase and veered toward the front door.

“By the way, I think I’ve found an apartment in White Plains. I’ll keep you posted.”

He should’ve read it by now, thought Owen. The publisher, Charlie Finch, usually read the entire paper by 8 a.m. It was now nine, and no call. Lou was waiting for a bomb to drop as well. He rewrote the story. It was tight, each part interconnecting with the other. Owen would find it hard to slice up. When he saw it the next morning, the story had changed very little.