Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Uh …” David felt scared. He had a vision of himself seated in a jungle facing an ominous old man surrounded by savage bodyguards, a Jew facing a fiendish Nazi, armed only with a notebook. “Alone?” he asked.

“No,” Chico answered. “I’ll go with you.”

Rounder looked gravely at David. “He can’t know you’re Jewish.”

“What?” David said, stuttering with amazement and nerves.

“Because if he finds out, you’ll be carted off to Auschwitz,” Harpo said in a low sarcastic tone.

“That’s hilarious,” Chico said, frowning.

Rounder ignored their exchange, staying on David. “He specified no Jews.”

“Then why risk blowing the interview?” David asked, feeling a desperate desire (to his shock) to escape being assigned to this story, though no doubt it would be stunning — a spectacular that would make him: a news event with which he would always be linked.

“Because of the hook!” Chico shouted. He spoke quickly, thrilled by his vision of the magazine: “We want you to write what it’s like — as a Jew — to listen to this man talk about his experiments on your people. We’ll run a Q-and-A and then a personal essay from you on your reactions.”

“How come no one else has this?” David asked.

“He’s chosen us,” Rounder said.

“For a big fee,” Chico added.

“If it’s him,” Harpo said.

David looked sharply at Harpo. “You mean there’s some doubt?”

“A lot,” Harpo said.

“Come off it already!” Chico shouted.

“Settle down,” Rounder said, and looked expectantly at David.

“What evidence is there?” David asked, feeling he had to say something.

He was shown copies of wartime photos of Gott (alongside Mengele) that bore a similarity to the picture of the old man now, shown standing with the Brazil Newstime stringer. There were signatures and a string of false identity papers to compare as well, and their appearance created another fuss between Harpo and Chico. “They look alike,” David had commented about them.

“But we haven’t had them compared by an expert,” Harpo mumbled.

“We can’t risk it!” Chico shouted. “Besides, they always disagree. Gott refuses to give the definite proof until the interview.”

“Until he sees the money, you mean,” Harpo said.

“We’re paying him the money before the interview?” David asked, incredulous.

“Part of it,” Harpo said.

“A small part,” Rounder added.

“Ten thousand bucks. It’s nothing!”

“How much will he get if he’s really Gott?” David asked.

There was a reluctance to answer. Each of the powerful men glanced at the others, silently handing around the duty of response. Chico finally looked at David. “That must remain a secret.”

“Understood,” David said impatiently. Who the hell did Chico think he was talking to? A stranger?

“Hundred thousand,” Chico said, and glanced quickly away, looking out the window, giving David the impression he expected to see it fluttering down on Madison Avenue.

“What happens after the interview?” David asked.

They blinked at him. “What do you mean?” Rounder asked.

“What happens to Gott?”

“I don’t know,” Rounder said, looking at Chico inquisitively.

“He crawls back under another rock,” Harpo said.

“But …” David shut his eyes, uncertain how to put this so it seemed calm and rational, not the reaction of a participant, an interested party, but rather a cool and pleasant observation of disinterest. Instead he saw his father, now an old man of seventy, sitting in the Florida sun screaming into a phone. David opened his eyes. “If we do an interview with Gott — he did the work of the most hated of the Nazis …” He paused, feeling the tone of tension in his words, and waited until it subsided.

“You’re not about to suggest we kidnap him and hand him over to the Israelis?” Harpo said with aloof sarcasm.

“Let David talk,” Rounder said. “His is a point of view we haven’t considered.” He folded his arms and leaned back, his cool blue eyes glistening with challenge. “Go ahead.”

“I think we’re going to be criticized. For paying him, for doing nothing to alert the authorities, and even for writing about him in a way that tends to glamorize him.”

Chico moved behind Rounder and shook his head no at David. Harpo looked at the signal and laughed. Rounder glanced at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Harpo said with a sneering smile. “My mind was wandering. Go on, David, I’m sorry.”

“I’ve said it. I don’t think you can get around it. We’ll be accused, and it will be hard to answer, of abetting the escape of one of the great criminals in history.”

“I can answer it!” Chico said. “David, I’m surprised at you. We’re a news organization. Someone offers us a story, no matter who they are, we aren’t police officials. You know that—”

“This is a little different,” David said quietly.

“No it’s not!”

“And what happens if he’s a phony?” Harpo asked. “Then we get all the heat and we don’t even have a story.”

“Sure we have a story!” Chico shouted. David looked at the floor. Rounder closed his eyes at the sound, pained. Harpo went on looking at Chico with an air of amusement. “We have an imposter story!” Chico insisted, his tone aggrieved. “People love that.”

Harpo laughed. “Terrific,” he said to no one in particular.

“What the hell do you suggest we do?” Chico said, leaning in toward Harpo oppressively, his face thrust at him like a kid making a dare. “You having fun shooting down all the suggestions? What the fuck do you want us to do?”

“Pass on the story,” Harpo said angrily. “Just a nice, simple polite no, we’re not interested.”

Chico’s mouth opened, his eyes wide. He looked comically baffled, a cartoon caricature of a man flabbergasted. “You gotta be kidding.”

“If we had a real guarantee that it is Gott, I’d say do it—”

“Oh, that’s very courageous! Gee whiz, I’m impressed!” Chico’s sarcasm shuddered through his body. Harpo looked away in disgust. Rounder seemed to be elsewhere now, staring off at some point beyond David.

“We’re supposed to cover news, not make it,” Harpo said.

“Oh, that’s original,” Chico answered.

“Look, if all you have to offer is sarcasm—”

“Have you ever heard of investigative reporting?” Chico demanded.

“This isn’t investigative reporting,” Harpo shot back. “This is buying a pig in a poke.”

“If he’s a phony, we won’t run any story, all right?” Chico argued, sure now that he had this disagreement won. “What does it cost to find out? Ten thousand dollars, three plane tickets, and a couple nights in a hotel. If he’s real, then we’ve got a story you just said you would run.”

Harpo nodded reluctantly. “That’s true,” he said. He looked suspicious about his agreement, though, as if he’d been mugged by his own words.

“Mrs. Thorn will be the one to make the final decision. But I’m prepared to recommend it,” Rounder said suddenly. Chico and Harpo both seemed startled by the reminder that he was in the room — and in charge to boot. “All right, then, we’re set. Except for your decision whether you want to do the interview,” he added, staring at David.

“Of course he’s going to do the story,” Chico blurted. “My God. David, this is a once-in-a-lifetime piece for you. This is what being a newsman is all about.”

David wanted to turn it off. Change the channel. Type over the page. Remove himself from the moment and contemplate it distantly, like an interesting tableau that didn’t require movement or participation. In a way it didn’t. He had to say yes. It was the logic of his position, the only sensible climax to his life. He’d been handed his chance. All the years of service were paying off. To refuse would have meant making nonsense of his life. He nodded slowly at first. Chico smiled encouragingly.