Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

They applaud. Briscoe hopes they are applauding themselves, not him.

— Now everything has changed. I don’t have to tell you why. Don’t have to explain that the delivery system is changing by the hour. That the recession has killed too much advertising revenue. You know all that. But I hope every one of you gives everything to the World online — everything that you gave to the newspaper. Make it real journalism, reported, edited, where the facts are beyond dispute.

He pauses and turns to Logan.

— In Matt Logan, you have one of the greatest editors I ever worked with, and he’ll make sure that happens.

They applaud some more.

— Wherever the hell I am, I’ll be reading you. And remember to kick ass, and take names. Thank you — every single one of you.

Logan nods to the left, where Fonseca is paused before the CD player. Briscoe thinks: Good, the kid made it. Then, from out of the past, from the vanished beery walls of the Lion’s Head, from other saloons now gone, from many snowy nights when nobody went home, come the Clancy Brothers. A ballad. A lament.

Of all the money that e’er I had

I spent it in good company

And all the harm I’ve ever done

Alas ’twas done to none but me…

Logan is singing hard, and so is Briscoe, and so are others who were formed by those nights on Sheridan Square when all of the Clancys were still alive. Fonseca is not singing. Too young to know the words. Briscoe sees Sheila McKibbon from the dayside copy desk off near the windows, singing, her face dark with melancholy. Another graduate of the Lion’s Head. And there, taller than some of the men, wearing a down coat that is wet on the shoulders, newly arrived, is Helen Loomis. She is smoking. And singing.

And all I’ve done for want of wit

To memory now I can’t recall

So fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be with you all…

Briscoe starts moving through the crowd, hugging every one of them, whispering his thanks. The singing goes on. He makes his way to Helen. Her eyes are mildly glassy, from cold, or sadness, or whiskey. It doesn’t matter to Briscoe. Or to her.

— Thank you for coming, Helen, he whispers.

— Thanks for everything, Sam.

— You okay?

— No.

— Neither am I.

— Yeah. I can see.

— We’ll have lunch next week.

— That would be great, Sam.

— Sloppy Louie’s, okay?

— We’ll have to settle for dim sum, Sam.

Briscoe hugs her again, and feels her loneliness pushing into his own lonesome heart. He kisses her cheek, and then starts walking to his office to retrieve his jacket and coat. Still singing. The wake still building.

But since it falls unto my lot

That I should go and you should not

I’ll gently rise and softly call

Good night and joy be with you all…

Logan is outside the office as Briscoe leaves. Briscoe hugs him.

— Sam, see ya, man, he says. May the wind be always at your back.

5:20 p.m. Bobby Fonseca. City room.

Leaning on the edge of a desk in the city room, music playing, everyone milling around, he wants to cry, but knows he won’t. Reporters don’t cry. Someone told him that the song at the end, “The Parting Glass,” was out of the Lion’s Head and he wishes he had known such a place. He wasn’t even born when they had all those nights of song and argument. Neither was Victoria Collins. She wanted so much to come here today, but the message said no outsiders, and even with her credit line, she was an outsider. He’ll see her tonight. Maybe take her to his place in Brooklyn. Where will Mr. Briscoe go? He wonders what kind of sickness leads someone to slash a woman’s flesh. Any woman’s flesh. Cynthia Harding’s flesh. Mary Lou Watson’s flesh. Or Victoria’s flesh. So that all the passion and desire and laughter flow to the floor.

— Don’t be glum, Bobby.

Matt Logan. A consoling hand on Fonseca’s shoulder.

— I need you, kid. I need you to kick ass. I need you to help make this a great, professional website.

— Thanks, Matt.

— Call the desk Sunday at nine. I’ll be here. I want you to do a follow on the Patchin Place murders. Unless something else is breaking.

— Will do. And Matt? I’ll try hard to kick some ass.

A fist bump on the shoulder, and Matt Logan moves to a knot of the others. Fonseca thinking: We’re not orphans yet. So why do I want to cry?

And here comes Barney Weiss, Nikon hanging from a strap.

— Hey, kid, we’re going drinking and you’re invited.

— Where?

— We’re tryin’ to figure that out. There’s some kind of benefit someplace near the High Line… Remember what Bernie Bard once said: If it ain’t catered, it ain’t journalism.

Fonseca chuckles. He doesn’t know who Bernie Bard was, but he loves the tabloid attitude. He moves across the city room, in search of a Coke.

5:50 p.m. Lew Forrest. Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan.

He signed the papers without being able to see them clearly. Jerry from the front desk guided his hand to the place where he must sign. Jerry, my personal banker. The lawyer said, Yes, that’s it, Lew, and Forrest scribbled the name. He did this on three more copies. Then Jerry stamped each copy with his notary machine, signed his own name, and it was done.

He had called the lawyer around one o’clock, told him he wanted to change his will, fast, because who knew at his age? He dictated the changes, and the lawyer came to the Chelsea around five. He took the elevator with Jerry. They sat at the big table. The lawyer filled in the names and addresses of the people, and the phone numbers. Lew Forrest signed. They left. As simple as that.

And now, sitting in the room, longing for the aroma of oil and turpentine in a time of acrylics, he is filled with a sense of relief. Everything is now settled. There are clear instructions to the gallery that handles his work. The lawyer knows his role, which is to defend Forrest’s intentions. Even Lucy from ARTnews and Jerry from the front desk will have their shares. Of what’s in the bank. Of what might come into the bank from future sales. Forrest knows there’s always a bump in sales when an artist dies. He has nobody else on the planet to take care of. And most important, Consuelo Mendoza will be safe for the rest of her life.

The growing silence tells him that snow is falling. He hears an iron shutter banging gently somewhere, so there must be wind. For me, he thinks, snow is the most treacherous condition, even with Camus taking me for my walk. Maybe Lucy can take him, and I can wait in the lobby. I wish I could see the snow.

Then in his mind he sees Consuelo’s kids heading for Sunset Park, lugging a sled. And he knows she will call. She has to explain the money to her husband. He might think there was something shameful that brought this windfall. He thinks: I will have to come up with a consoling lie. That I failed to pay her when I left Mexico. Something like that. Like a book that’s overdue at the library for fifteen years. And tell Consuelo to bring her husband and the kids to visit me. Once the husband sees me, his jealousy will die. I’m a fucking wreck. Maybe the kids could take home some of the books. Maybe, if I die first, and they have a yard, they can take Camus home too. Like all Labs, he loves kids.

Then thinks: If she comes here with her husband, I’ll have to take the painting of Consuelo off the wall. Hide Consuelo when she was young and in my bed, with her golden skin, her hard dark nipples, her silky pubic hair, the hair beneath her arms, the hair on the back of her neck, the delicate calligraphy of hair. Her heat seeping into me. Warming me. Heating my heart and my blood.