Arthur Hailey - Evening News

Rita, practical as always and seeking to defuse the scene, said, "If we're moving on this, we can't afford to lose time. We should have researchers working by Monday. So where do we begin?”

"We'll call in Uncle Arthur,” Chippingham said.”I'll speak to him at home tonight and have him here tomorrow to begin recruiting.”

Crawford Sloane brightened.”A good idea.”

Teddy Cooper, seated beside Jaeger, whispered, "Who the hell is Uncle Arthur?”

Jaeger chuckled.”You haven't met Uncle Arthur! Tomorrow, my young friend, you are in for a unique experience.”

* * *

"The drinks are on me,” Chippingham said. Mentally he added, I brought you all here to bind up any minor wounds.

He and the others had adjourned to Sfuzzi, a restaurant and bar near Lincoln Center with a nouveau—Ancient Roman decor. It was a regular rendezvous for TV news people. Though Sfuzzi's was crowded on a Saturday night, they managed to squeeze around a table supplemented by extra chairs.

Chippingham had invited everyone who had been at the task force meeting, including Sloane, but the anchorman declined, deciding to go home to Larchmont with his FBI escort, Otis Havelock. There they would wait through another night for the hoped—for telephone message from the kidnappers.

When everyone had their drinks and with tensions eased, Partridge said, "Les, there's something I think needs saying. At the best of times, I wouldn't want your job. But especially right now, I'm certain that none of us here could juggle the priorities and people that you're having to—at least, not any better.”

Chippingham looked at Partridge gratefully and nodded. It was a testament of understanding from someone Chippingham. respected and was a reminder from Partridge to the others that not all issues were straightforward or decisions easy.

”Harry,” the news president said, "I know the way you work, and that you get a 'feel' for situations quickly. Has that happened with this story?”

"I think so, yes.” Partridge glanced toward Teddy Cooper.”Teddy believes our birds have flown the country; I've come to that conclusion too. But something else I have an instinct about is that we're close to a breakthrough—either through our doing or it will happen. Then we'll know about the kidnappers: who and where.”

"And when we do?”

"When it happens,” Partridge said.”I'll be on my way. Wherever the break leads, I want to be there fast and first.”

"You shall be,” Chippingham said.”And I promise you'll get all the support you need.”

Partridge laughed and looked around the table.”Remember that, everybody. You all heard.”

"We sure did,” Jaeger said.”Les, if we have to, we'll remind you of those words.”

Chippingham shook his head.”That won't be needed.”

The talk continued. While it did, Rita appeared to be searching in her bag, though what she was doing was scribbling on a piece of paper. Discreetly, under the table, she put it into Chippingham's hands.

He waited until attention was directed away from him, then looked down. The note read: Les, feel like getting laid? Let's get out of here.

They went to Rita's. Her apartment was on West Seventy-second, only a short taxi ride from Sfuzzi's. Chippingham was living farther uptown in the Eighties while his and Stasia's divorce was being fought over, but the apartment was small, cheap for New York, and he wasn't proud of it. He missed the plush Sutton Place co-op he and Stasia had shared for a decade before their breakup. The co-op was forbidden territory to him now, a lost utopia. Stasia's lawyers had seen to that.

Anyway, right now he and Rita wanted the nearest private place. Their hands were busy in the taxi until he told her, "If you keep doing that, I'll explode like Vesuvius and it may be months before the volcano's in business again.”

She laughed and said, "Not you!” but desisted just the same.

On the way, Chippingham had the cab driver stop at a newsstand. He left the taxi and returned burdened with the early Sunday editions of the New York Times, Daily News, and Post.

”At least I know where I rate in your priorities,” Rita observed.”I only hope you're not planning to read those before . . .”

“Later,” he assured her.”Much, much later.”

Even as he spoke, Chippingham wondered if he would ever grow up where women were concerned. Probably not, or at least not until his libido burned lower. Some men, he knew, would envy his virility which, with his fiftieth birthday only a few months away, was almost as good as when he was half that age. On the other hand, a permanent hominess had its penalties.

While Rita excited him now, as she had on earlier occasions, and he knew there was pleasure ahead for them both, he knew also that in an hour or two he would ask himself. Was it worth all the trouble? Along the same lines, he often wondered: Had his sexual dalliances been worth losing a wife he genuinely cared about and, at the same time, putting his entire career in jeopardy—the last a reality made clear by Margot Lloyd-Mason during their recent meeting at Stonehenge?

Why did he do it? In part, because he could never resist a carnal romp when opportunity arose and, in the news business, such openings were legion. Then there was the thrill of the chase, which never lessened, and finally the invasion and physical fulfilment—getting and giving, both equally important.

Les Chippingham kept a notebook, carefully hidden, recording his sexual conquests—a list of names in a special code that only he could decipher. All the names were women he had liked and some who, for a while, he truly loved.

Rita's name, recently added to his book, was the one hundred and twenty-seventh entry. Chippingham tried not to think of the list as a scorecard, though in a way it was.

Some people who led quieter or more innocent lives might find that figure excessive, perhaps difficult to believe. But those employed in television or working in any other creative field artists, actors, writers—would have no trouble believing it at all.

He doubted if Stasia had any idea of the number of his side excursions—which brought to mind another recurring question: Was there any way to repair their marriage, a chance of returning to the closeness he and Stasia had enjoyed even while she knew of his philandering? He wished the answer could be yes, but knew it was too late. Stasia's bitterness and hurt were overwhelming now. A few weeks ago he had tried writing her a letter with a tentative approach. Stasia's lawyer had replied, warning Chippingham not to communicate directly with his client again.

Well, he reflected, even if that particular ball game was lost, nothing would hinder the pleasure of the next hour or two with Rita.

Rita, too, had been considering relationships, though on a simpler level. She had never married, never having met an available man to whom she wanted to tie herself permanently. As to her current affair with Les, she knew there was no long term future. Having known and watched him for a long time, she believed Les incapable of fidelity. He moved from one woman to the next with the casualness that other men changed underwear. What he did have, though, was that big, long body with accessories to match, so that a sexual escapade with him was a euphoric, joyous, heavenly dream, As they arrived at her apartment building and Les paid off the taxi, she was dreaming of it now.

* * *

Rita shut and bolted her apartment door and a moment later they were kissing. Then, wasting no more time, she led the way to her bedroom as Les followed, dropping his jacket, tossing his tie aside, unbuttoning his shirt.

The bedroom was typical Rita—organized, yet in a casual, comfortable way with pastel-colored chintzes, and cushions everywhere. Deftly, she pulled back and roughly folded the bedspread, throwing it onto a nearby armchair. She undressed quickly, flinging her clothes in all directions, an instinctive lover's gesture of shedding inhibitions too. As each garment flew she smiled across at Les. He in turn appraised her as he slipped out of his undershorts, sending them sailing after Rita's panties and brassiere.