Private affairs : a novel (43 page)

He sat quietly, letting the discussion build its own momentum. One side of the table had been beaten; the other side had won; now they were talking and working together as if there'd been no war. Elizabeth wouldn't like the way he'd done it, he thought. He could almost see her puzzled frown and hear her voice. / know you had to avoid a strike; I know you want the paper to grow; but did you really have to hit them with a wage freeze and all those staff cuts? And did you have to humiliate Ernie in front of everyone, instead of telling him privately what you were going to do?

Matt shook his head like a dog shaking off a sudden drenching. He didn't need Elizabeth's voice; he knew he'd gone farther than he intended. He'd been angry at Dugan, and at himself, and worried that Rourke would think he was too soft on employees. He was changing, even more than he'd changed when he'd forced Graham into a corner on selling his papers, because this time he was sending a message to unions and employees in twenty-five cities. He didn't much like the brutality of what he'd done, and his skill in being brutal. But he couldn't spend time worrying about it, because he could see the results. He'd have to keep track of Chefs game-playing, but in everything else he'd gotten peace and harmony, on his terms, and a staff that was finally talking about ways to bring the Call to life.

And he'd been naive enough for one day. It was about time he understood that a certain amount of brutality went with the job.

Ft

• • •

The plane descended over the hazy sprawl of Houston, coming in over pine forests that were familiar now, no longer the surprise they'd been the first time Matt saw them. He debated calling Rourke at home, then decided against it. He didn't like making reports on the phone; he liked watching people's faces, seeing their reactions as he talked. And especially with Rourke, whose legendary silences on the telephone unnerved all but the most confident, Matt would go out of his way to be in the same room when reporting on a trip.

He had talked to Rourke from Tucson, saying only that there would be no strike at the Call; then he'd gone on to his papers in Phoenix and Durango and San Antonio, looking for signs of sluggish performance or deliberate slowdowns. But he found nothing. So the Call had been a practice run, he thought; and from now on I can't ever relax with Chet.

And where have I heard that before?

Everything else on that trip was smoother than he had expected. Even in July, usually a slow month, the papers were making money and the staffs were happy. In fact, happiness was all Matt heard in the ten days after he left Tucson. As his plane taxied to Houston's terminal and he fastened the top button of his shirt and tightened his tie, he reviewed all that happiness: three newspapers turning a profit, everything under control, a brave new world of journalists as amiable as pussycats.

And that was no good, he thought, swinging his suiter over his shoulder and walking toward the cabstand. A vigorous press couldn't function with pussycats. He'd have to weed out most of them and turn the firebrands loose on investigations and exposes. Without them, papers withered away or turned into comic books, and readers lost their only protection against corruption and waste in government and insidious dangers like those at Love Canal and Times Beach.

The best news he'd heard on his trip was the success of "Private Affairs." Staffs loved it because it upgraded their papers; readers argued or agreed with Elizabeth in letters and phone calls, hundreds adding that they clipped her columns and saved them. She must have enough by now to make a book, Matt thought. I'll have to talk to her about that; she probably wouldn't think of it her—

"Want a ride, mister?" a voice asked at his elbow. "Nothin' better, I always say, than a handsome publisher to give my hack some class."

He laughed at Nicole's cockney twang and the cap she wore low over one eye. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"Keegan mentioned it. Are you going to let me drive you home?"

"Of course I am. There's nothing worse than a Texan taxi driver at rush hour."

But he had never driven with Nicole. "It's all right, Matt," she laughed, seeing him close his eyes as she swerved her white Cadillac to the next lane at seventy miles an hour, cutting off another car with barely an inch to spare. "I've been driving since I was ten and am considered extremely competent. If you don't relax after your arduous trip, you won't be a stimulating dinner companion, and I've been planning this dinner for two weeks."

He opened his eyes to look at her, thinking her striking beauty would have made it a pleasure even if his purpose were not to avoid seeing how she drove. "Planning it for two weeks but not mentioning it? We've talked on the telephone three times."

"Four. I did tell you I'd canceled my party and postponed my departure to Maine."

"You didn't postpone it to have dinner with me."

"I never do anything for only one reason. And don't ask what the others are; I won't tell you. As you should know after all these months, I dote on secrets and surprises. Now will you please relax?"

With a quick look at the traffic becoming heavier and forcing Nicole to slow down in spite of herself, Matt shrugged and put his head back. The hell with it. He'd probably been safer at thirty-eight thousand feet, but he was on the ground now, Nicole was driving, and either they'd make it or they wouldn't. As for dinner—"I'm not scintillating," he warned her. "Arduous is a mild word for the past ten days. But I'll take you to La Reserve and then we'll call it a night."

"You're not taking me anywhere. I'm feeding you at home. We've gone out so often lately I owe you at least a dozen dinners."

"I don't keep tabs. We'll go out, Nicole."

"Matt, if I don't practice my cooking now and then—or any other sport, for that matter—I'll lose my touch."

He smiled. "I've never seen you out of practice and if you were, you'd take care that no one saw it. And we are going out for dinner."

"And you are extraordinarily stubborn."

"So I've been told."

"Which you cannot soften by flattery."

"Can't I?"

She laughed. "Yes you can and you know it. All right. We'll go out tonight, but next time I feed you. Agreed?"

"I'll think about it. I appreciate the invitation."

"Matt! I thought you played fair!"

"I'm very good at surprises."

She smiled. "That's true. How are you at compromise?"

"The newspaper union in Tucson would say I'm rotten at it. But I'm not. Not always. All right, Nicole. Next time you cook."

"Much better. And I don't want La Reserve tonight. Do you mind? Let's go to Don's for crawfish."

"Noisy, crowded, and a long wait for dinner."

"And too casual for a stuffy someone who says / appreciate the invitation?"

Chuckling, Matt felt his fatigue begin to lift. Her light banter, the cool perfection of her black hair and alabaster skin set off by a white sundress, her aggressive driving, and the brightness of her eyes when she looked at him, all replaced the bad taste left by Tucson and then those other cities where too many men and women had jockeyed for his favor. And in the air-conditioned car, as she changed lanes, speeding where she could, slowing when she had to, her sexuality was less powerful than in the close confines of dimly-lit restaurants and piano bars. She was a pleasant companion and he was grateful. "I apologize for my stuffiness. If we can get near the oyster bar, I don't mind waiting for a table at Don's."

"Thank you. I'll take you home first, so you can refresh yourself. We have plenty of time. Now tell me about your trip. Did they all cozy up and tell you they've been waiting for someone just like you who understands them, and how everything is smooth and well-oiled and thank God they can finally do a good job?"

Matt burst into laughter. "You're a wonder. You sound like every one of them. How did you know?"

"I've met a few of them. Tell me all about it."

He told her, the stories and descriptions pouring out as she asked questions and laughed with him. It was the first time in over a year Matt had talked so easily about himself. Not since the days when he and Elizabeth had worked together had he felt so comfortable in sharing his experiences.

But when they were at dinner, she asked, "Is there something you can't tell me about?"

He put down the menu. "Why?"

"I get the feeling you're leaving something out. And I want to hear it all."

"I left out Tucson," he said, and after they ordered he told her, briefly, what had happened. "I suppose the poker games have ended, and I'm sorry about that. But the rest of it was all right."

"All right? Listen to the man. It was wonderful Matt; you were playing

to win and you had to make everyone understand that from the start. If you'd given Ernie or any of them a leg to stand on they would have kicked you with it. You did exactly what you had to do. And I'll bet those poker games haven't ended. You wait; everything will settle back. You have power, Matt. People won't give up the chance to be close to you."

He smiled, brushing her words aside. "I thought it was my charm and wit that brought you here tonight."

"I am aware of them," she said, returning his smile, and then changed the subject, asking him about other Rourke papers. All through dinner they talked about his trip. It wasn't until he left her, after she had pulled up in the circular drive at his building and leaned over to kiss his cheek, that he realized she had led him through a discussion so complete he had already organized his report to Rourke.

Impressive, he thought, pulling off his tie in his apartment. And then, just before he fell asleep, he realized something else about Nicole Renard: she had said almost nothing about herself since picking him up that afternoon.

He'd done the talking; she'd urged him on. And listened. And not mentioned bed, though both of them wanted it and made no attempt to hide it. Briefly, he wondered why they were waiting. But he knew enough about Nicole by now to know the answer. They were waiting because she wanted to wait. Because she was showing him everything else she could do, first. Impressive, he thought again with a smile. Requiring good timing and a sure touch. And she hasn't lost it. Any more than she probably has in cooking. Or in anything else.

Keegan Rourke was sitting on the couch in Matt's office, leafing through a magazine on southwestern art, when Matt came in. "Article here on Hopi Indian wood sculptures by Peter Lovell," he said, looking up. "Your son?"

Matt grinned. "Not bad for eighteen, is it?"

"It's a fast start. He takes after his father."

"He takes after his mother. He's a damn good writer." Matt went to a credenza behind his desk and turned on the Braun coffeemaker. "I called Tucson before I left home this morning; they're putting together a schedule of layoffs and economies to cut expenditures by twenty percent. I'll have it by the end of the week."

"Layoffs." Rourke put down the magazine. "What did you do to Dugan? Beat him up? Hypnotize him?"

"Neither." There was a knock at the door and Chet Colfax walked in. Matt looked at Rourke.

r-i

"I asked Chet to join us," Rourke said. "I assumed you'd expect it. You were both there."

"Don't let me interrupt," said Chet.

The Braun gave a final sigh and gurgle and Matt pulled out the carafe. "Coffee?"

Rourke nodded. "What did you do to him?"

Perched on the corner of his desk, Matt described his meeting with Dugan and the one in the conference room, leaving out all mention of Chet. As he talked, he watched Rourke's face change from interest to delight. At the end, he was smiling as broadly as Matt had ever seen him.

"Brilliant," he said. "Eighteen months of stability. And reduced costs. And to transform a confrontation into a dialogue on improving the paper ... a masterstroke. Congratulations, my boy." He went to Matt and put his hands on his shoulders. "Imagination and a good aim: go for the jugular so neatly no one is left bloodied." He chuckled. "I'm glad we have you on our side. Of course, I never doubted you'd succeed. Did I, Chet? Even when you were worried."

"Worried?" Matt echoed. "What were you worried about, Chet?"

Rourke answered for him as he went to the coffeemaker. "Chefs an old woman sometimes; thinks the sky's about to fall. He was afraid you might be outflanked by Dugan and his crowd and give too much away. Of course we all knew you'd never faced a situation like it before, but I'd put money on you against Dugan any time. You've got brains and class. Dugan hasn't. That's what Chet forgot."

"Chet doesn't forget much," Matt said.

"And a good thing," Rourke responded. "Coffee, Matt?"

"Thanks. Chet, was there anything else you were worried about?"

Chet shook his head.

"Nothing else?" Matt pressed.

"What did you have in mind?" Rourke asked.

"Chefs trips to Tucson. Before I left, I was told he'd been there six times in the last eight months and I wondered why, if he wasn't worried about something. I also wondered why he made them without mentioning them to me."

Rourke dismissed it. "Chet visits all our operations from time to time on my orders; I like independent reports, Matt, you know that. I'm sure if he made six trips he thought they were necessary. Chet, is there anything we should know?"

Chefs rigid features had relaxed. He looked blandly from Rourke to Matt. "Not at this time."

"There was unrest at that paper," Matt said sharply. "In six trips, Chet should have seen it coming."

Rourke raised an eyebrow. "What about that, Chet? No hints or inklings?"

"Nothing big enough to bother you about."

"He was tripping all over them," said Matt. "Either he decided to ignore them or he was more interested in digging into Dugan's sex life."

"He was there for that, too. We couldn't know you'd find a better way of handling him. And speaking of that: what would you have done if he'd called your bluff on the Sentinel?"

"I was sure he wouldn't."

"But if he had. Would you have recommended to the board that we buy it?"