The Henderson Equation (30 page)

The downward movement of the elevator accelerated the
feeling of alcoholic haze that the uncommon intake of three martinis had
produced. It was not, as he soon realized, a happy high. It made his mood
heavier, more somber. As he moved through the city room, unusually busy for
that hour, Ben Madison turned and waved him toward his desk.

"Look who's in your outer office."

"Christ." He had recognized Mrs. Henderson.
"They're letting out all the stops," he said, conscious of the
tightness on his tongue. Had Madison detected the astringent smell of gin?

"And there's this note from Gunderstein." Madison
handed him a sealed envelope, which he opened.

"Could you meet me later in my apartment?" the
note read. "Phelps is staying with me. I think it would be
important."

Nick showed the note to Madison, who shrugged.

"A bloodhound like Gunderstein deserves to be
heard," he said, his eyes nodding approval of the way events were going.

He patted Ben Madison on the back and pressed on to where
Mrs. Henderson was sitting. As he approached he could see the faint stirrings
of a smile begin from the tight corners of her lips. She had retained the
remnants of girlish grace, despite the cruel crenulations that age was painting
on her skin. From her pictures, and from brief observations in past social
contacts, she seemed one-dimensional, wafer thin, without substance.

"I hope you will forgive the intrusion," she
said, standing up, a hand outstretched. Her dominant characteristic was her
fading traditional good looks, as if in her younger days Henderson had pulled
her off the rack, like a good suit to be worn for political occasions.

"I guess it must be my week for the Hendersons,"
Nick said, feeling the faint thickness on his tongue. "I had lunch with
your husband yesterday."

"Yes," she answered, following him into his
office. He motioned her to a seat and stepped behind his desk, resentful that
she had robbed him of his time to scan the street edition.

"I hope this isn't an awkward time," she said.
"I deliberately waited until the paper was"--she paused--"I
think the expression is 'put to bed.'"

"Actually it's a misnomer," Nick said, looking at
the unopened front page, his mind trying to absorb the inked pages. "She
may get put to bed, but she never really sleeps."

"You must consider this visit unusual, Mr. Gold,"
she said. Her cloying humility was beginning to grate on him. Why didn't she
say it and get the hell out? He willed himself to remain silent, wanting her to
feel unwelcome, intrusive.

"I know what's happening, Mr. Gold, and frankly it's
beginning to wear us both down. First your Mr. Gunderstein and now another
person, a young lady, Miss Gates, I believe."

"Martha Gates," he said.

"Yes, that was her name."

He noticed for the first time that she was twisting a
handkerchief in her fingers.

"It's wrong," she said, her composure cracking.
He vowed that he would walk out of the office at the first tear.

"What's wrong?"

"What you're trying to do," she said hesitantly,
her voice recovering, gathering strength. He felt himself losing patience,
sensing her weakness, feeling his power over her. He felt totally without
compassion.

"Does Burt know you're here?"

"No," she said emphatically. "This is my own
idea."

"You realize that it's stupid?" he asked, feeling
his own malevolence.

"My husband is innocent," she said. It was the
kind of melodramatic delivery hardly worthy of a bad high school play. Whatever
possessed this woman? he asked himself. Did she really believe that her
presence would make a difference?

"You might characterize him in a hundred different
ways, Mrs. Henderson. But innocent. Really now. There isn't a politician in
this town who would consider that quality as part of his baggage."

"I mean of your accusations." Her façade of
humility was also corroding before his eyes.

"You don't know anything about our accusations. As I
told your husband yesterday, we haven't come up with any conclusions."

"You could take his word for it."

He felt his annoyance growing as the pressure of time
became more apparent. If only Miss Baumgartner had stayed to shield him.
Looking at the woman, he felt he could see her motivation, a wild gamble that
she might inject a note of compassion, an appeal to emotion that might regain
for her a place in her husband's life. To Nick she seemed a ludicrous cliché,
the abandoned wife, helplessly adrift in the stink of her husband's leavings,
cast off, humiliated, searching for ways to find a path back to him.

"I'm making a fool of myself," she said, fishing
for some word of approval.

"I appreciate your sense of concern," he
answered, sidestepping the opportunity she might have suggested. He watched
her, wondering how she would react to suddenly being thrust into the White
House, the First Lady. Would it salvage her life?

"It doesn't matter to you at all," she said
bitterly, standing up. "You don't care a bit about what you do to people.
My husband is a fine, wonderful man. This country needs a man like him. And you're
willing to destroy him. It's so damned unfair, so damned unfair."

"I'm really sorry he's not here to see your
performance," Nick said. The woman was getting tiresome, her sincerity
suspect. Surely Henderson had not been stupid enough to put her up to this
inept display. But then, he had been through it all before, the appeal of
distraught women, acting out of misguided impulses.

"You are a bastard, Mr. Gold."

"From where you sit, perhaps," he agreed, feeling
the alcoholic effect begin to dissipate as his impatience and anger grew.

"You and that bitch upstairs." She had hissed the
words, like air escaping from a punctured tire.

So there was more here than met the eye, he considered
calmly.

"What has Myra Pell got to do with it?" he asked,
gently now, his newspaperman's mind dissimulating, searching for information,
his head finally clearing. The woman continued to twist the handkerchief, her
knuckles white with tension. His abrupt change in attitude confused her. She
might have mistaken it for compassion.

"I shouldn't have mentioned her," Mrs. Henderson
said, contrite now, her weakness blatantly exposed.

"She is your husband's greatest defender," Nick
pressed, conscious of his maliciousness.

"Sure," Mrs. Henderson said angrily, her
bitterness showing.

"Frankly, I don't understand your implication."

She looked at him, startled. "I suppose you
don't," she said.

"What are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Henderson?"
he asked pointedly. Her eyes flitted helplessly about the room.

"I should never have come," she said, getting up.

"Then why did you?"

"I thought I could help my husband," she said
weakly. He watched her, annoyed that he had to witness her pain.

"Are you trying to tell me that your husband and Myra
Pell are lovers?" The accusation seemed so incongruous to his nature,
gossipy, unworthy of his sophistication. "Is that the message you're
trying to bring me?"

She seemed a study in conflicting emotions: indignation,
shock, confusion. The blood drained from her face. He wondered if she would
faint.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded.

"He spends more time with her than with me," she
whined. She carefully avoided answering his question. Could it be true?

"Then why didn't you go to her?" From her look,
he could see she had debated the point.

"Because I know what she's trying to do." She
threw her head back, stifling a forced laugh. "She wants to make him
beholden, to swallow him up. She wants to own him."

"And you think we're merely gathering blackmail on
your husband?" Nick stood up.

"Yes," she said, her face actually brightening,
thankful, perhaps, for the gift of the words. He could see that she was
guessing at motives, hoping that Nick might confirm her suspicions about her
husband and Myra Pell.

"You're wrong," he said. "Just as wrong as
you are about the other."

She appeared totally confused now. Standing up, her face
flushed, she seemed a tragic, humiliated figure, her looks ravaged by time, her
self-confidence shattered.

"I should never have come," she said again,
turning and leaving his office without a glance back.

He looked after her and shrugged. It was the humor of it
that finally struck him and a giggle erupted, growing in intensity. Did it all
boil down to the stupid blindness of a woman's love? Emotions, he thought,
destroyer of objectivity. If only their readers knew. Was the fate of Henderson
to turn on such emotional garbage? He had better not be so contemptuous, he
told himself, recalling his entanglement with Jennie. He shook his head, trying
to crowd out the interview with Mrs. Henderson as he reached for the front page
again, gathering his concentration.

But he could not find its threads. Unintelligible type
stared back at him as he tried to find meaning in the neat slugs which carried
his conception of the day's picture. It was only when a news aide came into his
office with a sheaf of wire copy that he felt the authority of his mind return.
Glancing through the short pica paragraphs he again came across the casualty
lists from the bus shooting. Studying the names carefully, he was annoyed that
he could recognize no familiarity, feeling briefly the guilt of the survivor.

The gloomy thoughts triggered in him a peculiar state of
anxiety and loneliness. God, how he missed Charlie. He felt himself being
crushed by the weight of decisions, like heavy rocks cascading over him in an
avalanche. Yet all he had to do was sidestep and the rocks would fall
harmlessly to the valley floor. Was it a death wish that haunted him, a desire,
perhaps, to be with Charlie? Or was it lofty motives of truthfulness that
goaded him to taunt Myra, challenging her power, testing its limits? Did he
long for such a termination at last, the final stoppage of the presses in his
brain, the end of continuous pressure to feed the greedy maw of the machine?
Henderson as an issue seemed remote. After all, what did Henderson mean to him?
Another hollow politician, an opportunist, a mere reflection. He felt suddenly
unsure, lonely. He picked up the phone and dialed Jennie's extension, the ring
persistent and unanswered. Finally a voice, annoyed and distracted, answered
perfunctorily. It wasn't Jennie. He hung up. Jennie must still be mad over his
earlier display of authority, he thought. Egocentricity! At this moment, she
surely was contriving for him a kind of massive punishment.

He put aside the street edition, knowing that in the
morning, when his lucidity returned, he would find a vast array of mistakes and
misinterpretations of his implied directions. Who but he would know? he
thought.

He lit a cigarette, puffing deeply, feeling again the
urgency of his need for Jennie. Dialing his apartment, he let the rings persist
until the desk operator's voice came on. Then he hung up and dialed Jennie's
place. At the impersonal voice of her answering service, he hung up. Feeling
ridiculous, like a schoolboy, he tried to shake the feeling of anxiety, as if
the sudden dependence were somehow obscene. When he found himself finally
dialing Margaret's extension, he cursed his weakness, girding for his impending
humiliation, hoping she would have left for the day.

"Margaret?" He paused.

"Nick."

Searching his mind for some casual question, he drew
blanks, felt awkward.

"Nick," Margaret repeated.

"I was thinking about Chums," he lied. But it
was, after all, the bridge between them.

"Should we call her, Nick? It's been a long
time." He detected a hesitancy, a softness.

"Are you worried?"

"Of course. Not a day goes by that I don't get a flash
of worry."

He looked at his watch, calculating what the time would be
on the West Coast.

"I suppose we should call," he said, dreading the
confrontation, the family friction. He hadn't meant to stir that up. Pausing,
he cursed his silence, knowing she would see through it.

"Jennie's left, Nick," she sighed, sensing his
priorities.

"On assignment?" he asked, hoping that he might
sound casual.

"No. Not tonight." Had she caught his panic?

"Perhaps we'll call Chums tomorrow," Nick said,
distracted. Later he knew he would feel fatherly guilt, having used Chums once
again. He hung up.

There is no fool like an aging fool involved with a woman
half his age. The thought gave him the strength to stir and walk swiftly out of
the city room, avoiding the upturned eyes seeking recognition. Outside, falling
heavily into the seat of a taxi, he closed his eyes and let his fatigue take over.
The taxi moved quickly up Connecticut Avenue, around Dupont Circle to the
entrance of Gunderstein's apartment house. He got out and proceeded through the
ritual of announcement.

Gunderstein's apartment seemed even fouler than the night
before, although the smells were more exotic and definable. A half-eaten pizza
lay in its pan in the center of the battered coffee table, surrounded by a
forest of beer cans. Martha Gates sat on the floor, cross-legged in tight jeans
and, Nick noticed, braless in a tight Mickey Mouse T-shirt, with a shorthand
pad poised on her flat stomach.

Standing near her, neatly vested and pinstriped, smoke
billowing aromatically from a large pipe, Robert Phelps nodded a friendly
greeting and extended his hand. Gunderstein lay slumped back on the sofa, his
shoes off, revealing a big hole in his sock, near the big toe of his left foot.

Phelps was a compact man, pale with thin greying hair, the
self-consciousness of his dress indicating that he took himself too seriously,
as if he were making a statement of his esthetic and intellectual superiority.
Nick hadn't seen him for two years. Ten years ago he might have been described
as a kind of gentlemanly Gunderstein. The two were a study in contrasts, a sign
of changing mores in the newspaper business.