The Memory of Eva Ryker (16 page)

I rearranged the word groups.

WEH AVE YOU RDA UGH TER STO PIF YOU WAN THE RAL IVE BEA TSI NGE RBU ILD ING LOB BYN OON AFT ERT ITA NIC DOC KSN EWY ORK WIT HLA TES TSH IPM ENT STO PNO TRI CKS STO PXX

Our momentary triumph went depressingly limp. For the first time since taking this assignment, I began to feel sorry for William Ryker.

WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER STOP IF YOU WANT HER ALIVE BE AT SINGER BUILDING LOBBY NOON AFTER TITANIC DOCKS NEW YORK WITH LATEST SHIPMENT STOP NO TRICKS STOP

14

February 5, 1962

Geoffrey Proctor chose a Monday to drop the other shoe.

It came in the form of a telegram delivered to our house at ten in the morning. Jan peered over my shoulder as I closed the front door on the departing delivery boy and tore open the envelope.

“From our beloved patron.” I showed her the address.

“Let me see what it says.”

DEAR NORMAN STOP PLEASE COME TO PROCTOR OFFICE NEW YORK IMMEDIATELY CONCERNING PROGRESS OF TITANIC STORY STOP NO APPOINTMENT NECESSARY BUT HURRY STOP LOVE TO JAN GEOFFREY STOP

“What do you think, Norman?”

“I think it's Geoffrey's equivalent of a ‘Dear John' letter.”

She took the telegram from my hand and read it a second time. “Notice the graceful kiss-off to me?”

“Yep. No ordinary summons, by any means.” With a sigh I dropped the wire in the trash and headed for my bedroom closet. “Maybe I should be grateful,” I said, pulling out my two-suiter. “Now I don't even have to unpack.”

Most visitors to Fun City return with a standard quota of horror stories. Personally, I like New York and I'm slightly in awe of people who live there. It's a testament to human adaptability. If
Homo sapiens
can live on the west side of Manhattan, he can live anywhere.

However, Geoffrey Proctor has chosen a more serene pied-à-terre. Proctor-World Publishing is housed in a seventy-five-story stainless steel crackerbox on Third Avenue that is a bad imitation of the Seagram Building.

Cooling my heels in Geoffrey's outer office, I felt like an easily digestible cog in a well-oiled machine. At my left sat Ellen Lambert, the handsome Head Secretary and ex-officio Dowager Empress of Proctor-World Publishing. Occasionally she raised her eyes from the IBM Executive and gave me a gracious Pat Nixon expression of ossified good cheer.

Much of the room was taken up by a sunken aquamarine pool, which was the home of gigantic golden
koi
that looked like mutants from a Japanese monster movie. I rose up and bent down closer, riffling the surface with my forefinger. Glaring indignantly, they swished to the opposite corner.

I heard a buzzer over my shoulder. For a moment I was afraid I'd triggered some sort of fish alarm, but it turned out to be Miss Lambert's intercom.

She tilted her incredible frosted beehive in the direction of the door. “You may go in, Mr. Hall.”

Geoffrey's office is all beamed ceilings and huge slanting windows. He stood behind his chromium desk, one leg poised on the window ledge, silhouetted in front of the skyline like an Ayn Rand hero.

“Looking for me?”

“Norm! So glad you could make it!” He settled behind his desk. “Sorry to call at such short notice, but something fantastic has come up. I'd like you to start on it right away.”

Geoffrey picked up an 8x10 glossy and passed it to me. It was an aerial shot of what appeared to be a big housing tract or shopping center under construction, bordered by a network of turnpikes.

“What the hell is it?”

“Flushing Meadows.” He leaned forward. “Confidentially, Norman, it's the biggest story of the year. And the man I had on the assignment doesn't know a typewriter from his asshole. You've got to bail me out.”

My jaw sagged, but I said nothing.

“… my man has most of the facts and photos,” he was saying. “We just need someone to pull it all together.”

I steadied myself on the arm of the chair.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to drop all the work I've done on Ryker and the
Titanic
—a story that's due in less than two months—to cook up a feature about the New York World's Fair?”

“Well, Norman, these last-minute things come up and I can certainly make it worth your while. Just name your price.”

I laughed uneasily. “What is your problem, Geoffrey? Male menopause? Or simple hardening of the arteries?”

He reshuffled the papers on his desk into one neat pile. “Norman, this story is very important to me and to
World
magazine. I've tried to be generous, but I shouldn't have bothered. I should have remembered your nature.”

I shook my head in wonder. “All this isn't like you. This pitiful bullshit you're holding out to me with both hands. It's clumsy, Geoffrey, and you're not a clumsy person. Nature's made you one of the Straights. The Snow Prince—chipped from ice. You should play the role.”

Geoffrey slid his papers into the top desk drawer. “I see no further point in continuing this conversation.”

“I'm not finished!”

“There you're mistaken,” he said coolly. “In the past I've made allowances toward your temperament. But today you're being particularly tiresome. I want you off the
Titanic
story and off my payroll. Effective immediately.”

“
World
has been filled with ads about the story for the past two months. So you snap your fingers and I go ‘poof.' What then?”

“These things die down.” Geoffrey's charming smile blossomed as easily as ever. “Don't worry, Norman. You'll be paid for the work you've done so far. In fact, I'll set it up now.” He reached for the intercom.

“Don't.”

His finger rose from the button. “Yes, Norman, what is it?”

“Don't force this one out in the open. You'll pray nightly for a chance to reseal it.”

Geoffrey surveyed me. across the expanse of desk. He picked up his Cross pen and clicked it against his teeth. “Norman, you seem to think you're immune to the real world. With a half dozen well-placed phone calls I could flush your career down the toilet.”

“God, I was waiting for that one! Next comes the line about how I'll never work in this town again, right?”

“The reality may not be so humorous.”

Geoffrey reached once again for the intercom. He had taken enough line. Now was time to start reeling him in.

“I know about Ryker's half million.”

Every muscle froze. The eyes were round and empty.

“Jerry Blaine,” I explained. “Occasionally he raises his head above the Hollywood quagmire. Whatever his personal shortcomings, he's an impeccable source.”

The silver and tan face started to go limp. We glared at each other through long moments of silence. Finally, he unbent.

“Okay, Norman. It's a long story. And a complicated one.”

“I'm very patient.”

Reclining the chair, he stared up at a ceiling vent. “Mike Rogers first came to me at Christmastime last year. All expenses involved in reporting the salvage operation were to be paid by the Ryker Corporation. The half million was what you might call a gesture of good faith.”

“I want to know exactly what strings were attached.”

Geoffrey made his face look innocent. “Why, the primary condition was that you write the story.”

“Yes, I know.”

He smiled sourly. “You mean you've known all along?”

“Since visiting L.A. I was wondering why Ryker made the offer in the first place.”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“I did. He told me he was a big fan.”

Geoffrey had the grace not to snicker. “For all I know, it's the truth.”

“But why the big dose of payola? He was giving you a hell of a gift with the rights to in-depth coverage. Why not suggest my name as part of the package? You weren't in a position to dicker.”

“The old man wanted you very badly. That's why I humored him.”

“Just like you're humoring me. While you're at it, maybe you can explain why the bloom is off the rose.”

“Come again?”

“You know what I mean. Ryker gave me the story and now he wants to take it away. Who did the hatchet work? Ryker himself? Or Mike Rogers?”

His lips pressed tight.

“Come now, Geoffrey. You're dying to tell me. And I'm great in the role of father-confessor. If I'm fired anyway, what difference does it make?”

“Mike didn't say,” he blurted. “All he told me was that the old man wanted you out on your ass and damn fast.”

“And you hastened to comply. Some
wasp
-ish Sammy Glick like Mike Rogers snaps his fingers and you have a hot flash. Such cooperation for a half million. I wasn't aware whoredom came so cheap in the businesss world!”

“I think I've heard just about enough from you.”

“I can guess most of the rest. When you and Ryker closed your deal, the half million was just a chaser, designed to wash down a very large bail-out loan for Proctor-World Publishing in general and
World
in particular. Am I getting warm?”

Geoffrey sighed impatiently. “I wish you were a businessman, Norman. Perhaps you'd understand these things.”

“Keep it simple, Geoffrey. You know us artists. Divine Idiots, to be handled with kid gloves.”

He tried lacing his fingers together on top of the desk in an attitude of composure. “
World
is in some trouble. We need to make cutbacks, but it's damn tough to know where to cut.”

I pointed over my shoulder in the direction of the outer office. “You could start by putting your
koi
on a diet.”

“… at the same time,” he was saying, “the company needs capital …”

“So how big a slice of the pie did Ryker get? No, never mind. I don't want to know.” I glanced at my watch. “Time is getting short and I'm going to give you the bottom line. Fire me and I will take the first cab to the New York
Times
and pour out my heart in true gossip-column fashion. Since I'll be unemployed, maybe they'll even let me write the feature. All about you rolling in the sheets with a corporation which functions as a tax dodge for an American expatriate.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Perhaps.” I stood and grabbed my coat. “You shouldn't expect loyalty from me, Geoffrey. You've done nothing to earn it. But I shouldn't sneer at you. I'm the oldest whore on the beat. After a few years you learn to get it up and keep it there, even if a publisher gets cold feet.” I slipped my coat over my shoulders. “Do you know a good place for lunch?”

He licked his lips. “There must be some way we can talk this out. Some … compromise.”

“Why certainly. I stay on the payroll and finish the story. You publish it in April. What could be simpler?”

“I don't know, Norman. William Ryker is a very determined man.”

“He is also bluffing. All you have to do is call Ryker and give him the gist of our conversation. He's a realist, mark my words.” My hand hesitated on the doorknob. “By the way, how did Mike Rogers sound on the phone?”

“Damn angry. And scared.”

“I don't doubt it. He must've caught it from his boss.”

“One thing he never explained was why he wanted you out. I wish I could tell you.”

“There's no need, Geoffrey. I know why. So does Mike. Ryker knows. And he knows that I know.” I smiled, easing the door open. “In fact, the only person who
doesn't
know is you.” I gently slapped his shoulder. “I think we should keep it that way.”

15

February 12, 1962

My previous experience in helicopters has been limited to brief shuttles to and from airports, and I've always been able to stick my head in the sand by keeping my nose in a paper and not looking out the window.

Today, however, a newspaper couldn't serve as a security blanket. Burke Sheffield and I were five hours out of Halifax in a chartered Bell chopper, with nothing to do besides watch the sun coming up over the Atlantic breakers flitting beneath our perspex bubble at a hundred fifty miles per hour. A glorious sunrise—one to inspire a pagan worshiper to perform a virgin-sacrificing rite. I constantly reminded myself of its beauty since it kept my mind off those whirling rotor blades held in place by bolts and fasteners that wouldn't live forever and were waiting for the day when they could give up the ghost.

I also took comfort in our pilot, Ralph MacKendrick, and the confident squint lines on his fiftyish face. It pleased me to meet mellow and middle-aged helicopter pilots in the skies.

He tugged at my sleeve and pointed ahead. “There she blows.”

The
Savonarola
lay less than five miles away. A very rakish lady. Ryker's Italian toy, floating amid icebergs in his big bathtub. Even seen from this distance, the flat helicopter platform dominated her stern. But no sight of the
Marianas
and
Neptune
. Presumably they were moored on the far side of the ship.

The copter lurched in the wind as I took in the scene from horizon to horizon. The ocean was pimpled with bergs, their peaks pale gold in the early morning light. Everything from Volkswagen-sized chunks to hundred-foot mountains.

The bergs were equally thick that night, at this very spot, when the
Titanic
took 1500 people to their deaths. And it was this time in the morning, almost fifty years ago, that Captain Rostron picked up the survivors aboard the
Carpathia
.

I heard a long drawn-out sigh. Burke Sheffield stared at the
Savonarola
, one eyebrow arched high.

“Just think, Norman.
Alone
on the open sea with a shipload of
sailors!
”

“No camping, Burke. Not before breakfast.”

“You're right, of course.” The face was weary and spent. “The last refuge of the incompetent. That reminds me. Time I got to work.” Burke fired off a Gatling-volley with his Hasselblad.