There Fell a Shadow (2 page)

“You better have a look at this,” I said to him. I handed him the pages I'd pounded out on my old Olympia.

He looked at them. He looked at me. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” he said. Sarcasm dripped from him like Spanish moss from a Georgia live oak. “You want me to stop the presses? Replate page one? Jesus, Johnny, we've got a big story here. I got a fucking zoo can't keep its tigers away from the customers. I got people getting their arms ripped off right and left. I mean, okay, great, he's a borough president, it's a decent story. But I mean, what am I supposed to do about it?”

Lansing turned in her chair. “You got a borough president?”

“Corlies Park,” I told her. “I finally found the bribe.”

“Oh, man! Great stuff.” The way she smiled at me made my teeth hurt.

It was Cambridge's turn to change colors. He selected chalky white. I don't think he likes it when Lansing makes my teeth hurt.

“Hey,” he said to her, with an ingratiating smile that hurt yet another part of my anatomy. “What's the matter? Don't you like having your story on page one?”

The look Lansing gave him—that was the first hint I got that it was going to snow.

“I can't wait,” she said to me now as we sat and drank and talked it over in the Press Club. “He'll give you the skyline today. Tomorrow, the
News
, the
Times
, and
Newsday
will lead with it. We'll get beat out on our own story.”

“Maybe they'll notice upstairs.” McKay was wilting now over his second scotch. Knocking on Mrs. Feldman's door to ask her about her daughter had taken a lot out of him. “Maybe they'll fire him. Maybe they'll bring charges. Send him to court. Execute him.”

I jammed my cigarette out in the table's huge glass ashtray. “That's not the way it works. I've seen a lot of Cambridges in my time. That's not the way they go.”

The two young folk lent an ear to the ancient mariner.

“He'll be fired all right,” I told them. “Another six months, a year, year and a half at most. But it won't be for incompetence. The guy who hired him will make sure of that because if his hire looks bad, then he looks bad. But, one way or another, soon enough, relatability will become the status quo. They'll want something new, something with more pop to it. Just like they wanted when they brought Cambridge in. Then Cambridge'll be gone.”

“Then there'll be another Cambridge,” said McKay.

“There'll always be a Cambridge,” I said. “But Cambridge is one of the worst.”

McKay sank disconsolately toward his glass.

“Shouldn't you be getting home?” Lansing said to him. She said it kindly. Then glanced over at me.

I ignored the glance. Lansing is half my age, and not so tough, I'd guess, when no one's looking. I shook another cigarette out of the pack. Jabbed it between my lips. Lifted a match to it. I kept ignoring the glance. But, as the match flame screened me, I raised my eyes a little. As I did, I saw an answering flame flare up in the rear of the bar, in one of its dark corners.

The burst of fire drew my gaze. At first I thought it was a reflection. Then I saw a man sitting alone at a table in the back. He was lighting a cigarette like I was. I saw his face glow red in the match light.

It was a haunted face, drawn and weary. The face of a fairly young man, no more than thirty-five, with hair still thick and black. But his cheeks were craggy, his expression hard, his eyes sunken, brooding under heavy brows. As he held the match to the tobacco, those eyes peered across the room, fixed and fascinated by something at the front of the bar.

The man shook the match out. He sank into shadow. He sat huddled in the smoke from his cigarette as if for warmth.

I turned, following his gaze. The door to the club had opened. Three men had come in.

T
hey stood together in the doorway, stomping the snow off their shoes, shaking it off their overcoats. They cursed the blizzard in booming voices. They sounded like men who had drunk and eaten well.

I knew them. I knew two of them, anyway.

One of them was a friend of mine, Solomon Holloway. He was the bureau chief for one of the wire services here. He was a chubby, elfin man. Dignified in his way. Bald on top with a halo of gray. Small, round, friendly features with mischievous eyes. Chocolate-colored skin that gleamed in the light.

On his left was Donald Wexler, the editor in chief of
Globe
, the newsweekly. Short, thin, small boned. Graying yellow hair, well coiffed. A delicate face, sagging a little. Moist eyes and pursed lips. He tried to hire me from the paper once. We were still on decent terms.

I didn't know the third man. A long, lean, wiry fellow. Tan and rugged. Looked like a cowboy.

They peeled off their coats, draped them over the hatcheck counter. I turned to look again at the haunted man on the other side of the room. His shadow had faded away completely. He was gone.

When I turned back, Holloway had spotted me.

“John Wells!”

Wexler looked my way and smiled. “Wells it is!”

I saluted them. They approached our table, the third man trailing.

Holloway gestured at him. “Timothy Colt, I'd like to introduce you to the dean of New York crime reporters.”

“He'd like to,” I said, standing. “But I'm all he's got.”

Colt and I shook hands. I'd heard of him. I'd read his stuff. He was one of those guys who travels around the world, following the sound of gunfire. A foreign correspondent, and one of the best. He had a way of writing about war as if there were nothing in it but sadness. No right, no wrong, just sadness. I was pleased to meet him.

I introduced McKay. Then I introduced Lansing. Colt's eyes narrowed at her. The three grabbed chairs and sat down with us. Colt made sure he got his seat in next to hers.

A waitress came over. A pretty blond in regulation black tights, white skirt. The three newcomers ordered. Again, I glanced toward the table in the rear. Still empty. Cigarette smoke hung over it.

“So who are you busting today, Wells?” Holloway said. “Am I gonna have something for the morning?”

“Don't look at me,” I said. “Our banner's the tiger.”

“A farewell to arms.” Holloway laughed.

“Yeah,” said Lansing proudly, “but our skyline's a bribe to Brooklyn's borough prez.”

Holloway's lips parted. “Robins?”

“Read about it in the bulldog, Solomon,” I said.

The waitress brought the drinks. A beer in front of Colt, a brandy in front of Wexler, a martini in front of Holloway. Holloway sipped the martini, stared at me over the rim of the glass.

He set the glass down. “Corlies Park, you bastard. You finally got Corlies Park.”

“It'll cost you thirty-five cents to find out,” I said. “But for that, you get the sports and columns, too.”

“You bastard,” he said.

“Oh, when will you turn away from the vain life of daily headlines,” said Donald Wexler, sniffing at his brandy, “and come to the tropic paradise of the weekly magazine?” He drank.

Before I had a chance to avoid answering that, Colt chimed in. His voice had a rich twang to it. Oklahoma, was my guess.

“Wells, John Wells.” He pointed a lazy finger at me. “I've seen yer stuff. Corruption in city government, that kind of thing.”

“The voter's friend, that's me,” I said.

“Yeah. Yeah, it's good stuff. Got a sort of … meloncholy to it. Yeah. Real good.”

“Thanks. I liked your pieces from Iran.”

He studied me a while, nodding thoughtfully. But in another moment, his gaze shifted direction. He had other business. “Now you,” he said to Lansing. “I cain't say I've heard of you before.”

He put his arm on the back of her chair. He leaned toward her. She sent a rapid glance at me. I wouldn't play. I reached for the ashtray, crushed out a cigarette, hard. Her gaze was drawn back to Colt. Her cheeks colored a little. He was a good-looking guy. His eyes went deep and there was something vital and electric about them. They kept moving—not nervous, but watchful. I had seen them, after he first sat down, as they calmly memorized the lay of the room. They had seemed to catch the movements at the tables, at the bar. And whenever the door opened, whenever someone came in or out, they turned casually to study them, to file them away.

But right now they were fixed on Lansing. They traveled over her where she sat and seemed to pull every detail of her into their depths.

“What is it you do?” he asked.

“Spot news, for the most part,” Lansing said hoarsely. She hid behind her drink.

“She won the AP for the Yorktown Building Collapse,” Holloway said.

“AP,” said Colt with deep appreciation.

Lansing appealed to heaven. Colt laughed. She smiled.

Wexler helped out: “Colt just got back from Afghanistan.”

“Oh?” said Lansing.

“Behind rebel lines,” said Holloway. He nodded at Colt. Colt shrugged.

“Oh, come on now, don't be modest,” Lansing said. Her voice was warm. “What's it like over there these days?”

Colt shrugged again. “It looked mighty like a war to me.”

“And Colt should know,” said Holloway, with a jolly laugh in his martini. “He's covered most of them.”

The lines of Colt's rugged face turned down in a frown. “It's a livin',” he said softly.

“Oh now, come clean, dear boy,” said Wexler. I saw a somewhat nasty gleam in those wet eyes. “You know what Voltaire said: ‘Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.' You wouldn't keep going to war if you didn't like it.”

I sensed Colt tighten. He withdrew his arm from the back of Lansing's chair. “Voltaire said that about goin' to whorehouses.”

There was silence for a minute. I saw Lansing take the opportunity to glance up at Colt's profile.

Then Holloway laughed. His thick lips curled in an impish V. “All I know,” he said, “is that Sentu was war enough for me.”

“Hear, hear,” said Wexler.

He lifted his snifter. Colt smiled, shook his head. His hands closed on his beer. He lifted it, too. Holloway followed with his martini. The three looked at each other. Their glasses came together, touched in the air. Lansing, McKay, and I watched quietly.

“To Sentu,” said Holloway.

“Sentu,” said Wexler.

Colt echoed: “Sentu.”

And, as each brought his drink to his lips, Holloway added: “The making of us all.”

They drank. I looked at Lansing. She tilted her head to one side. I glanced at McKay. He gestured uncomfortably with his hands. I glanced, finally, at the three men drinking their obscure toast.

That's when I saw the haunted man again.

He had reappeared suddenly. From somewhere in the back. I remembered there was a flight of stairs back there that led down to the rest rooms and a broom closet. Now he was moving swiftly toward the front door. His head was ducked down behind the collar of his heavy overcoat. His shoulders were hunched as if to further shield him from view. He wove through the tables with smooth, quick strides, looking neither to the right nor the left.

In a moment he'd reached the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The wind gusted in. It blew back his collar, bared his face. Snow swirled over the floor, rose around his ankles. He seemed about to plunge forward, to vanish into the blizzard.

The sound of shattering glass stopped him.

Startled, I followed the sound. I saw Colt: he had turned to check the movement of the door. He sat frozen in his chair. His cheeks were the color of ashes. His hand was still curled as if he were holding his beer mug. He wasn't. It had slipped through his fingers. It had fallen to the floor, and the thick glass had exploded into a million pieces. The pile of them glittered in the pale light.

When the glass broke, the man in the doorway halted, swiveled. He and Colt locked eyes. The whole bar had gone silent. There was only the wild, hollow sough of the wind as it brought in the snow.

Then—in a hoarse gasp that seemed part of that wind—Colt said: “You!”

The door handle slid from the man's grasp. The door swung shut slowly. The sound of the wind died. Colt pushed unsteadily to his feet.

“Colt,” Holloway said. He reached for Colt's arm. Colt shook him off. Wexler made no effort to stop him. He sat transfixed.

“You!” Colt said again. He growled it this time.

The haunted man stood still and waited. Colt stalked him. Came near him step by step until he was standing with him in a small pool of melted snow. Their faces were inches apart.

Colt said quietly: “You're dead! You're a dead man!”

The other reared back.

Colt shouted: “You're a dead man, goddamn it! Goddamn it, you owe me an accounting.”

He grabbed the man by his lapels. I heard a chair scrape as Holloway started to his feet. But the haunted man's hand shot up swiftly. He knocked Colt's arm away with a single sweeping motion. Colt staggered back a step.