Night Extra

19

There were two police cars parked in the gravelled driveway before the accident ward of St. Anne de Beaupré’s hospital. The red emergency light flashed above the wide doorway, and farther down the lane a white ambulance was angled against the receiving ramp.

The patrolmen from the squads were chatting with attendants, while a nurse filled out their forms at the registration desk. As always, the atmosphere was one of casual tension; this was an arena of bright lights and rubber-tiled floors and antiseptic smells, a theatre where the highest tragedies were acted out before nurses, interns and cops — a tough, unimpressionable audience that could watch the drama efficiently and still find time to worry about time-off and coffee-breaks.

Terrell nodded to the patrolmen and said to the nurse, “Connie Blacker. How is she?”

“Admitted,” the nurse said. She looked up at him and smiled quickly. “Hello, Sam. You’re a stranger. She’s under oxygen, I think. She was having some kind of respiratory trouble. What’s the matter? You look pretty rocky yourself.”

“Nothing,” Terrell said. “Where is she?”

“Just down the hall. In Emergency.”

“Thanks,” Terrell said, and turned into the wide white corridor. He knew his way around every hospital in the city; he had sipped coffee in this one, and kidded with nurses while waiting for an accident victim to die, and when it was over he had called the desk with only a momentary and impersonal regret that someone’s life had come to an end.

Now it was all different. A tall, balding doctor came out of the emergency ward, and Terrell caught his arm. “The girl they just brought in,” he said. “How is she?”

“Not too good. You’re a friend of hers?”

“That’s right, I’m a friend of hers.”

The doctor removed his glasses and polished them on his clean white smock. He looked much younger with the glasses off; his eyes were mild and clear and intelligent. “She was injected with considerably too much morphine,” he said. “That was sometime this morning, I gather. Then she spent the day in a tank — the treatment for violents, you know. Wet sheets from head to foot. She’s completely disoriented now. Out of sheer fright, I’d say. And the morphine has affected her respiratory center.”

“Will she be all right?”

“I don’t know. I’d say yes, with some qualifications. We’re giving her oxygen, and an antidote for the morphine. She’s had the raw material for a lifetime of nightmares packed into a very short period of time — that will give her trouble. She’ll need help.”

“Yes, sure,” Terrell said.

“Why don’t the police clamp down on places like that nursing home?” the doctor said. “It’s staffed by quacks who have no more business treating patients than a two-year-old child. A two-year-old would do less harm, in fact. It wouldn’t be quite so callous and sadistic. Why don’t they close them down?”

“I don’t know,” Terrell said.

“You see plenty of cops at the ball games,” the doctor said. “Cheering the home team and stopping a fist fight every month or so. Why don’t they put them to work where they’ll do some good?”

“That day may be coming,” Terrell said.

“I’ll be surprised.”

“I think you will,” Terrell said. “When can I see her?”

“Not for a couple of hours anyway. You can leave a message if you like.”

“Thanks, I’ll give a phone number to the desk.”

“She’s had a rough time; be nice to her.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Terrell said.

As Terrell entered the reception room the door opposite him opened and a Call-Bulletin photographer named Ricky Carboni came in and put his bulky camera on the floor.

“Sam boy,” he said, “how goes it?” Ricky was an old-timer, a big, balding man with dark eyes and a quick, warm smile. “Where’s the girl?”

“You mean Connie Blacker?”

“Yeah, how is she? Ready to be immortalized?”

“She’s in no shape for pictures, Ricky. Not for a couple of hours.”

“I’ll have to wait then, and think about my overtime adding up, tick, tick, tick, with every passing second. Karsh said to get a picture — regardless or irregardless.”

“Karsh? What the hell is going on, Ricky?”

“Don’t ask me. Or ask away if you like, but don’t wait for a sensible answer. Karsh just tore the Night Extra into tiny scraps. Everything’s out except the want ads. And the whole damn daytime staff is back putting a new edition together. I thought you were working when I saw you. Everybody’s in. Williams, Tuckerman, all the photographers. Aren’t you glad you’re in this racket? Think of all the little people sleeping their lives away while we get the chance to run around in the dark. Well, I’m going to find the poker game. Take it easy.”

“Sure,” Terrell said. He went outside and one of the patrolmen said, “We’re riding in, Sam. Need a lift?”

“Thanks, I’m going back to the shop.”

“It’s on the way. You in a hurry? Smitty here likes to get a little daily practice with the siren.”

“No, I’m not in a hurry.” Terrell climbed into the squad car and lit a cigarette. This was very accurate, he realized; he was in no hurry to see Karsh. But he had to see him. One more time...

The lights were on in the city room, and the atmosphere was one of hectic tension; a cluster of men were busy at the city desk and copy wheel, and alongside them the picture editor was briefing two photographers who looked as if they had just been yanked from their beds.

Terrell stopped inside the doorway at the end of the room, and let his eyes drift over the various groups putting the edition together. Normally the Night Extra was put to bed by a staff of three. But now everyone was in; Williams handling the city desk, Tuckerman hunched massively beside the police speaker, and all of the top writers and reporters from the daytime shifts.

Karsh stood directly behind Williams, one foot propped up on a chair, talking urgently and imperatively to Ollie Wheeler. Occasionally he punctuated his points by pounding his knee, and every now and then he turned away to take a quick look at the clock above his head. He was perfectly groomed, elegantly turned out in a dark blue suit with a flower in the lapel. His face and eyes were bright with a tense, good-humored excitement, and it was obvious to Terrell that the whole staff was reacting to the challenge of his personality. He was running every phase of the show; even a stranger would have picked him out instantly as the mainspring of all this seemingly disorganized activity.

Terrell dropped his coat over a chair and walked toward Karsh and Wheeler. He could see the city behind them as a dark mass visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. A few pinpoints of light gleamed from tall buildings, but most of the city slept quietly in shadowed silence.

He stopped beside Karsh, and Wheeler, who saw him first, said, “Here’s Sam now. Where’ve you been, Sam?”

Karsh turned to him, a quick, easy smile lighting his face. “You’re just in time. I want you on the main story — every detail in chronological order. Don’t waste time on the Parking Authority — just mention it as if the readers knew all. They will when they read Ollie’s piece. He’s doing a special story on that mess.”

“I’ll get started, Mike,” Ollie said.

“Yes, get with it.” Karsh was still looking at Terrell, but his manner was business-like and impersonal. “Bridewell issued a statement half an hour ago — owned up to all his crimes, including not curbing his dog several years back. The mayor can’t last much longer than it takes city council to get in session. They’re licked, Sam, really smashed.”

“And I’m supposed to write the big, hot story,” Terrell said. He lit a cigarette and flipped the match aside. “The works, eh? All stops out?”

“Certainly. Chicanery in high places will sell more newspapers than faithful dogs and kindly old schoolteachers.” Karsh spoke with his characteristic incisiveness, and nothing in his manner indicated that this was more than a routinely important story. “Get started now,” he said. “We’ve got about half an hour before the edition goes in.”

“And how do I handle you?” Terrell asked him coldly. “How do we tint and shade the image of Mike Karsh? Are you portrayed with an arm around Ike Cellars’ shoulder, and a hand reaching for the public trough?”

Karsh winced slightly. “No metaphors, please. Never oversell a good story. Play my part for what it’s worth. No cover-ups — but don’t get off on a tangent. Stick to the straight line. Eden Myles was murdered by a hoodlum named Rammersky.” Karsh’s voice rose and fell with the monotonous insistence of a metronome. “Rammersky was hired by Ike Cellars. Caldwell was framed. Here’s how and why. Bang that home and forget about subtlety and a graceful prose style.”

Tuckerman looked up then and covered his phone with a huge palm. “Mike,” he said. There was an unmistakable significance in his tone and as Karsh turned to him, a silence settled around the immediate area of the city desk.

“What’s up?”

“Ike Cellars,” Tuckerman said. “For you.”

Karsh smiled complacently, and began to screw a cigarette into his holder. He glanced at the clock above him, and said, “I expected to hear from him before this.” He touched Terrell’s arm. “Now look: you get on an extension and take down our talk. This may be good.” He waved to the switchboard operator sitting behind the police speaker. “Nell, put Tuckerman’s call through to me here and hook in one of these front desks. All right, Sam. Ready?”

Terrell said, “Yes, let it fly.” He sat down and put on earphones. His reaction was compulsive; he had been trained by Karsh and he responded almost instinctively to the excitement in Karsh’ s voice.

Karsh picked up a phone and leaned against the city desk. “What’s up, Ike?” he said. His voice was almost respectful, but an ironical little smile twisted his lips. Standing there he winked down at Terrell, and he seemed completely strong and confident, framed against the night, his bold, handsome head outlined against the shining glass windows. “Something wrong?”

“I hope you’re not being cute.” Terrell heard the suppressed anger in Cellars’ voice and the harsh sound of his breathing. “Photographers from your paper are hanging around my house. They say you sent ’em.”

“That’s right,” Karsh said. “You’re going to look nice on page one.”

“I pay you to keep me out of the paper. You cross me, and you’re through.”

“What do you want me to keep out? That you paid a killer to strangle Eden Myles? That you framed Richard Caldwell to keep the city in your own pocket?”

Cellars said softly, “I’ll settle with you, don’t worry.”

Karsh began to laugh. “You’re heading for the front page of our next edition. Murderer, perjurer, pickpocket, pimp — have I forgotten anything?”

“Just your good sense, Mike.” And then Cellars broke the connection.

“Okay, okay, let’s get going,” Karsh said, putting the phone down and slapping his hands together like a ringmaster.

The tempo picked up again and after another look at the clock, Karsh came over and read Terrell’s notes. “Put that conversation in a box for page one. Now get started on the main story.”

Terrell couldn’t make him out. He stared up at him for a few seconds, and then said, “You’ll look bad in my version, Mike.”

“So I look bad,” Karsh said. “It’s part of the story. I’ve cleared my end of it with the publisher. No cover-ups. The truth. And he’s agreed to handle it my way. I want the whole story — I told you that once. And we’ve got it.”

“Okay,” Terrell said sharply. He lit a cigarette and rolled a sheet of paper into his machine. Dramatics, he thought as he rubbed his hands together in a nervous, ritualistic gesture. Deadline, the big story, and Terrell telling all. Karsh was steel that could bend in any direction. And snap back as good as new when the pressure was off. Quite a trick. But not my hero, Terrell thought. Not the man I thought he was...

He worked slowly at first, getting his lead down right. After that he needed exact names, dates and addresses for the body of the story. He had clips on Eden Myles and Cellars and Caldwell sent up from the morgue, and a bit later called the detective division in the Hall for background on Rammersky’s arrest, and a direct quote from his confession. A detective he knew well filled him in and said, “A big night, eh, Sam? We got another dead one, you know. Frankie Chance.”

Terrell took the cigarette from his mouth. “What happened?” An illogical sadness welled in him. Frankie Chance had gone out to die for his girl. Worried about his soul. Was Jesus of Nazareth Christ Incarnate? Frankie didn’t have a clue.

“It happened out near Cellars’ home,” the detective said. “One of Ike’s bodyguards got him. There’s more to it, but I can’t give it to you now. Maybe in a half hour or so, eh?”

“Sure,” Terrell said. He told Karsh about Frankie Chance, but Karsh said, “Never mind him. We’ll run something about it on page six. Don’t clutter up your pieces with the bit players.”

“Okay. Here’s the lead then.”

Karsh scanned it quickly, a little grin touching his lips. “This is okay. Fine.” He gave the first page to the slot man at the copy desk. “Play the election angle,” he said, “in the headline and the subheads. Caldwell was framed. He’s in the clear. The how and why later.”

Terrell went on working, and Karsh took the pages as they came from the typewriter and handed them on to Williams, who proofed them and funnelled them to the copy wheel. Dozens of other stories were coming up to the desk now — biographical sketches, statements from Sarnac, and other top men in Caldwell’s party, a complete recap of the first story, with an artist’s sketch of Rammersky’s probable route away from the murder scene. All of this copy was being cut to fit the available space, then proofed and capped with heads, and finally shot upstairs to the pressroom to be set in type.

And the minutes ticked away.

Terrell finished his last paragraph and took the paper from his machine. He wasn’t satisfied with it, but there was no time for tinkering now; he could smooth it up for the next edition. “This does it,” he said. A copy boy took the page up to the desk where Williams was standing waiting for it. Terrell looked around for Karsh but didn’t see him. He lit another cigarette, and went up to the city desk.

Tuckerman said, “A call came in for you from St. Anne’s. A doctor there says to tell you that you can come and see the girl. She’s asked for you.” Tuckerman grinned amiably. “Connie Blacker, a long-legged blonde. A real dish. You’re lucky.”

“Yeah, sure,” Terrell said. He was staring about the crowded, noisy room. “Where’s Karsh?”

Tuckerman twisted his big body around in his chair. He glanced at Ollie Wheeler, who was finishing his story, and then over at the picture desk. There was a small frown on his long, placid face. “Might have gone up to the pressroom,” he said. He caught Williams’ eye. “Mike say anything to you about leaving?”

“Hell no.” Williams stood up and looked around him. “He wouldn’t go out. Not alone. Not tonight.”

A copy boy said tentatively, “I saw Mr. Karsh at the elevators a few minutes ago. Maybe a little longer.”

They all turned to the boy and Tuckerman said, “Was he dressed for the street?”

“Yes, he had his coat and hat. I met him when I was coming up with coffee.”

Tuckerman swore softly. “He’s crazy.” He was reaching for the phone when it began to ring. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds, and then let out his breath slowly. “Sure, Mike.” Tuckerman turned and handed the phone to Terrell. “Karsh. He wants to talk to you.”

Terrell took the receiver and said, “Where the devil are you?”

“Just across the street. Lindy’s. That all-night dope den that sells us our coffee and reefers. It’s the first time I’ve been in here. God! A foul smell of sugared doughnuts, and this waitress — I swear, Sam, she can read a whole page of a comic book in under five minutes. Why have we let her languish here? Why haven’t we hired her?”

“Mike, call a cab and go home,” Terrell said. “Or come back here and we’ll have a few drinks. Everybody’s in the mood.” Terrell glanced around the desk. “Tuck is building up a thirst and even Williams looks ready to tie one on. How about it?”

“It sounds fine,” Karsh said. “A cleanly shining bottle of booze and a night of harmless lies with the boys. But not tonight, Sam. I’ve got a date.”

“Where? With who?”

“I don’t know. It’s a face behind a windshield. That’s all I saw. I’ll know more about him later.”

“You damn fool,” Terrell said. He covered the receiver and spoke quickly and softly to Tuckerman. “Karsh is in Lindy’s. Get a squad over there. I’ll try to keep him on the line.” Tuckerman grabbed a phone and Williams stood and stared at the clock above his head. They were still four minutes from deadline.

“Mike?” Terrell said. “You still there?”

“Sure.” Karsh’s voice had changed; he sounded very tired and very sad. “I wouldn’t go without saying good-bye, son. You should know that.”

“Don’t go outside. Sit in that booth. You hear?”

“Sam, I played it tough tonight. It wasn’t the way I felt. But there was nothing else to do. Trying to re-establish yourself in someone’s... well, it’s no go. But Sam—”

“You listen to me,” Terrell said sharply. “Don’t seduce yourself with visions of a grandstand gesture. Stay put. You hear me?”

“Sure, you’re yelling like a fishwife,” Karsh said. “But you listen to me. I’m sorry I let things change between us. I’m sorry I let that happen. I’m sorry about everything. I should have said this simply and quietly to your face. But there wasn’t time.”

“There’s time now,” Terrell said. He could hear Tuckerman talking to a sergeant in the Hall. “Time for anything you want to say. Let’s have that drink and talk things over.”

“We always think there’s time,” Karsh said. Suddenly his voice was sharp and hard again, and running through it was the familiar thread of good-humored mockery. “Take it easy, kid. You’ve got the world ahead of you. And you’re a Mike Karsh product, genuine and unadulterated. Remember what I taught you about the newspaper business, will you?” Karsh’s voice trembled slightly, and then he recovered himself and said quickly, “Will you do that? Remember what I taught you on the job? And forget everything else? Everything I did?”

“Of course, Mike. Of course. But sit still. We’re coming—” Terrell stared at the phone in his hand. The connection was broken.

“A squad is on the way,” Tuckerman said.

“Sam, come here!” Ollie Wheeler called. He was at the big, floor-to-ceiling window staring down at the street. The rain had streaked the thick glass with long silver lines. Terrell went to Wheeler’s side, jarred by the urgency in his voice. Tuckerman and Williams came up behind him, and Wheeler said, “Tickets, please,” in a bitter lifeless voice.

The street below them was dark except for a patch of light that fell on the shining pavement from the all-night restaurant.

Terrell saw Karsh standing in that square of brilliance, his figure square and blocky, his face shadowed by the brim of his homburg. Even from the distance that separated them, Terrell could see the cigarette holder in Karsh’s mouth, and the gleam of the white silk muffler at his throat.

A car swung into the street a half block away and came toward Karsh with its lights turned off; it rolled silently through the darkness, angling toward him with the fluidity of a shadow. Karsh turned to meet it, moving purposefully, his arms swinging with an easy rhythm and his cigarette holder cocked at a jaunty angle.

It was a pantomime they witnessed, a dumb show; the sound-proofed walls of the Call-Bulletin sealed them into a cocoon of silence.

The car picked up speed suddenly and shot past Karsh. When it was gone, swaying on its springs at the next intersection, Karsh lay in the gutter looking small and unreal, like a broken toy in a child’s make-believe of life and death. The silence made the tableau infinitely more terrible.

For an instant Terrell didn’t realize what had happened; he thought Karsh had thrown himself out of the car’s path. It wasn’t until he saw the fragments of glass gleaming in the sidewalk that he knew Karsh was dead; the bullets that killed him had also smashed the window in the restaurant.

Wheeler made a harsh, whimpering noise in his throat and struck the window before him with the flat of his hand. “Garbage collections will be improved. Taxes will be lowered a tenth of a mill. That’s reform, that’s progress.” His voice was shaking.

“Cellars is through,” someone said. “And Ticknor is all finished.” For some reason the comment struck Terrell as irrelevant.

He turned and sat down wearily at a desk. Karsh didn’t have to... This was the thought running through his mind. Except to prove — to prove what? That he was Mike Karsh. That he could make the gesture. No trip to South America with a tidy collection of blue-chip stocks. No screams of innocence. He had handled the story superbly — at last. The Night Extra was a writ of habeas corpus for Caldwell, an epitaph for Mike Karsh. He was the man I wanted him to be, Terrell thought. Finally. By a devious, preposterous route he had gone to glory.

Tuckerman brushed his shoulder with a fist as he walked back to the city desk, and Ollie Wheeler said, “I’d like to get drunk tonight. Anyone interested?”

“Sure,” Williams muttered. “Why not?”

The tears stung Terrell’s eyes. He had never felt this way in his life before — lost and hurt and alone. Later he would go out to the hospital, and that would be all right. The doctor had said to be good to her, and he wanted to do that very much. He wouldn’t feel alone then. But now he hurt all over.

Above him the illuminated second hand made its last circuit before deadline and the loud, warning bell rang shrilly. Everyone looked up at the clock. The forms were locked up, the presses were ready to start rolling.

Terrell folded his arms over the typewriter on the desk and put his head down wearily. When the bell stopped ringing, its echoes lingered in the long room for a few seconds, and then trembled slowly away into the silence.