Starvation Lake

sixteen

So have you told them yet?” Joanie said. We had finished the beers and most of the nacho chips while I was telling my story.

“Told them what?” I said.

“Told them to go to hell, what else?”

She wasn’t letting me off the hook. “I haven’t told them anything yet.”

“Look, Gus. Maybe you shouldn’t have stolen the voice mails. But what’s done is done. You’re still here, doing what you do. Don’t mess that up. There’s no wiggle room here. You can’t give up a source. Period. Did the Times file that thing Superior wanted, saying your stories were bull?”

“Yep.”

“Nobody noticed?”

“The court sealed it. But it’ll be public when the ruling comes.”

“Which is when?”

“Superior’s lawyers are expecting it Friday. I have until Tuesday to decide. If I give up my source, they settle with the Hanovers and the appeal is moot. If I don’t, and Superior wins the appeal, the Hanovers are screwed.”

“The Hanovers are not your responsibility, Gus.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No. You cannot-wait, hold on.” She yanked a pager out from under her sweater and peered into it. “Oh, gosh, I gotta go,” she said. I watched as she stuffed notebooks and papers into her backpack and threw on her coat.

“Where are you going?” I said.

She ignored that. “Will you be in early tomorrow?”

“Probably. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ll do the Dingus press conference?”

“Yeah.”

“The zoning board’s at two.”

She was almost out the door. “Oh, right. I wish I could do that, too, but looks like I’ll be wrapped up with the cops.”

I heard the bells jangle on the front door. I’d started collecting the empties when I heard the bells again. Joanie reappeared, breathless. “I got it,” she said. “‘Sound Off: Do you believe there are underwater tunnels in the lake?’”

“Done,” I said.

I left Tillie a note about the Sound Off question and went up the inside stairs to my apartment. As I reached the top I heard a voice outside. Through the curtains I saw Soupy sitting on the landing, his head in his hands, a bottle between his snow-slickened boots. His jacket was unbuttoned. He was shaking his head and muttering something. I stepped outside.

“Soup?”

He didn’t look up. He just kept shaking his head. “What the fuck, Trap?” he was saying. “What the fuck you doing to me?”

“Soupy, what are you talking about?”

“You fucking know, Trap.” He was drunker than he’d sounded when he called from his truck. Barely two fingers of whiskey remained in his bottle of Old Crow. I reached for it, but he pulled it away.

“The Crow, man,” Soupy said. He took a swallow. “All I got. You want that, too?”

“Come on in, Soup.”

“I’m fine, see?” he slurred. Then he tilted his head back and squawked like a crow: “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

“You’re going to wake the whole town. Come in, please.”

He tore off his hat and swiveled his head up toward me, his face a rubbery grin. “Quite a night,” he said. “Two beers-make that three, three beers-and a shot with my dear old pal.”

“Old pal who?”

“Teddy boy.” He clamped an unsteady hand on the railing and wobbled to his feet. The whiskey sloshed around in the bottle. “My old chum.”

Soupy took a slug and offered me the bottle. I reached again, but he yanked it back again, snickering. “I don’t play that,” he said. “So, so, so…Tell me, Trap. What the…what the hell were you doing in my office?”

So he really had been with Boynton, I thought. “Looking for you,” I said, almost telling the truth. “It’s a mess in there. Your dad wouldn’t be happy.”

“Now there’s a goddamn news flash-my dad wouldn’t be happy.”

I thought then to ask him about the boat receipt Dingus had given me, but he was in no shape to answer. “Why don’t you go home? Just walk. I’ll bring your truck over tomorrow.”

“Fuck the truck,” he said, turning back to me. I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. Soupy was prone to drunken crying jags, but I knew there was something real beneath these tears because he was trying to hold them back.

“Jesus, Soup, what’s the matter?”

He lifted the bottle to his lips, stopping just before he drank. “Teddy boy,” he said. “He says you got a story about Coach.”

“Yeah?”

“Leave it alone, Trap. Leave it alone. Ain’t nothing good can come.”

That’s it? I thought. That’s what has him so upset? The bullet hole story must have been getting around. But why would Soupy care? After our last defeat, he and Coach hadn’t gotten along so well either.

“Dingus is holding a press conference. I can’t help what the cops find out.”

He let the bottle fall to his side. He looked dumbfounded. “Press conference? Fuck. Not that. Dingus knows shit.”

“Well, what then?”

“Canada. You know.”

“No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”

“Don’t mess with me.” He pointed the bottle at me. “I can see your horseshit a mile away. Canada. Coach had a problem?”

Did he mean the gap in Coach’s past? Had Boynton told him? How could Boynton have known? Unless Joanie told Boynton. She’d gone to him for an interview. Maybe he’d ended up interviewing her. Now Boynton was playing Soupy as he’d played her. But with what? Unless Boynton knew something about that missing year that Joanie and I didn’t. There had to be something more.

“No,” I said. “We don’t have any story about Canada. Boynton’s screwing with your head. Anyway, who cares what the hell Coach did in Canada thirty years ago?”

Soupy’s lower lip trembled.

“Hey,” I said, taking a step closer. “What is going on?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“What is it?”

“My only friend.”

“Soupy. Goddamn it.”

He was shaking his head, choking back sobs. “I don’t know a fucking thing,” he said. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off and started down the stairs. He knew something, all right, but he wasn’t trusting me tonight.

“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you,” I said.

Halfway down the steps, he stopped and turned and brandished the bottle. “See this piss-water? There’s only one whiskey worse. You know which?”

I had no idea.

He yelled it. “Gentleman-fucking-Jack!” Then he reared back and flung the bottle over his truck into South Street, where it burst on a chunk of ice.

I had to blink back cigarette smoke when I walked into the Pilot on Monday morning. Tillie didn’t look up from the paper she stood reading at the front counter. It was barely nine and her ashtray was already jammed with butts.

“Good morning,” I said. “Did you see the TV truck out front of Audrey’s?”

Tillie didn’t answer. She leaned on an arm, obscuring her face. Something was bugging her. I grabbed a Pilot off the counter and slid a quarter next to Tillie’s elbow.

“Kerasopoulos called,” she said.

“Who?”

“At corporate. He didn’t sound happy.”

Joanie was at her desk, still in her wool cap and jacket, sifting through what looked like a stack of receipts. I spread the Pilot out on my desk. Joanie’s main story, “Bullet Hole Found in Late Coach’s Snowmobile,” and the sidebar, “Blackburn Remembered as Strategist, Town Booster,” filled the entire top half of the page. It was a nice display, with photos of the scene of Blackburn’s accident, Blackburn hoisting a trophy, Blackburn cutting the ribbon at a pizza parlor. There was also that mug shot of Blackburn, the one that hung at Enright’s, superimposed over the inscription “John D. ‘Jack’ Blackburn. Jan. 19, 1934-March 13, 1988.” I wanted to savor it for a minute, feel like I’d accomplished something. But I had to call Kerasopoulos.

“Maybe I’ll head over to the cop shop,” Joanie said. “I was going to finally do my expenses, but that can wait.”

That reminded me. I had been meaning to ask her about a phone bill. I fished through the pile on my desk. As I looked, I told her, “Listen, once Dingus’s press conference gets going, just sit there and be quiet. Unless there’s something you absolutely can’t get from Dingus or one of the other cops on your own, don’t ask any questions. You’ll just be helping the TV people.” I also didn’t want Dingus thinking I’d told her anything about his visit to my apartment.

“Huh. Hadn’t thought of that. Excuse me.” She went into the bathroom.

I found the phone bill stuck to the back of the Bud Popke press release. It listed a dozen or so calls to the 202 and 617 area codes, and one for $57.28 to the 703 code. Joanie had called Washington, D.C., and Boston for the Sasquatch story, and I knew from my time covering the auto safety regulators that 703 was in Virginia near D.C. According to NLP Newspapers policy, because that single call was for more than $50, I was supposed to inquire about the purpose of the call and tell corporate. If I didn’t, the people in finance would. They lived for it.

The faucet splashed on in the bathroom. I stared at the bill. If I didn’t report the reason for the $57.28 phone call, would that jeopardize my chance at the executive editor’s job? I couldn’t believe I was worrying about this crap. The hell with it, I thought, and tossed the bill back on my desk.

Tillie appeared, holding a scrap of notepaper in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. Now that I could clearly see her face, I could tell she’d been crying. “Is this a joke or something?” she said, waving the paper around.

“What?”

“This Sound Off question. The tunnels?”

Joanie emerged from the bathroom. “No joke,” I told Tillie. “It’s news. Use it. And keep the smoke out there, please.”

She disappeared.

“What’s her problem?” Joanie said.

“No idea.” I picked up the dossier on Soupy’s marina troubles and held it up for her. My phone rang. “Did you happen to borrow this?”

Her face said yes, but before she could say anything, Tillie ducked in again. “Gus. Scott Trenton?”

Joanie turned for the door, grinning. “Not saving you this time.”

I picked up the phone and punched the blinking light. “Hello, Scott.”

“You don’t return calls.”

“When I don’t have anything to say, no.”

I heard the wheels on Trenton’s swivel chair squeak. “We have a meeting tomorrow,” he said.

“Who’s we?”

“Me and you and a bunch of lawyers. Superior. All-Media. The Hanovers. Noon.”

“Scott, I have a paper to-”

“Listen to me, Gus. You will be in Detroit tomorrow for this meeting or you won’t have me as your attorney anymore. You don’t have to say a word, but I want you there to show good faith, one way or the other.”

“The Hanovers are coming? Doug and Julia?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you ask me first?”

Trenton let the silence answer.

“OK,” I said. “What’s the agenda?”

“This is our last shot at getting Superior off your back. We’re going to tell them whether you’re going to give up your source or not. It would be good if you could tell me your intentions now so I can position us for a decent outcome.”

Now I let the silence speak.

“Gus?” Trenton said.

“I don’t know yet. Sorry.”

“Gus-”

“Most reporters would go to their grave before they burned a source.”

“We’ve been through this. I appreciate your good intentions and your”-he paused-“integrity. But they’re superfluous here, friend. This guy, or woman, or whoever your source is, burned you. Your obligation to protect their identity is frigging kaput.”

“That’s what you say.”

“That’s what I say.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“You’re not going to give me an answer now?”

“Unless you want one you don’t want to hear.”

“Let me be clear, Gus. If you don’t give them an answer tomorrow, or you give them the wrong answer, count on Superior seeking criminal charges against you. Believe me, they can make that happen. The Hanovers won’t be happy either. They want that settlement set in concrete before the appellate court rules.”

I didn’t care about Superior. The Hanovers were a different matter. “Where’s the damn meeting?”

“Superior’s law firm, Eagan, MacDonald amp; Browne. Comerica Building. Are you going to be there?”

“We’ll see.”

“You know,” he said, “all you hockey players are nuts. You’re a goalie, right? My partner had a goalie once for a client. Just a kid. He and the other goalie on his team were butting heads in the locker room. Like a couple of frigging rams, lining up in nothing but goalie masks and jock straps and running at each other with their heads down. Then, wham! The one breaks his nose pretty bad and his parents have us sue the frigging company that made the mask. Can you believe that?”

“Did you win?”

“Nah. Settled.”

The morning had turned bad fast. I dialed our corporate office, got a machine, hit zero, got an operator, and asked for Jim Kerasopoulos.

“Yes,” the lawyer’s voice boomed out of the phone. He was on the speaker.

“Gus Carpenter, Jim.”

“Gus.” He picked up the handset. “How’s the snowmobiling?”

What snowmobiling? I thought. He was the one who’d been snowmobiling. I remembered the egg pie I didn’t get to eat and felt suddenly hungry.

“Um, fine. You called?”

“I did. I would really have appreciated a heads-up on the paper this morning.”

“How’s that?”

I pictured him stuffed into a black leather chair behind a pin-neat desk with a brass letter opener resting atop a stack of freshly opened letters, behind his head a framed etching of mallard ducks landing on a pond.

“I thought we had a good talk about communication between you and us folks here at the mother ship,” he said. “Then I pick up the Pilot this morning and see murder splashed all over the front page.”

“There’s no-”

“All over the page.”

“Jim, the word ‘murder’ does not appear.”

“Gus, if you’re going to write about murders in small towns and quote anonymous sources, you’re going to let us know before you do.”

“We shouldn’t have run the story?”

“Gus?” A squeak made its way into his foghorn. “You’re really disappointing me here, especially after Henry’s been singing your praises. What I’m asking is pretty simple, sir. I want to know when any of our editors is running a story that could stir up the masses, or people who might want to sue us, especially if we have zero sources confirming it on the record.”

“I’m confident in the story, Jim.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “That’s nice that you’re confident, but frankly, Gus, in your case, that doesn’t cut it. You have a past here, no? We’re trying to accommodate you and your supporters here, and you’re not meeting us halfway.”

At last, the truth. Actually, all Kerasopoulos knew about my past was that I’d had an unfriendly parting with the Times. Depending on what I did in Detroit the next morning, he might know a lot more. I wanted to tell him my “past” had nothing to do with the Blackburn story, that this was just Newspapering 101 and we’d done our jobs. But I was worried that I’d gotten Henry into trouble too. So I swallowed hard.

“Jim,” I said. “I understand. I wish I’d given you a call. It was hectic yesterday. Sorry.”

“A call would’ve gone a long way, Gus. I’m not saying we would or wouldn’t have run the story. Maybe we would’ve waited for the press conference. Excuse me.”

He put me on hold. I decided it probably wasn’t the best time to ask about the Sasquatch story. My other line started blinking. I couldn’t risk cutting off Kerasopoulos, so I let Tillie get it. Kerasopoulos came back on, his voice calm with distraction. “OK, I’ve got to hop. I hope we understand each other.”

Fleming picked up on the first ring. “Mr. Carpenter. Thank you for your message yesterday. It turns out that that matter has disposed of itself.”

“Pardon?”

“We are still speaking off the record.”

“Which matter?”

“Thank you. The matter we discussed in your office the other day with my client, Mr. Boynton.”

Oh, no, I thought, thinking he’d given the dossier to Channel Eight. “I’m too late?” I said.

“Indeed, today was our deadline, but what I’m telling you now is, the issue is moot. We’ve done nothing with the documents we showed you, nor do we plan to.”

“You don’t want a story?”

“I’m running late for a conference call. Apologies.”