Charm City (7 page)

"I want to stress to you that as
far as we're concerned, no crime has been committed here, no
errors of fact have been made. We're distressed because we
planned to run the Wynkowski piece on Sunday.
The…unscheduled publication has forced us to scramble for
another page one story on that date. It concerns us our procedures have
been…bypassed, creating this dilemma."

Thirty seconds into the discussion, and the
first lie had already clocked in. "Of course," Tess
agreed, adding from sheer perversity, "Isn't
computer tampering a federal crime? If you really want to find out who
did this, I think the FBI is better equipped to solve your
mystery."

The editors exchanged glances. Jack Sterling
began to speak, only to be cut off by Reganhart.

"As Randy said, we stand by the
story, although we won't be surprised if that asshole
Wynkowski files a lawsuit. Let me stress, he has no fucking grounds for
a libel suit. No errors have been brought to our attention to date, and
we think he meets the test for a public figure. He'd have to
prove actual malice. Still, we prefer the general public not know the
story ran by—ran early. It could erode readers'
confidence in our product."

Product
.
Colleen Reganhart had definitely gone over to the other side. When you
were a reporter, it was a story, an article, your life's
blood on the page. The higher you went in the organization, the more it
resembled canned ham.

"Of course, if you called the FBI,
or even the Baltimore police, you couldn't control what
happened to the information they uncovered," Tess said
innocently, as if thinking out loud. "If it got out the story
ran by mistake—excuse me, that the story ran
early
—and
there are any in accuracies in the story, Wink Wynkowski may be able to
prove actual malice, which is essential to a public figure who wants to
bring a libel suit. Certainly it would be an interesting test case,
probably the first of its kind."

Reganhart raised her eyebrows, dark,
straight lines that made her look as if she were constantly frowning.
"Perhaps. Our lawyers tell us he could prove negligence in
our security system. But that's
all
.
We stand by our story. In fact, we're quite proud of having
exposed this fucking charlatan." With her raven black hair,
bright blue suit, and salty tongue, she brought to mind the infamous
mynah bird who had been removed from the Baltimore zoo for cursing out
visitors.

"So why did you hold such a hot
story to begin with?" Tess asked. "I know you
don't have any real competition, but I think you would want
to run this story before Wynkowski signed a letter of intent with an
out-of-town basketball team. It would have been heartbreaking to report
that the city was getting a team, then announce the owner was never
going to survive the NBA's scrutiny. And what if the city had
gone ahead and started on the new arena, only to find out Wink was
already entertaining offers for his team?"

Mabry seemed to come into focus for a
second, like an autistic child enjoying a moment of clarity.
"News judgment is not a science, Miss Monaghan. Interests
must be balanced. Men do outrun their pasts. It was not our role to
judge Mr. Wynkowski's fitness as an NBA owner, or to shape
the decision the league will make. We do not wish to be
‘players' in that sense. We had to ask ourselves,
what is relevant? What is fair? Is it really necessary to reveal Mr.
Wynkowski's unpleasant but largely trivial past? In the event
we do so, shouldn't he have the right to know who his
accusers are? That, most of all, was the real issue here. It is
still
the issue that concerns me."

His piece said, Mabry retreated back into
his private world. Pfieffer hadn't spoken since his opening
remarks, but he was paying careful attention, watching the interplay
among his top editors with great interest. Colleen glared at Lionel,
while Jack Sterling doodled on a legal pad before him.

"So the story is fine and everyone
lives happily after—except, obviously, Wink. What am I
supposed to do?"

Again, Colleen Reganhart and Jack Sterling
began speaking at the same time. Again she cut him off.

"Tomorrow, our assistant managing
editors, Marvin Hailey and Guy Whitman, will walk you through the
normal procedures here and give you a list of people to interview. We
don't expect you to find the person responsible, but we
assume you can eliminate the majority of the people who were in the
building at the time."

"Can't your security
system at least narrow down who had left for the night?"

"Unfortunately, we put in a new
security system last fall, after the old system was, um, breached. The
new one breaks down all the time, and has been down for two weeks now,
forcing us to prop open the doors with trash cans. But I'm
sure you'll find most of our employees were home with their
families
the night this happened." Reganhart made
"families" sound more profane than any of the
expletives she had used. "All we ask is that you interview
all relevant newsroom employees, tape the conversations, then turn the
tapes and transcripts over to us. Anything you discover is the property
of the
Beacon-Light
. Your
contract also will have a confidentiality clause, forbidding you to
discuss this matter with other news organizations—or anyone
else. Your information belongs to us."

Tess wanted to ask about the movie rights,
but thought better of it. "Do you want me to work out of this
building, or my office in Mount Vernon?"

"We prefer you do everything on
site," Jack Sterling said, finally beating Colleen Reganhart
to the punch. "You'll have a cubicle on the third
floor, where the old presses used to be. For the duration of your
contract, you'll also have a security card and a temporary
ID, so you can come and go as you please."

"What about the union?
Won't it keep the employees from cooperating with me?

Colleen Reganhart stood. "Let us
worry about the union."

Pfieffer jumped to his feet, hands on his
hips as if ready to lead a cheer—make that a
yell—while Sterling stretched, audibly cracking his lower
back. Only Lionel Mabry continued to sit, staring out the window at a
brown-breasted pigeon on the ledge. Even by a pigeon's
standards, it was a mangy thing, vicious and cruel looking.

"What a pretty, pretty
bird," Lionel cooed with pleasure.
"Spring's first robin."

S
our
and disoriented, Tess left the
Beacon-Light
feeling as if she had spent an hour trapped with a querulous family in
some run-down boardwalk fun house. She made her way carefully down
Saratoga Street, her usually quick stride slowed by the unfamiliar high
heels.

"S' cuse me, miss. You
know the way to the hospital?"

An old car had pulled alongside her, a
bright blue AMC Hornet that had to be at least twenty years old, one of
those lumpy little seventies cars like the Pacer, which had seemed good
ideas at the time. The man calling out to her was in the passenger
seat. Burly and bearded, he wore dark glasses that hid most of his
face, despite the overcast skies.

"There's more than
one," she said, taking care to make sure she wasn't
within grabbing distance, a street-smart practice drilled into her
years ago by a paranoid mother. "Is it an emergency, or are
you looking for a particular one?"

The man twisted his head to confer with
someone in the backseat, someone Tess couldn't see, then
turned back to her.

"It's a Catholic
one," he said. "That help?"

"You must mean Mercy. Go straight
and you'll see it in about four blocks."

Again, a hushed conference with the
backseat. "Naw, that's not it. The one we want is
named for some lady. Agatha, Annie, somethin' like
that."

"St. Agnes?"

"Yeah. We got a friend there. Got
beat up real bad. Word is, he might not make it."

"I'm sorry to hear
that," Tess said, taking a step back and casing the street
quickly. There were a couple of stores along this strip and a one-way
alley she could dart down. She'd kick her shoes off if she
had to, make a run for it in her stocking feet.

"Yeah, poor old Joe is at
death's door, the doctors say."
Then
why was he grinning so broadly
?

"Joe?"

"Joe Johnson. Real good guy. You
know him? Small world and all, like they say."

"No, but I can help you find St.
Agnes. It's way out in the suburbs. Take the next right, go
up about two blocks, and then make a left on Franklin, taking it out to
the Beltway, then take the Beltway to I-95 South and get off at
Jessup." If they followed her directions, they'd go
wildly out of their way and end up either at the State Police barracks
or one of the state prisons. She had a feeling either destination would
be appropriate.

"Thanks. Hey, can we drop you off
wherever you're going?" The back door opened, but
not wide enough for Tess to see anyone in the backseat.

"No! I mean—I
wouldn't want to take you out of your way. I'm sure
you're anxious to see…Joe."

"Oh yeah, we're real
anxious." The man smiled at her, and the car roared off. She
watched them head north as she had instructed, then made her way to the
closest pay phone. Spike was in intensive care, the nurse reminded her.
No one but family was allowed to visit, and no one but Kitty and her
parents had tried.

Tess wasn't reassured. A call to
admitting told her what she suspected: no Joe Johnson had entered St.
Agnes this week.

Adrenaline pumping, she quickly thought of
someone who could help her out. And best of all, she could work out
while consulting him.

Durban Knox had owned his eponymous boxing
gym in East Baltimore for almost forty years. When the neighborhood had
been infiltrated by the upwardly mobile in the 1980s, he had tried to
cash in by adding fancy weight machines, Lifecycles, Stairmasters, and
Star-Track treadmills. The club had caught on, but not because of the
new equipment. Instead, doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers came to box
alongside the regulars, usually within days of some newspaper article
announcing that boxing was the newest workout for doctors, lawyers, and
stockbrokers. The most recent version of the boxing-is-back story had
professional women taking up the sweet science. Tess was not tempted.
With everyone else in the ring, she enjoyed almost exclusive title to
most of the non-boxing equipment. And as Spike's niece, she
also enjoyed the almost exclusive protection of Durban, who made sure
the male patrons left her alone. Even if she had wanted one to talk to
her, he wouldn't have dared, not under Durban's
watchful eye.

But now it was Spike who needed protection.

"Yeah, I know some guys who could
keep an eye on him," Durban said, after hearing about
Tess's encounter on Saratoga Street. "Better do it
that way, instead of going to the cops. Spike wakes up and finds some
cop outside his hospital room door, he ain't going to be very
happy with you."

"I don't know how
I'll pay them—"

Durban flapped his hand in front of his face
as if he smelled something bad. "We'll talk about
that when Spike wakes up. Now, stop wasting time and get cracking.
Tyner told me you gotta lot of work to do to get ready for the rowing
season. I'm suppose to make sure you don't dog
it."

Although it was above freezing, warm enough
to run outdoors, Tess opted for five miles on the treadmill, jogging
until she had the sweet, rubbery feeling only an overheated gym can
provide. Imagining Colleen Reganhart's bright blue body
beneath her feet, she pounded out her last mile in under 7:30, the
treadmill's top speed.

"I'm watching you,
Tess," Durban called across the room, pointing to the clock.
"Seventy-five minutes on aerobics, Tyner said. He also says
you gotta do more weight work."

"Fine, I'll do the bike.
I've got
Don Quixote
to keep me company."

"Yeah, well get him to spot you on
some bench presses, too. Tyner
said
."

Tess settled on the stationary bike with her
book propped on the control panel. After a few minutes, she barely
noticed the gym's sounds around her—the throb of
the speed ball, the duller tones of the heavy bag, the muted thuds of
colliding bodies. In its own way, Durban's was a serene
place. She always felt safe here.

A sudden breeze swept through the room,
changing the pressure like a cold front coming through town. An
entourage had arrived, and the bright white light of a television
camera was capturing its every movement. What was the fuss? Durban had
trained a few moderately successful boxers in his time, but no one who
could generate this kind of heat. Tess saw the silver-haired anchor
from Monday night's rally, unnaturally pink in his makeup,
schmoozing with Paul Tucci, still walking stiff-legged but no longer
using a cane. The Tucci money seemed to promote that kind of reflexive
brown-nosing. The rest of the group looked like bankers and Chamber of
Commerce types, blue suited and bland.

The suits parted and Wink Wynkowski emerged,
shockingly scrawny in a gray wool singlet.
Interesting
costume for someone with legs the size of my forearms
,
Tess thought. Wink hadn't gained weight as he aged, but he
also hadn't put on any muscle, or bothered to expose his
narrow chest and stringy arms to the sun. With his tanned face and pale
body, he appeared to be wearing a white turtleneck and stockings
beneath the skimpy one-piece.

"I'm going to work out,
get a little glow going," Wink told the anchorman.
"I work out every day, I tell you that? Wait,
here's a line for you: ‘Wink Wynkowski might be
sweating at the gym, but he's not sweating the bullshit
charges against him in the
Beacon-Light
.'
Pretty good, huh? I mean, I know you can't use the profanity,
but I think that's got a nice feel to it."

"I write my own
copy—" the anchor began. Wink cut him off with a
flap of his hand.

"Go ahead and use it.
I'm not going to sue
you
.
Besides, you won't think of anything better. Now, what do you
want to do, get some shots of me moving, maybe talking to the other
guys here?" Wink was a natural boss, directing the television
segment as if it were a subsidiary of Montrose Enterprises.
"You know, these are just regular guys, black and white,
working out together, the kind of people who really want to see a
basketball team in their hometown. How's the light in here? A
little harsh, don't you think? When I started my chain of
workout places, the first thing we did was move away from this
fluorescent crap. People want to look good when they're
working out. I mean, that's the point, right? If you look
good in the gym, maybe you won't have to go any farther to
find someone to cozy up to, she'll be right there. But Durban
and I go way back, so I wanted to drop by. I fought Golden Gloves when
I was seventeen, I ever tell you that? Welterweight. Won, too. You can
look it up."

Tess caught Durban's eye. He shook
his head, mouthing "Glass jaw."

"You going to get in the ring
today, Wink?" That was the oh-so-chummy cameraman.

Wink looked around the room. His eyes rested
on Tess for no more than a second, then moved on quickly, taking in the
rest of the equipment.

"The bike. I think I'll
warm up on the bike." He hopped up on the Lifecycle next to
Tess, only to find the seat was too high: his height, what there was of
it, was in his torso. Debonairly as possible, he set the seat three
notches lower, and started pedaling.

"Which program you
using?" he asked Tess, leaning over to see the readout on her
machine, which happened to be covered by her book. His breathing
sounded ragged, for he had started out much too quickly.

"Manual. Level six." She
knew the drill: short, curt answers, no questions, no eye contact. This
method was the best way to kill a conversation at the gym, or anywhere
else, for that matter.

"I do the random program. Much
more challenging."

Honor dictated a reply. "Not
really. You have some tough intervals, but you also have a lot of
downhill stretches. Manual is flat and constant. At this level,
I'll burn about 750 calories in an hour. You'll be
lucky to burn 450—assuming you can last an hour."

The cameraman, who had been creeping across
the room, turned the light on full in Tess's eyes and began
filming this exchange. Reflexively, she held up
Don
Quixote
, shielding her face.

"Excuse me, but I'd
prefer not to be on the evening news." Her voice, although
somewhat muffled by Cervantes, was nevertheless distinct.
"This is private property, and I didn't give you
permission to photograph me."

"Oh, you're not in the
shot," the cameraman lied smoothly. He probably assumed
everyone secretly yearned to be on television. "I'm
just shooting Mr. Wynkowski here for a story we're doing on
him. It's a tight shot. No one will see you."

"What about sound? Don't
you have a built-in microphone, which picks up everything I
say?"

"Everyone has those now.
Don't say anything, and you'll be okay."

Tess lowered the book to chin level, stared
into the camera, and recited in a bored monotone, "Fuck.
Shit. Bite me. Eat me. Piss on you, asshole." Then she smiled
sweetly. "Did you get that?"

Wink laughed so hard he almost fell off the
bike, while the cameraman flushed with anger and turned his camera off.

"We could still use it, you
know," he said. "We could use that part of the
video as B-roll if we really wanted to, putting in a
voice-over."

"You could," Tess
agreed. "But when you look at the tape, you'll see
I was giving you the finger the whole time, on both sides of my
book." She demonstrated. "I don't think
that would look very nice on the station that bills its six
o'clock program as ‘Good news for the whole
family.'"

Irritated, she was cycling faster and faster
without realizing it, while Wink had given up any pretense of working
out. He leaned toward her again, as if they were co-conspirators. Just
two private citizens, ambushed by the local television station. He
waved his entourage away, Paul Tucci practically leering at them as he
retreated. Wink then dropped his voice, so Tess had to move her head
closer to his in order to hear.

"You're pretty ballsy. I
find that attractive in a woman."

"I don't want to infer
too much from what I'm sure is an innocent, heartfelt
compliment, but aren't you married?"

"I
am
married," he confided, "but my wife lets me
date."

"What do you let her do?"

"Have babies and buy
things."

Although she was not belligerent by nature,
Tess briefly considered punching him. She was sure one well-placed sock
would knock him from his perch on the bike, maybe even knock out a few
teeth if he fell against the pedals on the way down. There was a
perverse fairness to hitting someone who hit on you. Wink Wynkowski,
reared on the playgrounds of Southwest Baltimore, would understand a
good solid thump to the jaw.

But hitting him was just a fantasy, and a
stupid one at that. Tess opted to hide behind her book, rereading the
scene in which the muleteers beat Sancho Panza.

"You'd rather read a
book than talk to me?"

"I'd rather be set on
fire than talk to you."

Wink dismounted, grabbing her left arm as if
to balance himself, although his footing seemed sure enough. She
tensed, hoping he could feel the clenched bicep, the long tricep
beneath it.

"I guess you don't want
to watch basketball games from the floor. It's a good way to
meet good earners. Unfortunately, we tend to be married, us rich
guys."

"From what I read in the papers,
you're
not so rich."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll
get richer, courtesy of the
Beacon-Light
.
Maybe I'll have some of the Pfieffer family's
millions before this is all over."

"Are you saying the newspaper
libeled you? I'd like to hear more about that. I'm
sure a lot of people would." The
Blight
editors hadn't asked her to probe Wynkowski's legal
intentions, but it couldn't hurt.