The Henderson Equation (45 page)

"You're crazy, Harold," Nick said finally.

"Twenty-five thousand."

"You're crazy," Nick repeated.

Gunderstein smiled thinly, his meaning unmistakable. The
story is everything, the means to acquire it merely incidental. They had been
down that road before.

"You shouldn't have done that, Harold." He knew
before it was uttered that it was an unworthy response, a naïve admonishment.
"If it ever gets out..." He had heard that before as well. Indeed, he
remembered having said it in just that way, fear and outrage curdling his guts
while the mind sought adequate rationalizations.

"The story is everything, worth anything, the ethics
of the payment directly proportional to the necessity of the story's being
told," someone had said. Had it been Gunderstein? Or Myra? Or himself?

"Is it really worth that much to you, Harold?"
Nick asked.

"I guess it speaks for itself, Mr. Gold,"
Gunderstein said. "It simply must be told."

Nick looked dumbly at the pages before him, despite himself
starting to read, then checking himself after the lead paragraph:

"A former CIA operative has accused Senator Burton
Henderson, the Democratic front-runner for the presidential nomination, of
being the principal engineer of the assassination of Diem of South Viet Nam in
1963," the paragraph began.

"Right out on the limb," Nick said.

"The limb will hold."

"And the concept of two sources?" Nick could
barely dislodge the words.

"There aren't two sources, Mr. Gold. The Dallas and
Los Angeles bullets took care of that."

"And Allison? The man's a drunk and frightened. He'll
crack when the others start pressing him for motivation. He'll be sure to
mention the money."

"It'll be too late by then. The story will be out.
Besides, I doubt if he'll mention it."

"And if he does?"

Gunderstein shrugged.

"Sooner or later it all comes out."

They had gone over that ground, too. Who would finally be
the first to tell the story of the quarter of a million? What will it matter
then? The President was gone now. History had marched on. Was it he who argued
for the price of the truth?

"In the end, Allison finally agreed with you,"
Gunderstein said. "He'd be safer with the story up front than hiding in
the shadows, a potential victim."

McCarthy's words, too, cascaded downward from the vault of
time. "Find out," he had said. "Whatever it costs, find
out." It had echoed and reechoed in space and time.

"People will think this whole business of democracy is
one gigantic license to steal, a fraud. Aside from Henderson's career, have you
assessed the impact on this country?" The words sounded like his, familiar
in the delivery, but their integrity seemed suspect, even to him. He wondered
if Gunderstein could detect the hollowness, the false ring.

"It doesn't matter," Gunderstein said quietly.
"That's not for us to contemplate."

"Only the story?"

"Only the story."

"And if I choose not to run it?"

"You can't," Gunderstein said.

"But I can," Nick protested.

"Not in good conscience."

"Good conscience?"

Gunderstein nodded. Was it an implied threat? He would
never know unless he picked up the gauntlet.

What had all this to do with conscience? he wondered.
Self-interest was the paramount reason for all things, self-protection. It was
in the rhythm of the evolutionary process, a part of the figurative food chain.
The powerful eat the less powerful, while each transforms, developing new
coping skills. They create new kinds of power, new life forms, in which the
more powerful eat the less powerful and so on. He hung now by a thin thread
over the razor's edge.

"You could always take the story to the
New York
Times,"
Nick noted, hoping that the suggestion might take hold. It was
not Henderson who concerned him. Henderson, the confirming other source.

"I could."

Would Gunderstein see a story in that, the refusal of the
Chronicle
to carry the story, the implied cover-up, that abominable word, by the world's
most powerful newspaper? And then would come the story of the quarter of a
million, the avalanche of names, payoffs, a whole new Pandora's box. Surely the
Chronicle
would respond with denials, would find, in the musty attic of
the
Times,
something to prick the balloon of their unbearable
self-righteousness. Then the two great newspapers would lock themselves in
mortal combat, draining their energy in a great media war--an unlikely outcome.
It was an axiom of the media never to attack a fellow purveyor, at least on a
peer level. Economics, the old concept of property ownership, dictated as
always the extent of media reach. He, Nick, might stand in the doorway, but in
the end, as he now knew, Myra held the key. Okay, Charlie, he asked, the
futility of the question heavy in his mind, what do we do now? Go crazy? Take
the bullet? Or walk away, the prospect of a living death?

"I should submit it to the legal eagles."

"There's no libel here, Mr. Gold, not on our
part."

"When did you start to practice law?"

"Between us we know more libel law than a brace of
lawyers." It was the only visible sign of cockiness he had ever revealed.
"A good reporter understands libel by instinct, because a good reporter
only writes the truth."

"That is the biggest crock of shit I've heard all
morning," he said, knowing it was the truth, knowing that there was no
libel in the story. By now, he could only view himself with disgust, his own
cowardice galling. But Gunderstein stood his ground, humility returning, the
face impassive again, although the myopic eyes seemed to squint less and the
red circles around the pimples had diminished.

"Have you shown this story to anyone?"

"No."

"Martha Gates?"

"No." His eyes had narrowed at the mention of her
name. Had she told him? The outrage of it, he thought, the invocation of moral
principles.

"I need more time, Harold." He had framed the
words carefully, more in tone than in meaning. It was necessary not to appear
as if he were pleading. There was always the chance that Myra would understand,
that reason could prevail. He searched for signs of her pragmatism, found many,
invested her with her father's intelligence and balance.

"Give me time," he said, as if it were
Gunderstein's to grant. He could feel Gunderstein's awkwardness in the face of
the plea. He was, after all, the editor, not Gunderstein. The younger man stood
awkwardly before him, shifting his weight clumsily from one foot to the other.
Physically, he seemed so bland, almost frail. Perhaps in his very lack of
formidability lay the key to his character.

"Let me read the story carefully," he whispered,
reaching for the telephone, his ultimate technique of dismissal. Gunderstein
watched him for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back to the city room.
When he had crossed the room and sat down at his desk, Nick reached for the
story, refolded it, and put it in the inside coat pocket of his jacket. It was
then that he called Jennie, the words belched like commands as she acknowledged
them with glum assents.

Putting on his jacket and fur-lined leisure coat, which
barely reached to the end of his jacket, he walked quickly from the city room,
his eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Gunderstein's eyes,
which he knew followed him. His coat testified to his destination. Let him draw
his own implications.

He could see her emerging from the cab, probing carefully
for the curb, with panted legs. She was dressed in her own special version of
what was expected for the game, a high-crowned fur hat, teddy bear jacket, a
blaze of orange which he knew would match her lipstick. Seeing him, she moved
gracefully, recalling for him the special moments of tenderness. He could have
been quite content in his ignorance, he thought.

"Hail to the Redskins," she said, falling in step
beside him as they passed through the door to the special entrance. In the
elevator they huddled in the crowd, light-hearted and bantering, as the cab
moved slowly upward.

Faces turned as they arrived at the private suite behind
the owner's box. The elite were crowded around the bar, sipping Bloody Marys,
the dominant personality Myra Pell, slender and carefully groomed in a beige
pants outfit. She had been talking with Swopes, elegantly suited in a camel's
hair sport jacket and soft red shirt. Nick noted the familiar faces, the Chief
Justice of the Supreme Court, Senator Jack Martin, a long-shot presidential
hopeful, Barry Halloran, the President's Press Secretary, the swinging
Ambassador from Iran, who sported a lovely wide-eyed showgirl type, clutching
at his arm. Ambruster, the head of the CIA, his breakfast companion of a few
days ago, Mrs. Hoffritz, the obligatory rich dowager hostess, recently widowed,
already slightly smashed, the ex-vice presidential candidate Richard Melton,
Melissa Haversham, the actress of the current hit television show, daintily
sipping champagne, John Packard, the oil lobbyist, tall and stately with a
deeply flushed face, and his pouchy wife, bloated by too many cocktails and
canapes, both of them clutching large glassfuls of bourbon on the rocks. But it
was the blue eyes of Burton Henderson that magnetized him for a moment,
matching perfectly the blue sky that peeked in the distance. He smiled broadly
into Nick's face as his wife worked at keeping her eyes averted, the mantle of
her past humiliation still visible. Behind him was Biff Larson, the Secretary
of the Treasury, rakish in a shiny leather jacket. Nick felt his hand being
pumped and grasped as Myra moved between him and Jennie holding each by the
upper arm, the attentive hostess.

"And here's Jennie," she said. Without seeing it,
he could assume that there was a special squeeze on Jennie's arm, a knowing
signal.

"So you're the acid wit at the end of the
by-line," the Chief Justice said, grabbing her hand. Jennie's eyes flashed
furtively at Nick.

"Pungent but attractive," the dowager said.

"It's me," Richard Melton said, grabbing Nick's
hand. "The old professional ex-pol."

"I wondered where I saw you before," Jennie said
brightly. Once in the crowd, her spirits had perked up. Perhaps it had been
Myra's caress that stimulated her. She took a Bloody Mary from the bar.

"I'm great copy for the 'What Ever Happened to'
columns."

"What ever did happen to you?" Jennie asked.

"I joined the Mafia."

"Well, at least you didn't change your
occupation."

The Secretary of the Treasury laughed heartily, clinking
glasses with John Packard.

"To the energy crisis, Biff."

"Long may you profit by it, you bastard," the
Secretary of the Treasury said. Nick could not be certain if sarcasm was
intended.

"Well, is that broken-down geriatrics ward going to
win today?" Barry Halloran asked Swopes.

"Ask Melissa," he said. "She's just come up
from giving the boys a pep talk."

"It was marvelous. I've never been in a football
locker room before. I've never seen so much manhood in one place," she
said winking.

"I'd say you must have inspired them," the
Iranian Ambassador said in his charming continental accent. The actress wiggled
her hips playfully.

Beyond their chatter, Nick could hear the sound of the
crowd, cheering the men who practiced on the field. Henderson came over and
pumped Nick's hand. He was relaxed and happy, oblivious to the ticket of his
demise that bulged heavily in the inner pocket of Nick's jacket.

"A great day for a ball game," he said.

"Just great," Nick answered with some effort, the
words ejaculated with more force than was required.

"I'm really happy that you fellows have gotten
together." It was Myra's voice, quietly intruding.

"You've got one helluva guy here, Myra,"
Henderson said, the implied possessiveness not lost on him.

We're pretty proud of him ourselves."

"I understand that you were Charlie Pell's best
friend," he said, his blue eyes flitting between his and Myra's face. It
was one of those unexpected remarks. He could actually feel Myra blanch.

"Buddies, those two," she said cheerfully.

"I've heard fantastic things about him,"
Henderson continued. How could he know he was treading on what was painfully
private?

Myra moved away, heading for Ambruster. They began to talk
in hushed whispers.

"I'm sure he feels a bit relieved as well,"
Henderson said, his smile vanishing. "He's taken so much flak lately he
must feel like a piece of Swiss cheese."

"Well at least he's not running for anything,"
Nick said. Henderson frowned briefly, then smiled.

"That's one saving grace," he said smugly,
reaching out to catch Jennie's hand.

"Now here is one sharp kid," he said.

"That was quite a do the other night," she said.
Nick watched her aim her sense of womanness. It was her instinct not to miss a
chance at latching on to power.

"I looked over your future home last night," she
said.

"So I read."

"It's real campy. Loved the backyard. And I do hope
you change the cook."

"Definitely." He waved his wife over. Moving
reluctantly, she sipped her drink as she came toward them.

"Jennie says we should change the cook in the new
place." Nick noted that Mrs. Henderson's eyes seemed weary, glazed.

"His mousse was positively inedible."

"Well have to look into it," she said, unable to
carry off the required bantering response. Henderson looked at her sharply,
disapprovingly. Nick could sense the tension between them. She upended her
glass and walked to the bar.

In a corner of the room, white-jacketed black waiters
removed the silver covers of the chafing dishes, signaling the beginnings of
the buffet. The smell of eggs and sausage permeated the room.