Adam's Daughter (52 page)

Ian often thought that Clarisse and Lilith were trying to climb up the social ranks on Robert’s back, much as his own parents had tried to do with him. But he knew it couldn’t really
be avoided; Robert had to be assured the best. And Clarisse, whose own insufferable family made up in pre-Revolutionary lineage what it lacked in cash, told him that it took more than years to convert new money to old.

Money...it was going to take a lot of money to give Robert what he deserved. And now, Clarisse was pregnant again. She had informed Ian she wanted at least five children. It was the only thing she and Lilith seemed to agree on
—- the need for Ian to produce a large family. A long line of Bryants to stretch into the future. A long, never-ending line of responsibilities and expenses.

“Ian, you aren’t ill, are you?” Lilith asked.

He glanced at her. “No, Mother. I’m just tired.”

His mind began to drift, and he saw himself standing atop the cliff in Hana overlooking the beach, breathing in the ripe humid air.

“You know, I think Clarisse is right,” Lilith said. “We really must have a new house. And I know the perfect place. The Critchon house on Broadway is coming on the market soon. The asking price is ten million. Can you imagine? And it needs so much work.” She paused. “I’m sure we could get it for eight. Did you hear me, Ian?”

“We can’t afford it.”

She sighed. “But we can’t stay in this place. It’s too small. When the baby comes, we’ll have to get a nanny. Robert’s governess has no experience with infants.”

Ian closed his eyes.

“You know I’d give you some of my money, Ian,” Lilith said softly. “But it’s tied up. If I liquidated now I’d lose everything.”

Ian looked at Lilith. He had no idea how much money she had of her own. Adam’s payments to buy out her share of the
Times
had ended years ago. She refused to disclose anything to Ian, telling him she had a banker who managed her investments. Ian guessed that she had simply squandered most of her money. Perhaps it was more than loneliness that had driven her into his house.

“I know we need a bigger house, Mother,” he said wearily. “But we haven’t got the cash right now.”

“We could have it in a moment, you know,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “How?” he asked, more to humor her than anything.

“Sell the company,” she said.

He looked at her.

“The newspapers, the station in Oakland, the printing facilities, the mill,” she said. “Sell it all.”

He shook his head slowly. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? The company is financially unstable right now and no buyer’s going to pay enough to make it worth our while.”

“Garrett Richardson would buy it,” she said.

Ian laughed. “Over Kellen’s dead body.”

“Well, the pie has three slices now. She’s only got one. One slice, one vote.”

“So what? What makes you think Tyler would side with me against her?”

Lilith shrugged. “He might. God knows we’ve invested enough time with him in the last couple of years. I think he could be convinced that his big brother knows what’s best. And from what I can tell, he could care less about the newspapers themselves. He’d just as soon be rid of them.”

“I don’t know, Mother,” he said slowly. “I agree we
should sell, but I hate giving up something that...” He paused. “Something we could hand on to Robert someday.”

Lilith sighed in exasperation. “But we don’t have to really give it up. Perhaps Richardson can be persuaded to keep a Bryant as publisher in name. Of course, that duty would fall to you
and eventually to Robert. We would have the money and the family connection could go on.” She smiled. “And you could stop worrying about it and get some sleep.”

He stared at Lilith. “You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you.”

“Yes. I’m convinced it’s the best way. We might sacrifice complete ownership but look what we’d gain. It would force Kellen out of the picture permanently. Her husband and children would have no part in it. It would be only you and Robert.”

Ian stared at the glass in his hands. He raised it slowly and drained the last of the scotch. He looked at Lilith. “I’ll call Richardson as soon as I get into the office.”

Lilith smiled. “Good. Now, why don’t you get some sleep? You do look so tired, dear.”

Ian rose, setting the empty glass on a table. He paused then bent over to kiss Lilith’s cool cheek. “Good night. Mother,” he said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The cab made its way down Fifth Avenue from Central Park, its progress slowed by afternoon traffic and a raging thunderstorm. Ian stared out the window at all the people hidden under umbrellas, scuttling along the sidewalk like shiny black beetles.

Around 40th Street, the marble facades of the fashionable stores gave way to the seedy storefronts of the garment district. Then a
bruptly, fortunes changed again and the sedate gray apartment buildings of Washington Square appeared, their awnings reaching out to the curbside like arms ready to enfold the privileged.

The cab jogged around the Square, down McDougal Street and into the rabbit warren of the Village. Ian glanced uneasily at the boutiques and ethnic restaurants. He had been to New York often enough, but he seldom strayed below Central Park. The abrupt juxtaposition of the city’s poor and rich neighborhoods made him uncomfortable, as if he were crossing foreign borders without knowing where he was going.

When the cab turned east, toward more dingy buildings, Ian tapped the plastic divider to get the driver’s attention.

“Say, if I want a tour, I’ll take the Gray Line,” he said, with what he hoped sounded like the authority of a native.

“You said South Street, buddy. This is the shortest way this time of day. Or maybe you wanna walk.”

Ian leaned back in the seat. He hated New York. He hated everything about it, the gray weather, the gray people, the gray buildings, the feelings of claustrophobia he got every time he had to come here. Though his apartment was up on the East Side, out of harm’s way
, he regretted having allowed Clarisse to talk him into buying it. She said she enjoyed coming to the city for cultural events but she never used the apartment as anything more than a closet for her shopping excursions.

Finally, the cab came to a stop. “This is it,” the driver said. “Seven fifty.”

Ian paid him and the cab sped off in the rain. Ian looked up at the ugly squat building and then down at the only entrance, a steel door with a buzzer. There was no sign, nothing to identify the place as a newspaper office. A man in ink-stained overalls came out and Ian grabbed the door.

He was in a grimy vestibule and the glare of the fluorescent lights off the glossy yellow walls was blinding. He went to a window and a woman directed him to an elevator.

Ian rode the elevator to the third floor. It opened onto a newsroom, or at least some hellish parallel-universe version of one. The small room was crammed with mismatched beat-up desks, chairs and file cabinets, and it smelled of dust, oil and body odor.

Ian stood there, the smells triggering a flashback memory of the first time his father had taken him to see the
Times
newsroom. He felt the same revulsion and fascination now that he had then.

He approached the nearest man. “Could you direct me to Mr. Richardson’s office, please?” Without looking up, the man pointed to the co
rner.

A secretary ushered Ian into Garrett’s office. Ian had expected to see an office that proclaimed executive status, a counterpoint to the dinginess outside. But Richardson’s office was small, unadorned, and outfitted with functional furniture. It was, however, thankfully, clean.

Richardson came out from behind his desk, hand extended. “You made it,” he said. “The traffic’s bad this time of day.”

Ian shook his hand, taking stock of Richardson’s appearance
—- a plain white shirt, its sleeves rolled, and no tie -— and allowed himself a feeling of superiority about his own custom-tailored gray suit and Burberry trench coat.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Ian said. He took off his coat and sat down in the chair Garrett offered.

“It’s just as well,” Garrett said. “A big story broke and I was tied up in the newsroom.”

“Oh? What happened?” Ian could care less about the news, but Richardson obviously wanted to tell his story.

“A group of Japanese tourists was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge this morning. One fellow stopped to take photos of his friends and a cable snapped and killed him. A freak accident, poor bloke.”

He held out a tabloid. It was that day’s
Tattler
. The photograph showed a sheeted body, dwarfed by one of the limestone towers. The huge headline said SNAP ZAPS JAP.

“That’s quite a headline,” Ian
said.

“Too much so, I fear,” Garrett said. “I had them change it to KILLER BRIDGE. I encourage creativity among my people but sometimes they get a little overzealous.”

Ian nodded as if in understanding. Garrett leaned back in his chair. “So, Mr. Bryant,” he said. "You said you wanted to talk to me and you’ve come a long way to do it. What can I help you with?”

“I’m here to find a buyer for my newspapers,” Ian said.

“And you think I might be interested?”

“You were once
.”

“
That was eight years ago, Mr. Bryant. Surely you’ve had other offers since.”

“Nothing that would have made it worthwhile.”

“More like no one’s interested anymore.”

Ian just looked at Garrett.

Garrett smiled slightly. “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it, Mr. Bryant. You’ve stayed a little too long at the party. And now I’m the only boy left to take you home.”

“It is still a good opportunity for the right person,” Ian said.

“But I have the
Tattler
now. Why in the world would I be interested in your newspapers?”

Ian hesitated. He was prepared; if nothing else, that was what he was good at. “Because you haven’t been able to do what you set out to do
—- make the
Tattler
the most widely read paper in New York. Its circulation has stagnated at 628,000. That’s still way behind the
New York Times’
and the
Daily News
. And you lack advertising. The
Daily News
has thirty-seven percent of the city’s advertisers and the
Times
has fifty-six percent. You have only seven percent.”

Garrett didn’t blink. “That will change. In Britain, my newspapers attract millions of readers. It’s working in Toronto and it can work here.”

Ian shrugged. “Perhaps. But the people who read your sleazy stories aren’t the upscale types advertisers want.”

Garrett smiled. “You Americans are so preoccupied with advertising. In England, circulation is what really counts and I’ll prove that’s true here, too. When the
Tattler
reaches a million readers —- and it will —- advertisers will fall in line.

Ian gave him a stiff smile.

“Besides,” Garrett went on, “I suspect many of those cherished
New York Times
readers are really closet
Tattler
readers. Americans are no different than the British really. They live on their little cul-de-sacs or in their tiny flats, looking for relief from their boring lives. That’s what I try to give them.”

Ian stared at him. “Maybe you underestimate us.”

“I doubt it.”

Ian rose and went to the window. Garrett’s voice had shifted toward indifference and Ian knew the moment was slipping away. Perhaps he had been wrong and Garrett couldn’t be enticed. He stared down at the gray stretch of the East River. He had one more card to play.

“You strike me as a man of vision, Mr. Richardson,” Ian said. “Not one to be content with such a small arena.”

“New York is scarcely a small market.”

“But just one newspaper here in the United States?”

Garrett sat silent for moment. Then he rose and came over to the window to stand next to Ian, who now was making the pretense of looking at the gloomy view.