The Henderson Equation (42 page)

"I'll keep it all professional," he shouted after
her. "Professional as hell." She moved quickly, her walk
accelerating, as she passed out of his vision.

"All right," he said as Landau came in, dummy
sheets in hand to show him how he had arranged the front page.

"It's a bullshit day," Landau said.

"So I see."

He looked over Landau's news selections with mock attention,
searching for changes, some one thing over which he could be assertive, simply
for its own sake. Landau had apparently given special prominence to a story
about the collapse of another Italian government.

"Let's pull that one inside, Henry."

"It's the fall of a foreign government. Against
today's crop it's relatively important."

"Just pull it off, Henry. Who cares about another
Italian government falling?" He knew he was right. Landau shrugged. It was
hardly worth making a stand, he had surely surmised.

"What's this?" Nick asked, looking over the
budget sheets. His pencil pointed to a statement about aerosol cans.

"More testimony about the dangers of aerosol cans, the
gas in them. This scientist has told a congressional committee that the
ionosphere, I think that's what they call it, is deteriorating at a rapid rate.
He says that at its present pace we'll have no viable atmosphere in about two
hundred years. Nothing particularly new in it, just another dire prediction
about the end of the world."

"Put it on the front page," Nick said.

"You're not serious?"

"Give it a snappy, scary head. A three-column banner.
Make it look important. If the lead's dead, rework it to give it more
urgency."

"I'm not saying it's not a serious business,
Nick."

"That's a double negative, Henry."

"Really, Nick. There's nothing really new in it. I can
show you piles of clips on it."

"Has anything been done about these aerosol cans? Has
there been any legislation introduced to stop us from choking to death in two
hundred years?"

"Probably so. There's been legislation introduced on
everything. But it's of no consequence."

"That's just the point. Put it there, Henry."

Landau nodded. Tomorrow a whole industry would quake, a
huge tidal wave of fear would cascade throughout the world. All those aerosol
cans that dispensed their ridiculous wares. All that useless shit floating on a
sea of gas that would destroy the world in less than two hundred years. He
smiled to himself and searched the budget sheets again.

"Here's one," he said, pointing again to a story
slug that proclaimed "New York bankrupt."

"That's another one we've done a hundred times before.
So what's new about Fun City going down the drain?"

"You've become jaded, Henry. What ever happened to
your sense of outrage?" He knew he was baiting him, but couldn't stop.

"I'm not jaded."

"New York City has always been the symbol of America's
innocence, all the exaggerations of the American dream, supersuccess and
supermisery. Now it's the symbol of America's decadence and decline. It's
choking to death on its own indigestible dung. Make it urgent, Henry. Here,
I'll write the head." He thought for a moment, ignoring Landau's
confusion, then started to print out penciled letters on a clean sheet of copy
paper. Working quickly, he crossed out words and recounted letters.

"New York Sinking in Quicksand," he wrote,
showing the scribbled head to Landau.

"Who said anything about quicksand?"

"Have someone get a quote to match the head."

"Are you all right, Nick?"

"Come on, Henry, don't be so self-righteous."

"I think it's irresponsible."

"Please, Henry. No arguments. I'm just trying to hype
up the front page on a bullshit day. Didn't you call it that yourself? It's a
question of judgment."

"And degree."

He was in no mood for abstract moral arguments. He
continued to ponder the budget sheets and look over the front-page dummy, now
penciled over almost beyond recognition. It was enough, he thought.

"That ought to do it," he said, putting down the
pencil, his weapon. Landau looked dejected, but said nothing, getting up and
walking out of the office.

When he had gone, Nick stood up, felt a slight quiver in
his legs as he braced himself against the glass wall. In the city room the
typewriters were still sounding out their staccato rhythm in ever-descending
decibels, like small arms fire after a savage battle, a residue of anger.
Pacing his glass cage, he could not seem to shake a vague sense of loss, and
soon, his strength spent, he sat down again.

When a news aide brought him the proof of the front page,
he pored over it greedily, like a starving man taking his first sustenance.
Landau had followed his directions to the letter, had used his head with the
quicksand reference with quotes suitably documented to underpin the headline's
integrity. He deliberately kept the use of his editorial pencil harnessed. He
had, after all, asserted his authority. He would only correct that which was
blatantly offensive, which he proceeded to do, a series of changed words,
mostly in headlines, and a quick rewriting of an awkward lead. When they
brought him a proof of the editorial page, he felt less mercy, changed words
vigorously, and passed it back to the composing room with his ubiquitous
initials boldly imprinted on the upper right-hand corner. The sight of the proofs
restored his energy, certainly his equilibrium, and he felt able to leave the
city room without the tug of guilt that would assail him when he had missed
seeing a final proof, a rare occurrence.

Back at his apartment, he noted that Jennie had been there,
had dressed and left him a note.

"Off to 1600. See you later, darling. Love,
Jennie." It was scrawled carelessly, in keeping with the obvious
hollowness of the words. Detesting the thought of her return, he threw himself
on the couch in the living room, watching the bleak November night. It had
begun to rain. The streets were glossy, reflecting the headlights of the
traffic in the last gasp of the tepid Saturday rush hour.

He could not have determined how long he had been asleep,
only that his dreams seemed disjointed, the memory of them fading as the
telephone bell sounded in the still room, a jangling intrusion.

"A Miss Gates," the downstairs receptionist said.

"Who?" He had a momentary lapse, ascending as he
had from a troubled sleep. It took him some time to remember who Miss Gates
was. The scrap of recognition emerged as a quick image of a young braless girl
in a tight T-shirt at Gunderstein's place. Of course, Martha Gates.

"Tell her I can't see her." He was treasuring his
seclusion now. Looking at his watch, he realized that he must have slept for
three hours. He felt oddly refreshed. Remembering his weakness earlier, he
admired his recuperative powers.

"No," he corrected, "tell her to come
up."

If it had been a simple memory of the Martha Gates at the
office, the teary-eyed, helpless, long-haired blonde, he might not have changed
his mind. In the bathroom, he doused his face with cold water, stuck his tongue
out for inspection, and patted down his hair. His mouth felt furry, the
backwash of the garlic from Duke's pickles lingering. Sucking mouthwash from
the bottle, he gargled and spat. Why all this precaution? he wondered.

She stood in the doorway, her face indicating agitation,
hesitating, on the threshold.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Gold," she said, taking
one tentative step in the hallway, then standing there, as if rooted.

"It's all right, Martha." He turned toward the
living room, felt her following behind. She looked out the window.

"What a marvelous view," she said, watching the
lights.

"Yes."

She unbuttoned her coat, leaving it on, as she searched,
then found a chair to her choosing, straight-backed. He went to the bar.

"Drink?"

"If you have white wine."

He opened the little bar refrigerator and uncorked a bottle
of Chablis, pouring it into a large wineglass and handing it to her. He noted
that her fingers shook. Sipping lightly, she smiled.

"Wonderful," she said.

Sitting down on the couch, he asked, "Well?"

"It's about the Henderson piece," she said.

"Now that was no mystery, Martha."

She sat with her knees together, shoulders stiff. The glass
shook lightly. He felt embarrassed for her nervousness, knew what was sure to
be forthcoming, explosions of disillusion, the expiring gasp of idealism.

"Robert's gone back, thoroughly discouraged."

"You seem to have struck up a fast acquaintance,"
he said, wondering if he were being cruel.

"Yes, we have," she said, a hint of pride in her
voice. "Harold is more complacent. That's because he doesn't show his
feelings." She sipped the wine, then looked out the window again.
"It's wrong, Mr. Gold. It's absolutely unconscionable. That story has got
to be published."

"Why?" he asked, conveying innocence, he hoped.

"You know why, Mr. Gold. The carrying-out of
assassinations in the name of national policy by a man who could very well be
our next president. What does America mean if we allow such things to happen?
Don't you see? It's simply wrong, unjust. We have a responsibility."

"You'll have to admit we've got a pretty good track
record," he said, the reference obvious.

"But why stop now, Mr. Gold? We're supposed to be
vigilant, moral." She took a long sip from the wine, half emptying the
glass. Did he have to defend his position now to little Martha Gates, he
thought, wide-eyed, young, unfinished, blonde, tight-assed Martha Gates?
Despite his attempt to see her as a little ninny he admired her stubbornness.
Why can't a woman be like a man? he sang silently, smiling inwardly.

"I needed an adequate explanation," she said.
"I took Robert to the airport. We both looked at each other like dummies.
We couldn't explain any of it to ourselves. I walked around the rest of the day
like a nervous cat. That's why I had to come. I know it's simply not the thing
to do. But I'm troubled, Mr. Gold. Maybe I'm still suffering from the effects
of that man that committed suicide. But you see, I just can't get it
together."

"I'm afraid, Martha, I'm not going to be of much
help." Could he tell her of his own problems, his own sense of personal
crisis, his own doubts and anxieties? He could see his own helplessness
mirrored in hers.

"I know you think it's foolish of me to come
here," she said, flushed now. Gracefully, she slid her arms out of her
coat sleeves, her breasts straining in her blouse as she pushed outward.

It was then, perhaps, that the idea stirred within him, his
own sense of being the instrument, the sculptor, and she the malleable clay.
There was perverseness in it, he knew, since he could create the dialogue of
her protestations from rote, dredged out of his own small preserve of
innocence, isolated somewhere within.

"Maybe I have an exaggerated sense of fairness,"
she continued, the words coming swiftly now as she had found her course. He got
up and filled her glass again, as if it might stress his solicitude and
interest. He hoped that she would perceive his concentration, would feel her
role on center stage, the principal actor. He kept his eyes staring into hers
as if plumbing limitless depths.

"It's the badge of your generation," he said,
knowing that the flattery would swell her pride. "Yours was the generation
that dared to challenge the established order. You tore down the ramparts and
taught us something about our destiny. In a way we've got a lot in common. We
both toppled a President."

"That's exactly the point," she said, perhaps
surprised at the ease with which she had broken down the first line of his
defenses. "What's wrong is wrong. Period. You can't excuse flaws in one
set of leaders that you condemn in others. The point is that it shouldn't
matter if Henderson's career is destroyed because of the truth. The truth
should uplift, teach, enhance, not destroy."

"What makes you think that's the reason that the
Henderson story won't see the light of day?" After all, he had to put up
some sort of a mock fight, he thought.

"What else could it be?" She seemed suddenly
confused, sipping deeply of the wine. He watched the glass tip, the fingers
held delicately around the shiny bowl.

"I still am not convinced the evidence is
conclusive," he said, setting her up for a rebuttal.

She finished the wine and set the glass down on the ledge
of the chair, precariously, it turned out. A hand gesture toppled it to the
floor. He got up quickly, picked it up, went back to the bar, and filled
another glass, which he returned to her hand.

"We've been through all that, Mr. Gold. Surely there
is enough to set in motion a chance for a fair appraisal, even a denial. Once
the allegation is printed, he would have a right to make the denial. Or, on the
other hand, he might confess. Frankly, he'd rise a notch in my own appraisal of
him if he chose that route."

"You sound as if you were convinced of his
guilt."

"I am." She said it with a wave of her blonde
head, a kind of imperiousness, as if his attention were titillating her. He
was, he hoped, a lofty figure in her eyes, especially since he did, indeed,
control her destiny, her job. Certainly she must be flattered by his interest,
he thought, testing the assumption by placing his hand on hers. She might think
it a fatherly act.

"You haven't a single doubt?" he asked gently,
stroking the back of her free hand. She felt no agitation, he decided, his hand
caressing her flesh. She drank another deep draft of the wine.

"Of course I have doubts," she said. "But
the point is that there is enough here worthy of being told."

"That's Gunderstein's argument. He's right."

"Then why not print the story?"