Hitch

Chapter 7
Fake News?

Mrs. Packard and Mrs. Wadsworth weren’t talking. They weren’t talking to George. The first call to the mayor’s residence got a cordial, “Good morning, and she’s not available at the moment.”

His second call a few hours later got him, “Don’t call here again, Mr. Hitchcock. We know who you are. Mrs. Packard has no comment for you.”

George was the wordsmith who put that nagging little innuendo at the end of the article on the fender bender at Thomas Circle. While Mrs. Packard’s backers weren’t looking into Mrs. Packard’s boudoir for the answer to why Jon Delesandro wasn’t playing more tennis, Mrs. Packard obviously was, and she wasn’t talking.

While clamming up works in some instances, when you clam up in the face of a journalist’s inquiry, it crates more questions.

George knew enough not to tug on Superman’s cape or spit in the wind, but no one taught him how to dismiss a question that got to the heart of what his original inquiry.

George would have had nothing more than hunches to go on in the Packard fender bender, until Jack Carter remembered a tennis player that made his son look bad, and the woman who seemed to sponsor everything that tennis player did. It was the tip that kept on giving, but George had hit a snag on the Packard story. He wasn’t done with it yet, but he didn’t know his next move either.

He might make another run at Mrs. Packard but she wasn’t suddenly going to tell all. What she said confirmed Jack’s suspicion about the woman and Jon. George was already thinking in that direction. Jon’s reaction to him wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d expect if Mrs. Packard was Jon’s innocent benefactor. He’d brag about it.

Even Judy went straight to the male’s inability to sort out the fact he was being played by the woman he was romancing. George had no information that excluded that as a possibility. For the first time George wondered why Mayor Packard hadn’t put a stop to his wife dallying with the tennis player. As city tennis champion, he had to know who Jon was. His wife was paying for him to go to Witherspoon. You didn’t do that by using the household account.

What better source for matters of the heart could he have than another woman. Men were mostly oblivious to the undercurrents surrounding their need to breed. For a man it’s straight forward. I can so I do. George wasn’t stupid and Judy called it the way she saw it, which was how George saw it but he couldn’t write it that way.

His second article on Mrs. Packard’s accident didn’t mention Judy or Jack. As Joe Friday said, ‘Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.”

It wasn’t compelling reading. He wrote about the passenger in the car being hospitalized. Jon Delesandro, the city’s tennis champion, would be released on Sunday if there were no complications. He added that the famous Dr. Horowitz had been consulted. He didn’t mention the consultation was with the receptionist. He didn’t see Jon.

He ended the three paragraphs with the fact Mrs. Delesandro didn’t know of Jon’s hospitalization. It caught her off guard. George dropped it into Pops’ in-basket a little after noon. He immediately retrieved it, read it through, and put his initials on it in red, dropping it into the out-basket as ready to go to press. That basket would go to the Walrus. He’d add his initials if Pops’ judgment was true to form.

It was and the article appeared on the front page of the local section near the top of the page. The byline, George Hitchcock, was on the story. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the original story, but another byline, the second in two days was great. A byline increased his pay. It also drew him closer to that full-time reporter’s job.

It spoke of Jon’s hospitalization, his city tennis championships, and a stirred but not shaken Mrs. Packard.

might not. Maybe he thought over what George had said to him.

George decided to stop at Judy’s receptionist station first. He had a feeling that stopping there would save him a lot of wasted steps.

“Your boy flew the coop sometime after I left for the day yesterday. I checked first thing. They were holding him day to day because of his head injury. The doctor did not sign the release form. A kid that age, you can only keep them in bed for so long. I think he decided it was time to split this joint,” Judy said. “Sorry. No one knows when he left or if he left with someone. His clothes are gone. I think that’s the major clue in this mystery. No one in a gown is going to be allowed to escape from General Hospital.”

“They move someone into his room?” George asked.

“Yes, and the little old man in there isn’t Jon, unless he had a really bad night,” Judy said.

“He was day to day. I figured he’d disappear about now. I need to make a phone call, and unless I miss my bet, this is goodbye Judy.”

“Hey, George! Keep me posted on the kid, will you. I’d like to think you can make it turn out all right for him. You take care of yourself., Hon”

“Will do, Gorgeous,” George said, heading for the phone booth on the corner.

“If you’re ever in the neighborhood, come say hello,” Judy said.

“Will do. That’s a date I won’t need twice,” George said, leaving with a wave and a smile.

There was no answer at the Delesandro number. He’d call the mayor’s house and ask for Jon, but they knew his voice. If they had the kid on ice at the hospital, he wasn’t going to be available at the mayor’s house, which meant he needed to talk to Mrs. Delesandro.

With no other option present in his thinking, George returned to the City News building. He was already writing, ‘Where’s Jon Delesandro?’ It made the local section’s front page. It was simple and to the point. It continued the story for a third consecutive day. George’s byline was on the story. It told George he was on the right track on a story the City News wanted covered.

Pops looked up as George was taking his jacket off.

“Hitch, keep your jacket on. You had a call. Jack will be at the Ante-Room at noon, if you can stop by. Whose Jack? The Ante-Room is where the cops hang, isn’t it?” Pops asked, knowing very well it was. “Take lunch. Go see what Jack wants, Do not try to highjack another reporter’s story. You got that?”

“Got it, Pops. When do I trespass on another reporters story?”

“First time for everything. Take your time,” Pops said.

George actually enjoyed a drink about lunch time. He did all his drinking at Jerry’s or the Ante-Room. He did know to limit his intake of booze, but it went with the territory, Drinking with sources often loosened their tongues enough to get the complete truth out of them.

The Anteroom served buffet items to draw in drinkers during the day. Hard boiled eggs, pigs feet, pickles, and whatever they could serve cheap, was free to the clientele. George wondered who ate pigs feet. He’d need to be pretty drunk to eat one of those and what happened to a pig that doesn’t have feet?

“Shot. Johnny Walker,” George said, moving up to where the food lined an empty section of the bar. He collected two deviled egg halves, and a large juicy dill pickle, and black olives. George dropped a buck on the counter to cover his shot and free lunch.

“I’m sitting in a booth in the back. Bring your food and drink there,” Jack said. “Hey, Karl, his drinks go on my tab.”

“Jack, that’s not necessary,” George said, after eating the second deviled egg half.

“Yes it is,” Jack said. “I am looking for a favor, George. I need you to go to Loey’s and wait for Trask to show up. You said he bought your persona as a Detroit hood, and he talked freely to you. One of my detectives picked up a rumor that Vogal and Trask are on the outs. I need to know if Trask can be turned. See him. Let him talk. Ask no question. You know the drill. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that. You tell me every time we meet. I know what you want and how you want me to go about getting it, but if Trask and Vogal are on the outs, why would Trask go to Loey’s, where Vogal hangs out most nights?”

“Old habits are hard to break, George. These aren’t rocket scientists. He’ll go to Loey’s because he goes to Loey’s. Maybe he won’t but my bet is he will, and if he does, well, he apparently feels comfortable talking to you. That’s why he might want to have a sit down with you, get it off his chest. He’ll see you as someone he can talk to,” Jack said.

“Do you know what they fell out about?” George asked.

“I do. I pulled in Vogal on the music store job. Vogal had nothing to say. I talked to Trask on the street, after I talked to Vogal. Trask and I have a history. He wasn’t forthcoming. It was before the news got to me about him and Vogal having a split.”

“He said they didn’t tell anyone that they pulled that job,” George said.

“Uh huh. Well that could complicate things. If Trask is dumb enough to go into Loey’s knowing Vogal is gunning for him, what are the odds he’s going to draw a straight line from what he told you to why Vogal is out to get his head on a pike.”

“Good question. Let’s find out. I’ll do it. You do remember that if anything comes of what I get for you, I get the exclusive, Jack. Don’t be calling another reporter and feeding him what I got for you,” George warned him.

“For Christ sake, George. I told you I’d do that, didn’t I? You get Trask to talk to me about Vogal, make it the smart move if he’s afraid of him. Simply be the Detroit hood he thinks you are. Let him know what you’d do if he tells you about the split with Vogal. He obviously likes talking to you. Let him talk, and then call me and let me know what he has to say. After that, I’m pulling you out. It’s getting too dangerous and I’ve got my ass hanging out by sending you in there.”

“Don’t worry. I can read a situation fairly well. I catch any bad vibes, I’m out of there,” George said.

“Good. We’ll wrap this up and get you out of there. Keep your cool and let him talk,” Jack said. “I’ve interviewed Trask. He’s not one of your great thinkers. He runs his mouth and has no idea of the implications concerning what he’s saying. He views you as safe. If he stops to talk to you, you know he has no idea you fingered him and Vogal for the music shop job,” Jack said. “He’d have dropped a dime on you in a second to get out of hot water with Vogal.”

“If you say so, Jack. I’ll try to get over there tonight. If I feel any bad vibes, I won’t stay. I don’t mind helping put the bad guys away, but I won’t purposely put myself at risk.”

“Exactly the attitude you need to have. Go in, don’t drink, George. Keep your mind clear. You pick up on anything that makes you feel uneasy, you split. Don’t hang around,” Jack said.

“I can do that,” George said. “I’m working that story about the Packard accident on Monday. I am running down some leads. If I can’t make it into Loey’s tonight, I’ll go tomorrow night for sure. Things have been slow but they’re giving me a free hand with it at the moment. I’ve got to follow it through until I get to the end of it.”

“George, you’re doing me a favor. You do what you need to do. A day or two won’t matter in this situation. You’re no good to me if you get yourself fired. Do your job and than do the favor. My only concerning is Vogal moving against Trask before you have a chance to talk to him but your safety and security is far more important than anything you do for me. Don’t lose sight of that. I appreciate what you’ve done. The music store job wasn’t solved, until Trask told you about it. Go in when you have time. If Trask wants to sit down with you, he’ll tell you about the split. Steer him to me if you can. That’s all. Do not stick your neck out. Make him think giving up Vogal is his idea. Simply agree it’s what you’d do if you were in his shoes.”

“I get it, Jack. I’ve helped you on the music store job. It’s good to know I have helped. What I don’t get, and you haven’t bothered to explain it, you don’t seem all that worried about that robbery. Am I wrong, or is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“You have good instincts. I’ve figured out that Vogal whacked Max Stein almost a year ago, George. Little by little I’ve come to believe Jimmy Vogal hit Max Stein. He was a well known and popular businessman. He left work one evening last year and someone put a bullet behind his ear,” Jack said.

“I don’t have a witness, no clues, just a dead body. Recently, as in since Max got whacked, Jimmy’s been seen with Mrs. Stein. It doesn’t take a genius to know if a hood is dating your woman, you shouldn’t turn your back on him. Max didn’t know and Vogal hit him to clear the way to his wife. I have no evidence to prove what I just told you. When a guy drops dead unexpectedly, we always look at the closest person to him. Mrs. Stein is on that spot, George. The only question I have, did Mrs. Stein encourage or help plan her husbands execution.”

“Jesus, Jack, that’s cold,” George said.

“It’s how the world works, George. What you want to remember, if a hood is dating your woman, don’t turn your back on him. In Max’s case, don’t turn your back at all.”

“Absolutely not,” George said. “That’s cold.”

“Could be a money motive as well. Once I pin it on Vogal, I’ll have plenty of time to wrap up Mrs. Stein. Odds are she was in on it.”

“Now it makes perfect sense, Jack. Look, I need to get back. We’re short handed. Everyone is away. Gone to the shore to escape the heat,” George said.

Both men stood to shake hands. George headed for the door.

*****

Chapter 7
Where’s Jon?

After calling Jon’s mother, George sat down to write, ‘Where’s Jon Delesandro? She saw him the night George first talked to her, and she’d called to talk to him the next day. Jon was still at General Hospital until late the second day, when he disappeared and no one, not even Dr. Jasmine knew his whereabouts.

George knew where Jon Delesandro was but like Jack couldn’t prove Jimmy Vogal killed Max Stein, George couldn’t prove that Jon was at Mrs. Packard’s house. Why would the mayor of a major metropolitan city allow his wife to dally with someone Jon. George knew why Mrs. Packard kept Jon close to her, but the mayor?

He could write that and after leaving work late on Thursday night, with Where’s Jon Delesandro in Pops’ in-basket, George needed a good night’s sleep. He liked Loey’s on Friday night. It was usually packed and he felt more comfortable not seeing the eyes of other patron’s studying him.

By the next morning George was ready to write, “A Mother Worries.” After “Where’s Jon Delesandro” had the story back on the front page, George pondered the next move he needed to make.

After writing the preliminary version of “A Mother Worries,’ George went to the car pool to check out a car. He asked for something that wouldn’t stand out. He rethought that description after the attendant drove a 1968 Ford Galaxy, with the right window that wouldn’t roll up, handing George the keys. It was after eight by a good bit and the traffic would all be heading into town as he went up Connecticut Avenue to where he was told the Mayor’s house was.

It was still a little cool early in the morning now that it was August, but it would be another hot and humid day. He looked at the right window that wasn’t there, and he knew he needed to ditch the dog of a car before the heat was turned up on high again.

George didn’t own a car. Before getting the job at the City News, he’d worked for the same paper he’d worked on while he went to college. It was slow in the summer there too. College towns grow remarkably calm once the school is holding only summer classes. The best part of that job, he drew a salary no matter how slow the news was, and when school went back into session, there was n end to what college students did for fun and entertainment.

George put away several thousand dollars in the two years after he graduated. He thought of using the several thousand dollars to buy a car, but his first job was as a stringer. You only made money if your stories were in the paper, and not knowing how many opportunities there would be, he opted to keep his money in the back to spend as needed until he was a full-time reporter and could afford a car.

So, he checked out what was reputed to be transportation when he needed to. This morning he had no choice. The most important story he’d covered to date required him to sit a safe distance from the mayor’s house to monitor the comings and goings. George knew what he expected to find, but he wasn’t jumping to conclusions. He would wait and see.

Checking the address, he made sure he had the right house. Once he was certain he was in the right spot, he parked far enough away not to be noticed, and he went on stakeout, which gave him plenty of time to think.

He was doing what he needed to do so far. This week had proved to be his most successful week to date. The fender bender at Thomas Circle had become a front page story twice that week, and on Friday morning, if what he thought was true, “A Mother Worries” would earn its way onto the front page. It was the natural evolution to a story.

George yawned as the morning grew warmer. At nine thirty it had to be eighty-five outside and the sun was now shining on the black Ford’s roof. George loosened his tie.

George had written ‘Where’s Jon Delesandro, after talking to Mrs. Delesandro. She visited her son the day he last spoke to her. When she called the next afternoon, in between her two jobs, Jon was no longer a patient at General Hospital, according to the receptionist. George happened to know the receptionist was quite reliable. If she said Jon wasn’t there, he wasn’t there. Which meant his mother once again had no idea where he was, but George did and now he waited.

Still getting his byline on this story meant he was doing what they wanted him to do. Someone besides George and Jack Carter thought the mayor’s wife had become too close to the young tennis star. Pops or Mr. Warner could stop him in his tracks. They hadn’t.

What did George know about Mr. Warner or Charlie Myers. They were hard boiled newspapermen. They’d let an inexperienced reporter run with a story he was covering, without any push back, but neither of them would let another newsman swing in the wind, covering a City News story. Nothing made it into print without Pops and the Walrus seeing it first, and they let his stories run almost untouched and that was a first in his three months at the City News.

The story he was telling needed to be told the way George was telling it. Someone more powerful than George wanted this story told. If he went too far, he’d be a small loss for the City News. Stringers were a dime a dozen.

With that thought, George sat up and took notice. At a little past 10:30 Jon Delesandro came out of the side entrance of the mayor’s house. He got into the front seat of a perfect 1968 Mercedes Sedan. No way this was the wrecked car he saw Monday. No one could repair that much damage this fast. This was another new Mercedes. It pays to have money, George thought.

Mrs. Packard came out a few minutes later, carrying a lovely flowered scarf in one hand and a black purse in the other.

George moved down in his seat as the Mercedes drove past him. His watch said it was 10: 39.

He started the Galaxy intending to follow them. He’d parked facing the wrong way. It’s the only way he could see the house. Now he’d need to hurry up and turn around so he could follow them.

As he was unparking the car a guy about the size of Rhode Island stepped in the way, preventing George from following Mrs. Packard. It didn’t occur to George he’d been spotted by someone in the house.

They were able to draw straight lines too. They figured that when he got no response with phone calls, his next move would be to come to the house. George should have realized that but he didn’t give it a thought.

The main question had been answered. Where was Jon Delesandro. Why not ask the mayor’s wife or the baboon blocking his car. What do you say to a man mountain who is standing less than a foot from your front bumper?

He’d answered the question. Only to have the answer rendered moot. It was rendered irrelevant almost immediately. He no longer knew where Jon was. After locating him he’d promptly lost him again, but maybe they weren’t all that smart. No, George couldn’t follow them but they’d be home sometime. Mrs. Packard wasn’t giving up her toy boy that easily and if Mayor Packard didn’t know Casanova was living under his roof with his wife, well that’s why they had elections. Someone was going to ask him what he knew and when he knew it.

George leaned on the horn thinking it moved most people, but it didn’t move the mountain of a man standing in front of the car. He simply waggled his finger at George.

The man mountain didn’t move for a couple of minutes. When he turned to walk back to the house, it was too late to catch up with Mrs. Packard’s car.. The walking road black had succeeded in throwing George off Mrs. Packard’s trail.

Having the pool car and no where to go, George went to the Delesandro’s apartment, and Mrs. Delesandro opened the door. George gave her his biggest smile.

“George Hitchcock, Mrs. Delesandro. City News. This morning I have a car. I can drive you to work while I interview you. Would that be OK with you?”

“My word, yes. I’m always running late. Thank you. You’re a life saver, George.”

Mrs. Jane Delesandro was a country girl. She fell in love with a tall handsome navy man who joined the navy to see the world. Newt Delesandro didn’t want kids. He wanted to be in the navy, and after a few months of courting Jane Woodruff, he sailed out of her life, leaving her pregnant and with a bouncing baby boy, six months after she last saw him.

Her people, being country people, didn’t cotton to a woman with no man having a baby. If God wanted women to have babies out of wedlock, he wouldn’t have made men, and that was that.

Jane loved Jon more than anything in the world, and she did all within her power to give him a good upbringing. Jon never met her parents, and as far as she knew, they had no interest in seeing him. He’d never seen so much as a picture of his father, and he knew nothing about him, except he was a navy man.

“I know,” she said. “I should have found a way to have a man in his life, but you know how men are, and I didn’t want Jon influenced by men who might be as irresponsible as his father was.”

“You raised a handsome boy with a talent that can feed him for years to come, Jane. Give yourself a break. He’s still a kid, and he thinks he knows what he’s doing,” George said, partially believing it.

“He looks just like his father, tall, handsome, and he’s smart in his way,” she said. “Things were going so well for him until a year ago. Jon had come into his own as a local tennis champion. That’s when she saw him. Her husband gave him the trophy for the city singles championship. At first she’d call the apartment and talk to me. She’d ask about Jon, then she came to take us to dinner. After that, she only came by while I was at work. Jon would tell me, and then Jon was staying at her house, just for a day or two. They have a pool. Let’s face it. They’re rich and I can only afford this dump. Jon deserves the best but not with some fifty-year-old hussy.”

While Mrs. Delesandro worked two jobs and twelve hours a day to raise him, he was rarely home now. He was nineteen and he was a big boy, and Mrs. Packard didn’t need to say much to have Jon staying close to home; her home.

Since the Packards got involved, Jon spent less and less time with his mother and more and more time with the Packards. Jane rarely knew where he was, and while Jon called from time to time, he was evasive about what he was doing there.

“My son is physical. He loves tennis, but I haven’t seen him play in the last year. I don’t know if he’s playing at that fancy school where she has him going. Jon was never a good student. He has a God given gift that’s going to waste. Once she’s finished with him, where will that leave him?” Mrs. Delesandro lamented. “He’s being used.”

Jane Delesandro got to work early, and George and she drank a cup of coffee and had some donuts, before George dropped her off.

Mrs. Delesandro was sweet. She knew how hard the world could be, because it had been very hard on her. She made a decision that she never regretted, but it had cost her in a way that gave her no backup, and no matter the situation, she was on her own.

George had taken the pool car out for a half day. He’d brought it back a few minutes after one. The attendant looked at the slip George gave him, and he looked at the book that recorded him taking the car. The gray haired man shook his head.

“I was doing an interview. It ran a little late. Actually, we stopped for coffee and donuts, Mr. Benson,” George read his name tag.

“We got lots better cars. Who stuck you with this turkey?”

“I just said I needed a car for this morning. This is what he told me to take. I don’t remember his name,” George confessed.

“That’s Ernie. He’ll give you the worst car he’s got if you don’t ask for a new sedan. This thing ain’t been out of the garage since last winter. It’s got fifty miles on it since the last inspection. Ask for a new sedan next time, OK. You can’t do City News business in this dog. He gives you any static. Tell him I told you what to ask for. I’m his boss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benson. I’ll remember that,” George said.

“Just leave it right there. I’ll park it,” Mr. Benson said.

George took off his jacket, and began writing the copy, “A Mother Worries.”

He quoted Mrs. Delesandro when he could, but he didn’t write any of the most salacious things she said. It was the truth and it certainly would be news if it appeared in the City News, but it was a family newspaper and the people reading his articles would already know what trajectory the fender bender at Thomas Circle had taken.

He told the facts. He sympathized with the plight of a mother who was concerned for the safety and future of her son. He wasn’t in any physical danger, and boys usually made the calculation about what they were doing when they slept with someone else’s wife. Being young was a relatively common explanation. George covered the bases without touching home plate. The reader would decide. George had gone as far as he dared go.”

Once again George was shooting in the dark. He made no accusations or assumption, using Jane Delesandro’s words as much as possible. The names she called Mrs. Packard didn’t make it into print.

Readers were aware of Jon Delesandro and the men who read the sports pages immediately know who he was. George intended this edition of the City News to followup on the fender bender at Thomas Circle.

He pulled the copy out of the Smith Corona and carried it to Pops’ desk, dropping it into his in-basket. By the time he was sitting back down, Pops reached into the in-basket to take out what George just dropped there.

George put another copy form in the typewriter, half paying attention to what he was doing while watching Pops. The red pencil dashed down, only for an instant, and then hit it a second time before he tossed it into the out-basket. It was going to press if the Walrus didn’t intercept it on its way to today’s edition.

“A Mother Worries,” George wrote. It was all in his head. Once more the article relied on Jane’s words describing her son. After fifteen minutes, he’d written the quintessential piece on the Thomas Circle affair. He did not mention Mrs. Packard until the end.

“This reporter found Jon Delesandro leaving the mayor’s mansion at 10:30 this morning. He left with Mrs. Packard in the 1968 Mercedes that replaced the wrecked Mercedes at Thomas Circle.”

George dropped “A Mother Worries” into the out-basket. It was plainly marked for Saturday’s edition. The copy boy would know to leave it for tomorrow.

George sat back. He had a story for today and one for tomorrow. Life was good. It appeared Friday’s story would be a go and if today’s story got by the Walrus, tomorrows story was a follow up.

It was a story that kept on giving. It lasted an entire week. It’s the first time George had follow ups on a story he was given. He had nothing left to say. “Where’s Jon Delesandro” and “A Mother Worries” were enough without. The reader would have drawn his own conclusions by now. Any more would be too much George thought.

He had no plan for the rest of the day. He’d like to follow Mrs. Packard for his own reason, but the interview with Jane was solid gold. She was a mother deeply concerned for her son’s future.

“Since he was twelve,” she told George, “Tennis was Jon’s entire life. He wasn’t a good student. Tennis kept him in school. Now he’d been distracted. Dazzled by a woman’s attention and her wealth.”

George had taken it as far as he wanted to go. The reader had the entire picture and it wasn’t up to him to cover how it turns out. That’s the stuff novels were written about.

“Hitch!” Pops yelled over his ringing phone. “You’re up.”

Pops grabbed the phone.

“Myers. Local desk. What? Slow down. Quit babbling. Where are you? Yeah, yeah. Lady, if that was news our paper would need to double its size. Call the Star,” Pops yelled, slamming down the receiver as he grumbled.

“What do you have, Pops?” George asked.

“You got credentials?”

“I have my I.D. What credentials?”

Pops was digging in his bottom drawer and he pulled out some plastic coded credentials.

“Mayor’s having a news conference. You’re going to cover it. Don’t hesitate asking him any questions you might have. Am I making myself clear,” Pops said.

“That’s Mort Cort’s bailiwick. Why am I trespassing on his turf?”

“These will get you into the press conference at City Hall. Stop at the reception area. They tell you which room. Cort knows your coming. He’s there to cover the news conference. He can read. He’ll know why you’re there. Ask your question and then follow it up. Don’t fuck this up, George. You’re being watched by a lot of people.”

George took the credential. He was confused. Cort was going and they were sending him too. It made no sense. What did he have to say to the mayor?”

The fender bender at Thomas Circle popped into his mind. He wanted to ask Mayor Packard what Mrs. Packard was doing with Jon. He really didn’t want him to tell him but he wanted to tell him. He’d been writing the story all week and chapter 2 was about to begin.

“I have copy in the basket at the desk where I write copy. It’s marked for Saturday’s edition. I’ll be here all day tomorrow but just in case. I wanted you to know it’s there, Pops.”

“On our story?” Pops asked.

He’d only covered the one story all eek.

“Yes, on the Thomas Circle affair.” George said.

The news conference was at two o’clock. With any luck it wouldn’t last that long. He’d be back in time to write about it for today’s edition. He might get two stories in the Friday edition. Wouldn’t that be peachy.

“You got that, George?” Pops asked when he hesitated.

“You think you can find City Hall in fifty minutes?” Pop asked, looking at the clock as he spoke.

“You’re damn right I can,” George said, realizing he was covering his first political story.

Pops laughed.

George hadn’t heard the man laugh before.

As he headed for the stairs and the mayor’s news conference, the Walrus was in his doorway watching George come his way. George couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being fed to the lions, except for one small crack in the Walrus’s facade. The man who chilled George to the bone was smiling.

George turned toward the stairs. He wanted to look back to be sure but he didn’t dare. Pops laughed at something he said and the Walrus smiled. It might literally be raining cats and dogs outside? It was becoming a most unusual day.

Did Mr. Warner know he was going to the mayor’s news conference? Of course he knew. No one made a move at the City News without the Walrus’ say so. Maybe Mr. Warner was seeing the same hungry lions George saw. Could that be what made him smile?

There was only one way to find out. George stepped out into the afternoon sun. He’d walk to City Hall. It was a fifteen minute walk and in spite of the butterflies in his stomach, he’d stop for a sandwich and a big cold wet drink.

George couldn’t remember having a better day.

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