Night Extra

“Someone trying to peddle a story on Caldwell. What do you think of him, Ollie? Seriously.”

“Seriously? That’s damn near impossible.”

“What’s funny about him?”

“He’s a reformer. He’s given up a highly profitable law practice to run for mayor of this benighted town. And he’s got about as much political savvy as a sophisticated girl scout. The machine will eat him alive and not even spit back the bones. Is that funny enough?” Wheeler grinned but his eyes were melancholy. “Or do you want bladder comedians, yet?”

“Supposing he wins?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ve covered his rallies,” Terrell said. “He draws a crowd.”

“College kids. They can’t vote. Seriously, Sam, it can’t happen. Men like Ike Cellars, Mayor Ticknor — do you think they’ll let this piece of cake fall into somebody else’s fingers?”

“You’re a cynic.”

“I have a capacity to see what’s under my nose. If that’s being cynical, fine.”

Terrell leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Eden Myles and Rich Caldwell... The pressure had eased now that the first edition was in. Reporters and editors drifted down the long room toward the lavatory or water coolers. Only one or two typewriters pecked with a virtuous sound against the comparative silence. Copy boys went from desk to desk taking orders for coffee, bacon and egg sandwiches, cigarettes and aspirin. The tension would start building again in half an hour or so, as stories and pictures for the next edition, the Postscript, were phoned and wired into the city room. In the welcome silence Terrell smoked his cigarette in peace. From his corner he had a view of the rewrite section, the copy wheel, and Mike Karsh’s huge, glass-walled office, which dominated both arms of the L-shaped city room. He was still thinking about Eden Myles and Rich Caldwell, and he knew he was after something good. He didn’t bother to analyze or question his intuitions; he just accepted them as facts. They stemmed from his experience as a reporter, his awareness of the significant differences and alliances within the framework of men who ran the city. One set of shiftings and regroupings might leave him cold, another would alert him instantly. And he was alerted by the combination of Eden Myles and Rich Caldwell. Because Eden Myles had been Frankie Chance’s girl friend. And because Frankie Chance worked for Ike Cellars...

Terrell walked down the room and took a chair at the city desk. Williams nodded to him and said, “How’s the pundit business?”

“Haven’t sold a pundit all week. Must be the seasonal lag.” Three other men were seated at the long rectangular desk: Nelly, a youngster with brush-cut hair, Poole, Williams’ top assistant editor, and Frank Tuckerman, a huge and gentle man who dispatched the paper’s legmen and radio cars. Now he was hunched close to the police speaker at the end of the desk, his ear automatically selecting significant data from the welter of reports, orders, and code numbers that spluttered endlessly through the air. A fire in the Northeast was developing into something important; the battalion chief had called for an ambulance, and the gas company was ordering out its emergency equipment to handle a leakage in the adjoining building. Williams caught the last order and glanced at Tuckerman. “Where is it?”

“Corner of Olney and the river,” Tuckerman said. “A warehouse with a convent across the street. I’ve got two men on the way out there.”

“What kind of a convent?”

“Sort of home away from home for wayward girls,” Tuckerman said.

Poole looked at Terrell. “I read your piece on Caldwell’s neighborhood rallies. You think the crowds are on the level? The college kids, the housewives, the quote little people unquote — are they sold on Caldwell, or do they go out just to lose themselves in the commotion and noise?”

“They look sensible to me,” Terrell said.

“Nobody who stands listening to a politician is sensible,” Nelly said.

“Don’t qualify everything so much,” Terrell said. He had always known Nelly was a jerk. “Have the courage to generalize.” He turned to Tuckerman, who was idle for a moment. “Do you know Frankie Chance, Tuck?”

“Just not to speak to,” Tuckerman said in his soft whispering voice. “He’s a snotty little punk. Does odd jobs for Ike Cellars. Runs Ike’s zipper when Ike is tired. But he’s no clown.”

“How about his girl, Eden Myles?”

“I heard they had a row, a month or so ago. She’s been working in Ike’s club, The Mansions. Still is, I guess. But she had a split with Frankie. She’s a pretty cute dish, Sam. She was arrested a few years ago for driving her car along the sidewalk on Astor Place. We used a picture of her taking a swing at old Jim Corrigan down at the Twenty-Sixth District.”

“How the hell do you remember all those details?” Poole said.