imminent or likely, the story becomes sub judice.
“Three: Tim Fitzpeterson is not going to die. If we blunder around
London asking about his sex life, before you know it there will be
questions in Parliament about Evening Post reporters scouring the
country for dirt on politicians. We leave that sort of thing to the
Sunday rags.”
He laid his hands on his desk, palms down “Sorry, boys.
Cole got up. “Okay, let’s get back to work.”
The three journalists left. When they got back to the newsroom, Kevin
Hart said: “If he was editor of The Washington Post, Nixon would still
be winning elections on a law-and-order ticket.”
Nobody laughed.
THREE P.M. “I HAVE Smith and Bernstein for you, Mr. Laski.”
“Thank you, Carol. Put him on. Hello, George?”
“Felix, how are you?”
Laski put a smile into his voice. It was not easy; “On top of the world.
Has your service improved any?” George Bernstein played tennis.
“Not a bit. You know I was teaching George junior to play?”
“Yes.”
“Now he beats me.”
Laski laughed. “And how’s Rachel?”
“No thinner. We were talking about you last night. She said you ought to
be married. I said: “Didn’t you know? Felix is gay.” She said: “Gay?”
So why can’t happy people be married?” I said: “No, I mean he’s a
homosexual, Rachel.” She dropped her knitting. She believed me, Felix!
Would you credit it?”
Laski forced another laugh. He was not sure how much longer he could
keep this up. “I’m thinking about it, George.”
“Marriage? Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Is that what you called to say?”
“No, that’s just a little thought hovering around in the back of my
mind.”
“So what can I tell you?”
“It’s a little thing. I want a million pounds for twenty-four hours, and
I thought I’d put the business your way.” Laski held his breath.
There was a short silence. “A million. For how long has Felix Laski been
in the money market?”
“Since I found out how to make a real profit overnight.”
“Let me in on the secret, will you?”
“All right. After you lend me the money. No kidding, George: can you do
it?”
“Sure we can. What’s your collateral?”
“Uh–surely you don’t normally ask for collateral against
twenty-four-hour money?” Laski’s fist tightened on the phone until the
knuckles bulged whitely.
“You’re right. And we don’t normally lend sums like this to banks like
yours.”
“Okay. My collateral is five hundred and ten thousand shares in Hamilton
Holdings.”
“Just a minute.”
There was a silence. Laski pictured George Bernstein: a thickset man
with a large head, a big nose, and a permanent broad grin; sitting at an
old desk in a poky office with a view of St. Paul’s; checking figures in
The Financial Times, his fingers playing lightly over the keys of a
desktop computer.
Bernstein came back on the line. “At today’s price it’s not nearly
enough, Felix.”
“Oh, come on, this is a formality. You know I’m not going to screw you.
This is me–Felix–your friend.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve.
“I’d like to do it, but I’ve got a partner.”
“Your partner is sleeping so heavily there’s a rumor he’s dead.”
“A deal like this would wake him if he was in his grave. Try Larry
Wakely, Felix. He might do something for you.”
Laski had already tried Larry Wakely, but he did not say so. “I will.
How about a game this weekend?”
“Love to!” The relief in Bernstein’s voice was obvious. “Saturday
morning at the club?”
“Ten pounds a game?”
“It’ll break my heart to take your money.”
“Look forward to it. Good-bye, George.”
“Take care.”
Laski closed his eyes for a moment, letting the phone dangle from his
hand. He had known that Bernstein would not lend him the money: he was
just trying anything now. He rubbed his face with his fingers. He was
not beaten yet.
He depressed the cradle and got a purring tone.
He dialed with a chewed pencil.
The number rang for a long time. Laski was about to dial again when it
answered. “Department of Energy.”
“Press Office,” Laski said.
“Trying to connect you.”