“Oh. And what would that be?”
“That would be confidential,” Wiley said, slurping.
Cab Mulcahy was a patient man, especially for a managing editor. He had been in newspapers his entire adult life and almost nothing could provoke him. Whenever the worst kind of madness gripped the newsroom, Mulcahy would emerge to take charge, instantly imposing a rational and temperate mood. He was a thoughtful man in a profession not famous for thoughtfulness. Cab Mulcahy was also astute. He loved Skip Wiley, but distrusted him wholeheartedly.
“Cream?” Mulcahy offered.
“No thanks.” Wiley rubbed his temples briskly. He knew that the effect of this was to distort his face grotesquely, like pulling putty. He watched Mulcahy watching him.
“You missed deadline yesterday, Skip.”
“I was helping Bloodworth with his story. The kid’s hopeless, Cab. Did you like my column?”
Mulcahy said, “I think we ought to talk about it.”
“Fine,” Wiley said. “Talk.”
“How much do you really know about the Harper case?”
“I’ve got my sources.”
Mulcahy smiled paternally. Wiley’s column was on his desk. It lay there like a bird dropping, the first thing to await Mulcahy when he arrived at the office. He had read it three times.
“My concern,” Mulcahy began, “is that you managed to convict Mr. Cabal in this morning’s newspaper, without benefit of a trial. You have, for lack of a better word, reconstructed the murder of B. D. Harper in your usual slick, readable way—”
“Thank you, Cab.”
“—without any apparent regard for the facts. This business about sexual torture, where did that come from?”
Wiley said, “Can’t tell you.”
“Skip, let me read this out loud: ‘Harper was tied up, spread-eagle, and subjected to vicious and unspeakable homosexual assaults for no less than five hours.’ Now, before you start whining, you ought to know that I took the liberty of calling the medical examiner. The autopsy showed absolutely no signs of sodomy.”
“Aw, it’s the imagery that’s important, Cab. The utter humiliation of this gentle man. Sodomized or not, can you deny that he was horribly humiliated by this crime?”
‘‘Your concern for the late Mr. Harper’s dignity is touching,” Mulcahy said. He turned his attention to a stack of newspaper clippings on another corner of his desk. Wordlessly he riffled through them. Wiley knew what they were: more columns.
“Here we go,” Mulcahy said, holding up one. “On the subject of B. D. ‘Sparky’ Harper, this is what you wrote a mere three months ago: ‘If there has ever been a more myopic, insensitive, and avaricious cretin to lead our Chamber of Commerce, I can’t recall him. Sparky Harper takes the cake—and anything else that isn’t nailed down. He is the Sultan of Shills, the perfect mouthpiece for the hungry-eyed developers, hoteliers, bankers, and lawyers who have made South Florida what it is today: Newark with palm trees.’ “
“I remember that column, Cab. You made me apologize to the New Jersey Tourist Bureau.”
Mulcahy leaned back and gave Skip Wiley a very hard look.
Wiley squirmed. “I suppose you want to know why I crucified Harper a few months ago and made a hero out of him today. It’s simple, Cab. Literary license. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’ve read a book or two. Try me.”
“I did it to dramatize the crime problem,” Wiley said. “The Harper murder symbolizes the unspeakable mayhem in our streets. Don’t you see? To make people care, I needed to bring Sparky Harper and his killer to life. Don’t look at me like that, Cab. You think I’m a hypocrite? Sure, Harper was a fat little jerk. But if I put that in the paper, no one would care about the murder. I wanted to give ‘em goose bumps, Cab.”
“Like the old days,” Mulcahy said with a sigh.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I get more goddamned letters than I ever did. People read the hell out of my column. You should see the mail.”
“That’s the trouble, Skip. I do see the mail. People are starting to hate you, I mean really hate you. Not just the usual fruitcakes, either.”
Not true, Wiley said to himself. The people who counted were on his side.
“So you’ve been taking some heat, eh?”