Read Online The Henderson Equation by Warren Adler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Warren Adler
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is
power, he must be thinking. Nick preempted the expected response.
"I've got to let Gunderstein play it out. If there's
no truth in it, he'll come up against a blank wall and that will be the end of
it."
"There is no truth in it, Nick. I swear it."
"You've got to be a newspaperman to understand."
"You make it sound like there's some special mystique
about it.
"There is."
"But, Nick, I'm vulnerable. I have enemies, especially
at the right end of the political spectrum. They want my ass. They'll pay for
confirmation, if necessary. Put out the right bait and they'll find a fish for
the hook."
"Gunderstein will see through it."
"I'd hate to stake my career on a newspaperman's
ambition." It was Henderson's bias now. For the first time since he had
come into the room, Nick felt the raw power of his own position.
"This time you'll have to trust me, Burt.
You'll have to have faith in my instincts."
"I never said I didn't." Henderson was defending
now.
"He's right, Burt," Myra said suddenly. He had
flushed her out. She was telling him not to press.
"He lives by story values," Henderson said. It
was a mild protest. "I live by image. That's not necessarily
compatible."
"That's the name of the game," Nick went on.
"We're not only the victimizer. Sometimes we're also the victim."
"Of what?"
"Of the image-maker's bullshit. If we let down our
guard, we blow our credibility. That's what I mean by ecology. We're very
sensitive to words around here. If I get too heavy-handed, they'll get
suspicious of me, of my--" Nick paused--"let's call it integrity.
They know the parameters. If I sidestep the subtleties, they'll buck. I've got
a constituency, too." It was a lecture directed at Myra. He watched
Henderson watching Myra, who had slipped back into impassivity. Sipping his
coffee, Henderson suddenly drained his cup and placed it down again,
soundlessly, on the saucer. The act seemed a symbol of finality, as if his
persuasiveness had failed. Despite it, his coolness commanded respect.
"If there is no credible confirmation, it's dead.
That's as far as I can promise. I'm hardly an enemy. I'm not searching for
anything."
"You wouldn't know it from where I sit."
Henderson glanced at his watch to
cover his desire to leave, having seen that he was making little headway. As he
stood up, Myra followed, came around the table, and put her arm in his. Nick
remained seated as Henderson held out a firm hand and joined it to Nick's,
pumping it with undiminished vigor.
"I suppose I should understand," he said.
"Don't sweat it," Nick said. He wanted to
mitigate the man's anxiety by assuring him that rarely do words slip through
the net, his net. But he felt Henderson might see pomposity in it, bravado, and
it would make matters worse. His eyes followed them toward the door, where Henderson bent to kiss Myra lightly on the cheek.
"See you at the game Sunday," he heard Myra say. In its way it was more a confirmation than the physical closeness, the ritual of
the touching of the flesh which revealed nothing. But this thing with the game.
That was the stuff of which myths were made.
Each Sunday the Redskins were in town the owner, Henry
Bloomington Swopes, paid court to Washington power. It was no coincidence that
Swopes was the lawyer for the Chronicle . Power clusters together like
peanut brittle, Nick had thought on the occasions he had attended, which was
most of the time. Myra had a standing invitation to bring a half dozen guests
and therein lay the trappings of rank. Like the elegant ritual of a Japanese
sword dance, a day in the owner's box followed the scripted scenario to the
letter, complete with stage directions.
One arrived nearly two hours before the game at the private
dining room behind the owner's box. Guests came dressed in chic
football-viewing togs fresh out of the latest "W" pages. The sense of
with-it-ness hung in the air like perfume, oversweet and, in a special way,
intoxicating.
A feast was provided, rustic, but
power, he must be thinking. Nick preempted the expected response.
"I've got to let Gunderstein play it out. If there's
no truth in it, he'll come up against a blank wall and that will be the end of
it."
"There is no truth in it, Nick. I swear it."
"You've got to be a newspaperman to understand."
"You make it sound like there's some special mystique
about it.
"There is."
"But, Nick, I'm vulnerable. I have enemies, especially
at the right end of the political spectrum. They want my ass. They'll pay for
confirmation, if necessary. Put out the right bait and they'll find a fish for
the hook."
"Gunderstein will see through it."
"I'd hate to stake my career on a newspaperman's
ambition." It was Henderson's bias now. For the first time since he had
come into the room, Nick felt the raw power of his own position.
"This time you'll have to trust me, Burt.
You'll have to have faith in my instincts."
"I never said I didn't." Henderson was defending
now.
"He's right, Burt," Myra said suddenly. He had
flushed her out. She was telling him not to press.
"He lives by story values," Henderson said. It
was a mild protest. "I live by image. That's not necessarily
compatible."
"That's the name of the game," Nick went on.
"We're not only the victimizer. Sometimes we're also the victim."
"Of what?"
"Of the image-maker's bullshit. If we let down our
guard, we blow our credibility. That's what I mean by ecology. We're very
sensitive to words around here. If I get too heavy-handed, they'll get
suspicious of me, of my--" Nick paused--"let's call it integrity.
They know the parameters. If I sidestep the subtleties, they'll buck. I've got
a constituency, too." It was a lecture directed at Myra. He watched
Henderson watching Myra, who had slipped back into impassivity. Sipping his
coffee, Henderson suddenly drained his cup and placed it down again,
soundlessly, on the saucer. The act seemed a symbol of finality, as if his
persuasiveness had failed. Despite it, his coolness commanded respect.
"If there is no credible confirmation, it's dead.
That's as far as I can promise. I'm hardly an enemy. I'm not searching for
anything."
"You wouldn't know it from where I sit."
Henderson glanced at his watch to
cover his desire to leave, having seen that he was making little headway. As he
stood up, Myra followed, came around the table, and put her arm in his. Nick
remained seated as Henderson held out a firm hand and joined it to Nick's,
pumping it with undiminished vigor.
"I suppose I should understand," he said.
"Don't sweat it," Nick said. He wanted to
mitigate the man's anxiety by assuring him that rarely do words slip through
the net, his net. But he felt Henderson might see pomposity in it, bravado, and
it would make matters worse. His eyes followed them toward the door, where Henderson bent to kiss Myra lightly on the cheek.
"See you at the game Sunday," he heard Myra say. In its way it was more a confirmation than the physical closeness, the ritual of
the touching of the flesh which revealed nothing. But this thing with the game.
That was the stuff of which myths were made.
Each Sunday the Redskins were in town the owner, Henry
Bloomington Swopes, paid court to Washington power. It was no coincidence that
Swopes was the lawyer for the Chronicle . Power clusters together like
peanut brittle, Nick had thought on the occasions he had attended, which was
most of the time. Myra had a standing invitation to bring a half dozen guests
and therein lay the trappings of rank. Like the elegant ritual of a Japanese
sword dance, a day in the owner's box followed the scripted scenario to the
letter, complete with stage directions.
One arrived nearly two hours before the game at the private
dining room behind the owner's box. Guests came dressed in chic
football-viewing togs fresh out of the latest "W" pages. The sense of
with-it-ness hung in the air like perfume, oversweet and, in a special way,
intoxicating.
A feast was provided, rustic, but
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