“My story’s in there about that little excitement at your party yesterday. Balloon Girl Invades High Society. Not exactly front-page stuff, but they let me have a whole column.”
Duffy started to unfold the paper, but Zeke checked the motion. The last thing he wanted was to see anything that would remind him of Rory Kavanaugh. Zeke started to thrust theedition away, then stopped, his eye caught by a headline on the front page.
Reform Candidate Promises Congressional Investigation. Above the caption was a grainy picture of Stanley Addison. Despite the stilted pose, the photographer had managed to capture the young lawyer’s idealistic expression.
“What the—” Zeke said, snatching the paper closer.
“My story is on page five. What are you looking at?” Duffy crowded in closer. “Oh, that story Baxter did on Addison? Not bad. I mean Baxter’s a nice enough fellow, but the editor always has to clean up his copy. I taught him all he knows.”
Zeke ignored Duffy’s chatter, concentrating on the article.
In an interview yesterday, Stanley Addison stated he has uncovered startling new facts in his investigation of slum conditions in the area known as Five Points.
“Deeds have come to light, revealing true ownership of a series of sweatshops, brothels and gambling houses on Grant Avenue,” Addison informed this reporter. “I also now have definite proof that the illegal activities of these operations were financed by funds misappropriated from the City treasury and protected by payoffs to the police department.”
Although Addison declined to name any names at this point, he hinted that his evidence would incriminate several government officials and some respected members of society as well. He declared that he would demand a special judicial committee be formed to examine his documents and hand down indictments.
Mr. Addison, who has declared his candidacy in the upcoming mayoral race?—
The rest of the article merely went on to discuss Addison’s political aspirations and his legal background. Zeke skimmed through it and then crunched the paper in his hand.
“Why, that young jackass!”
“Who?” Duffy asked.
“Addison!” Zeke slapped the paper back down on the counter. Whatever had possessed the fool to go spouting off to a reporter before he had had his talk with Zeke? Addison was a good man, but an idealist, tending to get swept away. He hadn’t yet learned that it was not wise to let your opponents see all your cards before you played them. True, he had been sensible enough to mention no names, but Charles Decker would know who was meant. Decker and his friends would have plenty of time to dive for their attorneys, start preparing a defense.
The more Zeke thought about Addison’s folly, the more it angered him, and he swore.
“I don’t see what was in that story to get you so mad,” Duffy said. “I thought Addison was a friend of yours. You’re backing his campaign, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be more likely to break his neck.”
Duffy’s eyes lit up with speculation, and his nose practically twitched, as though he were scenting a story here. Zeke could almost see the headlines chasing through Duffy’s mind. Millionaire Backer Threatens Reform Candidate.
That was the last kind of press Addison needed. Zeke could see he had a problem here. The meeting between himself and Addison already promised to be heated enough without Duffy hanging about, all ears. He needed to be rid of the reporter before Addison arrived.
Yet Duffy was a shrewd fellow. Sending him off without arousing his suspicion would be difficult. Zeke attempted simply to turn a cold shoulder on the man, becoming taciturn, but Duffy was more persistent than a horsefly.
He badgered Zeke with questions about Addison and about Zeke’s own background. Zeke’s patience was wearing thin when help came from an unexpected corner.
Mulgrew snarled that if Duffy didn’t cease pestering the hotel’s customers, he’d summon a policeman. “I’ll have you run in for loitering and panhandling drinks.”
“Bah!” Duffy said. “If there was a law against that, half of Manhattan would be in jail.”
But when Mulgrew made a menacing move to come round the bar, Duffy flung up one hand in defeat. “Ah, don’t get riled. I’m going.”
He tossed off the last of his beer and ambled toward the door. He paused on the threshold long enough to call back to Zeke. “See you around, Morrison. I’ll get a good story out of you one of these days yet. You just see if I don’t.”
As the door closed behind Duffy, Mulgrew snatched up the empty mug and vigorously scrubbed the counter in front of the spot where Duffy had stood drinking.
“I always said this hotel should be more careful, only allow gentlemen into this bar,” Mulgrew muttered.
“Then I wouldn’t be able to come in,” Zeke said.
“Oh, no, you’re a gent all right, Mr. Morrison. I always say it takes more than fancy manners and blue blood to make a proper man.”
Zeke looked away, pleased but a little embarrassed by the tribute. He took out his watch again. He was startled to see it was past five and still no sign of Addison. He expelled an exasperated sigh. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least to discover that Addison had forgotten. When absorbed in preparing one of his legal briefs or writing a fiery speech, the man didn’t even remember to eat unless that pretty wife of his took away his pen and put a fork in his hand.
