Page 2 of We Could Be So Good
And it’s not like anybody said, “Russo, babysit the boss’s son,” but when Nick gets sent out to cover a story, Andy tags along as often as not. There’s a set of arcane and unspoken rules governing who sits where in the rows and rows of desks in theChronicle’s newsroom, but Nick clears off the desk facing his own, all but shoves Andy into the chair, then glares around the room, silently daring anyone who thinks they’re going to argue with him.
“Why do you keep calling me ‘kid’?” Andy asks one day as they’re walking back from City Hall. “I checked your file and we’re both twenty-five.”
“I have a file?” Nick asks, not sure whether to be annoyed or weirdly flattered that Andy has been prying into whatever files theChroniclekeeps on its employees.
“Everyone has a file.”
“I didn’t realize we were the same age,” Nick lies.
“Did you know the copyboys have a betting pool about how many times you’ll smile in a week? The over-under’s two.Two.”
“There’s too much goddamn gambling in the newsroom,” Nick says, because it’s true—a newspaper shouldn’t have its own numbers runner, that’s just wrong—and also because he doesn’t want to let on that he’s kind of impressed that Andy’s in good enough with the copyboys to know about their secret bets.
“Is this part of your grizzled old reporter routine?” Andy asks, narrowly avoiding a puddle only because Nick grabs him by the sleeve and hauls him out of the way. “The one where you act like an ink-stained wretch, made of nothing but newsprint and subway tokens and paper cups of coffee?”
That’s... alarmingly close to the image that Nick tries to cultivate. “It’s because if I start thinking of you as an actual adult, I’ll start wondering why you never have a pen. Or your keys. Or why you get east and west confused.”
Something like hurt flickers across Andy’s face and Nick wants to take back whatever it was he said, but Andy’s good-natured mask is back in place. “I never confuse east and west. I just never know which direction I’m facing, so I can’t possibly guess where all the rest of the directions are. And that reminds me.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh that doesn’t sound in the least cheerful. “I lost my keys again.”
“No, you didn’t.” Nick digs into his pocket and pulls out a key ring. “Sorry. Forgot to mention it. One of the girls on the fourth floor found it and gave it to me to give to you.”
Andy blushes hard, and Nick wonders which of the reporters on the fourth floor he has his eye on. That’s where the women in fashion, food, and furnishings have their desks. Hmm.
“That’s three times this week.” Andy sighs, taking the keys and sticking them in his pocket.
Actually, it was five times, and six the previous week, but Nick doesn’t mention it.
“Don’t you have a doorman you can leave your keys with?” Nick asks.
“It’s too mortifying. He’s known me since I was a baby. And he knew my mother. I can’t admit to him that I can’t even keep track of a key ring.”
Nick guesses that Pulitzer-winning war correspondents don’t lose their keys much. But this is the first time Andy’s mentioned his mother. She died last fall, and Nick only knows this because everybody knows it—theChronicleeven ran a two-column obituary, despite her being the publisher’s ex-wife.
The next day, Nick comes to work with a length of string. “Give me your keys,” he tells Andy.
Andy raises his eyebrows but complies. “This worked for my nephew,” Nick says, prying the single key off the ring and threading it onto the string. “He kept losing his keys because he always had his hands in his pockets. Whenever he took his hands out, he’d send his keys flying.” He ties a double knot, then holds out the resulting circle of string, the key dangling like a locket at the bottom. “Come here.” He loops the string around Andy’s neck, pulling his collar just loose enough to drop the key under his shirt. “Safe and sound.” He pats Andy’s chest, then pulls his hand away like he’s touched a hot stove. What the fuck. Nick knows to keep his hands to himself.
Andy’s hand goes up to his throat, but he stops himself and jams his hands in his pockets. He looks embarrassed, and Nick realizes that he might have got this all wrong—he never meant to make Andy feel like he couldn’t take care of himself.
“I mean, you don’t need to keep it like that,” Nick says. “Do whatever works for you. It’s just—it was bothering you, and I thought—”
“Thank you,” Andy says. “It was thoughtful of you.”
Nick wonders when the last time was that someone looked after Andy Fleming, before reminding himself that it’s none of his business.
***
May1958
Nick stretches his legs out, propping one foot on the seat in front of him. They’re up in the nosebleeds—Nick’ll be damned if he pays more than a dollar to see the fucking Yankees—which means half the nearby seats at this midweek day game are empty.
“This is quite the cultural experience,” Andy remarks calmly as a man a few seats over whips out his dick and begins to piss in the aisle.
“What’s the matter with you?” Nick shouts to the man. “Put that thing away. There are children here.”
Andy’s face is bright red and his shoulders are shaking. “‘Put that thing away’?” he repeats.
“I’m not going to shoutdickin public,” Nick says reasonably.
