Hitch

For David

For Billie Kidd. I was a jerk. You were beautiful.
For Virginia. Thanks for opening this door.

Editor: Jerry

---

Prologue:

George Hitchcock is on his way to becoming a full-time reporter. It doesn't matter where. He took the journalism classes necessary. He took more English literature classes than are required. His creative writing teachers tell him he's a gifted writer, certain to get published.

Having the tools is one thing, but does he have a nose for news? That is something that can't be taught. You either had an instinct for what was news, or you didn't. Writing the news was the easy part. Captivating your audience with well written prose was essential, once the story turned into big news.

George is determined to become a reporter. With more than one recommendation, and with letters of introduction, the talented student has been hired as a stringer at the City News.

While he develops his sources in places where the news starts its journey to become a story, George drinks with the local cops. He doesn't mind buying his buddies drinks, and they don't mind talking about the cases that are keeping them up nights.

It's an arrangement journalism teachers recommend. if you intend to get your hands on the best stories, before the competition gets to them, you need reliable sources to get you pointed in the right direction, and that's when the writing classes pay off.

George knows he has a nose for news. He is sure he's on the way to the full-time reporters job. Once he gets noticed. He'll be on his way, as long as he isn't noticed too closely.

George Hitchcock, Hitch to other reporters and his friends, is not what he appears to be. That's a story he won't be telling to City News readers.

Chapter 1

You're Up

After three months as a stringer on the City News, George wasn't ready to call it quits. He'd be back in the morning, no matter what story he was sent out on this afternoon. The manager of the Local News desk had just picked up the telephone.

“City desk, Charlie Myers,” Mr. Myers yelled into the phone. “Speak slower, Start at the beginning. Where are you? Who are you? What makes you think this is news, Lady. Slow down.”

There were a few, “Uh huhs,” after another “slow down.”

Charlie, Pops to those of us who got to run down the stories he sent us to cover, took notes as he tried to dig details out of the caller.

He growled impatiently, but Mr. Myers was looking straight at George, which meant he was up. He'd catch the story no matter if it was news or not. Such calls leaned toward the or not, but that didn't matter. The City News gathered information, and once you were handed the assignment, you ran down the story.

The longer the conversation went on, the more involved the story became, if Mr. Myers was true to form. It didn't take a genius to know he was up. All the real reporters were out, and at three in the afternoon, George was the only stringer on the floor.

It was August. Naturally, It was too hot, too humid, and there wasn't so much as a breeze stirring. The City News building wasn't air conditioned, and even with his jacket off, there were two telltale rings on his crisp white shirt under both of George's arms. At least outside he'd breathe something besides printers' ink and stale air.

Mr. Myers banged down the receiver into the cradle. It was a wonder he didn't break the damn thing, but when his arm shot out with a piece of paper off his note pad in it, George reached for his jacket.

“Mr. Hitchcock, you're up,” Pops said. “Fire and police on 3rd S.E. Woman doesn't have any idea of what's going on. They've blocked the street at both ends. Go see what you can see. If it's important, we go to press in an hour. Call me if it needs to go in this edition.

“Sure, Pops,” George said, slipping his jacket on.

It had been yes, Mr. Myers, no, Mr. Myers for the first week. Now it was Pops. The Walrus, Doc, Mr. Warner, was still Mr. Warner. Why the man scared George was anyone's guess. Maybe because he was the editor-in-chief at the City News. Maybe because he growled.

The Walrus hired him. He was a man who looked like he'd enjoy firing people. He gave the orders. He didn't talk, he growled. George didn't like being growled at. It was his first job in the field of big time journalism. He didn't like a lot of things, but he wanted to be a journalist. You had to start somewhere.

The City News went to press at 3:45p.m. daily. If everything ran smoothly, the City News hit the newsstands at five o'clock. Delivery boys in nearby suburbs had theirs between 5:30 and 6:00.

“Mr. Hitchcock, call it in if you have the story before three forty-five, it'll make this edition if you do. Get a ride with a pool car, walk, fly for all I care, but call me before three forty-five if it's anything.”

“I've been here for over three months. I know when we put the paper to bed,” George said, taking the assignment slip, and heading for the stairs.

Passing his desk on the way out, he reached for his credentials. Wouldn't do to go out on a story without his credentials. He was no one without his I.D.

George glanced at the Walrus sitting regally behind his huge desk, as he made the right turn and headed for the stairs. When the Walrus had nothing to say to him were the best days.

A good day was when Pops actually gave him a real story. It did happen, but not often enough. He was at work by seven each morning, earlier than any other stringer came in. He was still there at seven in the evening, long after the other stringers were gone.

If he wasn't there he couldn't get assignments. He came early and stayed late for that reason. By being there, chances were, sooner or later, he'd get a story that rated a byline. He wouldn't get it if he was at home putting in sack time. He could sleep after he'd been made a full-time reporter at the City News.

Real reporters weren't in the newsroom that often. They called in for their assignments, and they phones in their copy half the time. It was surprising how little news took place inside the newsroom.

Getting the real stories over the phone left anything else for stringers to cover. From time to time, with all the reporters on assignment, Pops was forced to assign stories that might be worth covering to the stringer who was up. George was the most likely stringer to be up at any given time, because he was always there, always ready to cover any story he was sent out on.

A stringer freelanced. He was working for himself, but if the stringer knew his stuff, and got a couple of bylines, the editor-in-chief, Mr. Warner, alias the Walrus or Doc, begrudging hired you as a full-time reporter.

Half of George's stories ended up in the circular file. Not because he couldn't write, but because what he wrote about was of no interest to anyone. If you were assigned a story, you'd better write something.

His journalism teacher told him, “Anyone can call himself a newspaperman. Until you are in the newsroom long enough to catch the kinds of stories careers were made out of, you're just another guy with big dreams.”

George decided to walk to 3rd Street. He didn't want to take a pool car on a story he could yell in. The City News building was about five blocks away. It was hotter than he liked, but getting outside and getting some fresh air, while imagining a hostage situation or maybe armed robbers took refuge in a house on 3rd Street.

Had it been either of those, someone would already be covering the action.

George had a hard time believing this story would amount to anything. None of the last ten stories he covered did. It was summer. Everyone was away. The City was dead and stories played hard to get.

Tossing his jacket over his shoulder, stuffing the assignment sheet into his pocket, he breathed in the warm fresh air. It wasn't the heat that got to people this time of year. It was the humidity that smothered you.

Smart folks were on vacation in August. It was the final chance to get away from the rat race, until the holidays. The kids would be back to school in a couple of weeks, and the family was stuck in town.

Walking meant not having some nearly brain-dead driver to contend with. If George covered something in one of the far away suburbs, and he'd done it more than once, he accepted a ride in a pool car. That's if there was one a real reporter hadn't reserved. if there wasn't a car available, he improvised.

No self-respecting reporter took a bus, but he'd taken a bus more than once on assignment. Pop didn't care how you got to where the story was, but you better not be late. If you couldn't get back in time for the paper to go to press, you better phone it in.

George could buy a car. He had savings from working while he put himself through college. There were more essential things than a car. His journalism teacher had been a reporter for several decades. His advice to George was to establish himself with the sources that could do him the most good.

Cops were the best sources to have. Then, he needed to be friendly with other reporters. Stories don't fall off of trees. Be friendly to everyone. Because everyone has a story they want to tell. If you are likeable and don't pressure people into talking to you, they'll be more likely to tell you what they know.

George needed one or two stories that earned him a byline. It would give him the inside track on the full-time reporters job he was after. A byline was as good as gold in the news business. Readers who liked what you wrote, created demand. That was as good s gold too.

Once he was a full-time reporter, the pressure would be off. George could make all those writing classes he took pay dividends.

Writing was the easy part. George was an excellent writer, according to the journalism teachers and the creative writing teachers at school, but to write great prose, you needed to have something to write about, and so far, George hadn't had much to write about at the City News. He'd give it time. He had plenty of time.

Heading for 3rd Street, S.E., took him five blocks from the City News building. Looking down 3rd, he saw two police cars parked nose to nose, blocking 3rd. There were fire trucks further down 3rd, and he saw two police cars parked nose to nose at the other end of the block.

George was hopeful. Maybe it was a hostage situation. Maybe bang robbers barricaded themselves in someone's house. The excitement in George was rising. This could end up being something.

There was no way to know what to expect, and as he approached the first police car, blocking the street, he took his credentials out, pinning the I.D. to his jacket. He let a little of the excitement he felt propel him forward.

George looked but he couldn't see anything that required so many police and fire department personnel. The activity centered around a big oak tree between a house and the street. A half dozen uniformed men stood looking up into the tree.

Was someone up there, George wondered. Maybe he was fleeing the scene of a crime. They might have the bad guy cornered, but why all the fire trucks? Did he set something on fire?

George was alive with anticipation. He approached the first cop he came to. The young officer was leaning on the fender of his car. His focus was on his buddies under the oak tree.

“What's up?” George asked in his friendliest voice.

The cop stood up to his full five foot eight or five foot nine. He looked George over. George stopped in between the two cop cars that were blocking that end of 3rd Street.

“Who are you?” Officer Harmon asked, while George read his name tag.

George, leaving his credentials attached to his lapel, held it up.

“Cat's up in the tree,” Officer Harmon said.

“Is he a cool cat. What did he do to require so much attention?”

“Who are you?” Officer Harmon asked, looking him over again, like he'd never seen him before.

George removed his I.D., holding it up for the officer to read. Maybe he needed glasses.

Getting no response, George added, “George Hitchcock, City News.”

“Not a dude type cat. A meow type cat,” Officer Harmon clarified.

“One, two, three, fire trucks. Two cop cars here and two more at the other end of the block. Isn't that a lot of fire power for a cat?”

Officer Harmon shrugged.

“ We saw the fire trucks. We came down to see what was going on. I suppose the other two cop cars did the same thing we did. I can't tell you why it took three fire trucks to look at a cat in a tree.”

“Do you mind me walking down there to see what they intend to do?” George asked.

“No, I'm just watching. You can do what you like,” Officer Harmon said.

George nodded and walked to where three firemen and a cop stood under the tree. Off to the right a few feet was a woman wringing her hands on an apron with bright red roses on it. I was sure I'd found that cat in the tree's owner.

“Excuse me, is that your cat in the tree?”

“It is. I didn't know what to do. I dialed 9-1-1. I didn't expect all this,” she said.

“What's the cat's name?” George asked, looking up the tree.

“Prissy,” she said.

“What's your name?” George asked, taking out pad and pencil.

“Who are you?” she asked. “I'm Annette Dickerson.”

“George Hitchcock, City News,” George said.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Dickerson said. “You don't intend to write about this in the newspaper?”

“I will write about it, but it'll never make it as news. Unless it is a really slow news day, Mrs. Dickerson. Maybe if your cat flew down, that would be news.”

“I don't know why all these people came,” she said. “Why do you think they came? Am I going to be in trouble?” she asked.

Let me go see what I can find out for you,” George said. “Once they saw what the problem was, it was their decision to keep all this equipment here. The cop said he saw the fire trucks and came to see what was going on. No, you aren't in trouble but Prissy could be.”

George strolled over to the huddle of firemen and one cop.

“George Hitchcock, City News,” he said. “What's up?”

All four of them looked up into the tree.

“Who are you?” Assistant-Chief Williams asked.

George held up his credentials and he read.

“Cat's in the tree,” Assistant-Chief Williams said.

Since George now had three sources, he could write that it was a cat in the tree, but why would he? A cat in a tree wasn't a story. Three fire trucks and four cop cars were. George decided to use tact.

“That's Prissy the cat in the tree,” George offered.

“You think if we call the cat by name, it'll come down?” the assistant-chief asked.

“Chief Williams,” I said, giving him a field promotion. “That cat will come out of that tree when it has to pee or when it gets hungry. Why did you say all these city assets are holding court on 3rd Street?”

“Like most things that just happen, it just happened. We're required to run the engines each day, and with this being vacation season, we haven't had a call since Monday. We'd turned these three trucks on to run for a half hour or so, and we got the 9-1-1 call on the cat in the tree. We naturally saw a chance to do something while we ran the engines, and here we are.”

George was speechless. If this wasn't a story before he heard what the assistant-chief said, it certainly wasn't one now. Running fire trucks, as per city regs, didn't usually make big news.

“Three fire trucks and four police cars seem like a lot to answer one cat call,” George calculated.

“That's because we've nothing to do. The police aren't any busier than we are. I can't figure you guys are all that busy,” Assistant-Chief Williams said.

“Since you got here, what have you done, Chief? They sent me to cover the story about fire trucks and police cars on 3rd Street. If I want to keep my job, I've got to write something.”

Assistant-Chief Williams laughed.

“Cable, that's the fireman standing over there,” he pointed, while he spoke. “Cable claimed he's a tree climber from way back. He volunteered to climb up to get the cat. As you may notice, where the knobby cut marks are, a tree limb has been hacked off. The city said it was to keep kids out of the big oaks along 2nd and 3rd Streets. I told city parks, 'it works on fireman too,' if they kept notes on that sort of thing.' Cable's arms weren't long enough, or the limbs weren't low enough for him to reach. He couldn't climb this tree.”

“Wouldn't a ladder work? Fire trucks still have ladders on the side, don't they? Are the ladders just for show, Chief?” George asked.

“That was Simpson's idea. 'Get a ladder, I'll bring the cat down.' he told me.'”

“Cat's still up there, Chief. Ladder wasn't long enough?” George asked, looking at a ladder on the side of one of the closest truck.

“No, Simpson went right up there. When he reached for the cat, it climbed higher in the tree. Once the ladder was fully extended, the cat moved two feet higher than the top of the ladder. Simpson couldn't quite reach it. We decided it was too dangerous to risk a fireman getting hurt. As I told you, we were just running the truck's engines as is required. We didn't know what we were getting into, until we got here, and then we thought we could help, but now the engines have run plenty long enough, and we need to get the trucks tucked back in at the firehouse, before someone misses them.”

“What are you going to do about the cat?” George asked.

“Go back to the firehouse. I'll call in a few hours to see if the cat came down. As slow as things are, we can wait, and while we wait, we'll play a little poker.”

“I'm a fair poker player myself,” George said, seeing a chance to get acquainted with the fireman in the city.

“We'll probably break out the cards around six. Come on by, after you get off. Always room for one more,” Assistant-Chief Williams said.

“I just might do that, Chief. I need to get back to write this story,” George said. “I can't wait to see how it turns out, if I'm not sent out on another assignment, I'll drop by the firehouse.”

“You won't mention the poker game if you write about the cat in the tree, will you?” Assistant-Chief Williams asked.

“Not on your life. I don't want to see any good poker games closed down because of me,” George said. “Save a seat for me.”

“You could report it at the poker games. The cops sit in on our games. They enjoy poker too,” Assistant-Chief Williams said.

“Thanks, Chief,” George said.

The firemen returned to their trucks.

One by one, George watched the fire trucks pull away. The two cop cars at the far end of the block, moved out of the street, following the fire trucks. Officer Harmon and another officer drove their cars down 3rd Street, following the three fire trucks and two other police cars. George didn't write that part down.

George walked back over to the cat's owner.

“What am I going to do?” Mrs. Dickerson asked, overwrought about that darn cat.

“Do you have tuna?” George asked.

“Certainly. You're the newspaper man. You want me to fix you a tuna sandwich?” she asked.

“Mrs. D, go into your kitchen. First, open the back door. Open the can of tuna. Let the tuna drop into Prissy's dish. That's very important, you much make sure to let it fall into the cat's dish,” he told her. “When Prissy hears it drop, she'll smell the air and make a beeline for her dish. Once she comes into the kitchen, close the door behind her,” George said.

He turned to walk back to the City News building.

After reaching the end of 3rd Street, George stopped to look back at the oak tree. He calculated enough time had passed for Mrs. D to have followed his instructions.

In less than a minute the cat came out of that tree, heading for the back of the house.

George smiled.

“Works every time,” George said to himself.

He walked back to the City News building. The paper had gone to press and what he had to report could wait for tomorrow's edition. How long would it take him to write about a cat in a tree? Not long.

Pops wasn't at his desk. He'd been there since noon, getting the stories that would go into today's edition ready to go to press. For the next hour he'd be drinking coffee, stretching his legs, and then he'd come back to begin work on tomorrow's edition.

The story of a cat in the tree wasn't a story at all. It would not make today's edition and it wouldn't make tomorrow's edition. It wasn't a story, but George got an idea. He wouldn't write another mundane story. He'd innovate and entertain City News' readers.

Dr. Seuss wrote The Cat In The Hat. Why couldn't George write the story about the cat in the tree?

It sounded like a good idea at the time but George did go out in the heat of the day and he'd walked to 3rd Street and back. Other than that there was no good reason for him to write the cat in the tree.

He wrote it anyway.

Chapter 2

The Meeting

George told Assistant-Chief Williams he'd like to sit in on their poker game after he got off work. As he was wrapping things up for the day, the Walrus summoned him to his office.

The game would have to wait.

“Mr. Hitchcock, I'd like to see you in my office, now,” was how he phrased the invitation.

George cringed. They weren't words anyone in the newsroom wanted to hear, especially when a hot poker game was waiting.

The Walrus, with a mustache that wiggled when he spoke, was called Doc by some of the older reporters. George called him sir or Mr. Warner. Whatever you called him, when he called you, you jumped. Only God ranked higher at the City News. Even God cringed when the Walrus called.

Mr. Warner was the editor-in-chief at the City News, and it was never good news when he summoned you to his office. For a stringer, the call was doubly worrisome, because you didn't have a job at the City News. Stringers hung out there, hoping to get a story.

When George stepped into Mr. Warner's office, the big man spoke.

“Close the door and take a seat, Mr. Hitchcock,” Mr. Warner said, his walrus mustache moving up and down on his face as he spoke.

“You were sent out on a simple story on 3rd Street this afternoon, I believe. Mr. Myers told me that he sent you out between two and three, and when you came back, I watched you typing away at the stringers' desk. Hard at work you were. The puzzling thing about it, you looked so industrious. I thought you were finally catching on to how things are done at the City News, Mr. Hitchcock. I was curious and I went to see what you'd produced, I found this in Charlie's in-basket. He no doubt left it there rather than add it to today's edition. I brought it to my office to read,” he said, holding up the copy George wrote after his foray on 3rd Street.

“It was after four,” George said. “When I came back.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” the Walrus asked.

“It was left in the basket because today's edition of the City News already went to press, Mr. Warner.”

Mr. Warner gave George a stern look.

“Let me quote,” he finally said.

“What do you do when your cat's in a tree? Mrs. D dialed 9-1-1. 'My cats in the tree,' she plainly said, “The cat's in the tree, way over my head.

“In a flash fire trucks drove to her house. Fire trucks one, two, three will get that cat out of that tree.

“A firemen said, “I'll climb the tree and bring that cat down.””

“With branches too high, or arms too short, he never gets off the ground. He can't climb the tree and bring the cat down.

“A ladder will work,” a fireman said. “A ladder reaches way over my head. I'll climb that tree, and bring the cat down.

“No matter how many times he reaches for the cat, where he reached wasn't where the cat was at.

“That darn cat doesn't want to come down, and I can't wait to get my feet back on the ground. It'll take a better man than me to get the cat out of that tree.”

“Fire trucks one, two, three, drive away. The police have no reason to stay.

“Wait! Mrs. D is suddenly inspired, dashing for her house like it's on fire. In a flash she puts tuna in the cat's dish on the floor.

She opens the back door, and who came skidding across the floor, that darn cat, and Mrs. D shut the door.

“What do you do, when your cat's in the tree? One thing is for sure, you shouldn't call me. George Hitchcock, City News.”

“And what do you call this, Mr. Hitchcock? Has it not occurred to you that you are working to become a professional reporter. We, at City News take our work seriously, and this, this,....”

“Mr. Warner, you send me out on stories no one is going to read. Half of them never make it into print in the City News. I decided that this story needed some pizazz, Mr. Warner, and so I gave it some pizazz, It's cute. I like it,” George said, defiance in his words.

“Remind me how long you've been with us at the City News, Mr. Hitchcock. Be precise with your answer. Your next editor might want to know, and you can pray he has more patience for nonsense than do I,” he said.

“I'm glad you didn't call it work, because what I do here doesn't resemble working, Mr. Warner. I need this job, because I need the experience I'm getting. I am a good writer, Mr. Warner, and I'm going to be one of the best reporters in this town in a few years. Speaking of nonsense, that's all I've been assigned since you put me on as a stringer. I came here three months and nine days ago? You can fire me, but you haven't heard the last of George Hitchcock.”

“Feel better now, Mr. Hitchcock. I wouldn't want you to go away feeling bad,” the Walrus said.

“If you don't like what I write, maybe we should part company. Yours is not the only newspaper in town. I am going to be a reporter, with your help, or without it.”

“You write fairly well. I read everything you write, Hitchcock. I'm aware that you have some aptitude for the written word, but the City News is a serious newspaper. We don't do cute. I expect you to write serious stories. Take this... this..., whatever it is, and write me two to three paragraphs on what took place on 3rd Street,” he said, tossing the copy at George.

“Write precisely. Be succinct. Double spaced.”

The paper hung in the air for a second, slowly floating down into George's lap. The Walrus had made that move before. He knew right where the story would land, but it wouldn't land in the City News.

It wasn't his first, the City News is a serious publication' speech. George felt like he'd been scolded by the headmaster. He'd deserved it. What he wrote wasn't serious. He'd go back to write it again. This time he'd write it Mr. Warner's way, and it would still end up in the circular file. So much for the poker game at the firehouse.

George put his poetic masterpiece into his jacket pocket on his way back to the stringer's desk. It was cute, but he'd write the three dull paragraphs Mr. Warner wanted. You couldn't fight city hall, and, if you were smart, you didn't argue with the editor-in-chief of your publication. George was smart, but frustrated.

In ten minutes the story was done. He dropped it into Pops' in-basket. He'd get it when he came in the next morning, but it was another useless exercise. Pops would file it where he filed most of Georges nothing stories' his trash can.

It wasn't the first time George had been in Mr. Warner's office. It was the first time he'd had a conversation with the man. He'd been prepared to be fired, but he'd have come and gone from the third most read paper in the city without anyone knowing he'd been there.

He intended to leave his mark on the City News, and after he did, at a time of his choosing, he'd quit, and he'd get a job at the first or second most read newspaper in town.

Mr. Warner didn't fire him, and that was something. He gave him the, 'The City News is a serious newspaper' speech.

Because the City News did report serious news, the 'Cat Caper' was probably inappropriate. He knew it while he was writing it.

What did Tom Jefferson say, 'The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants and patriots from time to time.”

George was just watering the tree. Mr. Warner could have fired him for that. He did challenged the man head-on and it made him feel better even if it wasn't very bright. He was angry and he let the anger speak for him. He knew that was never wise.

The Walrus was restrained. He wasn't. The slow pace his career had taken frustrated George. The Walrus may have something to do with the pace, but he had a job to do and he was doing it.

George needed the company of newspaper men. He knew just where to find some.

*****

George gave up the idea of going to the firehouse to play poker. There was a game a lot closer than the firehouse. It was where City News employees drank and played poker. He needed the company of newspaper people.

For George playing poker was relaxing. He wanted to talk to reporters tonight. He turned toward Jerry's as soon as his feet hit the street outside the City News building.

A story that would get him noticed might come at any time. A story with meat on its bones. That's what he needed. Pops didn't routinely hand good stories to stringers. Sometimes just being there was enough to be handed a story that turned into something.

George had to be in the newsroom at the time a good story came to a stop on Pop's desk. That is why he came in early and left late. If he was in the newsroom the hours the other stringers were, Mr. Warner wouldn't have caught up with him. He'd have nailed him the next day and two days would have gone bad instead of one.

The cat in the tree didn't go over any better with Pops. He'd left it where he found it, in his in-basket. He didn't throw it in the trash can, no, he left it for Mr. Warner to see. He liked Pops, but Pops answered to Mr. Warner.

It was the middle of the summer in the city. Like the fire department and the police department, the news business was on holiday. Even their best reporters weren't covering anything that a publisher or editor would call a big story.

George understood that his impatience wasn't doing him any good. He had to wait for a story that was something other than routine. Once he got a story like that, if he was smart, he'd be able to turn it into major news.

Being fired by the City News would not look good on his resume. He needed a drink and some company that knew the business he was in. Some nights he wanted to get as far away from reporters as possible, but this wasn't one of those nights.

Jerry's was close to the City News building and, and it's where City News' employees drank, and some reporters played cards there. If George went to Jerry's around dinner time, the family men were home eating with their family and there was usually a chair open.

George saw the table and the three players as soon as he walked in. There was something he needed more than the company of other reporters at that moment.

“Barkeep,” George said, and the bartender looked up. “Johnny Walker.”

“You're running late. We almost sold your seat to the next warm body that came in the door, but, alas, you are he,” Al Shapiro said. “Bring your beverage over here. We shall deal you in, George.”

Pouring the shot glass full, George tossed it back. That one was for Mr. Warner.

“Hit me,” he said, and the bartender poured another shot.

It followed the first shot. That one was for George.

George dropped a dollar on the bar. He went to take his seat at the table.

As reporters went at the City News Albert Shapiro was the dean of reporters. He'd worked there for twenty years. If there was a big story being covered, Al was likely to be covering it. A widower with three grown children, if he wasn't at the City News building, he was at Jerry's. It's where George got to know Al.

“You aren't planning on driving, I hope?” Al asked.

“Not unless the bus driver has a heart attack, and it's the only way I can get to Maryland Avenue,” George said, slipping out of his jacket.

George loosened his tie before reaching for the five cards in front of him.

“Why the long face,” Al asked George. “You look like you've lost your best friend, and he shot your dog before he left.”

Al had been the first reporter to read any of George's copy. He didn't hesitate to offer suggestions. If anyone knew what an editor wanted to read, it was Al. George didn't know why he'd befriended him, but he was happy to accept the renowned reporter's advice.

“I got to spend a little time with the Walrus before coming over here,” George said, studying his hand.

“If you're no longer an employee of the City News, you'll need to leave the table,” Wee Willie Whitaker said.

“He didn't fire me,” George said with pride. “I told him it was fine with me if he did.”

“You didn't,” Al Said, looking away from his cards.

“He told me to take my work more seriously. He didn't like the copy I turned in at the local news desk. I think he waited to see what I was writing, and then he called me into his office.”

“He didn't like what I wrote on an assignment Pops sent me out on,” George said. “it was a nothing story. I spiced it up.”

Al held out his empty hand. George reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced the original copy. He handed it over to Al. He frequently asked to see what George was writing.

“How many, Hitch. I'm not going to ask again. If you don't pay attention, we'll get someone else to sit in on the game,” Wee Willie Whitaker said, handling the deck of cards like a man aspiring to head for Las Vegas to do his dealing there.

“Sorry. Give me one,” George said, after looking at his hand.

He did want to hear what Al had to say. He was a real reporter, and he knew what was good and what wasn't.

George didn't look at the card he was dealt. He wanted to see Al's reaction.

Al chuckled twice as he read.

“No,” he said, laughing, “This wouldn't be something Doc would let run at the City News. It's clever, Hitch,” Al said. “Funny stuff.”

The copy made the rounds to Wee Willie and Jack Andrews. They both laughed out loud. Wee Willie slid it back to Hitch.

“What is it that has our aspiring ace reporter, thinking about something other than poker?” Wee Willie asked, after kicking the pot up a quarter. .

“Oh, I was just hallucinating about getting a real story to cover,” George said.

“It takes time, Georgie,” Al said. “Give it some time. And when you get that big story, make sure you're ready to cover it.”

“Stringers don't get real stories to cover,” Jack said, looking at his cards. “Kick it a quarter.”

“Call your quarter, raise you a quarter,” Al said, as as quarters dropped into the pot.

“Hitch?” Wee Willie said impatiently.

That meant Willie liked his hand. George picked up the card he was dealt, looking it over carefully before making his bet.

“Kick it a buck,” George said, nothing showing on his face.

“A buck. You were drawing for a straight. You didn't get your card, Hitch. You're bluffing,” Wee Willie said.

“Easy enough to find out Whitaker. Put your money where your mouth is,” George said, staring into Wee Willie's eyes.

“I'll be a son-of-a-bitch. He did get his card. You're the luckiest dame card player I've ever seen,” Wee willie objected.

“Cards aren't about luck, Willie. It's a game of skill,” George said with no doubt in his voice. “I'm bluffing, remember?”

. “I knew we shouldn't let you in our games. I fold,” Wee Willie said.

Al tossed his cards on the table in front of him.

“Too rich for my blood. You two fight over it,” Al said.

“Three sweet tens. Come to Papa,” Jack said, reaching for the pot.

George put his hand on top of Jack's hand.

“Not so fast, Tonto. Three ladies beats your tens,” George said.

“I'll be a son-of-a-bitch. What did you draw, Hitch,” Jack asked.

“He dealt me the three queens. I drew a seven,” George said, bringing in the pot and stacking the quarters in front of him.

“Barkeep, come fill my amigos' glasses. Put it on my tab,” George said.

As the four men drank and played cards, the banter was mostly about the news, the predictable summer doldrums, and expectations that a story that wasn't on the radar at present would break the logjam of nothing stories. The overwhelming opinion was that this story would hit around Labor Day, and it would captivate the news.

The city would be filled with residents home from vacation. The adults would be back at work, and the kids would be back in school. Somewhere in the world would come a catastrophe. Maybe an earthquake, a volcano, massive fire, or a government somewhere would be overthrown by its antagonists. No one would see it coming.

Once that story hit the headlines, the summer doldrums would be over, if things ran true to form. The presence of more people led to more news.

George lost two hands in a row, after winning the first hand, and then he won three hands in a row. Wee Willie grumbles, Jack kept kicking the pots higher and higher, and Al would throw in his hand as soon as someone kicked it a buck.

Al was no fool. He knew the odds. He also respected an element known as Lady Luck. Even when a man appeared to be bluffing, Al didn't bet the farm, only to find out he wasn't bluffing at all.

“You've run me out of quarters,” Wee Willie complained. “Will you take my check? I'm not ready to quit. I want a chance to get some of my money back.

“You need a loan, Willie?” George asked. “I'll tell you what, do you have one of those nasty black cigars you gas us with? What's your price? I've been run over by a Walrus. I may as well gas myself with one of those nasty cigars.”

“I don't go anywhere without my Good Old Smokes,” Wee Willie said. “For you, a buck should cover it. Make that four quarters.”

“If he's going to smoke one of those things, I'll buy one too,” Jack said, as cigars and quarters changed hands.

“Tell you what, Willie, I'll give you a buck not to sell me one of those stink bombs,” Al said, tossing four quarters into the center of the table.

“I'm in the wrong business,” Wee Willie said, counting his quarters.

Al produced a Zippo to light George's cigar. Before he could offer Jack a light, Jack was putting out a match and puffing away.

Willie counted his quarters.

“Old is what makes it taste like this,” Jack said, as he read the cigar band. “Old Fashioned Smoke.”

Smoke hung over the card table. Al coughed. Willie dealt.

“These might explain why our fathers only lived to fifty or so. An Old Fashioned Smoke a day would no doubt assure an early grave,” George said, puffing to keep the cigar lit.

Smoke lingered over the poker table.

“Let's play some stud,” George said, once the deck came to him.

Wee Willie groaned.

“You and your stud poker,” Wee Willie complained.

The bartender filled each glass from the bottles he carried.

George dealt the cards.

Jack continued to bet big.

Al coughed.

Wee Willie complained.

Chapter 3

Power Steering

George had a meeting with Detective Jack Carter at noon. While the phone on Pops desk rang constantly, no one was sent out on a story. One other stringer had been hanging around. If something came in, George would graciously let the other stringer take it, if the story would make him late meeting Jack.

Detective Jack Carter had become George's closest source with the police department. George had been drinking with him, once he found out where cops drank, after going to work at the City News. The Anteroom was where respectable cops drank. When George wasn't drinking with reporters at Jerry's, he was drinking with cops at the Ante-Room. He was usually drinking with Jack.

From his earliest visits to the Ante-Room, George had been cultivating relationships with Jack Carter and Arnold Slopes, both detectives. Following the advice of his journalism teacher, he was cultivating the sources that could do him the most good.

George liked Jack. He was a kind of sad sack Sam Spade, with a bit of Dick Tracy on the side. In a marriage gone bad, Jack and his wife had hit a patch of bad road. Jack was working double shifts over night, getting off around noon, when he went to the Ane-Room for a few drinks. He went home to sleep while his wife was at work, leaving before she came home.

George was part marriage counselor, part good-old-boy, and part drinking buddy. He could confide in George, when he wouldn't have been comfortable telling men he worked with what he told George. When George went to the Ante-Room to drink, he imagined he'd be hearing stories about the cases that kept cops up nights. A good reporter could use what he heard to write stories about those cases, but Jack had confided in him about a case that had gone ice cold.

A low level hood, Jimmy Vogal was the prime suspect in an ambush murder. Vogal lawyered up after Jack hauled him in for questioning about the hit. With no evidence Jack wasn't able to haul Vogal in for another round of questioning.

Vogal drank in Loey's. It was a place where a lot of bad guys did their drinking. Jack wanted to go in undercover, but he'd been a cop for thirty years and he headed the city's major crime bureau. Not only was he known, but most of his undercover cops ended up making news when one figured in breaking a case that had gone unsolved for too long.

Seeing that this was right up George's alley. If he was helpful to Jack, his drinking buddy might return the favor, and George told him, 'if there's anything I can do to help, just say the word.' It was an offer he made only once, but in the case once was enough.

Jack wanted to talk to George about going into Loey's because no one would no him there. He'd tell anyone who asked, he was a hood out of Detroit in the city on business. He was told that Loey's was a friendly place for out of town talent.

Jack wanted to brief George one last time before he went into Loey's for the first time Friday night. George had been in the newsroom before seven that morning, but there wasn't anything for him to do. Now that it was getting closer to the time for his meeting with Jack, he didn't want to take anything but a story that wasn't going to take him far.

Fifteen minutes before noon George told Pops he was going to lunch. There was still one stringer in the newsroom. Pops nodded his head, continuing to mark the copy in front of him.

Jack was already in the Anteroom when George arrived. Jack looked beat and he had a drink in front of him. He'd been on an all night stakeout and on his way home. George told him there was nothing cooking at the City News.

Jack ran through what he wanted George to do. George remembered that he was from Detroit in town to do a job. He was to let anyone he talked to figure it out. That's all he was to say.

George could fit in anywhere. He was friendly without being too friendly. He drank with other reporters, cops, and now he was going to drink with hoods. Jack wanted him to keep his ears open. Vogal's boys drank at Loey's. They drank with other hoods and people friendly to hoods. If George kept an eye on Vogal's boys, there was a good chance he could pick up some useful information. He was to steer clear of Vogal. He was to listen and talk no more than necessary.

There was no trick to it. By the third Friday he went to Loey's, everyone seemed to know he was a hitter out of Detroit. George listened, nodded from time to time, and said nothing that told anyone anything about him.

The mystique surrounding him got him a few free drinks on nights he went into Loey's. Vogal had come and gone on several nights when George was there. He noticed the same guys came in and went out with him. George figured these were Vogal's boys. You could tell who the leader of the pack was.

On two different nights guys who came in with Vogal came over to talk to George. He was polite, quiet, and didn't encourage them to say across the table from him. The third guy was more interesting. The guy who came in next to Vogal and went out next to him came over to introduce himself one night.

“I'm Drew Trask. You're new,” he said.

“Not that new,” George said.

“You're out of Detroit I understand,” Trask said.

“I am,” George said with a very slight smile.

“Here on business I understand,” Trask said.

George nodded, sipping from his shot glass.

“I'm Drew Trask, just wanted to say hello. Welcome to town.”

“Thank you, Mr. Trask. I feel welcome at Loey's. Nice place,” George said and Drew Trask walked away without sitting down.

Trask leaned to talk to Vogal before he sat down next to him. Vogal turned around in his chair to look at George. George nodded respectfully, as if he knew Vogal was a player. Vogal nodded back.

Vogal came and went from the bar in the evenings. There were always three or four men with Vogal. Drew Trask came in right behind Vogal and he sat next to him. The other men chatted among themselves. Vogal didn't have much to say but when he said it he said it to Drew Trask.

It was a few weeks after Trask had come to stand beside George's table, when he came back to where George was sitting.

“Do you mind if a sit down?” Trask asked.

“By all means, Mr. Trask. How are you this fine evening?”

“You remember me,” Trask said.

“I make a point to remember people. You never know when you'll need to know who everyone is,” George said.

“No one knows your name. What do they call you?”

“My name isn't important but friends call me George,” he said.

“Since you are from Detroit, and my parents came here from Detroit, I'd like to consider myself a friend,” Trask said.

“A is such an interesting word, don't you think?” George asked.

Trask didn't know what to say, as George intended.

“Of course, people in our business should never ask questions. You never know what the answer might be.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

He didn't know what to make of George.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Trask said.

“That's not necessary, Mr. Trask,” George said.

“Jimmy..., Vogal, he'd be disappointed if I didn't buy you a drink. Consider it a little hospitality. Everyone knows Jimmy. Maybe come over and have a drink with him,” Trask said with trepidation.

“Mr. Trask, I'm in your fair city on business. I do a solo. I find it's best not to get involved in local intrigue in the places where I do business. You seem to be a fine young man, but I don't care to be involved with your Mr. Vogal. My apologies but it's a rule I follow. After I'm gone, hardly anyone will know I was here. You can quote me on that.”

Trask flagged down a waitress.

“What are you drinking. I must buy you a drink. Since I bothered you. It's only fair,” Trask said.

“As you wish. Johnny Walker,” George said to the waitress.

“Maxine, it goes on Jimmy's tab,” Trask said to the waitress.

George did not object. He'd turned down an invitation to sit with Mr. Vogal. He dare not turn down the offer of a drink.

“If you'll excuse me, George. I will be going. Have a nice evening,” Trask said and he left George alone.

Once the drink was delivered and consumed, George stood, straightened his jacket, and left the bar. He felt uncomfortable. He was under more scrutiny than he liked, and turning an invitation down from Jimmy Vogal might be taken as an insult.

George was sure that Trask reported everything George said to him to Vogal. George said nothing. The report would be short.

At the Anteroom on Monday, George reported to Jack. He told him about Trask. He told him that Vogal was trying to get a sit down with him, but George had said no. Jack nodded his approval.

“You aren't there to talk to Vogal, George. He's not a guy you want to be around. Characters like that have instincts that click in when someone says one wrong thing. A guy like Vogal wouldn't hesitate to hurt someone he thought was there to hurt him. Listen don't talk. Stay clear of Vogal. Trask, he's not a nice guy. He does what Vogal tells him. If you talk to him, he'll tell Vogal. I like that better than you sitting down with Vogal. Your mystery is your strong suit. No one wants to get on the wrong side of a heavy hitter from Detroit; not even Jimmy Vogal.”

“They think I'm a hit man?” George asked.

“From what you told me. Yes. It's why I sent you there with that cover story. The local mob wants someone bumped off, they call Detroit. They'll send a man to do the job. That way their fingerprints aren't on the killing,” Jack said.

“It's the conclusion they've drawn about you. Hit men are solitary creatures. They keep to themselves, trusting no one. They are hired to kill. It's a job they take seriously. No one knows who is getting whacked. No shortage of guys in Loey's who need whacking,”

George laughed but he knew it wasn't funny.

Jack was careful. He did not like using inexperienced people to do what he was sending George to do. There was always a certain degree of danger when you were in a den of vipers. It only took one person to draw some uncomfortable attention to a guy like George.”

*****

Another week went by as the summer heat baked the city, sending a large portion of the people toward the beaches. July was hotter than June and August would start out hotter yet. Even the nights saw the heat turned up to high.

Late in July Drew Trask came over to talk to George right after he sat down. Loey's wasn't crowded. It was early, but Vogal sat across the bar with his usual entourage. It didn't take long for Trask to come over to talk. Trask now came to talk each time George was in the bar.

Trask was half drunk and more talkative than usual. He no longer was feeling George out for Vogal. He liked to talk to men who did the kind of work he did, and that's when George hit the jackpot.

Trask began talking about a music store heist. It was a 'neat caper' that he pulled with Jimmy. Trask held the music store owners family hostage, and Jimmy went with the owner to clean out the safe. This was like a really sophisticated shop. They sold grand pianos and the best guitars, and classy brass instruments. The best available. The rumors said the safe was full on Thursday night. The owner took the money to the bank Friday morning.

They pulled the job on a Thursday night. They made a real killing. The music store owner was too scared to talk. There wasn't a word about the robbery anywhere. Jimmy and Trask swore they wouldn't tell anyone how sweet the job was.

And now Trask told George and George couldn't wait to call Jack. This would give him the probable cause to bring Vogal in for questioning, which is what Jack was after.

On the way home George stopped at a phone booth to tell Jack they needed to meet the next day at noon. Trask gave him something very interesting on Vogal.

*****

George didn't mind doing a favor for Jack. He made it clear that anything that came out of what George did for him, George got the exclusive story before any other reporters were called.

George watched the clock as eight became nine and it was closing in on ten o'clock. Once again he couldn't take anything that would keep him away from the Anteroom at noon. This had been what he was at Loey's to do, but he still needed to do his job.

George was brought out of his daydream by Pops voice.

“Myers. Local desk. Speak up. Where? Thomas Circle. Got it. Yeah, I'm sending someone right now,” Pops yelled, banging the phone into the cradle.

“Hitch, you're up. Fender bender, Thomas Circle. Get moving.”

George looked around for the other stringer who had just been there. It was a few minutes after ten. He could cover this and still meet Jack on time. He grabbed the assignment sheet out of Pops' hand and headed for the stairs and the nearest bus stop.

The bus was waiting, closing its doors a minute after George took a seat. Ten minutes to Thomas Circle. He could make it easy. He looked around the bus. There were three other people on the bus with him in midtown in a thriving metropolitan area. Where was everyone?

A fender bender wasn't the way to earn his first Pulitzer but you never knew what might turn up. George didn't like to turn down a story. He could always call Jack if he ran late.

Everything took time. George had plenty of time.

The bus dropped him within sight of Thomas Circle a block away. The heat was on. July would soon become August and what he hoped would be the last of the intense heat and humidity. He had plenty of time and he wasn't going to hurry.

He'd cover this story like his career depended on it. Each story needed to be taken seriously, and if he ran late he could call the Anteroom and tell Carter what time to expect him. It wasn't ten-thirty. It would take but fifteen or twenty minutes to get the names and see how the cop read what had happened. A half an hour tops, and he'd have plenty of time to meet Jack.

George could see a tow truck on the far side of the circle. A police car was parked behind it. On his hook was a big old car that had its nose bent under with fluids leaking out of the front of it.

A cop leaned on the front of the car the tow truck driver was securing. They were chatting casually when he walked up to the cop.

The cop saw George coming, he was jotting something in a notebook, and he put the notebook in his belt, once George stopped next to him.

“OK, Paul, take her away,” he said to the tow truck driver standing by the driver's side door.

“What year was that Cadillac?” George asked.

“1958. Big boat. Came into the circle like he owned it,” the cop said, picturing it as he spoke.

Once the tow truck was out of the way, another twenty or thirty feet ahead was one of those big black Mercedes sedan. George could see the damaged front right side fender. The left front wheel was two feet up on the curb. There were no apparent fluids on the street beside it.

“He could aim for another ten year old car? He hits a top of the line Mercedes. It looks brand new,” George said.

“Ain't that the truth. You are?” the cop asked, realizing George wasn't a curious pedestrian.

“George Hitchcock. City News.”

The cops demeanor changed just enough to be noticed.

“You are?” George asked.

“Officer Lemon. That's the standard spelling,” Officer Lemon said.

George hadn't written down what he said as he said it. Officer Lemon watched his hand create each word. He'd make today's news.

His mother would love that.

“Can you tell me in your own words, what happened?”

“You're joking, right?” Officer Lemon said, taking a good look at George. “Fender bender. What you see is what you get. Will this be in the newspaper. Will you use my name?”

“Officer Lemon, how many fender benders are there in the city each day?” George asked, knowing the likelihood this fender bender would make today's edition were slim to none. Officer Lemon relaxed.

“Cadillac entered there,” Officer Lemon said. “Mercedes was heading counterclockwise and was struck about there.”

Officer Lemon pointed out the locations as he spoke.

“She could drive that car home,” he said. “She's waiting for her husband. Woman are so damn helpless. She's not hurt. You'd think the mayor's wife might have a little more gravel in her spine. No, she's got to wait for daddy.”

“Woe,, woe, back up there, Cowboy. She's the mayor's wife? Why didn't you start off telling me that?”

“It's important? It's still a minor traffic accident. The kid was unconscious when I got her, but the ambulance had him on the way to General in five or six minutes. He was talking....”

“Someone was hurt? Officer Lemon, you've been holding out on me. Who was hurt?” George asked. “Officer Lemon, read me what you wrote in your notebook.”

“Sure,” Officer Lemon said, flipping open the notebook.

George turned the page in his notebook to start over.

“Cadillac vs. Mercedes. Cadillac failed to yield. He must have been going thirty. He hit the Mercedes behind the right front wheel. Drove the Mercedes onto the curb, where it is now. She could drive that Mercedes home. That cars a tank. She's waiting for her husband to give her instructions. Woman are so helpless,” Officer Lemon took time out from his reading to put in his two cents worth.

“Mrs. Packard said she wasn't hurt. The boy wasn't hurt bad, More stunned, I'd say. No seat belt. Unconscious when I came on the scene. He was talking before they took him away. They took him to General. In my opinion, his nose was broken. Facial lacerations, not serious. He hit his head because he wasn't belted in. The Caddy hit the Mercedes a foot behind the right front wheel. Another foot behind that wheel and that kid would have eaten the front of that Cadillac. It's also a tank. Couldn't hit some other ten year old car. Had to go for the brand new Mercedes. That car as two thousand miles on it. Slap a new fender on it, it'll be good to go. Lucky lad, Jon Delesandro, 19. Student at Witherspoon Prep. He has a Kennilworth Avenue address. Witherspoon Prep is high rent,” Officer Lemon said. “How's a kid from the poor side of town swing that?”

“Scholarship maybe,” George said.

“I guess,” Officer Lemon said. “Here, copy it from my notes. I got the information from Mrs. Packard. I didn't talk to the kid.”

George wrote down the address and the boys name. He'd need to follow up. No telling if the head injury was more serious and with a politicians wife involved, well, that's why they called it news.

“Relationship to the mayor's wife. Different names. Not her kid. Her nephew. Did she say?”

“Relationship? Hey buddy, you're barking up the wrong tree. I don't know and I don't care. You do know who Mayor Packard is. For one thing, he's my boss, and I don't ask his wife nothing about her relationship to nobody. I like my job and I'd like to be gone when hubby comes to rescue Mrs. Mayor Packard.”

George listened without understanding Officer Lemon's reluctance to question Mrs. Packard. He did know that the mayor had a reputation as being a man you didn't want to cross, but all they were talking about was a fender bender. It was news because she was the mayor's wife and she was in an auto accident.

“Driver of the Cadillac? What did you do with him?”

“In the backseat of my car. Someone is coming for him. Tom Collins. Fifty-four. He's from the burbs. You can copy his info,” Officer Lemon said, pointing to it in his notebook, but George had no interest in Tom Collins. The story was the mayor's wife and the boy. He wrote down Mr. Collins' info anyway.

“Is that her over by the Mercedes,” George asked, seeing a fairly nice looking woman in her early to middle forties standing nearby.

“That's her. Said her husband is on the way,” the officer said. “I don't want to leave until they decide what they want to do with that car. The mayor will probably want to drive it to the Mercedes dealer. Can leave it there and I can't leave until it's moved.”

“You don't mind if I use your name, Officer Lemon?” George asked.

“Mind? No. You said....”

“That's before you told me it was the mayor's wife. It will be in the newspaper. That is news and I'll report you as the officer of record.”

“Cool,” Officer Lemon said as George walked toward the Mercedes.

The fender was mangled but it was pushed upward. The tire hadn't been touched. It wasn't flat. George felt the thickness of the metal. It was a tank. He'd read about important people using Mercedes because of how solidly they were built. They offered maximum protection for its occupants if you bother to belt in.

In Mrs. Packard's case, she looked fine. George peeked at her over the hood of the car. She had noticed him approaching, and she watched what he was doing, while he inspected her car.

George stood. Walked around the car, and came face to face with Mrs. Mayor. Her red hair came out of a bottle. Her eyebrows were two shades too dark. Her complexion was good. Her eyes were brown and clear. She hadn't been drinking.

“Mrs. Packard,” he said, flashing his I.D. like he'd seen cops do it. “Are you all right? Can I assist you in any way? I understand that your husband is on the way.”

“Yes, I can't understand what's taking him so long,” She said, looking for him in all directions.

“You sure you're OK. You don't want me to call someone to have a look at you?” George asked as politely as he knew how.

“No, I wasn't hurt, but the car. My husband will be livid. It's brand new. I never saw the car that hit me. He came from the side. He was going too fast. I've driven through that circle a thousand times,” she said.

Not a mention of her injured passenger, George realized. The car was expensive. George would have been worried about it too, right after he was far more worried about an unconscious bleeding passenger. What was wrong with this picture? George didn't know but he intended to find out.

“You were going where, Mrs. Packard?”

“I was going home. We were going to have a nice lunch. Oh, my husband is going to be angry,” she said again. “The man was obviously speeding. He was probably drinking. Look at my new car.”

“You are sure that you're OK, Mrs. Packard?” George asked, as any concerned person would.

She'd just been in an accident. At times, after an accident, a person thinks he is fine, but serious injuries become apparent once the adrenalin in the body dissipates.

“I'm fine. I'd know if I wasn't,” she said almost as though she felt insulted that George would ask.

“You were going home to lunch with the young boy. Can I ask you his relationship to Mr. Delesandro?”

“I can assure you he's not a boy. Who did you say you were?”

For the first time George sees Mrs. Packard is seeing who she is talking to. There is a question obvious on her face.

George knew this thread had been pulled as far as he'd be allowed to pull on it. He produced the I.D. he'd only flashed a few minutes before. He confessed to who he was.

“George Hitchcock, City News.”

She looked as though she'd swallowed something unpleasant.

Studying his face, she also studied the I.D. It was obvious that this interview was over. She'd recovered her mayor's wife's demeanor.

“I've just had an automobile accident, Mr. Hitchcock. If you had any decency, you'd leave me alone. My husband will be here in a few minutes. You can save your questions for him, if you're that bold.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Packard. I hope you are feeling better. Do you know which hospital your passenger was taken to?” George slipped in for good measure.

Mrs. Packard turned her back on him, walking toward a bench nearby. Not a word about the kid. It's as if she'd been alone.

George wasn't about to jump to conclusions. He had enough to write the story. Mayor's wife in automobile accident. She had been in an accident, and she may have been shaken up, George consider.

It was a story that would definitely make the newspaper. For the first time, George was covering a story he was certain was going to make the City News, but he needed to talk to the Delesandro kid. He needed to make a trip to the hospital, but that could wait until after his lunch time meeting with Jack.

There was still time for him to return to the newsroom and write a preliminary story, saving the Delesandro interview for after lunch.

Chapter 4

Open The Door

At eleven fifteen George was back in the newsroom. He went to the desk with the Smith Corona he liked.

At that time of day the newsroom was mostly empty, and except for Pops, reporters and stringers came and went.

Pops sat at his desk checking copy that would appear in today's edition. When he looked up he saw George typing away.

“You done with the Thomas Circle story?” Pops asked.

“There was an injury. I'm going over to General Hospital to interview the injured passenger. I wanted to write the information down that I gathered at the scene. Then I'll hit the hospital.”

“Good. If you can't make it back in time, call it in,” Pops said.

Pops phone began to ring and he yanked the receiver up.

“Myers, local desk. Speak up. Don't yell. Who is this?”

George laughed. It worked for Pops, he'd been there forever.

He went back to work on the basic information about the accident. He did not put Mrs. Packard's name or Jon Delesandro's name in what he wrote. That he'd keep for himself. They wouldn't get this story away from him, and a story about the mayor's wife might very well go to a staff writer who covered Mayor Packard.

Once he was satisfied, he put the copy in the basket on the desk. If he wasn't back by 3:45, the copy boy would take it to Pops, but he would be back. Looking at the clock, it was 12:10. He was late.

The Walrus was standing in the doorway, his eyes on George, as he turned right to go to the stairs. Nothing was said. The best days were when the Walrus had nothing to say to him. It meant his job was safe for another day, maybe.

He took his jacket off as soon as he hit the street. He walked the five blocks double-time, and felt the rush of the cool air as soon as he stepped inside the Ante-Room.

Jack was sitting at the bar. George went to stand next to him, but Jack ignored him for the first minute.

“You're late,” Jack said. “You're always late.”

“You have a hot date, Jack? Ask yourself, where are you going to be in a half hour? Me, I've got work to do, Jack.”

“You have a point. I got no where to go.”

“I was on assignment. Fender bender at Thomas Circle. I get there and find out its the mayor's wife and some kid, Jon Delesandro. He got the worst of it. He's at General Hospital getting his face fixed.”

“You've got to be kidding me, Hitch. You got assigned a story involving the mayor's wife. You are getting up in the world.”

“I've got to go over and talk to the kid. See how he is. I wrote a tentative story, but I'll change my copy after seeing the kid.”

“You don't know who the kid is? I know who that kid is, and I ain't no reporter. Just a schmuck with a kid of my own.”

“I thought your kid wasn't talking to you,” George said.

“He's not, but he was two years ago at the city tennis championships. He tagged dear old dad to take him. Why don't he play football or baseball. No he's got to whack a silly ball back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.”

“Cut to the chase, Jack, you're making me dizzy. Is there a point to this conversation, or is this what I get for being late. I've got to go talk to the kid when I'm finished here.”

“Yeah, my ace reporter friend, Jon Delesandro lives off of Kennilworth Avenue in low rent housing with his mommy, He is city tennis singles champion two years running. My kid plays him in the finals last year. This Delesandro is good enough to turn pro. He's nineteen and making my kid look like a cupcake. He beat Jack Jr. 6-1, 6-love. He's got a backhand that could stop a Mack truck. Why's he playing high school kids? Why isn't he somewhere else working on becoming a pro? How much money do those guys make?”

“Tennis,” George said. “I know nothing about tennis. I hope Delesandro's game isn't impacted by what happened.”

“I hope the little shit breaks both his legs. And the arm he hits his backhand with,” Jack says, tossing back his shot.

The bartender walked over with a shot glass and a bottle of Johnny Walker, he poured it full. George tossed it back, putting his hand over the glass.

“No body can drink just one, Hitch. You going to ruin me,” the bartender said.

“I'm at work,” George said. “One is my limit when I'm working.”

“I'm working too,” the bartender said. “If I don't have a drink every hour, I get dizzy. I feel faint. You think it's something I ate?”

“Put it on my tab,” Jack said.

“You got it, Jack,” the bartender said.

“Let's go over and sit in a booth. Lots of ears hanging around the bar today,” Jack said.

“Tell me what you have?” Jack said covertly, checking the hallway next to the booth.

George slid into the booth and Jack sat across from him.

“Drew Trask,” George said. “He runs with Vogal. On my last trip to Loey's Trask gets real friendly, comes over to talk, as soon as I come in. I think I bought him a drink a week or so ago. He's real chatty, he starts talking about Vogal. He wasn't specific, but they pull jobs together. I listen and laugh a lot. He likes to talk,” George said.

“You told them you from out of Detroit, here on business. Like I told you?”

“I've told you that I did. That was over a month ago, Jack. Sure. Anyone who asks, I tell them I'm out of Detroit but no one asks any more. I think words gotten around.”

“OK. Trask is a rattlesnake, George. I've hauled him in a couple of times. It's been a couple of years, but he'd remember me. He's one of Vogal's lieutenants. He's mean when he's cornered. Tell me exactly what he told you,” Jack said.

“He came in with Vogal a couple of times last week. I told you he asks me if he can sit with me. It's like he thinks he needs permission.”

“He thinks you're in town on business. I told you they'd assume that once you mentioned Detroit.”

“Yes, you did. Anyway he sat down last night. He's three sheets to the wind, slurring his words, and he starts talking about this job and that job, until he gets around to a job he pulled with Vogal months ago. He calls it a neat caper. A music shop. High class stuff. They hold his family while they take him to the music store to open the safe. They know when it's full. So someone has told them when to go,” George said. “They made quite a haul according to Trask.”

“I can't move on it right away. Too much of a possibility Trask might point the finger at you if we suddenly pull Vogal in on what he told you. I know the job he's talking about. We didn't release any details. The shop owner is scared to death they might hurt his family if they find out he talked to us. We have to cover that possibility when I move on Vogal. While I've got him, I want to take another go at him on the Max Stein hit,” Jack said. “This is perfect George. I was hoping you could pick something good up, but this is good. The store owners description of Trask is perfect but Vogal didn't fit the description he gave of the second guy. Like I said, he's plenty scared of retaliation.”

“So what I gave you helps?” George asked.

“You did good, George. Keep going in. Maybe in a couple of weeks you can stop going in there. For now you seem to be OK there and like I say, Trask could peg you as the snitch if I haul Vogal in on the music store job. Probably not but I'd rather be safe than sorry. Do you mind going to Loey's for a few more weeks?”

“It's like a walk in the park, Jack. I've never been around so many characters in my life. I could write a book about Loey's.”

“You might want to change your name before you do,” Jack said.

“No one knows my name. They know George is all. I'll keep you posted. Let's meet in a week. I'll want to move on the information you gave me later next week,” Jack said. “You're there to listen not talk. Remember that. After I haul Vogal in on the music store heist, I might want to pull you out. We'll look at that after I hear what Vogal has to say. It could be too risky to send you back in.”

Jack raised his hand as the bartender looked his way.

“Let me buy you another drink, George. You did good.”

“I'm working, Jack. I need to stay sober,” George said.

“George. you're my ears in Loey's. If they are talking, you listen. That's all I want from you. I've let you hang your ass out for me, because you seem to have some sense. Something happens to you, I'm on the hook for it, George. Do not do anything but listen,” Jack said, firing his words at George.

The bartender was there to fill Jack's shot glass a minute later.

“What, I look like I'm getting fat. You two sit back here to help me get some exercise. He won't drink, and you want me to do a hundred yard dash to fill your shot glass. What's wrong with this picture,” the bartender complained, walking away.

Jack laughed.

“Do you know Karl?” Jack asked.

“I know you guys call him Karl. That's it,” George said.

“X-cop. Shot by the bad guys at a bank robbery. He took two in the chest drawing the fire away from his partner. He got a commendation for that. They retired him. Wouldn't let him come back to work. He bought this bar. We drink here to keep him in business. Good cop. This place doesn't do all that bad. It makes him feel like he is still part of the blue, you know. Once you wear the blue you never take it off.”

“I didn't know that,” George said. “That he was a cop and a hero by the sounds of it.”

“And another thing, what's that broad doing with that kid? She has him at Witherspoon Prep. Kid's going to turn pro and make a million bucks, what is he doing going to that pissy private prep school? He should be playing tennis, and more tennis, but he isn't. Why isn't he? Answer me that,” Jack said.

“I don't know from tennis. I interviewed her at the scene. Clammed up pretty damn quick, but she and the kid were going to have lunch at her house. She told me, 'We were going to have lunch at the house.' It's the middle of the day. Witherspoon is year round. The prices they charge, you'd think she'd want the kid in school, if she's paying for him to go there.”

'You'd think,” Jack said. “Kid from his background. Easy to dazzle him with a high class show. Kid never had two dimes to rub together. She's driving him around in her new Mercedes, She has him in private school. You'd think the mayor might want to know about that.”

“I doubt I'll be interviewing the mayor but if I do I'll ask him about it, Jack,” George said.

“He's not an easy interview. He likes to be asked questions he selects,” Jack said. “Politicians are like that,” Jack said.

“I'll take that under advisement, but I really need to get out of here. They should have some disposition on the kid by now. It's been over two hours. I'm going over to General Hospital and see if I can get him to talk to me,” George said.

George stood and Jack stood to shake his hand.

George walked three blocks to the bus stop he needed. The bus dropped him a block from General Hospital. He walked a half block toward the hospital, stopping at a florist shop. He went to the cooler just inside the door, taking out the most perfect rose he could find, and the woman at the counter wrapped it in soft green tissue paper.

Outside the florist shop, George took off the soft green wrapper. He drew a five dollar bill out of his pocket, wrapping it tightly on the stem of the rose. Discarding the green paper in the first trash can he passed, George walked to the hospital entrance, going directly to where the receptionist was station.

“You've got to be the loveliest nurse in the hospital,” George said, handing her the rose.

“Aren't you the sweetest, ...and what have we here? Honest Abe,” she said with fondness. “My favorite president. How did you know? I'm not a nurse. I'm a lovely receptionist. Judy Carmichael, at your service. What can I do for you, Lover Boy?”

“Jon Delesandro. Car accident, came in about ten-thirty. I suppose it's too soon for him to be in a room,” he said.

“No, we work fast here at General Hospital. He's in room 203, but I shouldn't tell you that,” she said in a honey sweet voice.

“Do you know what kind of shape he's in? He had facial lacerations and a probable broken nose. I'd like to know how he is.”

“Well, Honey Chile, that kid's in better shape than most people working here, and most of them haven't been in an accident. His pulse was fifty-eight and his blood pressure was 110 over 74. No sign of shock in that boy. They want to observe him for 24 hours. Possible concussion,” she said, pulling the numbers out like she had them written in front of her.

“That's amazing. Not only beautiful, but with a memory like an elephant,” George said. “How do you remember all that.”

“Kid's on the fast track, Lover Boy. Someone is pulling strings. No one gets out of our ER in less than six hours, unless they die of course, and then they get a pass on the six hours,” she said, tossing a file in front of George. It had Jon Delesandro's name on it.

“You are something. Got anything on the JFK assassination?” George asked, looking over the details written on a piece of paper attached to the front of the file..

Eight stitches at his hairline, three on the right eyebrow, and they put the nose back where it belonged in the ER. He was released to a room in the hospital before noon.

“I'm going to go get you another rose, sweety. How is it a file comes here? Shouldn't it be filed where his doctor can get to it.”

“They never come to me, but a Dr. Horowitz is going to come directly to me. He'll ask for this file. He's a doctor of some notoriety, so I'm told. Treats only the moneyed class. A doctor like Horowitz usually holds his nose when his lemo drives past General Hospital. I'm required to bow when I hand him Delesandro's file.”

“Horowitz? I've heard of him,” George said, pondering the information.

“You better go see Jon right away. It sounds like he is going to be well taken care of. Might move him out of here is my guess. Dr. Horowitz isn't likely to come here a second time,” she said. “Might I ask who you are, Sweet Heart?”

George took out his I.D.

“Sorry. I was so dazzled by your beauty, I forgot who I was. George Hitchcock, City News it says here. Does that picture look like me, My Lovely?”

“Doesn't capture the beauty in your eyes, but I'd say that's you, George, and you will spell my name right, won't you, Honey Chile?”

“You can bet on it, Darlin. I'll be right back. I need to see if Delesandro will talk to me,” George said, heading for the stairs.

He turned toward where room 203 should be. No one was a the nurses station, and George walked right into Jon Delesandro's room.

He was propped up on a boat load of pillows. His nose was stuffed with gauze. A perfect accompaniment for the two black eyes that were already apparent.

The stitches stood out, but no one would notice once his eyebrow grew back and the little bit of hair that was missing hardly made a difference. Jon Delesandro would keep his handsome face, and now he'd have scars to tell his girlfriends about.

It was a private room. This kid couldn't afford a private tennis racket. It was General, and if some high powered doctor was taking the case, Delesandro would be on his way out of General. George really needed to talk to the kid. Questions needed to be asked, and the answers would no doubt be interesting.

Whatever the kid was on, he never knew George was there. George decided he needed to make a phone call. Then he'd return to the newsroom to file what he had for a story. He probably wouldn't be able to interview Delesandro until tomorrow.

Outside the hospital, George stopped at the first phone booth he came to. He reached for the phone book, going to the private school section, and he dialed Witherspoon Prep.

“Yes, I'm calling about Jon Delesandro,” George said in an authoritative voice.

The woman said that she wasn't at liberty to give any information to anyone over the phone.

“No, you have the wrong idea. I have information for you. You are a year around college preparatory institution, are you not?” George asked.

“Yes, but I don't understand. What are you calling about?”

“Jon Delesandro wasn't at school at just after ten this morning. Jon was in Mrs. Barnard Packard's Mercedes, which was in an accident at Thomas Circle. Mrs. Packard stated that she was going home for lunch. I thought you should know these details. There are going to be questions about why one of your students was where he was. You'll need to have some answers.”

“Just a minute. Let me connect you to the head mistress.”

There was silence on the phone. Then it was put on hold.

“Yes, Headmistress Wadsworth. How may I help you.”

George gave her the same briefing that he'd given the woman who answered the phone.

“I'm sorry. Who are you?” she asked.

“I'm George Hitchcock, City News.”

“We don't discuss our students over the phone Mr. Hitchcock.”

The phone was hung up.

George contemplated looking up the mayor's home phone number, but it wouldn't do any good. The phone would be busy, and Mrs. Wadsworth would be discussing a student over the phone. George was certain of it. Mrs. Wadsworth was exactly that type. She wasn't at liberty to discuss a student with common folk, but the mayor's wife, that was a different kettle of fish.

George needed to make one more call, if the number was listed. He went to the white pages, looking up Delesandro. He found the number for an address on Kennilworth Avenue. He wrote the number down next to the number for Witherspoon Prep. He'd be calling those numbers again.

He dialed the Delesandro's number. The phone rang and rang. After 25 rings, George hung up the phone. Taking a deep breath, he felt like he'd been running a marathon. Whatever running a marathon felt like. He'd been rushed all morning. He needed to get back to the newsroom. He would write a a respectable recounting of the fender bender at Thomas Circle that morning. There was more to the story than what he had, but for now he'd go with the details he'd gathered.

He couldn't sit on Mrs. Packard's name any longer. He needed to identify Jon Delesandro as the injured passenger. Nothing had been said about Mr. Tom Collins, driver of the 1958 Cadillac. He was small potatoes. George was certain that the story didn't end at Thomas Circle. He would leave the reader hanging, which meant he'd need to come up with more facts before he was finished with the story.

George went to the corner, flagging down the first cab he saw. He needed to regroup. Write the story, and then, he'd promised his mother to come to dinner that evening. He'd love to call and cancel but he'd canceled the last two invitations to dinner. He had to go and the longest day would inevitably grow longer.

“City News building, and don't spare the horses,” George said.

“My horses have plenty of power to spare. You a reporter? You look like a reporter. You are, aren’t you? Funny what you see driving a hack. I never noticed anyone until I started driving a cab. Now, I notice everyone. Funny what you can ell about a person by giving them a good looking over. I give everyone a good looking over. Once you get a rod stuck in the back of your neck, you learn to look a guy over before you pick him up. I can tell you that much. You, my friend, look like a reporter. Well, here we are. A buck seventy-five.”

George gave the driver two one dollar bills and a fifty-cent piece.

He went directly to the newsroom, took off his jacket, loosening his tie, he began writing about what he'd found at Thomas Circle..

“Mayor's Wife In Auto Accident.

George knew he couldn't go straight at someone like the mayor's wife. The questions he had would not be answered. He left the meaning of what he'd written open for the reader to wonder about.

He smoothed over his conversation with Mrs. Packard, but at the end, he quoted her, “We were going to my house for lunch.”

After ending the article with Mrs. Packard's words, George wrote a sentence with an innuendo in it. It was subtle, but any thinking reader would read it and pause to think. George paused to think before taking his copy to Pops' desk. He put it in the in-basket.

George saw Pops reading it. When he reached the last sentence, after reading it, he looked directly at George.. Pops shook his head. He did not pick up the red pencil to cross it out. He was letting it go. The Walrus would be another story. He might use his red pencil to cross out the sentence. George wrote what was obvious to him. What was obvious to the Walrus, he didn't know. It was his newspaper.

Everything that he knew and left out were covered by that sentence. Suspicion was left for the clear thinking reader to have. A fan of the mayor and his wife wouldn't be offended. They'd see nothing wrong. George didn't only need to write a story the reader related to, but he had to write it to get it past Pops and the Walrus.

One misstep, and a staff reporter would be collecting the police report, and interviewing Officer Lemon, and he could write what George wrote without bothering Mrs. Packard or Jon Delesandro. The basic facts were suggestive without readers knowing what was being suggested. If the innuendo was out, someone else would be covering the story tomorrow, if they wanted a followup.

“Your blocked off for the rest of the day?” Pops asked on his return from one of his bathroom breaks.

“Yes, I am. Private business to take care of.”

“Good. I'm tired of looking at your face. You need to get a life, Hitch. Get out of here,” he said gruffly. “And don't be late in the morning.”

George laughed. Pops' was right out of Damon Runyon.

George wasn't a newshound tonight. He wasn't working for Jack, the Walrus, or even for himself. He was invited to dinner at his parents' house, the house where he grew up.

George needed to be invited before he went. He talked to his mother a couple of times a week, but going home to dinner meant dealing with his father, and the only reason George came in contact with his father was his mother.

A good time would not be had by all. George would be on pins and needles for the visit, and once he left, he'd be glad that was over.

At four George got on the first of the two buses that would get him to within a half mile of his parents' house. They had to eat by six if George was to catch the last bus back to town. The thought of spending a night in his old bedroom was enough to give him ulcers. He'd put on his walking shoes that morning just in case.

*****

Chapter 5

Home Sweet...

George rang the front doorbell. His mother would answer, because that's what women did. His father wouldn't get out of his recliner for love or money, and especially not for the son he despised..

“Hi, Georgie, you know your father isn't going to like this.” she said, looking at his clothes. “You two never give an inch. You could try, Georgie. He is your father.”

“I had a really long day, Mom. Would you rather I call and cancel? It's over an hour on the bus from town, and that's over an hour back. I wanted to see that you're all right. He hasn't hit you again, has he?”

“Oh, Georgie that was such a long time ago. Can't you just stop it. He's my husband. He's your father. You should show him some respect.”

“I show him the same respect he shows me, Mom. He's never had any use for me. A man that hits his wife is the lowest form of life.” George said.

“Be nice. He's reading his paper. We don't want to upset him. Let's have a nice dinner,” she said, trying to make the peace.

“You think I'm deaf? I can hear you two.”

“George, it's Georgie. He's come for dinner.”

“What, you decided to become a stevedore this week?” his father asked derisively. “It's the same God damn shit from last time.”

“We're not doing this again, Daddy. I'm here for dinner. I'm here to see my mother. Let's call a truce for once.”

“Why can't you dress right for Christ's sake,” Mr. Hitchcock said, looking over the top of the daily newspaper.

“I dress fine, Daddy. I'm not doing this with you tonight. Mom asked me over for dinner. It wouldn't hurt you to act nice. Do it for my mother.”

“Men don't act nice. They act like men,” his father said. “Your mother knows how to act. You're the only confused one in the house.”

“Dad, please don't start trouble,” George pleaded.

“Cause trouble. Me cause trouble? You are trouble. Look at you! You're a disgrace,” Mr. Hitchcock said, the venom clear in his words.

It was always the same. His father had no tolerance for anything but rules he made for everyone. You either acted the way he expected, or you were on the outs. George had been on the outs for years. Once he was eighteen, he got as far from his father as he could get, worked his way through college and got the job at City News. He was a man now. He wanted to see his mother, and in spite of his father's hostility, George saw his mother when he could.

“Come into the kitchen, Georgie. We can talk,” his mom said, moving George in front of her. “You can help. Put food on the table for me. Like you used to do.”

“That'll be a first. Doing something domestic, how original,” his father said, making a lot of noise, as he turned the page of the paper. “He won't say anything at the table. I made his favorite. Steamed seafood, fries, slaw, and hush puppies. You know how he loves his seafood. We'll be able to talk.”

What do you say at a table with a man who isn't going to allow there to be peace, as long as George was in his house?

“Yes, I remember. You're the best. Why do you stay with him?”

“We've been together for almost thirty years, Georgie. We are used to each other. You wouldn't want me to be alone, would you?”

“No, Mom. I'm sorry dad and I don't get along. I don't try any more. I am what I am, Mom. That won't change. You understand that, and Daddy never will,” George said.

The meal was delicious and quiet. George and his mother made small talk.

“It's been hot?”

“Yes, it has. Autumn will set in soon.”

“We could use rain.”

“Some rain would be nice.”

George's father stayed occupied with the food. As usual, his shot glass stayed next to him. He got up twice to refill it. He had nothing to add to the conversation. He did love seafood and his booze.

For the first time in a while, George didn't leave his parents' house with indigestion. The food did distract his father, and George helped his mother with the dishes. Rather than have their typical clash with his father on the way out of his house George left by the kitchen door.

A block away from the house, George looked back. He'd been trapped in that house with his father, for eight years until he left for college, never living there again. It had been hard on his mother, but George had a plan, and he wasn't giving that up. He'd work on his mother once he was a full-time reporter. Then he'd be able to find a place large enough to move his mother in with him.

Remembering a childhood that turned sour the year he turned ten reminded him of how lucky he was to have the City News job. His dream of being a newspaper man began at about the same time. George's life had become clearer to him at ten.

As he became more aware of his own identity, the trouble with his father deepened. His father wasn't one to leave well enough alone. It was his way or the highway.

George was back in town and as soon as he stabilized his career, he'd make better arrangements for his mother. She'd resist the idea at first, but once she realized she could escape from his father, she'd be out the door in a flash, as he was the year he turned eighteen.

George had only one thing in common with his father. They both had a taste for Johnny Walker. George had no memories of his father being sober. George hadn't been a drunk. He could hold his liquor. Johnny Walker didn't make George mean. He wouldn't allow it.

It took two buses to get to where his parents lived, and the same two buses to get him to his Maryland Avenue room. He walked four blocks once the second bus let him out. He simply wanted to forget the day, relax for a few hours, and go to bed.

Just inside the door, on the table with the phone on it, was a plate of chocolate chip cookies his landlady,Mildred, set out for him. She cleaned his room twice a week, even when he was rarely home, and Mildred always left him a treat, once she'd finished cleaning. The woman was a saint.

George remembered the day he went to see his room. It was second floor front, and George didn't know what to expect after years in college dorms. He answered an add, 'Rooms to let. Maryland Avenue.'

Mildred had gone in front of him up the stairs. She walked to the front of the house, put a key in the door, and let the door swing open as she stepped to one side.

George knew he'd need to bargain. It was how things like this were done.

As soon as he saw the huge front window and the park outside, he knew he was home. The room was modestly furnished, but the furniture wasn't cheap college dorm stuff. It was well used furniture, but well kept, like Mildred kept her rooms. The view of the park with children playing, dog walkers walking their dogs, and gray squirrels was worth the forty dollars a month. He could actually relax there.

“It's wonderful,” George said, unable to hide his joy. “I'll give you two months in advance, but it must be this room. I love this room.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Mildred said. “I'm lucky to get a week in advance most of the time. No one stays two months, except Mr. Magruder. He's been with me since Samuel died. He was my husband. I needed to let rooms if I wanted to stay here. Mr. Magruder was my first boarder. Very nice man. Quiet,” she said softly.

George took the cash he had set aside for the room out of his pocket, and he gave Mildred four crisp twenty dollar bills. The deal was struck, and even though he was out most of the time, George loved swinging open the door and seeing the park across from the picture window. It was perfect. It was quiet. It was home.

George picked up a paper on the way to his room. He hadn't opened it. What he really needed was a stiff drink. He decided to eat the cookies instead. He left the half bottle of Johnny Walker in the drawer where he kept it. He could never remember which days Mildred cleaned, or maybe he wasn't sure what day it was when he left his room, but he didn't want his landlady seeing the bottle of booze when she cleaned. Mildred was a proper lady and he intended to be a proper boarder. She didn't need to know he drank.

George undressed. It always felt so good getting out of that suit. He picked up the paper, piled the pillows up on the couch/bed, leaned back, and opened the paper.

He'd not forgotten to look for the article on the mayor's wife, but below the fold, on the front page, there it was.

“Mrs. Packard In Auto Accident.”

His mouth dropped open. It was on the front page, below the fold, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the byline.

George Hitchcock was there for all to see, and in bold print. George Hitchcock had his first byline. A story he almost didn't take had turned into a front page deal.

The anguish over a too long day, ending with it being necessary to deal with his father, dissipated among the words George read. They were his words, almost all of them.

George read it three times. Two sentences had been changed, but only to give them clarity, and the last sentence was just as he wrote it. It had gotten by Pops and the Walrus.

George knew that he'd reached too far with that final sentence that would have the readers thinking. He expected it to be missing. It was right where he put it, exactly like he wrote it. That was a surprise. He let the paper rest on his lap, and he looked at the park across from his window. It was dark but several street lights furnished enough light to see the trees and the swings.

Wasn't it a nice day. Even spending time with his father couldn't ruin how nice this day was.

Tomorrow he would follow up on the front page article. Tomorrow, he'd interview Jon Delesandro, and he'd call the mayor's house to talk to Mrs. Packard. Maybe he'd go by Witherspoon Prep.

He'd left questions in what he wrote about Mrs. Packard's accident. Tomorrow he'd start answering those questions.

George fell asleep with the paper on his lap. He fell asleep making plans for the next day. He fell asleep knowing he had work to do. He wouldn't be sitting around the newsroom, waiting for a story to cover. This was his story, because it was his byline.

*****

George was up and at 'em a little after six. Mildred handed him a cup of coffee and a dish with an English muffin and strawberry jam, once he came down. George handed her yesterday's copy of the City News, pointing out his byline.

“Oh, Mr. Hitchcock, it's beautiful. Don't you want to save it. You need to frame it. Isn't this your first byline?”

“First important one. I wrote for my college paper. My name was all over it. This is a good one. No, I want you to have it. I don't need to hold onto such trivia. Besides, I'm going to buy ten copies of yesterday's edition before today's edition hits the street.”

“I heard you come in yesterday evening. The way you climbed the stairs, well, I knew you'd need a pick-me-up this morning. You shouldn't work so hard. My Samuel worked all the time, and he died way too young.”

“You're a doll, Mildred,” George said, kissing her cheek.

She giggled, and George went out the front door, not wanting to miss his 6:43 a.m. bus.

Pop's was already there. He sat with a steaming cup of coffee on his desk, and a stack of copy from after the City News went to press yesterday.

“Any followup on the Thomas Circle fender bender?” Pops asked.

“I need to interview the kid. I want to talk to his mom, and I couldn't get anything out of Witherspoon Prep yesterday. I'll take another run at them to day.”

“If you'd told me no, I'd have advised you to find another occupation. Nice job, Hitch. I might need you if something hot comes in, otherwise followup on what you wrote yesterday.”

“Yes, Sir,” George said. “For the first time in his short career as a reporter, he had a list of people to talk to, starting with Jon Delesandro. After writing down everything he hadn't put in the article yesterday, George hit the street, heading for the hospital. As he came in the main entrance, walking toward the stairs.

“Hey, Lover Boy. Can't stay away from me,” Judy said. “You better stop and talk to me. You never know what the well informed receptionist might be able to tell you.”

George turned away from the stairs and Jon Delesandro. He could put off a visit to room 203 a little longer.

“You get lovelier every day,” George said, swinging over to Judy's desk.

“Don't be so quick on your feet, Sweety Pie. Guard outside of Delesandro's room. Not right at the door. Maybe ten feet down, but he's there to keep people like you out.”

“Any way to get people like me inside that room?”

“Do you know who my favorite president is, honey child?”

George put a five-dollar bill on the desk.

“I believe you know Abe? I'm out of roses at the minute, but I'm going to bring you one as soon as the florist shop opens its doors.”

“You are a handsome devil. You speak my language. Forget the rose, Lover Boy,” she said. “I'm do to go on my coffee break in ten minutes. It so happens there's a coffee machine down the hall from room 203. Every time I walk down to that machine, guess who follows me like a bloodhound?”

“It pays having good women in high places,” George said. “If I wasn't busy in room 203, I'd follow you anywhere,” George said.

“I bet you would,” she said. “I appreciate the compliment, but we both know why you're here, and Lit'l old me has nothing to do with it.”

Judy got up and smoothed out her dress before climbing to the second floor. A minute later, George went to the second floor. Setting about ten feet further down from Delesandro's room, was an empty chair. George slipped into the room.

Jon Delesandro was still propped up on four pillows, but his eyes were open and staring into a television screen. He looked a bit like a displaced raccoon. The missing hair with the stitches stood out in a pinkish colored flesh that was darker than his regular skin tone.

“How are you today, Mr. Delesandro,” George asked in a friendly but serious voice.

“Headache. Aren't you supposed to tell me how I am?” he asked.

“Oh, I'm not a doctor. I was here yesterday. You wee out of it. I thought I'd check on you this morning,” George said.

“Nothing a few aspirin won't cure. I think I've had my ration for this morning,” he admitted.

George smiled. He didn't want ludes, dex, or crank to cure his ills. How refreshing. The kid wanted an aspirin, which told George a lot. In the midst of the peace and love generation, recreational drugs had come into fashion for the kids.

While Nixon drank his nights away, the peace and love generation got stoned and floated away. George preferred Nixon's drug of choice. He probably drank some expensive label booze. George started on his father's supply of Johnny Walker, and he hadn't gotten around to trying another brand, but he would one day.

Drugs were all over the university. You could hardly walk to class without being approached to an offer of drugs for sale. It was the new way to put yourself through college. You didn't need to go any farther than the closest rock concert or beer bust, to get access to drugs.

It took George until he was twenty-six to get his first job with the third largest paper in the city. He stayed with his college paper, until the City News hired him as one of their stringers. Until yesterday, he handled the over flow that real reporters didn't have time to cover.

After his first byline, he had a story to cover, and an idea of how he wanted to go about covering it. Jon Delesandro was his first stop that day, but he wouldn't be the last. George had questions, and the final assertion in his article created the day's work.

“The two time singles tennis champion in the city, Jon Delesandro, should be playing tennis somewhere, shouldn't he?”

George intended to ask him, if he didn't get the boot first. The bodyguard on the door wasn't a problem. Judy proved that. There are ways to get by bodyguards, but to get an answer to the question he posed in the City News, George would need staying power.

Jon Delesandro could be his younger brother, and not that much younger. He was sure there was more to the story than a simple lunch date with the wife of the most powerful man in the city. The private room and the guard on the door proved something. It remained to be seen what it proved. George had a hunch that Jon Delesandro and Mrs. Packard were up to a lot more than having lunch, but all the hunches in the world didn't make for good reading

According to Jack, this kid was good enough to turn pro. What stopped him from declaring that he was ready for pro ball, and he should have had more offers than he needed to be on the Delesandro bandwagon, but here he was, tucked away from the tennis world in a fancy prep school, going on lunch dates with the mayor's wife. George could jump to conclusions from what he wrote the day before. but George wouldn't hurt the kid for a byline. If he couldn't tell the story without hurting the kid, he wouldn't tell it. He decided that last night.

The mayor and his wife were players. They knew the turf they'd hoisted themselves onto. George wasn't afraid of the flack that could come from city hall. He'd opened the door to a larger inquiry, and so far, it was his story.

If he found a way to make it turn out OK for the kid, he was all over it. Ruining Delesandro's reputation, before he had one wasn't what he did. It's not how he would write the story.

George had discovered in the last twenty-four hours, there were limits to what he'd do for a byline. He'd gotten up that morning thinking about his limitations. Before he got his first byline, George didn't know he had limits.

“Tennis?” George asked.

“Not right now. I'm recovering from a car accident.”

“Why aren't you playing tennis?”

“I am. Mrs. Packard hired my coach to get me ready. She says he's one of the leading tennis coaches around. He says I need to go slow, develop my game. He's smart.”

“And well paid, no doubt,” George said.

“I wouldn't know about that,” Jon said.

“He'd be a fool if he wasn't,” George said. “Who does he have you playing. You need to play the best if you want to improve your game,” George told him, knowing a little about sports.

“When I'm ready, he'll get me the kind of matches I need,” Jon repeated what he'd been told but wasn't sure about.

“Develop it for what, Jon? A friend of mine has a son you played in the city tournament last year. He said you were a ringer. You were good enough to be a pro, and you were playing high school kids. How do you explain that/” George asked, wanting the kid to think. “You don't get better playing pushover competition, Jon. To get better, you've got to play the best.”

“Who did you say you were?” Jon asked.

“George Hitchcock, City News,” George said.

“Where's Arnie? He always covered me for the News. How long have you been covering tennis? I've never seen you before.”

“I don't cover tennis, Jon. I cover car accidents. There is a question being asked about what you're doing with the mayor's wife in the middle of the day, when you should be practicing for a tennis tournament somewhere.”

George hit him with the big guns, because he was about to be asked to leave. He needed to leave Jon Delesandro with more to think about than prune danish, or chocolate cheese cake for dessert.

“I've got a headache,” Jon said, and George stood.

“I'm a lightweight, Jon. I won't hurt you. If everything is above board with Mrs. Packard, no one can hurt you, but there are hard core reporters out there who are buzzards. They smell someone dying, and they hover to get their talons into them. You need to think about what you are doing with your life, and why you aren't scheduled to play in the US Open in September. That's what a kid with your talent should be doing. I'm not the only one with questions, Jon.”

George had to call Arnie Siegal in sports to find out which major tennis tournament came next. He didn't tell him that the city champion was a little under the weather. He needed to sound credible to Delesandro.He knew a tennis racket from a baseball bat. After that he was in the dark. He did know there was love in tennis, for the young at heart of course.

“You need to go?” Jon said.

“Mrs. Packard been here to see how you are?”

“No, why would she?” he asked. “She's a busy woman.”

“Her insurance is paying the bills. That's a reason. Does she have so little interest in what happened to the kid riding shotgun in that fancy new Mercedes. People with money can afford a new Mercedes, Jon. What kind of car does your mother drive? Oh, I forgot, she takes the bus, because she's working herself into an early grave, trying to raise her son by herself.”

“What's my mother got to do with anything. Why don't you leave me alone. I'm tired.”

“Does she even know her baby boy is in the hospital, Jon? I'm leaving my card on the table. If you're up to your ears in a situation you don't know how to get out of, call me. I'll help you. I hope you are feeling better soon, Mr. Delesandro.” George said, as he left.

George was no fool. He knew the watchdog was only one loud word away. He doubted Delesandro knew he had a watchdog. Just like he didn't know he was being played for a sucker. At six one with broad shoulders and a ready smile. Jon probably didn't notice the girls swooning over him as he passed. He only had eyes for his high school coach and the net he drove his competition off of.

Now he was safely kept away from little girls at an all-boys college preparatory school, He had a coach telling him he needed to take his time, while the mayor's wife was making time with him. One thing was for certain, athletes had more than enough strength and stamina. Athletes had staying power and Loretta Packard had Jon Delesandro staying with her.

It didn't take a mind reader to read what was going on. From the time Mrs. Packard brushed him off, he'd been reading the situation fine. Jon had said nothing to make George think otherwise.

For the first time George had more than he could write. He couldn't write accurately about this situation in the City News. With readers reading between the lines, his supposition could still prove to be wrong.

If the readers got the right idea, he could end up getting fired and sued, especially if Jon Delesandro didn't mind being used that way. He was a red-blooded American boy after all, and George, well George was a stringer for the third most read paper in town. Did he really want to risk all that for one salacious story.

Chapter 6

Follow Your Nose

George headed for the stairs and the main entrance. He still had work to do. He was already writing the followup on the fender bender at Thomas Circle. Jon seemed OK to him but head injuries were unpredictable. He needed to call the mayor's mansion and Witherspoon Prep.

While he didn't expect much more than he got yesterday, Pops and the Walrus would be looking for more. Why else would the story about Mrs. Packard's auto accident have been on the front page and not in the local section. Than again, there was a lack of news during the city's summer hiatus. Even the newsroom stayed half empty.

He hit the final stair and was heading for the door when he got the call.

“Hey, Lover Boy. Have time for a chat?”

“For you, My Love, I've got all the time you want,” George said, stepping over to the receptionists desk.

“He's staying one more night. Mild concussion, but they want to watch him. He's some kind of athlete. Horowitz came once. Hasn't been back. Probably won't be. A staff doctor is supervising the case. You think Horowitz is scared by the size of the germs at General?”

“Wouldn't surprise me. How about visitors?” George asked.

“No visitors have stopped to ask his room number. It's been as quiet as I've ever seen it, and there's the bloodhound in the hall outside. No one has called to ask about him either,” Judy told him.

“Why would a boy from the poor side of town need a guard?” George asked.

“He under arrest?” she asked.

“He's an athlete not doing anything athletic. Well, not in public anyway,” George said as he gave it a second thought. “Than there's Dr. Horowitz. The doctor who isn't there. That must mean he doesn't need the good doctor's services.”

“You've got three other hospitals in town,” Judy said. “The poor folks come here. You want special treatment and luxury accommodations, you don't come here. Were a good hospital but bare bones. We won't pad your bill because we can't add that high. All that's left is keeping him here so he doesn't talk to anyone. What's he got to talk about is the question.”

“When I gave that question a go, I didn't have an answer, but you asking me gives me a good idea why he's in a low rent zone with a very expensive guard on his door. They don't want anyone asking him questions. You're a doll Judy and your smart.”

“The guard on the door caper only works if you don't have a receptionist running interference for her favorite reporter,” Judy said.

“isn't that the truth,” George said. “His mother? They can't keep his mother from seeing her son,” George said.

“No, they can't but I'm betting mommy doesn't know where her little boy is at. Do you know where your kids are?”

“No kids. If I had kids I'd know where they were,” George said. “I think someone needs to tell Mrs. Delesandro where Jon is. I have a hunch it will come as a surprise to her,” George said.

“No one has been here to see him but Horowitz. He looked at the file and handed it back to me. He scooted away from here as fast as his short fat legs would take him. Whatever he was here to do, it didn't take any time for him to do it.”

“Jon doesn't need a high powered doctor. That tells me the case would have been a waste of his time. I need to go use a phone. I have a feeling Mrs. Delesandro will leave for work soon.”

“Maybe he called his mother on the phone,” Judy said.

“I'm betting he didn't. He is being dazzled by some high powered people who aren't particularly worried about Jon or his mother. A poor kid can be dazzled by the glitz and glitter the wealthy flash around. They put the guard on his door to keep the kid in the dark and it's time to turn on the light.”

“You let me know how this turns out, Hon. Why do you care about this kid?”

“I don't get to tell anyone what to do but this kid has a ticket out of palookaville and there are people holding him back. I think he needs a wake up call. I aim to give one if I can,” George said.

“Sweetheart, you the finder of lost dreams?” Judy asked.

“What's a nice thing to say. Maybe I'm the reminder of what the dream is. He hasn't lost it but it's a dream that can fade fast.”

“Problem is, you can get that horse over to where the water is, but if that horse don't have a mind to drink it, he ain't going to, Hon.”

“I'm told, but don't know, this kid is good enough to turn pro. Why wouldn't he be going in that direction? Instead he's running around with the mayor's wife.”

“He's getting something he ain't never got before,” Judy said. “And that is the most powerful drug of all. Men are known to get themselves swept right away in the sea of love. Blinded by love.”

“Yes, it is,” George said. “I think I need to call his mother. She needs to know where her son is. It's not my job to tell her, but I have questions only she can answer,” George said.

“I hope you can help him. He's here until tomorrow morning, according to Dr. Jasmine.”

“I shall return,” George said dramatically, heading for the door.

George went to the phone booth on the corner. He took out his notebook where he wrote down the Delesandro's number.”

“Hello!” a soft voice said. “You need to make it fast. I've got to catch a bus in five minutes,” she said.

“Mrs. Delesandro, mother of Jon Delesandro?”

“Yes, who is this?” she asked, panic in her voice.

“Calm down. Not a thing to be alarmed about. My name is George Hitchcock. I'm with the city news. Do you have yesterdays edition of the City News, Mrs. Delesandro.”

“Yes, it's on the coffee table. I haven't had a chance to read it.”

“OK, first, I just left Jon. He is fine. I was under the impression you hadn't been informed he had been in an automobile accident yesterday,” George said. “I decided you should be informed.”

A gasp could be heard on the other end of the phone.

“He's fine. Didn't you know where your son was?”

“No, I have no idea. He's not been home in some time. You're sure he's all right. Yes, the story is on the bottom of the front page.”

“Front page. A car accident. Why the front page?” she asked.

“Do you know who your son is with, Mrs. Delesandro.”

“That woman,” she spit out.

“What woman is that?” he asked.

“It sure as hell ain't Ladybird. Mrs. Packard won't leave Jon alone. I've tried to talk to him. He thinks she's helping him. He's a talented boy. He can have a future and that damn woman won't leave him alone. I don't know what to do.”

“Mrs. Delesandro, can you remember my name?”

“No. Let me right it down. What hospital? I'm going to get fired. I need that job.”

“He is at City General. I'm George Hitchcock, City News. I'm going to give you my home and work numbers. Can you write them down?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

George gave her two numbers.

“I don't have a car, Mrs. Delesandro. I'd come pick you up if I did, but you'll have to decide what's best for you under the circumstances,” George said. “I understand they will keep him until tomorrow. He is in room 203. They think he has a mild concussion. If you can't go right away, well, that's what I know. I called you as soon as I left the hospital.”

“Mr. Hitchcock?”

“George. Call me George,” he said, feeling sympathetic toward the woman..

“Thank you. I don't know why you felt it was necessary to tell me about my own son, but thank you. I'll get there somehow. I don't know what buses go there. I need to be sure my son is OK. I can get another job. I can't get another son, even if he is hardheaded.”

“I thought you would. Mrs. Delesandro, I hate asking you this right now, but the news waits for no man or mom. Can I interview you about what has been going on with your son. I've been told he should be starting a professional tennis career. I don't know anything about tennis, but if he isn't using his God given gifts, well, would you talk to me about it. At a time and place of your choosing.”

“Absolutely, I will. You can bet on that,” she said, almost joyful.

“Thank you, Mrs. Delesandro. Everything is going to be OK,” George said, cutting off the call.

He dared not make promises he couldn't keep. He was hanging on to the story by the skin of his teeth. He needed to make the most of it. He hung the phone up, leaning his head against the cool glass on the phone booth, suddenly exhausted.

He still needed to call Mrs. Packard, and he intended to go to Witherspoon Prep to see Mrs. Wadsworth eye to eye. None of it was appetizing. The battle for Jon Delesandro had begun.

“Hey, Buddy, you going to use that phone or what. People are waiting,” a rude an irritating voice broadcast to anyone who cared.

That's all he needed. Get in a fist fight over a telephone.

George stepped out of the phone booth and walked to the corner. He wasn't sure which move he wanted to make next. He wasn't going to get anything out of Mrs. Packard or Mrs. Wadsworth. He had to try.

*****

Mrs. Packard and Mrs. Wadsworth weren't talking. They weren't talking to George. The first call to the mayor's residence got a cordial, “Good morning, and she's not available at the moment.”

His second call a few hours later got him, “Don't call here again, Mr. Hitchcock. We know who you are. Mrs. Packard has no comment for you.”

George was the wordsmith who put that nagging little innuendo at the end of the article on the fender bender at Thomas Circle. While Mrs. Packard's backers weren't looking into Mrs. Packard's boudoir for the answer to why Jon Delesandro wasn't playing more tennis, Mrs. Packard obviously was, and she wasn't talking.

While clamming up works in some instances, when you clam up in the face of a journalist's inquiry, it crates more questions.

George knew enough not to tug on Superman's cape or spit in the wind, but no one taught him how to dismiss a question that got to the heart of what his original inquiry.

George would have had nothing more than hunches to go on in the Packard fender bender, until Jack Carter remembered a tennis player that made his son look bad, and the woman who seemed to sponsor everything that tennis player did. It was the tip that kept on giving, but George had hit a snag on the Packard story. He wasn't done with it yet, but he didn't know his next move either.

He might make another run at Mrs. Packard but she wasn't suddenly going to tell all. What she said confirmed Jack's suspicion about the woman and Jon. George was already thinking in that direction. Jon's reaction to him wasn't the kind of reaction he'd expect if Mrs. Packard was Jon's innocent benefactor. He'd brag about it.

Even Judy went straight to the male's inability to sort out the fact he was being played by the woman he was romancing. George had no information that excluded that as a possibility. For the first time George wondered why Mayor Packard hadn't put a stop to his wife dallying with the tennis player. As city tennis champion, he had to know who Jon was. His wife was paying for him to go to Witherspoon. You didn't do that by using the household account.

What better source for matters of the heart could he have than another woman. Men were mostly oblivious to the undercurrents surrounding their need to breed. For a man it's straight forward. I can so I do. George wasn't stupid and Judy called it the way she saw it, which was how George saw it but he couldn't write it that way.

His second article on Mrs. Packard's accident didn't mention Judy or Jack. As Joe Friday said, 'Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.”

It wasn't compelling reading. He wrote about the passenger in the car being hospitalized. Jon Delesandro, the city's tennis champion, would be released on Sunday if there were no complications. He added that the famous Dr. Horowitz had been consulted. He didn't mention the consultation was with the receptionist. He didn't see Jon.

He ended the three paragraphs with the fact Mrs. Delesandro didn't know of Jon's hospitalization. It caught her off guard. George dropped it into Pops' in-basket a little after noon. He immediately retrieved it, read it through, and put his initials on it in red, dropping it into the out-basket as ready to go to press. That basket would go to the Walrus. He'd add his initials if Pops' judgment was true to form.

It was and the article appeared on the front page of the local section near the top of the page. The byline, George Hitchcock, was on the story. It wasn't nearly as impressive as the original story, but another byline, the second in two days was great. A byline increased his pay. It also drew him closer to that full-time reporter's job.

It spoke of Jon's hospitalization, his city tennis championships, and a stirred but not shaken Mrs. Packard.

might not. Maybe he thought over what George had said to him.

George decided to stop at Judy's receptionist station first. He had a feeling that stopping there would save him a lot of wasted steps.

“Your boy flew the coop sometime after I left for the day yesterday. I checked first thing. They were holding him day to day because of his head injury. The doctor did not sign the release form. A kid that age, you can only keep them in bed for so long. I think he decided it was time to split this joint,” Judy said. “Sorry. No one knows when he left or if he left with someone. His clothes are gone. I think that's the major clue in this mystery. No one in a gown is going to be allowed to escape from General Hospital.”

“They move someone into his room?” George asked.

“Yes, and the little old man in there isn't Jon, unless he had a really bad night,” Judy said.

“He was day to day. I figured he'd disappear about now. I need to make a phone call, and unless I miss my bet, this is goodbye Judy.”

“Hey, George! Keep me posted on the kid, will you. I'd like to think you can make it turn out all right for him. You take care of yourself., Hon”

“Will do, Gorgeous,” George said, heading for the phone booth on the corner.

“If you're ever in the neighborhood, come say hello,” Judy said.

“Will do. That's a date I won't need twice,” George said, leaving with a wave and a smile.

There was no answer at the Delesandro number. He'd call the mayor's house and ask for Jon, but they knew his voice. If they had the kid on ice at the hospital, he wasn't going to be available at the mayor's house, which meant he needed to talk to Mrs. Delesandro.

With no other option present in his thinking, George returned to the City News building. He was already writing, 'Where's Jon Delesandro?' It made the local section's front page. It was simple and to the point. It continued the story for a third consecutive day. George's byline was on the story. It told George he was on the right track on a story the City News wanted covered.

Pops looked up as George was taking his jacket off.

“Hitch, keep your jacket on. You had a call. Jack will be at the Ante-Room at noon, if you can stop by. Whose Jack? The Ante-Room is where the cops hang, isn't it?” Pops asked, knowing very well it was. “Take lunch. Go see what Jack wants, Do not try to highjack another reporter's story. You got that?”

“Got it, Pops. When do I trespass on another reporters story?”

“First time for everything. Take your time,” Pops said.

George actually enjoyed a drink about lunch time. He did all his drinking at Jerry's or the Ante-Room. He did know to limit his intake of booze, but it went with the territory, Drinking with sources often loosened their tongues enough to get the complete truth out of them.

The Anteroom served buffet items to draw in drinkers during the day. Hard boiled eggs, pigs feet, pickles, and whatever they could serve cheap, was free to the clientele. George wondered who ate pigs feet. He'd need to be pretty drunk to eat one of those and what happened to a pig that doesn't have feet?

“Shot. Johnny Walker,” George said, moving up to where the food lined an empty section of the bar. He collected two deviled egg halves, and a large juicy dill pickle, and black olives. George dropped a buck on the counter to cover his shot and free lunch.

“I'm sitting in a booth in the back. Bring your food and drink there,” Jack said. “Hey, Karl, his drinks go on my tab.”

“Jack, that's not necessary,” George said, after eating the second deviled egg half.

“Yes it is,” Jack said. “I am looking for a favor, George. I need you to go to Loey's and wait for Trask to show up. You said he bought your persona as a Detroit hood, and he talked freely to you. One of my detectives picked up a rumor that Vogal and Trask are on the outs. I need to know if Trask can be turned. See him. Let him talk. Ask no question. You know the drill. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that. You tell me every time we meet. I know what you want and how you want me to go about getting it, but if Trask and Vogal are on the outs, why would Trask go to Loey's, where Vogal hangs out most nights?”

“Old habits are hard to break, George. These aren't rocket scientists. He'll go to Loey's because he goes to Loey's. Maybe he won't but my bet is he will, and if he does, well, he apparently feels comfortable talking to you. That's why he might want to have a sit down with you, get it off his chest. He'll see you as someone he can talk to,” Jack said.

“Do you know what they fell out about?” George asked.

“I do. I pulled in Vogal on the music store job. Vogal had nothing to say. I talked to Trask on the street, after I talked to Vogal. Trask and I have a history. He wasn't forthcoming. It was before the news got to me about him and Vogal having a split.”

“He said they didn't tell anyone that they pulled that job,” George said.

“Uh huh. Well that could complicate things. If Trask is dumb enough to go into Loey's knowing Vogal is gunning for him, what are the odds he's going to draw a straight line from what he told you to why Vogal is out to get his head on a pike.”

“Good question. Let's find out. I'll do it. You do remember that if anything comes of what I get for you, I get the exclusive, Jack. Don't be calling another reporter and feeding him what I got for you,” George warned him.

“For Christ sake, George. I told you I'd do that, didn't I? You get Trask to talk to me about Vogal, make it the smart move if he's afraid of him. Simply be the Detroit hood he thinks you are. Let him know what you'd do if he tells you about the split with Vogal. He obviously likes talking to you. Let him talk, and then call me and let me know what he has to say. After that, I'm pulling you out. It's getting too dangerous and I've got my ass hanging out by sending you in there.”

“Don't worry. I can read a situation fairly well. I catch any bad vibes, I'm out of there,” George said.

“Good. We'll wrap this up and get you out of there. Keep your cool and let him talk,” Jack said. “I've interviewed Trask. He's not one of your great thinkers. He runs his mouth and has no idea of the implications concerning what he's saying. He views you as safe. If he stops to talk to you, you know he has no idea you fingered him and Vogal for the music shop job,” Jack said. “He'd have dropped a dime on you in a second to get out of hot water with Vogal.”

“If you say so, Jack. I'll try to get over there tonight. If I feel any bad vibes, I won't stay. I don't mind helping put the bad guys away, but I won't purposely put myself at risk.”

“Exactly the attitude you need to have. Go in, don't drink, George. Keep your mind clear. You pick up on anything that makes you feel uneasy, you split. Don't hang around,” Jack said.

“I can do that,” George said. “I'm working that story about the Packard accident on Monday. I am running down some leads. If I can't make it into Loey's tonight, I'll go tomorrow night for sure. Things have been slow but they're giving me a free hand with it at the moment. I've got to follow it through until I get to the end of it.”

“George, you're doing me a favor. You do what you need to do. A day or two won't matter in this situation. You're no good to me if you get yourself fired. Do your job and than do the favor. My only concerning is Vogal moving against Trask before you have a chance to talk to him but your safety and security is far more important than anything you do for me. Don't lose sight of that. I appreciate what you've done. The music store job wasn't solved, until Trask told you about it. Go in when you have time. If Trask wants to sit down with you, he'll tell you about the split. Steer him to me if you can. That's all. Do not stick your neck out. Make him think giving up Vogal is his idea. Simply agree it's what you'd do if you were in his shoes.”

“I get it, Jack. I've helped you on the music store job. It's good to know I have helped. What I don't get, and you haven't bothered to explain it, you don't seem all that worried about that robbery. Am I wrong, or is there something you aren't telling me?”

“You have good instincts. I've figured out that Vogal whacked Max Stein almost a year ago, George. Little by little I've come to believe Jimmy Vogal hit Max Stein. He was a well known and popular businessman. He left work one evening last year and someone put a bullet behind his ear,” Jack said.

“I don't have a witness, no clues, just a dead body. Recently, as in since Max got whacked, Jimmy's been seen with Mrs. Stein. It doesn't take a genius to know if a hood is dating your woman, you shouldn't turn your back on him. Max didn't know and Vogal hit him to clear the way to his wife. I have no evidence to prove what I just told you. When a guy drops dead unexpectedly, we always look at the closest person to him. Mrs. Stein is on that spot, George. The only question I have, did Mrs. Stein encourage or help plan her husbands execution.”

“Jesus, Jack, that's cold,” George said.

“It's how the world works, George. What you want to remember, if a hood is dating your woman, don't turn your back on him. In Max's case, don't turn your back at all.”

“Absolutely not,” George said. “That's cold.”

“Could be a money motive as well. Once I pin it on Vogal, I'll have plenty of time to wrap up Mrs. Stein. Odds are she was in on it.”

“Now it makes perfect sense, Jack. Look, I need to get back. We're short handed. Everyone is away. Gone to the shore to escape the heat,” George said.

Both men stood to shake hands. George headed for the door.

*****

Chapter 7

Where's Jon?

After calling Jon's mother, George sat down to write, 'Where's Jon Delesandro? She saw him the night George first talked to her, and she'd called to talk to him the next day. Jon was still at General Hospital until late the second day, when he disappeared and no one, not even Dr. Jasmine knew his whereabouts.

George knew where Jon Delesandro was but like Jack couldn't prove Jimmy Vogal killed Max Stein, George couldn't prove that Jon was at Mrs. Packard's house. Why would the mayor of a major metropolitan city allow his wife to dally with someone Jon. George knew why Mrs. Packard kept Jon close to her, but the mayor?

He could write that and after leaving work late on Thursday night, with Where's Jon Delesandro in Pops' in-basket, George needed a good night's sleep. He liked Loey's on Friday night. It was usually packed and he felt more comfortable not seeing the eyes of other patron's studying him.

By the next morning George was ready to write, “A Mother Worries.” After “Where's Jon Delesandro” had the story back on the front page, George pondered the next move he needed to make.

After writing the preliminary version of “A Mother Worries,' George went to the car pool to check out a car. He asked for something that wouldn't stand out. He rethought that description after the attendant drove a 1968 Ford Galaxy, with the right window that wouldn't roll up, handing George the keys. It was after eight by a good bit and the traffic would all be heading into town as he went up Connecticut Avenue to where he was told the Mayor's house was.

It was still a little cool early in the morning now that it was August, but it would be another hot and humid day. He looked at the right window that wasn't there, and he knew he needed to ditch the dog of a car before the heat was turned up on high again.

George didn't own a car. Before getting the job at the City News, he'd worked for the same paper he'd worked on while he went to college. It was slow in the summer there too. College towns grow remarkably calm once the school is holding only summer classes. The best part of that job, he drew a salary no matter how slow the news was, and when school went back into session, there was n end to what college students did for fun and entertainment.

George put away several thousand dollars in the two years after he graduated. He thought of using the several thousand dollars to buy a car, but his first job was as a stringer. You only made money if your stories were in the paper, and not knowing how many opportunities there would be, he opted to keep his money in the back to spend as needed until he was a full-time reporter and could afford a car.

So, he checked out what was reputed to be transportation when he needed to. This morning he had no choice. The most important story he'd covered to date required him to sit a safe distance from the mayor's house to monitor the comings and goings. George knew what he expected to find, but he wasn't jumping to conclusions. He would wait and see.

Checking the address, he made sure he had the right house. Once he was certain he was in the right spot, he parked far enough away not to be noticed, and he went on stakeout, which gave him plenty of time to think.

He was doing what he needed to do so far. This week had proved to be his most successful week to date. The fender bender at Thomas Circle had become a front page story twice that week, and on Friday morning, if what he thought was true, “A Mother Worries” would earn its way onto the front page. It was the natural evolution to a story.

George yawned as the morning grew warmer. At nine thirty it had to be eighty-five outside and the sun was now shining on the black Ford's roof. George loosened his tie.

George had written 'Where's Jon Delesandro, after talking to Mrs. Delesandro. She visited her son the day he last spoke to her. When she called the next afternoon, in between her two jobs, Jon was no longer a patient at General Hospital, according to the receptionist. George happened to know the receptionist was quite reliable. If she said Jon wasn't there, he wasn't there. Which meant his mother once again had no idea where he was, but George did and now he waited.

Still getting his byline on this story meant he was doing what they wanted him to do. Someone besides George and Jack Carter thought the mayor's wife had become too close to the young tennis star. Pops or Mr. Warner could stop him in his tracks. They hadn't.

What did George know about Mr. Warner or Charlie Myers. They were hard boiled newspapermen. They'd let an inexperienced reporter run with a story he was covering, without any push back, but neither of them would let another newsman swing in the wind, covering a City News story. Nothing made it into print without Pops and the Walrus seeing it first, and they let his stories run almost untouched and that was a first in his three months at the City News.

The story he was telling needed to be told the way George was telling it. Someone more powerful than George wanted this story told. If he went too far, he'd be a small loss for the City News. Stringers were a dime a dozen.

With that thought, George sat up and took notice. At a little past 10:30 Jon Delesandro came out of the side entrance of the mayor's house. He got into the front seat of a perfect 1968 Mercedes Sedan. No way this was the wrecked car he saw Monday. No one could repair that much damage this fast. This was another new Mercedes. It pays to have money, George thought.

Mrs. Packard came out a few minutes later, carrying a lovely flowered scarf in one hand and a black purse in the other.

George moved down in his seat as the Mercedes drove past him. His watch said it was 10: 39.

He started the Galaxy intending to follow them. He'd parked facing the wrong way. It's the only way he could see the house. Now he'd need to hurry up and turn around so he could follow them.

As he was unparking the car a guy about the size of Rhode Island stepped in the way, preventing George from following Mrs. Packard. It didn't occur to George he'd been spotted by someone in the house.

They were able to draw straight lines too. They figured that when he got no response with phone calls, his next move would be to come to the house. George should have realized that but he didn't give it a thought.

The main question had been answered. Where was Jon Delesandro. Why not ask the mayor's wife or the baboon blocking his car. What do you say to a man mountain who is standing less than a foot from your front bumper?

He'd answered the question. Only to have the answer rendered moot. It was rendered irrelevant almost immediately. He no longer knew where Jon was. After locating him he'd promptly lost him again, but maybe they weren't all that smart. No, George couldn't follow them but they'd be home sometime. Mrs. Packard wasn't giving up her toy boy that easily and if Mayor Packard didn't know Casanova was living under his roof with his wife, well that's why they had elections. Someone was going to ask him what he knew and when he knew it.

George leaned on the horn thinking it moved most people, but it didn't move the mountain of a man standing in front of the car. He simply waggled his finger at George.

The man mountain didn't move for a couple of minutes. When he turned to walk back to the house, it was too late to catch up with Mrs. Packard's car.. The walking road black had succeeded in throwing George off Mrs. Packard's trail.

Having the pool car and no where to go, George went to the Delesandro's apartment, and Mrs. Delesandro opened the door. George gave her his biggest smile.

“George Hitchcock, Mrs. Delesandro. City News. This morning I have a car. I can drive you to work while I interview you. Would that be OK with you?”

“My word, yes. I'm always running late. Thank you. You're a life saver, George.”

Mrs. Jane Delesandro was a country girl. She fell in love with a tall handsome navy man who joined the navy to see the world. Newt Delesandro didn't want kids. He wanted to be in the navy, and after a few months of courting Jane Woodruff, he sailed out of her life, leaving her pregnant and with a bouncing baby boy, six months after she last saw him.

Her people, being country people, didn't cotton to a woman with no man having a baby. If God wanted women to have babies out of wedlock, he wouldn't have made men, and that was that.

Jane loved Jon more than anything in the world, and she did all within her power to give him a good upbringing. Jon never met her parents, and as far as she knew, they had no interest in seeing him. He'd never seen so much as a picture of his father, and he knew nothing about him, except he was a navy man.

“I know,” she said. “I should have found a way to have a man in his life, but you know how men are, and I didn't want Jon influenced by men who might be as irresponsible as his father was.”

“You raised a handsome boy with a talent that can feed him for years to come, Jane. Give yourself a break. He's still a kid, and he thinks he knows what he's doing,” George said, partially believing it.

“He looks just like his father, tall, handsome, and he's smart in his way,” she said. “Things were going so well for him until a year ago. Jon had come into his own as a local tennis champion. That's when she saw him. Her husband gave him the trophy for the city singles championship. At first she'd call the apartment and talk to me. She'd ask about Jon, then she came to take us to dinner. After that, she only came by while I was at work. Jon would tell me, and then Jon was staying at her house, just for a day or two. They have a pool. Let's face it. They're rich and I can only afford this dump. Jon deserves the best but not with some fifty-year-old hussy.”

While Mrs. Delesandro worked two jobs and twelve hours a day to raise him, he was rarely home now. He was nineteen and he was a big boy, and Mrs. Packard didn't need to say much to have Jon staying close to home; her home.

Since the Packards got involved, Jon spent less and less time with his mother and more and more time with the Packards. Jane rarely knew where he was, and while Jon called from time to time, he was evasive about what he was doing there.

“My son is physical. He loves tennis, but I haven't seen him play in the last year. I don't know if he's playing at that fancy school where she has him going. Jon was never a good student. He has a God given gift that's going to waste. Once she's finished with him, where will that leave him?” Mrs. Delesandro lamented. “He's being used.”

Jane Delesandro got to work early, and George and she drank a cup of coffee and had some donuts, before George dropped her off.

Mrs. Delesandro was sweet. She knew how hard the world could be, because it had been very hard on her. She made a decision that she never regretted, but it had cost her in a way that gave her no backup, and no matter the situation, she was on her own.

George had taken the pool car out for a half day. He'd brought it back a few minutes after one. The attendant looked at the slip George gave him, and he looked at the book that recorded him taking the car. The gray haired man shook his head.

“I was doing an interview. It ran a little late. Actually, we stopped for coffee and donuts, Mr. Benson,” George read his name tag.

“We got lots better cars. Who stuck you with this turkey?”

“I just said I needed a car for this morning. This is what he told me to take. I don't remember his name,” George confessed.

“That's Ernie. He'll give you the worst car he's got if you don't ask for a new sedan. This thing ain't been out of the garage since last winter. It's got fifty miles on it since the last inspection. Ask for a new sedan next time, OK. You can't do City News business in this dog. He gives you any static. Tell him I told you what to ask for. I'm his boss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benson. I'll remember that,” George said.

“Just leave it right there. I'll park it,” Mr. Benson said.

George took off his jacket, and began writing the copy, “A Mother Worries.”

He quoted Mrs. Delesandro when he could, but he didn't write any of the most salacious things she said. It was the truth and it certainly would be news if it appeared in the City News, but it was a family newspaper and the people reading his articles would already know what trajectory the fender bender at Thomas Circle had taken.

He told the facts. He sympathized with the plight of a mother who was concerned for the safety and future of her son. He wasn't in any physical danger, and boys usually made the calculation about what they were doing when they slept with someone else's wife. Being young was a relatively common explanation. George covered the bases without touching home plate. The reader would decide. George had gone as far as he dared go.”

Once again George was shooting in the dark. He made no accusations or assumption, using Jane Delesandro's words as much as possible. The names she called Mrs. Packard didn't make it into print.

Readers were aware of Jon Delesandro and the men who read the sports pages immediately know who he was. George intended this edition of the City News to followup on the fender bender at Thomas Circle.

He pulled the copy out of the Smith Corona and carried it to Pops' desk, dropping it into his in-basket. By the time he was sitting back down, Pops reached into the in-basket to take out what George just dropped there.

George put another copy form in the typewriter, half paying attention to what he was doing while watching Pops. The red pencil dashed down, only for an instant, and then hit it a second time before he tossed it into the out-basket. It was going to press if the Walrus didn't intercept it on its way to today's edition.

“A Mother Worries,” George wrote. It was all in his head. Once more the article relied on Jane's words describing her son. After fifteen minutes, he'd written the quintessential piece on the Thomas Circle affair. He did not mention Mrs. Packard until the end.

“This reporter found Jon Delesandro leaving the mayor's mansion at 10:30 this morning. He left with Mrs. Packard in the 1968 Mercedes that replaced the wrecked Mercedes at Thomas Circle.”

George dropped “A Mother Worries” into the out-basket. It was plainly marked for Saturday's edition. The copy boy would know to leave it for tomorrow.

George sat back. He had a story for today and one for tomorrow. Life was good. It appeared Friday's story would be a go and if today's story got by the Walrus, tomorrows story was a follow up.

It was a story that kept on giving. It lasted an entire week. It's the first time George had follow ups on a story he was given. He had nothing left to say. “Where's Jon Delesandro” and “A Mother Worries” were enough without. The reader would have drawn his own conclusions by now. Any more would be too much George thought.

He had no plan for the rest of the day. He'd like to follow Mrs. Packard for his own reason, but the interview with Jane was solid gold. She was a mother deeply concerned for her son's future.

“Since he was twelve,” she told George, “Tennis was Jon's entire life. He wasn't a good student. Tennis kept him in school. Now he'd been distracted. Dazzled by a woman's attention and her wealth.”

George had taken it as far as he wanted to go. The reader had the entire picture and it wasn't up to him to cover how it turns out. That's the stuff novels were written about.

“Hitch!” Pops yelled over his ringing phone. “You're up.”

Pops grabbed the phone.

“Myers. Local desk. What? Slow down. Quit babbling. Where are you? Yeah, yeah. Lady, if that was news our paper would need to double its size. Call the Star,” Pops yelled, slamming down the receiver as he grumbled.

“What do you have, Pops?” George asked.

“You got credentials?”

“I have my I.D. What credentials?”

Pops was digging in his bottom drawer and he pulled out some plastic coded credentials.

“Mayor's having a news conference. You're going to cover it. Don't hesitate asking him any questions you might have. Am I making myself clear,” Pops said.

“That's Mort Cort's bailiwick. Why am I trespassing on his turf?”

“These will get you into the press conference at City Hall. Stop at the reception area. They tell you which room. Cort knows your coming. He's there to cover the news conference. He can read. He'll know why you're there. Ask your question and then follow it up. Don't fuck this up, George. You're being watched by a lot of people.”

George took the credential. He was confused. Cort was going and they were sending him too. It made no sense. What did he have to say to the mayor?”

The fender bender at Thomas Circle popped into his mind. He wanted to ask Mayor Packard what Mrs. Packard was doing with Jon. He really didn't want him to tell him but he wanted to tell him. He'd been writing the story all week and chapter 2 was about to begin.

“I have copy in the basket at the desk where I write copy. It's marked for Saturday's edition. I'll be here all day tomorrow but just in case. I wanted you to know it's there, Pops.”

“On our story?” Pops asked.

He'd only covered the one story all eek.

“Yes, on the Thomas Circle affair.” George said.

The news conference was at two o'clock. With any luck it wouldn't last that long. He'd be back in time to write about it for today's edition. He might get two stories in the Friday edition. Wouldn't that be peachy.

“You got that, George?” Pops asked when he hesitated.

“You think you can find City Hall in fifty minutes?” Pop asked, looking at the clock as he spoke.

“You're damn right I can,” George said, realizing he was covering his first political story.

Pops laughed.

George hadn't heard the man laugh before.

As he headed for the stairs and the mayor's news conference, the Walrus was in his doorway watching George come his way. George couldn't shake the feeling that he was being fed to the lions, except for one small crack in the Walrus's facade. The man who chilled George to the bone was smiling.

George turned toward the stairs. He wanted to look back to be sure but he didn't dare. Pops laughed at something he said and the Walrus smiled. It might literally be raining cats and dogs outside? It was becoming a most unusual day.

Did Mr. Warner know he was going to the mayor's news conference? Of course he knew. No one made a move at the City News without the Walrus' say so. Maybe Mr. Warner was seeing the same hungry lions George saw. Could that be what made him smile?

There was only one way to find out. George stepped out into the afternoon sun. He'd walk to City Hall. It was a fifteen minute walk and in spite of the butterflies in his stomach, he'd stop for a sandwich and a big cold wet drink.

George couldn't remember having a better day.

Chapter 8

Man Mountain

On an assignment to city hall, George felt like he was floating. He would get a chance to ask Mayor Packard about Mrs. Packard's dalliance with young Delesandro. It's what he'd wanted to do since the fender bender at Thomas Circle, but being a lowly stringer, he had no access to the mayor until now.

Pops was right. The question had been spinning around inside his head since he encountered the mayor's wife at Thomas Circle. It needed to be asked with the proper respect, and it would be asked with the backing of the City News.

He wasn't sure how to ask the question he wanted answered, once the time came. George knew words. When the time came, he'd pick words that would get a response. Hopefully A response he could print. There was a hazard in asking a question if you didn't know the

answer. He needed to be prepared for a follow up question if the answer wasn't an answer at all. You didn't let someone off the hook because he was a good dancer.

What he was most likely to come back with, 'Mrs. Packard's affairs have nothing to do with the purpose of this news conference. We discuss political matters at City Hall.'

Her affairs were all to do with politics. As the mayor's wife, Mrs. Packard was able to gain access to someone she wouldn't have paid any attention to if her husband wasn't the mayor.

How did he get all that into a question before he was shut down?

It was the question that needed to be asked, and George had been given credentials so that he could ask it. The usual city hall reporter who covered local politics, Mort Cord, was present to cover the event for the City News. George was there to ask the question the City News wanted answer. George's readers wanted the answer.

Everyone would know why he was there, once he asked the question that would start, I'm George Hitchcock, City News.

Turning right, George was in no hurry. He had forty-five minutes to walk the five blocks to city hall. He breathed the sweet fresh air. It was a nice day. The heat and humidity had broken, and ten degrees cooler and little to no humidity was a welcome relief.

George did what he'd done a hundred times since going to work for the City News. He checked his right inside pocket for his notebook, coming to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He'd taken it out of his pocket while he was writing the piece on Mama Delesandro's plight. He left his notebook on the desk beside the Smith Corona he used.

Making an about face, he'd lost only five minutes, and there was plenty of time to kill. Jogging up the seventeen stone stairs, he walked back into the news room to retrieve his notebook.

His notebook was in plain sight, right where he left it. Picking it up, he slipped it in his inside jacket pocket. He still had a half hour. There was no reason to rush.

Then he saw something that brought him up short, once he'd turned back toward the stone stairway.

He always looked at the doorway of the office dead ahead, on his journey to the stone staircase. Mr. Warner's office. He was no longer standing in the doorway.

A feisty looking gray haired septuagenarian had the Walrus backed up against his desk, and she was reading him the riot act. The woman was smartly dressed and neat except for a few darting gray hairs. She could have been anyone's granny, but he'd never seen a granny fierce as this one.

George could hear her irrate voice, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. Mr. Warner was red as a beet. He did not respond to her.

The woman, maybe five foot nothing, had her head turned up and her mouth was almost touching Mr. Warner's chin as she yapped. She put George in mind of a Mexican Chihuahua who has cornered a German Shepard, having no idea what she was doing.

It was almost comical if George hadn't suddenly felt the sting of her words. It was a vague and unfocused stinging, but George had the unmistakable feeling that he was somehow involved.

He turned back toward the front of the newsroom, approaching Pops' desk. Pops saw him coming and looked up.

“Pops, who is the lady in the Wal..., Mr. Warner's office?”

Pops laughed out loud.

“That ain't no lady. That is Dorothy Mellon Miles. Your boss, kid.”

“I've never seen her in here before,” George said.

“She comes in about once a year. Heaven help the poor moron whose ox she's in there goring.”

“What do you mean?” George asked.

“Only two things bring that woman in here. The City News is being given an award of some kind, or someone has written something that has torqued her jaws. Heaven help that poor son-of-a-bitch. Hard to get hired once Dorothy Mellon Miles puts the hex on you, son. ...Aren't you supposed to be somewhere? I bet you better get your ass in gear. You won't get into one of the mayor's news conferences once it starts. He has muscle heads blocking the doors.”

“Yeah, Pops. I was just curious,” he said.

“You don't get into that news conference, you won't get to ask that question you have running around in that reporter's brain of yours. Go! Go! Shoo! Can't you see I'm busy. Don't worry about the Walrus, he's surprisingly agile when it comes to keeping Mrs. Miles at bay. Her bark is worse than her bite, and she has surprisingly little influence on what we do here.”

George hesitated just before he made the turn toward the stairs. How could the owner of one of the city's three newspapers have

surprisingly little influence in the newsroom? It was plain to see, she didn't know how surprisingly little influence she had. She'd influenced Mr. Warner into a corner of his office.

The woman's jaws were still flapping as fast as she could make them move. Mr. Warner was a big boy, and she was a tiny speck of a woman, but a ferocious speck.

George laughed as he danced down the steps. Pop had done two things that made his day, maybe his whole week at City News. Pops called the Walrus the Walrus, and he'd called him a reporter. It couldn't get much better than that, and he still had plenty of time.

Once the room where the news conference was being held was pointed out to him, he joined the gathering press corp. There were maybe twenty other reporters attending the mayor's news conference. George recognized some of the faces, and strangely enough, Mort Cort nodded to him, once he stepped inside the room where the news conference was to be held. George smiled, returning the nod.

Mort was the dean of local politics at the City News. Having his own office, he did not rub shoulders with staff reporters, and as far as George knew, Mort didn't know there were stringers working at the City News. George had seen Mort from a distance and on television from time to time.

While the nod was polite, it wasn't the least bit cordial, and George refused to be intimidated by well established and well known beat reporters. These men had nothing he didn't have, well, relatively speaking. He would join their club in time, and he'd be just as respected for his ability as a reporter as they were, but why wasn't Mort surprised to see another City News reporter on his private turf?

Had Mort seen George from a distance? if he had, why?

George noticed a couple of rows of folding chairs. From time to time, a city official or invited guest would come in and take one of those seats. Better known reporters sat behind the dignitaries. The rest of the men there to report on the news conference stood along the side of the room and in the back.

George was handed a sheet of paper by the only woman in the room. She walked up one side, down the other, and then she offered a stack of papers to the man sitting at the end of each row.

The news conference had been called for the mayor to speak on the newest transportation bill he would sign later that day in his office. The subway and light rail system was being expanded into nearby suburban areas. Since the subway was originally proposed the plan was always to eventually expand its reach. It was hardly a news flash.

Pops spoke of the question running around inside George's reporter's brain. The only question he could have been referring to was the question about Mrs. Packard and Jon Delesandro. He'd been on that story all week without a hint of interference. While he hadn't been instructed what to ask the mayor, it didn't take a brain surgeon to know why George was there. It could only have to do with what the mayor's wife was up to.

Who else besides Mort Cort knew he'd been sent to City Hall to make one gigantic wave?

George wasn't a political reporter. By industry standards, he wasn't a reporter at all. He may have a reporters brain, but from where he stood, he was merely freelancing for the City News. It amounted to pretending to be a real reporter. Until Pops or the Walrus said the words, George was nothing, and someone who was nothing risked nothing by making waves. He'd been sent on the fools errand.

When George got a story, it was up to him to make something out of it, but some stories make something out of themselves, because of who was involved and what their involvement was. The fender bender at Thomas Circle was such a story.

Ordinarily, if a stringer was put on a story like the Thomas Circle affair, it would have been turned over to a staff reporter, a real reporter, once the initial reporting was done.

A story involving a high official's wife would automatically go to a staff reporter. George knew how things worked. No matter what happened, when the smoke cleared, George may or may not still have a job, but he had one now, and he intended to do his job the way he knew it should be done. He would not flinch in the face of adversity.

George stationed himself in a line behind a half dozen people leaning against the right hand wall, when you were looking at the podium on the raised platform at the front of the room. There were people so arranged against the other wall, and along the back of the room. The two dozen seats were now filled.

Before the news conference began, there were nearly forty people in the twenty-five by twenty-five foot room. The buzzing of many conversations filled the space.

The indication that things were about to get rolling was when the buzzing became a stirring and the stirring led to a murmur, and then the room went silent, as men began to appear at a door on the right side of the raised platform. The first man in line, the mayor's chief of staff, moved up to the podium.

“I'm Stephen Foster, the mayor's chief of staff. I want to welcome you to the mayor's press conference on the transportation bill that he'll sign in his office this afternoon. His Honor, Mayor Barnard Packard,” he man said, moving back away from the podium.

The mayor, now standing at the podium with light applause greeting him, had originally been wedged between two gigantic men. Once he stepped out from in between them, they looked even larger, because the mayor was five foot six, which was his height as well as the measurement around his middle.

Smiling warmly, Mayor Packard tapped at the microphone, listening to see if he heard anything. He looked back at his chief of staff, still tapping on the microphone that was attached to the podium with a two foot flexible cable.

“Is it on?” you could plainly hear the mayor ask.

In that size room, all he needed to do was speak at a conversational level, and everyone could hear what he said, but the chief of staff had to come back to the podium and tap the microphone, check the connections and assure the mayor he would be heard.

“Excuse me,” the mayor said, leaning into the microphone, it came through as a shrill squeal.

It put George in mind of a pig being chased by someone with a very large ax.

“Good morning. I mean good afternoon. This is a news conference on the transportation bill that I'll sign later today,” he said without surprising anyone.

“Since the subway and light rail project began several years ago, the expansion that will get underway once I sign the legislation into law it tightens our economic and fundamental connection with our nearby suburbs. I want to greet our suburban neighbors who have come to witness the joining of our communities in a tie that that shall be unbroken for all time. Gentlemen, welcome on behalf of the city and its mayor,” the mayor said, stepping back to lead a light applause.

When the mayor stepped back to join the light applause, George got a better look at the two man mountains that the mayor arrived between. One was the clone of the other. They stood like choir boys, hands folded safely in front of them.

The man mountain that stood behind the mayor's right shoulder was the same mountain that barred his egress from the parking space at the mayor's house. George could plainly see him waggling his finger at him that morning. There was no mistake about it.

A warm fuzzy feeling didn't emerge from the recognition.

The mayor stepped back up to the podium, removing a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket, and blocking most of what George could see of the raised platform. Only the head of man mountain one was visible, and it gave George a sinking feeling. Did he really want to confront the mayor with a question about his wife

George was intimidated all over again.

The mayor looked at the podium, where he placed the paper.

“Thank you, gentlemen. This is a news conference concerning expansion of the subway into the nearby suburbs. It's a project whose time has come. As the city grows, our suburbs grow, and transportation is the key to linking the economies of all regions nearby our fair town,” he read

George had been handed a sheet of paper describing the news conference as an official endorsement of the subway and light rail expansion. George wasn't there for that endorsement. He wasn't there to keep track of what the mayor said. The mayor needed to answer his question about his wife and Jon Delesandro.

“Now, I'll take your questions,” Mayor Packard said.

George would wait until the questions on the subway expansion were all asked, before he'd ask the question he had.

It was a cordial exchange. The mayor called on the reporters by name. He smiled a lot and his answers weren't so much answers as they were prepared comments he'd tried to memorize with only partial success. He wanted to appear polished. He appeared to be rehearsed, reciting facts he was reading from a sheet of paper on the podium.

During the question and answer period, the mayor worked his way around the room, smiling, asking reporters questions about their families, new arrivals, sad departures, and whatever sounded folksy. This was the quality that got the mayor his job. He did folksy as well as anyone.

During the questioning, George worked his way to the front of the line, until nothing separated him from the raised platform or the mayor. He raised his hand and kept it raised.

The mayor looked directly at him. The show was about to begin.

“Yes, a new face, and who might I ask are you?”

Man mountain one picked this opportunity to step forward to whisper sweet nothings in the mayor's ear. Partially turning his ear, the mayor listened to the ten second meeting.

George said, “George Hitchcock, City News,” but the mayor's ears were busy.

“You've been calling my house, Mr. Hitchcock? You were seen parked across from my house this morning? You aren't stalking me, are you? I should think here are laws against that.”

“I wasn't there to see you, Mr. Mayor,” George said.

“I should hope not. There are limits to the freedom the press enjoys. You are aware of these?”

“Yes, Sir, I am, but I wasn't there to see you. I went there to see your wife,” George said.

The room broke into a raucous laughter as the mayor stared at George, looming above him on the podium.

“Get on with your question,” the mayor said, not so friendly as before.

“The question I have does fit in with the general theme of transportation. Mrs. Barnard was in an automobile accident at the first of the week. First, I wanted to know how she was. Yes, I've called to see. I was sent by the City News to cover the fender bender. Second, I wanted to ask how the Delesandro boy is, and if you know his whereabouts. He's left the hospital and his mother hasn't heard from him. Readers of the City News are wondering too,” George said, adding enough bullshit to make the question sound appropriate for any occasion.

George didn't mention that day's installment that started at Thomas Circle earlier that week. It would appear in today's edition of the City News. It spoke of Jon being released from the hospital without his mother knowing where he was or how he was.

George knew where Jon was. He'd seen Jon coming out of the mayor's house that morning. He'd gotten into Mrs. Packard's car, and they drove away together. George saved that revelation for the last line in today's installment, and now he was working on the installment that would no doubt appear in tomorrow's edition of the City News. It would soon be the mayor's turn to squirm.

“Mr. Hitchcock, move a little closer. I'm going to explain my rules to you. I don't want there to be a misunderstanding, because you are new, I'll do this once, and if you don't have a full understanding of my rules, or can't comprehend them, you'll be asked to leave. Do you understand?”

George was now five feet from where the mayor stood. They were locked eye to eye. George said nothing. He waited for the rules.

“Mr. Hitchcock, do you know who the mayor is?”

“You are, Mr. Mayor,” George said without hesitating.

“As the mayor, my wife and lifelong partner, has no role in the administration of the business of our fair city. Does that make sense to you.”

“Certainly, Sir, perfect sense,” George said in perfect agreement.

“My family is off limits to reporters and their questions. Did you hear what I said, and do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir, I heard you quite clearly.”

“Now that we've established the ground rules, would you like to ask a question about the transportation expansion that's the topic of this news conference?”

“Yes, Sir. I would, Sir,” George said with a great deal of deference for a high public official. “Mr. Mayor, once the subway expansion is completed, will Mrs. Packard and Jon use it to get around town or will she continue driving Jon around in her Mercedes?”

The entire room came alive with the buzz of reporters. What was written about Mrs. Packard and Jon Delesandro in today's edition of the City News had been written on the wind as well. It would be reported by the city's media, but the City News was the only afternoon publication. The story belonged exclusively to the City News until in the morning. Then it would be the story dominate the news all weekend. It was perfect timing for the City News and for George.

George had done what he was sent to city hall to do.

There was a titter of laughter and some genuine horrified looking reporters concerning George's breach of decorum. After all, the mayor had just told him not to do what he just did, and he did it anyway. What was the city coming to?

George would have taken more time to enjoy himself except for man mountain one charging off the dais. He came between George and the mayor. As the man mountain moved forward, George could do nothing but back up. He did so, knowing that he wouldn't be attacked in a room full of reporters no matter how annoying he was. George felt relatively safe under the circumstances, but he was remembering a movie he'd seen years before, 'Daddy Long Legs.' The star, Fred Astaire, was a flawless dancer. He was elegant and graceful. It wasn't Fred that came to mind at that moment.

What George remembered most about this famous dancer, his partner did everything he did, but she did it backwards and in high heels. George felt a little like her, as he backed up.

Once his backward dance stopped, George was no longer in the room with the other reporters, he'd been separated out, through a pair of swinging doors at the side of the platform.

Once on the other side of those swinging doors, man mountain stopped moving. He stood in front of the doors, hands folded in front of him, looking very much the choirboy. He said nothing, but his Cheshire cat grin alarmed George.

If he screamed, and he was perfectly capable of screaming bloody murder, everyone in the room he'd just been removed from would hear him. He wasn't too alarmed, yet.

“You do know that holding someone against their will is illegal?” George asked.

“I haven't touched you. You're free to go,” he said with a coy smile on his immobile face and body.

George looked around. He was in an empty hallway. There were doors he didn't dare open, that might allow him to exit. There were doors that might be another layer of separation between him and the other reporters. His smartest move was not moving. People were a few feet away.

Man mountain 2 pushed against the swinging doors. Man mountain one moved forward. One door was pushed open far enough for the man's head to appear. He whispered something to his clone and disappeared back from where he came.

Man mountain one began to speak.

“Listen carefully. You are to leave Mrs. Packard alone. If you are smart, and I have no reason to think you are, you'll stay away from the mayor and his family. If you continue being an annoyance, well, you'll be finding out what it is I do. The warnings won't get any more pleasant than this one, Mr. Hitchcock, but I know your type. Too smart for your own good. You simply have no idea who you're fucking with, and because of that, I will be told to enlighten you, which will give me a great pleasure,” he said.

“This is not the last we are going to see of each other. Men like you can't help themselves. That's where I come in. You don't know what misery is until I show you what I'm paid to do.”

“you're threatening me?” George said angrily.

“Would I do that? I'm merely explaining my employment. If you choose to avail yourself of my services, that's your choice, not mine.”

George was angry now, he had something to say about his employment.

“I'm surprised you had all that in your head. What's your name, since we seem to be inexorably connected. I'd like to know your name,” George said.

“They call me Harold,” Harold said without hesitation. “You can call me Harold if you like. Make us kind of compadres.”

“Harold, for your information I'm engaged in the only profession mentioned in the Constitution of the United States. That's a paper signed by the founders that lays out the laws that governed the country they established, Harold. Those laws give me the right to cover anything that can be considered newsworthy. I have the freedom to go where I please and interview anyone who will agree to be interviewed, Harold. You, because of your size, think you can do what you want, but you can't. There are laws about that too.”

“The mayor tells me what to do and what not to do. I follow his law. He hasn't told me to hurt you, yet, but if he does, have no doubt you'll be hearing footsteps behind you. If I were you, and I'm glad I'm not you, I'd start looking over my shoulder, because you have no idea who you are fucking with,” Harold said, disappearing on the other side of the swinging doors.

He left George with nothing to say and no one to say it to. As frightening as Harold was, the void he left behind him became far scarier. Did he want to push through that swinging door to find out what was waiting on the other side? Did he stay right where he was. That was a good question.

There wasn't a sound coming from the room filled with reporters and dignitaries a few minutes before. He wasn't sure what to make of that. He'd been pretty sure of himself when he arrived at City Hall. He had the City News behind him. Now he was completely alone.

It seemed too easy but George stepped back into the empty news conference venue. It was totally empty. He was all by himself in the room. It was quiet as a tomb, which provided no comfort.

There were doors in front of him and doors behind him. He knew which door went to the business part of City Hall. He came in that door. Two dozen reporters, including Mort Cort, saw him being removed from the room. No one would bother him here.

Standing in front of the door he pulled it open. Harold wasn't behind that door and a few feet away was the usual foot traffic that moved around the building on most days.

It was Friday and a lot of people would be leaving work early to start a summer weekend at the shore or at least in air conditioning. George merged into the exodus. He didn't really think he was in any danger, but he was sure glad Harold hadn't been waiting for him outside the conference room. He wanted to put a scare into George and he had succeeded.

*****

Chapter 9

Out of Detroit

Once he was outside,of City Hall, George stepped to one side at the top of the concrete steps. He moved back among the pillars to watch the people leaving. He was particularly interested in the faces.

George knew Harold threatened him. It may have been a nice threat as threats went and he didn't know what to do about it. The first thing he did was make sure he wasn't being followed.

There had been no one in the corridor outside the conference room. George thought if he was in danger that would have been the perfect place to ambush him, before he joined the people migrating out of City Hall.

George gave a thought to calling Detective Jack Carter. He'd know whether or not he should be worries. He'd talk to Jack tomorrow. He'd need to let him know what he found at Loey's that night. He decided to go down the stairs to get lost among the people.

At the first corner they had to stop for the light. George stepped to one side and when the light changed, he didn't move. Once again he looked at the faces. He saw no one he recognized and he crossed the street stepping into the doorway of a shop on the corner.

He stood there for a couple more minutes and he blended into the crowd the next time the light changed and they came charging across the street heading for a relaxing cool weekend.

George stopped two more times. He saw no one he recognized but he still felt like he was being followed. One more block and he'd reach the City News building and safety. He wouldn't stop again.

His smartest move at this point, tell the story like he'd tell any news story. He'd leave a written account of the incident at the mayor's news conference. Then if something happen to him both Pops and the Walrus would know it was foul play.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped inside the safe haven. He still stood to one side watching the faces to see if he recognized anyone from City Hall.

If the mayor and his henchmen wanted to frighten him, they'd done a good job. He'd wasted so much time watching for a tail that today's edition had gone to press. The story would have to wait.

He was sent there to ask the question. No one could have foreseen the outcome. When push came to shove the mayor wanted the coverage on his wife's dalliances with Jon Delesandro to go away.

He was about to learn the age old adage, when you find yourself in the hole, stop digging.

George was safe now and he was about to protect himself from the mayor and Harold. He headed for the stairs and the newsroom.

There could be a hundred reasons why Mrs. Packard was seeing Jon Delesandro but no reason was given. Their answer to questions they didn't want to answer was stop the questioning and move the questioner away from the mayor.

Tomorrow morning when the morning papers hit the street, they'd all be talking about the mayor's wife and the tennis star. That's when they found it that the story couldn't be stopped, The best they could do after that was get revenge. That thought crossed George's mind while he faced off with Harold the muscle head.

George was scared but he was a reporter. He'd write the story, and once he stepped inside the newsroom he realized how silly he was being. Anyone with an ounce of sense wouldn't need to follow George. Where would a reporter at the mayor's news conference be going afterward? George would return to the City News building. He almost laughed because he was certain he was being followed. His silly imagination got the best of him.

After one more look over his shoulder, he went to the desk with the good Smith Corona typewriter. He took off his jacket, sat in front of the typewriter, and he pulled a form he'd type his copy on from the in-basket. He was immediately lost in the words that told the story about the mayor's news conference. He included everything that happened until the mayor called on him to ask the question.

He spent some time writing about his meeting with Harold, once he was pushed out of the room. This would never go to press, because it would be a he said, he said deal. George could accuse Harold, but Harold wood deny it.

By writing the copy on the incident after he asked the question into copy, both Pops and the Walrus would read it. They'd know why George wrote two versions. They were newspaper men not unfamiliar with covering their asses.

He wasn't under any illusion that he made any friends by defying the mayor. He was sure he'd made some enemies. George had a job to do, and the mayor or any body else wasn't going to stop him from doing it. His instincts told him to keep doing what he was doing.

George's fingers danced across the keys. He was in his element, forming sentences, wording and rewording he facts he needed to reveal. In a little over thirty-five minutes, he'd completed two versions of what happened at the mayor's news conference.

Glancing toward Pops. His head was down and his red pencil dashed across each page of copy that would make it into the Saturday edition. He knew better than to interrupt him while reading the stories that would fill tomorrow's edition of the City News. George wanted to tell Pops what happened at City Hall. It could wait.

Looking at his watch. 'Where's Jon Delesandro,' would be on every newsstand in the city in less than a half hour. That would be followed by tomorrow's article 'A Mother Worries.' If the mayor was pissed at the coverage his wife was getting on Friday, he'd be super pissed off by tomorrow.

Putting both versions in Pops' in-basket wouldn't confuse the wily newspaperman for a second. He wouldn't blink twice while reading the two versions of the same story, and then George hoped he'd carry both versions to the Walrus. He might even comment, 'our stringer is becoming a newspaperman.'

The long version was for the record and the shorter version was for tomorrow's edition. It was inconceivable to George that the shorter piece wouldn't make it into print with his byline on it. It was the continuation of the story about Mrs. Packard and Jon Delesandro, and each of those stories had the George Hitchcock byline on it.

For the first time in hours, he remembered that he'd told Jack Carter that he'd go to Loey's that evening. Jack wanted Trask pointed in his direction. Drew Trask might hold the key to closing down Jimmy Vogal's operation and solving the murder of Max Stein.

It wouldn't be as easy as it sounded, because Trask wasn't always at Loey's in the evening. There was a real possibility, if he was on the outs with Vogal, he might want to steer clear of Jimmy's regular drinking hole.

As much as George wanted to score points with the career detective, after the day he'd had, he wasn't sure his nerves could take walking the razor's edge twice in the same day, but he wanted to get it over with, and if he got what he wanted out of Trask, he could ditch Loey's and it's connections to the underworld.

George wanted to go home, catch a shower, and dress for Loey's, but on the off-hand chance he was being followed, he wouldn't risk leading them to where he lived. He took the room on Maryland Avenue after going to work at the City News. His new address wasn't part of any official record. He wanted to keep it that way.

In the newsroom other reporters were wrapping up their day, putting the finishing touches on whatever story they were submitting for the Saturday edition. George rarely noticed what other reporters were doing. He knew they were doing the same thing he was doing, but he didn't feel connected to them. He felt quite separate from them. He'd been artificially separated from most people for his entire life. It was nothing new. His independence had become his strength.

George stood and started toward Pops' desk, coming up short when he heard the plaintive call of an irrate Walrus.

“Hitchcock, get your ass in here,” the Walrus bellowed, and every set of eyes in the newsroom were on him.

George cringed, did an abrupt about face, marching himself into the office that overlooked the newsroom. He figured it was coming, but he never knew when.

“I hope this won't take long; I have an appointment I need to keep,” George said, standing in Mr. Warner's doorway. “And I haven't eaten all day. I need to eat to live,” George said, unstringer like.

“Shut the door,” Mr. Warner ordered.

This was not good.

The Walrus held a copy of yesterday's City News. His article was circled over and over again. George knew by the placement it was his article on Mrs. Packard. It got by both Pops and the Walrus and gave him his second front page story in a week. Obviously Mrs. Dorothy Melon Miles didn't care as much for it as the Walrus did.

“Nice article,” George said, handing it back.

“What did you do to the mayor? I didn't send you over there to start a war with City Hall, George. The mayor called Dorothy Mellon Miles before you went to city hall, and she just got off the phone with me, and she wants you head on a silver platter. We, being out of silver platters, so I'll simply ask you, what happened at the news conference, and did you ask the question we sent you there to ask?”

George studied the Walrus. There was something different in his demeanor. He was less confrontational. After contemplating what he wanted to say for a minute, he remembered the copy and he handed it to Mr. Warner. It was the copy on what happened at City Hall.

The man placed the long copy in front of him., pushing the short version to one side. Once Mr. Warner finished reading the copy, he sat up straight. He was looking at George but he wasn't seeing him.

“Did the man touch you? Put his hands on you?”

“He is gigantic,” George said.

“I know the man, Harold Seizemoore. Tackle on the local professional football team. It's the kind of muscle the mayor employees, but why is a mystery. The man is a waste of time. Typical low rent political hack who bought himself into office. I'll ask you again, Did Harold touch you?”

“No. If I'd stopped moving backward, he'd have run over me. I have no doubt the man was threatening me, but it wasn't a direct threat and I wouldn't write that it was. Cort saw what happened. He can tell you everything that I wrote up until I was out of the room.”

“Cort has spoken to me. He corroborates what you wrote. Of course we'll go with the shorter copy, and leave the battle with City Hall for a later skirmish,” Mr. Warner said, not sounding angry with George, which was a first. “I'll keep the complete version of your encounter with Mayor Packard, just in case. It might come in handy some where down the road.”

The Walrus reached behind him, taking out today's edition of the City News. The first five copies that came off the press went straight to Mr. Warner for his approval. He held out a copy for George to take. The print was still warm.

George turned the paper to see the below the fold front page. His byline was there along with 'Where's Jon Delesandro.'

“It still gives me goosebumps. Seeing my byline on a story.”

“You earned. You've earned everyone. I don't pamper my reporters. They're arrogant enough with out me making it worse. What you get you earn, George. I've seen 'A Mother Worries' and it'll go in the Saturday edition. You've done a good job on this story. Keep it up, and I know what you're about to ask me, and don't. I've got Old Lady Miles after my scalp already. She sees that I've made you a full-time reporter and she's going to be back in here again,” Mr. Warner complained.

George smiled. It was exactly what he was about to ask for.

“It looks lovely,” George said. “Thanks.”

“I wanted to let you know that your encounter with the mayor was inevitable. He's insufferable. Best to get it out in the open. This story will be all over the city tonight. It's what everyone will be talking about this weekend. Your timing, as well as your prose, are excellent. Don't let it go to your head. So far you've reported on half a story. Don't get careless, Mr. Hitchcock,” Mr. Warner said.

Mr. Warner moved the long version of the story to one side, and he read what George wrote for the Saturday edition.

“I'll make sure this gets downstairs for tomorrow's edition,” Mr. Warner said. “I want you to tell me exactly what you did and what was said, after you left here this afternoon. Leave nothing out.”

“It's all in there. I wrote it all down,” George said.

“I've read it. Now I want you to tell me the story. I can't let some of what you wrote in, but I'll doctor it up a little. The story on the mayor's wife is enough for the moment. We'll be accused of overkill if we accuse the mayor's flunky of threatening you. I have the copy. We'll use it if we need it.”

“I was sent to cover the mayor's press conference,” George said.

Over the next ten minutes, George gave Mr. Warner the details about asking the question he'd been sent to ask.

By the time he finished, the Walrus was leaning back in his chair, his gigantic brogans propped up on his desk, and the fingers of both hands tented together on the man's more than ample stomach.

He'd heard every word. More impressively, he'd listened to every word, not interrupting George one time. Deep in thought, he removed his feet from his desk, sat up straight in his chair, and he leaned forward to drum his fingers on his desk top. He was looking at George, but he wasn't seeing him, and it took several minutes for him to say anything.

“You did fine, George. You did what I sent you there to do,” Mr. Warner explained. “I knew you would, but I didn't expect you to be threatened. I want you to know that.

“What about Mrs. Miles?”

“That old goat. She's got nothing to do with what we do here. Being an owner of a newspaper doesn't entitle her to direct the news.”

“I can handle the threats, Mr. Warner. I'm a newsman. What are your instructions?” George asked.

There was silence for a couple of minutes, while Mr. Warner thought through the situation.

“You've done fine with the Jon Delesandro angle. Just enough, and not overpowering. What I need you to do is report the story. You have fine instincts, George. Your writing is fine, but you haven't gotten your feet wet yet. I don't want to throw you into the deep end of the pool, because, believe it or don't, there are sharks in there. Do not do anything to piss off the mayor any more than he's pissed off now. Report the story. Take the assignments Pops gives you. Do not get in over your head, and if you feel like you are over your head, you come to me. Do you understand, George?”

“Yes, sir. That's what I would have done, even if you hadn't told me to do it. I'm running late for a meeting. I need to get out of here,” George said.

“Sounds like business?”

“In a way. You know Jack Carter?”

“The detective?” Mr. Warner asked.

“Yes, I am doing him a favor. It could end up with him giving me a story. Only time will tell,” George mused, knowing nothing was certain, until it was.

“It's the great equalizer, time,” Mr. Warner said thoughtfully. “Mr. Hitchcock, I want to remind you, you're a reporter, not a police detective. Make sure you don't get the two mixed up.”

“No, Sir,” George said. “I know who I am.”

“Be careful,” Mr. Warner said with concern.

George opened the door and stepped back into the newsroom.

Then he yelled, “Get out of my office and if you fuck up again you'll be looking for another newspaper job.”

The same faces that turned to watch George go into Mr. Warner's office turned to watch George move back to the desk he was using.

“The greatest Show On Earth” came to mind.

Everything George knew about Mr. Warner was now in question.

He called George a reporter. He was going to put him on staff. It was the full-time reporter's job he was looking for.

Mr. Warner hadn't treated George like a third grader all day.

*****

Chapter 10

Eyes & Ears

Returning to the desk with the good Smith Corona, George took a bag from the bottom drawer. Going to the reporters bathroom, he took off his shirt and tie, putting on the green Ban Lon shirt he'd brought with him for that evenings trip to Loey's.

George combed his hair in a way that made him look a little rougher than he was. A coat and tie was standard issue for many of the hoods who were forever trying to look more respectable than they were. George decided, a more casual look was in order.

Returning to the desk where he'd left his jacket, George removed his wallet and anything that would identify him. He kept ten dollars and his metropolitan bus pass. Everything went into the bottom drawer with the white shirt and tie. Leaving his jacket on the back of the chair would clearly indicate the desk was being used, and no reporter was going to sit there before he returned in the morning.

George left the City News building as a hood from Detroit. He walked two blocks to the bus stop, got on the bus that went by Loey's, and before eight, he was seated with a shot of Johnny Walker in front of him, but he didn't drink it, even if he did want a stiff shot. He needed to keep his wits about himself, and he couldn't shake the feeling he was being followed.

The day's events had him rattled. It was a new feeling for George. He usually maintained tight control over his life. Harold's threatening demeanor told him it wasn't over between them. He hadn't seen the last of Harold Sizemore.

His posture was perfect, and he was looking at a spot over the bar, and he let little change his focus. He sipped, though he wanted to toss it back and order two more. He needed to keep his cool. He needed to go very slow. He was not there to drink. George had come to go fishing, and depending on what he caught, he might end up furnishing Jack Carter with what he needed.

Someone he'd talked to a couple of times at the bar came to stand by the booth, where George sat alone.

“you've been busy? I haven't seen you this week,” the familiar face said.

George moved his attention away from the chosen spot over the bar. He looked up into a face he'd had a drink with before.

George gave him a curt nod. Aloof but approachable for serious conversation.

“Jason, how goes the wars?” George asked soberly, but he did not ask Jason to sit with him.

“Good days, bad days. I'm holding my own,” Jason said.

“See that you do,” George said. “The consequences are harsh if you don't.”

Georges attention shifted back to the spot over the bar. He wasn't there to socialize. He was on assignment, and he did not intend to risk blowing his cover with the unscrupulous he sat among.

Jason walked away.

By this time, everyone who was any one, knew George's story. He was a heavy hitter out of Detroit. He'd come to the city on family business. Each time he went to Loey's, George felt his persona deepening. He had gotten into the gangland role he played. It had become a lark, but this escapade had real world consequences if he slipped up even a little. That hadn't crossed his mind before.

For the first time, George realized that someone from Detroit might come to Loey's, once they came to town.

A visitor from Detroit wouldn't know George from Adam. He realized that he didn't know a single street name in Detroit. Should someone who knew Detroit question him, his ruse would be finished. He knew Detroit had a football team but for the life of him, he couldn't remember its name. No one from Detroit would fail to know the name of the city's football team.

His best move was to nurse his shot and stay for an hour. If Trask didn't show up by nine, George would head for home and give up his undercover life. That day's encounter with trouble told him, if you ask for trouble, you're likely to find it.

With half his shot gone and nine o'clock fast approaching, someone walked up to the table, as George kept watch on his spot.

“George. I was hoping you'd be here I need to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes? I'm up to my neck in it.”

George didn't speak. He indicated with his head for Drew Trask to sit across from him. Trask sat down, looking around the bar as he did.

“You seem to be stressed, my friend,” George said, looking into the man's face. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“You don't know the half of it, George. I'm in a bind. I know you aren't going to tell me your business, but I've got myself on the wrong side of Jimmy?”

George raised one eyebrow. Trask looked away from his face.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” George said, playing his role to the hilt. “Might I ask, Jimmy who?”

“I forgot you're from out of town. Jimmy Vogal. He's a regular here all of his boys drink here. Loey's is cool and we don't need to worry about cops. Jimmy and me had a falling out. It's a long story. If I skipped town and went to Detroit, do you think they'd hire me on to do the work I'm good at,” Trask said. “I'm good at what I do.”

“I'm sure you are, Mr. Trask. We aren't in the kind of work one is hired for. No one is going to hire you without checking your references, and might I be so bold as to say, many men are good at the same things you're good at. Detroit has plenty. Why hire an unknown from who knows where, when you have a dozen such local men to pick from and you know who those men are?”

“I know. I figured as much. You, being who you are, well, I was hoping you'd put in a good word for me,” Trask said, continuing to look around nervously.

George let pass any idea he'd help Trask find work elsewhere.

“You can't be too careful, Mr. Trask. Odds are against the hiring of outsiders in our business,” George said.

“Yeah, same here. Cops are always trying to get inside our operation. You can't be too careful.”

“You can't,” George said, sipping from the shot glass.

“You're almost out. Let me buy you another one,” Trask said, waving down the waitress before George could stop him.

“This Mr. Vogal sounds like a serious fellow. He seems to have his fingers in a lot of the local pie,” George said.

“Vogal. Jimmy. He's the guy I hang with. Was. He's got it in his head that I gave him up on a job we pulled together. He couldn't be further from the truth. Did I mention that job to you? It was a nifty caper. I don't mind telling you. I held the music store owner's family hostage, and Jimmy went with him to get the cash from his store. Anyway, the local heat pulled Jimmy in for questioning on that job. They have him pegged for pulling the job. I don't know how they came to that conclusion. It was only the two of us, and we agreed not to tell anyone that we did it. My cut was two large. Jimmy takes more, because he's the brains,” Trask said, continuing to look around the bar while telling George the story.

George absolutely stopped breathing two sentences into Trask's recitation. If he'd been sweating before, he was perspiring big time now. If Drew Trask remembered that he told George about the music store heist, it would be a short night.

George took another sip of Johnny Walker, but just enough to wet his parched throat. This was no time to lose control. He needed to continue to look in total control, while being detached from anything Trask said to him.

The waitress dropped another shot down in front of him. Trask threw back the shot, pulling a five out of his shirt pocket.

“Hit us again, Hon. Keep the change,” Trask said with a smile.

George suddenly wanted three more shots. He needed to excuse himself and get the hell out of Dodge. He'd heard almost everything Trask was saying before. It reinforced the music store caper. It wasn't what Jack wanted, although he could use it to put Vogal away, but not long enough for it to do Trask any good.

“What you describe puts you on the spot. If Mr. Vogal is as astute as he sounds like he is, it's difficult to say how he might look at a traitor in his midst. In Detroit, someone goes against the family, he is dispensed with so he can't hurt the family. How it's done here, I don't know. You describe an unhealthy situation for the mug on the outs.”

“For me,” Trask said.

“I'll take your word on that. If I were you, and I'm glad I'm not,” George said, clamming up as he saw the waitress approaching.

“Yeah, you were saying?” Trask asked before the waitress put the two shots on the table.

Trask sat back uneasily.

“There you go. Sweets for the sweet, Babydoll,” she said.

The waitress walked away.

George leaned forward, lowering his voice. Trask leaned forward so that their faces were closer together.

“Should I be in a situation like the one you describe, I'd want to have some information that could do me some good, and that my nemesis might not want being bandied about, and I'd use it to get myself off the spot. The spot you are on, and want off of.”

“What kind of information is that?” Trask asked.

George couldn't believe Trask was that dumb. Was he being set up? Was Trask suspicious of him and he was trying to trick him? No, Jack knew Trask was on the outs with Vogal. His story rang true.

“You've spoken of a collaboration between you and the man you're on the outs with. Knowledge is power, my friend. If you know something that hurts your nemesis, well, if you found a way to use it to remove the man in question, your problem would be solved, or so it seems to me, Mr. Trask.”

“Anyway, he figures me for dropping a dime on him. We've been in it together for a couple of years. I wouldn't do that. I don't talk about jobs we pull. Not to strangers. Not to the heat,” Trask said, looking at George's face again.

George's underarms were soaked. He felt the sweat running down his sides. The nylon shirt would hide the perspiration. It was all George could do not to bolt. This clown was about to remember that he told George about the music heist the week before. He needed to excuse himself and get out of there. He had an appointment. That was it. He was running late and he had to go.

“You can't explain? You must get along if you're in business together,” George said in a business like fashion.

George was ready to excuse himself, when Trask opened a door that put the conversation on the right track.

“The cops pulled him in on that caper. No one knew who pulled it. No one but Jimmy and me. We agreed we'd keep it to ourselves.”

“Does sound like you have yourself in a difficult spot,” George said.

“You telling me. Jimmy's got a temper, and there's something else. I know he offed a guy. I drove the damn car. I'm an accessory. He's going with the guys wife, you see. Between the wife and him, well this guy Stein, we lay for him one night, and Jimmy caps him.”

“He is not a man who is going to forget who his driver was,” George said. “Now there's this robbery?”

“Yeah. That's what I'm saying. He's going to remember I drove him to do Max Stein. When he does, my life is over. I don't know what to do. What would you do?”

“I shouldn't get into such a situation,” George offered before sipping from his original drink, which is below a half full by now.

“How do I keep from getting my ass blown away?”

“The driver role, and the killing, they don't know who did it?”

“The cops. No. They got nothing. It was a pop and go. He stepped out of the car. Walked up to him, bang, back in the car and we're gone. No one was on the street. He worked in a business area. Everything closes early and Stein worked late. Nothing to it.”

“That little caper will have Jimmy wanting to cap you, just in case. If he thinks your dropped a dime on him for a heist, he's going to take no chances with a murder,” George said, talking too much and sweating even more.

George sipped a little more of the Johnny Walker. What he wanted to do is throw both of them back and order more. He needed to cut and run before Trask recovered his memory.

“I see what you're saying. The cops got nothing. I give them Jimmy, and they let me slide on the accessory deal.”

“You are way out ahead of me now. I said nothing about giving any one to any body, put I'd say your proposal is sound, should I be in your situation, I might think about what I know. Solid way to achieve what you're after, but I don't remember a thing about any one's business. Not even if they tell me about it, and it's a good lesson for you, Mr. Trask. Remember nothing you are told about someone else's business. You'll stay healthier that way.”

“I got that. I don't know a thing about a thing, but I do know enough to see that Jimmy don't do to me what he did to Max. I mean cool as ice. Of course when there's a babe involved, well, all bets are off. You sure don't want no hoods dating your woman. I learned that lesson too,” Trask said.

“Mr. Trask, doesn't Jimmy drink at Loey's. You've mentioned drinking here with him. Why are you putting yourself in a place where the man you want to avoid can get his hands on you,” George said, reaching for his drink to shut himself up.

“Man, George, you're a life saver. I knew you was smart. Yeah, you're right, I need to split. I always do my drinking here,” Trask said.

“I shouldn't drink here until your problem is on ice, but that's me, I'm a careful sort. I don't visit establishments where I might cross paths with an adversary,” George said.

“Good policey, George,” Trask said, laughing. “I shouldn't either. I'm going to split,” Trask said, getting up and flagging the waitress.

“Hey, here's for our drinks. Is this enough to give him another round, babe?”

“Yes, Sir. That's plenty,” she said, taking a second five dollar bill out of Trask's hand.

Trask headed for the exit, and the waitress brought another shot for George. He hadn't drunk all of his first shot yet, and if he drank any more he'd puke on the spot. The back of his Ban Lon was soaked. He was afraid his pants were wet. He'd never been that nervous.

He needed to get to a phone. Not around here. He'd catch the bus back into center city. George hated leaving all that beautiful liquor on the table, but it was necessary.

“Hey, Hon,” he tried. “Find a home for those, would you. I've got to go, and I wouldn't get far if I drank those.”

“I can help with that,” she said, finishing the nearly empty shot, she collected the other two to sell along the way.

“Everybody must get get stoned,” he remembered from a Dylan song.

As George neared the exit, he caught sight of a face he recognized, but from where. He wasn't about to stop and find out which face was the face he thought he knew. He left Loey's for what he hoped would be the last time.

George decided to walk across the gravel lot to safe some steps to the bus stop. He wanted to get to a phone as fast as he could. He had Jack Carter's number memorized. He wanted him to have the news as soon as he could get it to him.

George heard something that he didn't like. Someone had followed him out of the bar. The face he recognized? He wasn't about to look back.

George didn't have time to look back. Georges time had run out.

There was a voice, low, gravelly.

Harold's voice?

And the lights went out on George's world.

Chapter 11

Cat's Out Of The Bag

Purple mountain's majesty, whirlwinds of color, followed by fire and brimstone. Lightning against a pitch black sky. Falling, falling, falling, fireflies lighting the way. To where?

The path through the endless valley of death leads nowhere. Voices, voices, and too much light. Too bright, and more voices, voices, voices. Commotion all around, white light abounds. White light. Too much light. If this is not dying, what is it?

George's focus wasn't what it once was his head was filled with confusion, and pain, there was plenty of pain.

Images coming, and going, faces, talking, so much talking, and a long slow disappearance from whatever scene was playing itself out nearby. Nothing was where it should be, and the light was bright, too bright for nowhere. It was the super nova. End of everything or was this the beginning??

The pain seemed to consume him. The pain.

George tried but couldn't get up. If he could sit up he'd be fine. He needed to find the desk with the good Smith Corona typewriter. He could make it make sense. He needed to find his typewriter. He needed to write. If he wrote about it he'd make it make sense.

Confusion followed by silence. Where was he? George could not be sure of where he was. The noise had subsided. The chaos left behind on another plane. The bright light diminished.

He was in a long corridor. Moving, moving, moving, and then quiet. So nice to hear the quiet, and no bright light.

He was in the white room. The confusion was gone. This was better, except for the pain. George had the mother of all headaches. He didn't get headaches. He was in a white room. He was alone.

No! He wasn't alone. One figure loomed over him.

It was the Walrus.

How did the Walrus get into this cockeyed dream

“George. George. Time to wake up,” Mr. Warner said.

“What are you doing here?” George asked.

“When I get a call that one of my reporters is down, I usually respond. What happened? Do you remember what happened, George?”

“I drank Johnny Walker. No, I didn't drink it. I had glasses of the stuff in front of me, but I couldn't drink it. Speaking of a nightmare, that qualifies. What happened?”

“You've had maybe a drink. No more than that. You're blood alcohol wasn't much above normal. They gave you a good going over, once you arrived here. Do you remember what happened, George?”

“Remember what happened? No. Why are you here? And where is here? Where am I? What happened?”

George's confusion hadn't cleared. He reached behind his right ear and felt the bandage.

“My head hurts,” George said. “Where'd you say I was?”

“Sibley Hospital. An ambulance from here was a short distance away when the call came in that a man was down in the parking lot at Loey's. You told me you had an appointment. Were you going to Loey's, George?”

George remained silent. He wanted to remember where he'd been, but his head hurt something fierce. Both eyes felt out of kilter. The world was out of kilter. What was the Walrus doing there?

“Why are you here?” George asked, thinking he'd asked before.

He got no answer.

“Do you remember what happened, George?”

“No,” George said, certain he'd answered the question before.

“You need to know, the cat is out of the bag. Your clothing are in the chair over by the window. They put you in the gown you're in. Do you understand what that means?”

“What cat? What bag? I'm confused. Why are you in my dream? Get out. Go away. Isn't dealing with you at work enough? Go away.”

“I must confess, I'm confused myself, George. Imagine my surprise when the young man stringer I hired isn't a young man at all. “I looked at your chart on the foot of the bed. A newsman's prerogative. The file says that you are a Jane Doe. You had no identification on you. Once they got you out of your clothes, they were faced with the same dilemma as me. You aren't a man, George.”

“I'm as much a man as you are,” George insisted, being certain of those facts.

George went to sleep in one dimension, waking in another one. That seemed obvious. He had nightmares like this for most of his life.

The door opened and someone rushed into the room.

“Oh, good. I heard voices. Is our patient awake? Yes,” she asked and answered her own question. “The doctor wanted to be called once you were awake. Dr. Knox was adamant. No other doctor is to be called, no matter the time of night or day. You're lucky he was here. He's one of the hospital's best. Came in with a heart patient at the same time as you. I'll be right back.”

The nurse left as smoothly as she'd entered.

The nurse left without Mr. Warner or George saying a thing.

The nurse was back in two minutes.

“He's on his way. How do you feel?” she asked.

“Did anyone manage to get the license number of the truck that hit me?” George asked.

“We'll give you something a little stronger now that you're awake. The doctor didn't want to retard your becoming conscious on your own. You don't know how many head injuries we get in here, and the patient never wakes up, or he's in a coma for weeks or even months. You probably weren't hit hard enough to do that kind of damage. We stitched you up and the doctor ordered you put in a private room. He was to be called as soon as you were awake.”

“Someone hit me? I feel like I'm awake but I feel like I'm dreaming? Who hit me?”

“Being disoriented is par for the course,” a middle aged man in wire rimmed glass with flecks of gray in his hair said. “Nurse, you can step out. I want to speak to the patient. You are?” Dr. Knox asked Mr. Warner

“The man paying the bill,” Mr. Warner advised the doctor.

“Not good enough. Do you wish this man stay in the room while we discuss who you are and what condition you are in?” Dr. Knox asked George.

“I think he's a figment of my imagination. He'll go away as soon as I wake up. He can stay.”

Dr. Knox looked at Mr. Warner with suspicion.

Mr. Warner saw a very cautious man and he liked him.

“I already know, if you're worried about me finding out my young stringer left the office as a boy and now we have what we have.”

“Why doesn't someone let me in on whatever it is you are sharing about me,” George said. “Who hit me?”

“George, you're in a hospital. They undressed you before sending you to your room,” Mr. Warner explained.

“George,” Dr. Knox said. “You are at Sibley hospital. You've had a serious blow to the head. Your confusion is going to clear in a little while. Your injury isn't as serious as it might be. Concussion maybe, almost probably, but no fracture and the wound was closed with five stitches. The man apparently didn't hit you square on the head, or you most certainly wouldn't be talking to me. Even if you aren't making a lot of sense.”

“Since you haven't disappeared, I assume you are really here, Mr. Warner,” George said. “But Why?”

“You'd be correct,” Mr. Warner said.

“Oh, my head. Please tell them to stop tap dancing in there,” George said, holding the sides of his head. “If you're a doctor, prove it. Give me something to stop the pain.”

“I'll order something up as soon as we talk. Do you know where you are, George?” Dr. Knox asked the same question over again.

“You said Sibley Hospital. What hit me. My arms and legs are OK,” George said, moving his arms and legs. “Harold. Harold hit me. I was leaving Loey's. I needed to call Carter. I got what he wanted.”

“Harold Sizemore hit you?” Mr. Warner asked.

“Yes. The mayor's number one goon,” George said.

“You're sure, George? You aren't confused? Your back was turned to your assailant,” Mr. Warner said.

“I left Loey's. There's a gravel parking area on the south side of the building. I heard someone behind me. I was heading for the bus stop. I needed to call Jack Carter. I heard Harold's voice and that son-of-a-bitch hit me and here I am.”

“We have a witness to your mugging. It was Harold, George. Jack put a tail on you. He saw the whole thing.”

“A tail. I knew someone was following me,” George said.

“Let him speak. He sounds lucid,” Dr. Knox advised. “You can catch him up once I am done. We need to talk before you do something you might regret.”

“I need you to make me your doctor. You've got to be lucid and Mr. Warner can witness that you asked me to be your doctor,” he said.

“I've been hit in the head, doctor. I might be a little slow on the uptake at the moment. I thought you were my doctor. You aren't?”

“I took the case in the ER. I took the case after they decided you weren't a John Doe. You became a Jane Doe. I was one curtain over with a heart patient. Once you make me your doctor, I can't be forced to talk to anyone about your condition,” Dr. Knox said.

George looked at Mr. Warner and back to Dr. Knox.

“I want you to be my doctor, doctor,” George said. “Why do you want to my doctor?”

“It's a long story. I have been treated two men who are woman. I think that configuration is more common than yours. When I heard the jokes start behind the curtain, I took charge immediately. I told them I was your doctor. With someone being in charge it was all business after that. They won't remember you after they finish a shift in the ER, and I can't talk about it because I'm your doctor.”

“Jack had a tail on me. I need to talk to him,” George said.

“He was here. They said you wouldn't be coming around for hours ad he left. He's beside himself with guilt because he sent you into Loey's,” Mr. Warner said. “He'll be back later.”

“My being hit had nothing to do with what I was doing for Jack. Once I covered the news conference, Harold was gunning for me. I knew by what he said I hadn't seen the last of Harold,” George said.

“Cover a news conference?” Dr. Knox asked.

“I'm working on a story that concerns the mayor's wife. I was sent to the mayor's news conference to ask him about it,” George said, having no trouble with his memory now.

“Oh, I know who you are. Editor-in-chief at the Daily News. We met once at a news conference about the Salk vaccine. It was maybe ten years ago. I'd been doing research on polio. You asked a couple of questions,” Dr. Knox said.

“I remember the news conference on polio. I can't say that I remember you,” Mr. Warner said. “I covered a thousand news conferences. I doubt I remember ten people I saw at one.”

“I was green as fresh kale, Mr. Warner. I remember you asked the most intelligent questions. Look at you now.”

“Excuse me. My head,” George said.

“As soon as I talk to you about our condition, I'll order something that will allow you to get some sleep. I need some information from you,” Dr. Knox said. “Might I ask, who is Harold?”

“A long story, Dr. Knox. You'll read all about it in tomorrow's edition of the City News.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Dr. Knox said. “I read the Daily News when I get home in the evenings, if I get home.”

“They arrested Harold, George. Jack Carter put a tail on you. He had misgivings about you going into Loey's tonight, last night. He followed Harold out of the bar, after Harold followed you. He saw the whole thing. He flagged down a cop car on the street, and they took Harold into custody. There were a few bumps and bruises getting him in the backseat of the patrol car, but most were suffered by Harold.”

““Jack had me followed?”

“Yes. He called me. He was here. He's very upset. He was afraid something was going to happen to you. In a way he was right,” Mr. Warner said.

“I need to talk to Jack, Mr. Warner. I got what he wanted. I know who killed Max Stein. Someone witnessed the murder. It's why I was in Loey's last night. Tell him not to give that story to anyone else. I earned an exclusive on solving the Max Stein murder.”

“A City News exclusive. I won't let him forget,” Mr. Warner said.

“It had nothing to do with Jack or Loey's, except that's where Harold caught up with me. I had the feeling I was being followed after I left the news conference.”

“By more than one guy apparently,” Mr. Warner said. “Harold had no other way of knowing that you were in Loey's. He either followed you, or he had someone follow you. Which means the mayor has some questions to answer. There is a direct line from the mayor's news conference to Loey's.”

“This is all very inside the news,” Dr. Knox said. “And you sound quite a bit more coherent than when I came into the room. I will assume you understand where you are and why you are here. That leaves only one issue to discuss. You're lucky that I was in the ER at the same time as you. I saw you brought in. I checked on you after they stitched you up, took X-rays, and were sending you to a room.”

“And I don't suppose I can sneak out of here and pretend none of this happened,” George said. “I've got a story to write. Maybe two.”

“Not today you don't. Probably not tomorrow. Concussion isn't anything to fool with. Complications can't be ruled out,” Dr. Knox said. “My heart patient is next door. He'll make it. If I hadn't been there when I was, and heard them talking about a man coming into the ER and a woman leaving, well I heard them and I was sure I understood what they found so amusing.”

George held his gown out from his chest.

“Jesus Christ. I hurt my head. Did they need to undress me?” George complained, having just discovering his vulnerability.

“The cat's out of the bag?” George said, looking at Mr. Warner.

He shrugged.

“You'd be surprised how many people come in with a stab wound and they've also been shot or have other trauma. It's protocol. Wouldn't do to lose someone because we didn't look him over. You're lucky I was where I was when the jokes started,” Dr. Knox said.

“I assessed the situation as critical, and I pushed the curtain aside to tell them I would be your. They shut up and did what good professionals do. They did their jobs quietly.”

“I don't remember any of it,” George said. “Tell me why you're so interested in my condition?”

“The right question to ask. I told them to put you in one of the private rooms where I attend to patients who benefit from a little extra privacy. My nurses attend to my patients. It protects them from idle gossip. My nurses and I are the only ones who have access to your chart. If you need to go for tests or to use hospital facilities one of my nurses is with you at all times and they don't make jokes about my patients. They know I won't tolerate it.”

“Why do that?” George asked.

“The why is a bit more circumspect. Let's say I'm familiar with gender discrepancy. I haven't scratched the surface. I stumbled on to one case and that led to a second case. As I mentioned, male to female. They live part of their life as males and another part they live as female, but they identify as female.”

“In your case I decided to protect your interests before another doctor got involved. I understood they were saying you were female to male. I didn't give any thought to there being a reverse of the male to female. It was obvious to me you were such a case. I'm fascinated by gender discrepancy. Our country isn't very kind to people who are different. The less they know the better off you are. I can only protect my patients, but that doesn't mean there aren't hundreds, maybe thousand of people keeping the secret about gender discrepancy.”

George hadn't thought about it either. He was the only person he knew that was born with the wrong body. The doctor knew of at least two more cases. He thought there could be thousands.”

“I have what you call gender discrepancy in my family,” Mr. Warner said, getting Dr. Knox's attention.

“You what?” the doctor asked.

“I know of it first hand,” Mr. Warner said.

“There you go. Do you know how significant that could be?”

“I only know of one,” Mr. Warner said.

“You know of one. I know of two and George has gender discrepancy. It boggles the mind,” Dr. Knox said. “We haven't uncovered the tip of this iceberg.”

“I thought you were surprisingly relaxed about it,” George said. “You know someone like me?”

“I do,” Mr. Warner said. “I'd never have guessed the truth about you. For all practical purpose you are a man, George.”

“I know that, Mr. Warner but thanks for the confirmation. I somehow never pictured us talking about this.”

“I took my first gender discrepancy patient quite by accident. I didn't know what I was seeing but James, Janet part-time, was willing to explain it to me. I was fascinated. James brought me Ronnie who lived much of his life as Rhonda. Coming to the doctors required them to assume their male identity because of the gender discrepancy. Now they have a doctor who will see them as a woman and not get excited about the discrepancy.”

“I don't go to see a doctor because of it,” George said.

“You have a doctor that knows something about your condition. What I know isn't enough to draw any conclusions. Your case proves that gender discrepancy goes in both directions. I didn't know that but it is logical. Nature has a certain balance to it. You prove it.”

George was suddenly out of focus. He laid back on his pillow and he closed his eyes. The room was moving under him. He felt exhausted and Light headed. The tap dancers had come back off break and were high kicking inside his head again.

the first case quite by accident. James told me his story. He is Janet part of the time. He sent one of his girlfriends, Ronnie who is Rhonda part of the time. When I heard the jokes concerning the patient next to mine, it was clear what they had uncovered. I took charge to stop the jokes. It's very unprofessional. It's the ignorance our culture seems to cultivate. Because you were on the opposite side of the spectrum from he other side of the gender discrepancy issue. I wanted your case. I took your case,” he said.

“And here we are.”

“What did you call my condition?” George asked.

“Gender discrepancy or gender dysphoria?” he said.

“Dysphoria?” Mr. Warner asked.

“Dysphoria is confusion,” Dr. Knox said. “In short, the gender you are born with is in disagreement with how you feel and think.”

“Dr. Knox, I appreciate what you've done, but I'm not confused. I'm a man. My body parts don't match who I am. I'm George all the time. Since I turned eighteen and left home, I left Georgia behind,” George said.

“When is the last time you saw your family doctor?”

“I don't have a family doctor, and if I did, I'd still be George.”

“Now you have a doctor, and I don't care who you say you are. I'll treat the whole you. I simply want to hear your story and be informed of any changes, should they occur,” Dr. Knox said.

“Gender dysphoria is a confusion between your anatomy and your brain. You aren't confused about it but one disagrees with the other. We need to call it something. I prefer that to some of the common slang used to describe a discrepancy. We can call it whatever you like, but you need a doctor who knows and understands your condition. I've applied for the job, George but it's up to you. I've taken your case. You don't need to take me. My lips are sealed.”

“I didn't know anyone else was like me. When you are born with the wrong body parts, you wing it,” George said. “You're my doctor. We can agree on that for the time being. I'm still working on the idea I'm not the only one. I thought I was.”

“There are. That's what fascinates me. One day we'll be more enlightened George, but for now, when it comes to the brain and our biology, we are still mostly in the dark. I'd like to turn on the light so people like you have any easier transition. As kids everything is governed by appearance. When differences are uncovered people make a joke out of the ugly duckling.”

“We say we're civilized, but many people are too uneducated to consider the idea we aren't all just a like. They'd rather make tasteless jokes and laugh,” Mr. Warner said.

“We might ask why so many people reject so many of their species because they are different. Ignorance explains a lot of it. I'm ignorant on this but I'd rather turn on the light than curse the darkness,” Dr. Knox said. “You can help me with that, George. One day, if you help me, children like you won't be picked on and made fun of. Someone with your condition might be treated fairly and allowed to be themselves without needing to fight for that right. I suppose I get angry about it because these are real people dealing with a difficult life because other people enjoy make it more difficult than it has to be.” , but I know doctors who are ignorant about the mind and body connection. It's all part of the anatomy, and it is all a piece of the puzzle that is human biology. Up until a hundred and fifty years ago, we were still bleeding people to get the poison out of them. It's likely the father of our country was bled to death by the doctors of the day.”

“For you it's a science project,” George said.

“Not a project. Part of science. Part of understanding the differences in people. I've had the opportunity to work with two male to female subjects. You are the the converse of them. Until last night, I didn't realize there were people like you. It is logical. If nature works in one direction, it would naturally go in the other direction too. There is usually a balance to nature.”

“I'm not a science project, doctor,” George said.

“That's what you think. You hold the key to something that I know exists, but that I know nothing about. You have opened the door to an entirely new condition for me. I am seeing it without having any idea why this is possible.”

I've never had to think about it. I live it,” George said.

“You can help me shine a light where light hasn't been shined before, George. You can clear up some of the mystery. Put the light on what it's like being you. Help make it easier for people like you.”

“Don't get me wrong, I'd like to help with that, but all I've managed to do so far is survive it. This is new for me,” George said.

“You've been able to hold your own in a dog eat dog industry, George. Don't sell yourself short,” Mr. Warner said.

“Once you have time to think about it, you'll see the wisdom in seeing a doctor who you don't need to dress up for. I know who you are, George, and I want to get to know you better. That knowledge will not be shared with anyone else, not without your approval, but your anonymity will always be part of the deal,” Dr. Knox assured him.

“My visit to Sibley?”

“Your file is in the name of George Hitchcock. I'm listed as your doctor. That file reflects only what I say belongs in it. You’ll always come to me as George Hitchcock. Any other business we have together will be governed by doctor patient privilege. You are the only one who can violate that privilege,” Dr. Knox said.

“You can do that? Make any record of what took place down stairs go away?”

“I'm a doctor. I can do anything. Didn't you know that?”

George had to give it some thought before laughing. I knew some doctors thought they were God, but your version sounds right. I've never been in a situation like this before,” George said. “I'm healthy as a horse as far as I know. That's before I met Harold.”

“We're lucky we came to the ER at the same time. There is so much confusion. The ER is so chaotic, few of the people there will remember you or what took place. If someone says something that isn't what we want to hear, I'll simply say they were mistaken, and because you're my patient, only what I say matters.”

“I feel better about it,” George said. “Thank you, Dr. Knox. I'm interested in anything you believe is pertinent. If I can help to gain some understanding about my condition, I'd like that. I'd like to think that gender in the terms that have always been accepted, are at best incomplete and woefully inadequate. There is a lot more out there than we've wrapped our brains around,” George said.

“Change comes hard. Some tings, gender, sexual identity, and peculiarities we seldom see, need to be explored, whether or not people like it. Ignorance is rarely blissful, and it's often destructive. I'd like to make it less so,” Dr. Knox said. “It's my curiosity as a doctor that had me thinking ahead of myself when I encountered James. My treatment of him led to him telling Ronald about a doctor he could see without embarrassment. If you have me as your doctor you've got nothing to hide. If you want to talk to me about your gender discrepancy I'll listen. You won't feel out of place in my office.”

“I'd like to sit down and talk with you about this subject,” Mr. Warner said. “There are questions I'd like to get the answers to. This situation with George brings to light something I experienced. Sooner or later you will need to write a paper on gender discrepancy. I'd like to be part of that. Whenever you have the time, maybe we can talk over a drink. I could come to your office if that works out for you.”

“By all means, Mr. Warner. We can do that. Your experience was in what area?” Dr. Knox asked.

“My Aunt Roberta is a post operative woman. I knew her as Uncle Robert for the early years of my life,” Mr. Warner said.

“Post operative. I don't imagine she'd be willing to talk to me?”

“She doesn't even talk to me about it. It's not mentioned in my family. I didn't have an aunt before,” Mr. Warner said. “As I said, it isn't talked about.”

“I'm dying for a cup of coffee. The cafeteria will be empty this time of night,” Dr. Knox said. “If you'd like a cup we can talk. I need to get George some medication. He'll slip most of the morning away.”

“Your talking my language. My head is killing me,” George said.

“I have a heart patient next door. I'll be here all night. They'll page me if he takes a turn for the worse but I think he'll be OK. If I want to stay awake I need coffee,” Dr. Knox said.

“George, we need to talk. You let the doctor medicate you and get some sleep. That should help a lot,” Mr. Warner said. “I'll be back in the morning.”

“If you are going to fire me, fire me now. I don't want to worry about that,” George said.

“You are not going to be bothered by any of this, George. I might not be the most enlightened man on the planet, but I do know the difference between a reporter and a lamp post. You definitely are not a lamp post. Get some rest.”

Mr. Warner followed Dr. Knox out of the room. About five minutes later, the same nurse returned to George's room. She had a hypodermic syringe in her hand.

“The Calvary has arrived, George. Dr. Knox wanted you to rest for a few hours. This will do the trick,” she said, plugging the syringe into the line that ran into George's arm.

The harsh pounding became a soft relaxing beat that helped George to drift away from Sibley Hospital. The lights went out again.

Chapter 12

Cause & Effect

In the Sibley hospital cafeteria, Mr. Warner, editor-in-chief of the City News and Dr. Knox, a physician and research fellow at John Hopkins Hospital sat together. They had the cafeteria to themselves.

The coffee pot, a gallon metal coffee pot had a tap at the bottom to access the brew. Cups on a table just inside the door were easy to reach and fill. After filling their cups the two men took seats at a table off to one side. Dr. Knox already had his inquiry ready for Mr. Warner.

“Even if you are paying the bills, you don't have a right to the information you've acquired because you were thoughtful enough to come to see an injured employee of the News,” Dr. Knox said. “I'd like your assurance that you will not act on any knowledge that has come to you because of your presence.”

“As much of a tyrant as I am in the newsroom, I have no difficulty separating business and the rest of what constitutes life. George's employment is safe. I'm not sure what to do at this point. He may not be comfortable with me knowing what I know. There's a greater chance he'll leave the News because I know the secret he's kept away from everyone,” Mr. Warner said. “What would you suggest, Doctor? I don't want to lose George.”

“Reassure him. Your knowing and not freaking out over it tells him you're safe with the information. As long as he's doing the job, it shouldn't come up. He's not going to bring up something he has been hiding since he was a child. Remember, he's suffered a head trauma. The best thing for George is to get back to work and do the things he's been doing before the head injury. If there are any complications, they'll show up early on, and then you call me if he's acting strange.”

“You obviously haven't spent much time in a newsroom, Dr. Knox. Reporters aren't exactly your ordinary Joe. Acting strange is their hallmark. I'll keep an eye on George, though he's one of the sanest reporters I have. If he doesn't act true to form, I'll call you.”

“Good! That is all I'm asking. I have a heart patient I need to look in on,' Dr. Knox said, sipping his coffee.

“As I told you, I'm not without experience with the issue George has been facing alone. We have a post operative female that was once my Uncle Bob. My father, being a very intelligent man, said that he loved his brother enough to accept him as the sister he never had. Should I tell George that? I'm conflicted on issues like that. I've never discussed my uncle with anyone, but George is in the same boat, as I see it.”

“He is. His boat is sailing in the opposite direction, but you're right. By all means tell him that story. He'll see that you have skin in the game. I don't think he has thought about there being other men like him. As I mentioned, he's my third gender discrepancy case. My first female to male, and that has to be a far more difficult adjustment to make,” Dr. Knox told Mr. Warner.

“You now tell me you have personal knowledge of a case in your direct family. I once thought that the man I was seeing, who spent part of his time in drag, wasn't at all common. Not only is George in the same boat, but your uncle is as well,” Dr. Knox said. “The reason nothing is known, our society simply has no interest in uniqueness. We don't go there because we fear a negative reaction. Ignorance is no excuse to ignore people like this.”

“It tells me there are many more gender discrepancy cases than I first believed. Meeting James was eye opening. From what he tells me there are dozens of men he knows of that are like him. Only one has come to me. Now you tell you you have a case in your family. Than we have George. Which leaves me to conclude this is far more common than I'd originally thought. This is amazing. We can't rule out that some of the people James knows are men who like wearing woman's clothing but these men know they aren't women.”

“You mean they know they're men but they enjoy going out as a women?” Mr. Warner asked.

“As I say, I would think far more are dealing with gender discrepancy, but I don't rule out that some men like dressing up,” Dr. Knox said.

“Can't say I've ever had that urge,” Mr. Warner said.

“Me either. I should have taken an interest in the process my Aunt Roberta went through, but we still don't talk about it.”

“Because of a society unwilling to deal with such conditions. Majority rule does not mean you rule someone who is different from you, because you don't like them but hatred runs rampant in America,” Dr. Knox said. “I think George will be willing to talk to me about it. Would Aunt Roberta talk to me? Post operative is another angle on the gender scale. She not only dress like a female. She became a female. That is one solution to gender discrepancy. The courage that had to take.

“She's in Houston. Working on the lunar lander.”

“Too busy to talk. She must be smart to be doing what she's doing,” Dr. Knox said.

“My father and his brother, now his sister, are the smartest people I've ever known. My Uncle Robert was a big dude in the federal government. He was in the scientific end of things. One day he took a leave of absence and he came back as Aunt Roberta. They wouldn't give him his job back. Too disruptive they told Aunt Roberta. The following year NASA called her. Asked her to come to work for them. That was a long time ago. She fit right into the space program.”

“I'd mention her to George. Don't say anything that you'd be uncomfortable saying. It's a sure indication you've experience with the subject at hand. I can't see your Aunt Roberta would object to you mentioning her to someone that's in the same shoes as her.”

“No, she'd say to tell a person that might benefit from the information. As I said, she's a very intelligent woman. I worry about George. One false step and here he is, uncovered. The people in the ER were just laughing. I don't know how other people might react. Do you think he could be in danger, Dr. Knox?”

“Mr. Warner, you run a metropolitan newspaper. People doing violence to each other for little or no reason couldn't have escaped your notice. The violence people do to each other is done to people they regard to be not much different than themselves. Can you imagine the violence they'd do to someone they regard as a freak of nature? In their minds that would justify a violent attack. Let there be no doubt about it, many of your friends and neighbors would regard George as a freak of nature. We don't know about people like George because he doesn't dare reveal his secret, and that's a sad commentary on mankind if you ask me, and you didn't, and that makes me mad all over again. I want to protect George.”

“Another aspect of this I hadn't considered,” Mr. Warner said.

They both were lost in thought, sipping their coffee, and being quite alone in the cafeteria at two thirty in the morning.

“When you come down to it, I don't know much,” Dr. Knox said. “I hadn't considered female to male, until I heard them talking about the discrepancy in George's dress and gender. I took charge right away. Most employees of the hospital know who I am. I spend a lot of time here, and the ER can become a madhouse. One doctor takes charge and everyone else follows his instructions. Instant calm.”

“Sounds like my newsroom,” Mr. Warner said.

Both men laughed.

“Twenty-four hours ago, if you told me George was a biological female, I'd have called you a liar. George conducts himself the way most of my reporters have done it, and I've never had a female in the newsroom. It's an all males club, if that tells you anything,” Mr. Warner said.

“It tells me you need to recruit some women for your newsroom. I can't conceive of reporting the news on the say so of men. We are a flawed gender, Mr. Warner. Our testosterone overrides our brains too much of the time. A woman has a slant on the world no man can duplicate. It's half the human race you're excluding from your newsroom,” Dr. Knox said.

“The owner is a woman, Dr. Knox,” Mr. Warner said.

“How'd a woman become owner of the Daily News?”

“Her husband had the misfortune to get cancer and die. No board on a major metropolitan newspaper would tolerate a woman owner,” Mr. Warner said.

“Your owner is tolerated why?”

“Her husband dissolved the board and any idea anyone could tell him how to run his business,” Mr. Warner said.

“Things are changing. Far too slowly, but with so much turmoil in the streets, and so little respect shown to the natural order of things, we can expect a lot more change than we've gotten up until now.”

“Your lips to God's ears, Dr. Knox. I'm merely a lowly newsman. We simply report the revolution. We don't start it.”

“Not so, Mr. Editor-in-chief. The news can be the source of the people's discontent, if you are so inclined. The pen is mightier than the sword. Once our institutions begin to fail us, merely the recognition of it is enough to fire up the people. Your hand is on the tiller on the ship of state,” Dr. Knox said. “You are witnessing the birth of a generation who refuses to conform to the demands of the politicians. Don't think that doesn't scare them to death. It's the thing revolution is made of,” Dr. Knox said. “The usual suspects will have trouble wiggling out of it this time. They've been found out as being happy to send other men's sons to war, but heaven help you if you get one of their sons killed. Power, the ultimate corrupter of souls.”

“I report it. I don't direct it,” Mr. Warner said in different words this time around.

“We'll agree to disagree. I need to check in on my heart patient,” Dr. Knox said, draining his cup of coffee.

“I have an article I need to go home and get for George. It should interest him, and for your information, it concerns the first woman journalist to get a byline on the front page of the New York Times. She died recently. I cut out an article that appeared in the Post. More or less the epitaph of a great newswoman.”

“There is hope for our profession after all. Positive reinforcement is essential for George. Don't sell it to George as someone that has gone before him. He doesn't see himself as a female. You do understand that. No matter what his biology says, he believes he is a man. You can't argue he isn't. He deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. We all deserve that, and I've got to go,” Dr. Knox said, standing up and heading for the door. “It has been eye opening, Mr. Warner. I'll look forward to seeing you again. I've never had a conversation like that with anyone.”

With that, Dr. Knox disappeared into the halls of Sibley Hospital.

Mr. Warner finished his coffee. He was heading for home, a nap, a shower, and a change of clothes. It had already been a long day.

*****

With assurances that all was running smoothly at the City News building, Mr. Warner fixed grits, eggs, and bacon for breakfast. His wife's always tasted better than when he fixed it for himself. Probably the half hour he read the paper instead of cooking explained that.

In a fresh suit and tie, he returned to Sibley Hospital, after buffing up the shine on his wing tips.

George's eyes fluttered open after ten that morning. The first thing he noticed was the sterile room. He was alone, except for his boss sitting at the foot of George's bed reading the Post.

“Can't you get fired for that?” George asked.

“Oh, you're awake. I was just reading about you. It tells the story about an insistent reporter who wouldn't be refused. They quote you asking about the mayor's wife and Jon Delesandro using the new subway extension. No mention of what took place afterward.”

“I made the Post,” George said dreamily. “Ain't that a kick in the ass. I can retire now,” George said.

“No, you can't. You have the inside track on the story. Now, every other newspaper in and out of town know the question. It's up to you to give them the answer, George,” Mr. Warner said.

The fact Mr. Warner was still calling him George was a good sign, but what else was he going to call him? He'd been called worse.

“How is your head?” Mr. Warner asked.

“My head is great. Whatever they're giving me, I'd be a frequent flier if I could,” George said.

Mr. Warner laughed.

“You look too fresh to have been in that suit all night,” George said.

“I went home. I slept for a few hours, which is how I take my sleep. I freshened up and I stopped to get out an article that I plan to frame in my den at the house. I thought it might interest you, so I brought it back with me. Can you read, George?”

“I could before I got hit in the head. Only one way to find out if I have retained that skill,” George said, holding out his hand.

Mr. Warner took the news article to George's bedside.

“The Post. You're going to frame a Post article. You are tempting fate. I can't focus on this. You'll need to read it to me,” George said.

Mr. Warner retrieved the article and put it in a folder he'd placed on the windowsill.

“I can tell you the story. The news article is worth keeping, but I don't need it to remember who Lorena Hickok was. Hick, the name she preferred, was from the upper Midwest. Maybe it was Minnesota. She worked for local newspapers,” Mr. Warner said.

“It's a newspaper story,” George said. “I love newspaper stories.”

“Hick bounced around the Midwest at different newspapers. She gained a reputation for getting interviews mere mortal reporters could never lock down. People who didn't talk to the press talked to Hick. In 1928 while reporting on the sinking of a ship, she got a byline on the front page of the New York Times. The first woman to do that.”

“Ah, a happy ending,” George said. “I like happy endings. You do know that I'm not a woman?”

“It was just the beginning for Hick. That byline brought attention to what she wrote. It was 1928. If a woman worked at a daily newspaper she wrote a lovelorn column or the society page. or to offer homemaking tips. Several women made it big reporting on entertainment and celebrities. They didn't get near hard news,” Mr. Warner said. ”In 1928, while Hick was covering a political gathering, she met and arranged an interview with Eleanor Roosevelt. Eleanor, dutiful wife of Franklin, was always at his side at political functions. It's what a wife of a powerful politician was expected to do. It didn't matter if there were difficulties in their marriage. Eleanor's place was at Franklin's side. Eleanor stood by her man you might say.”

“The first lady of the land. Hick was a social climber?” George asked.

“No, just the opposite. Hick was a journalist. It wasn't unusual for powerful people to talk to Hick and not talk to anyone else. She had a reputation. She was somebody. While Eleanor Roosevelt was a big catch for any journalist, because she didn't give interviews outside of what was expected to Promote FDR,” Mr. Warner said.

“Hick and Eleanor hit it off on a level that had nothing to do with politics. They liked each other and Eleanor agreed to do the interview.

I don't doubt Hick saw it as an opportunity to sit down with the wife of the man who was on his way to becoming the 32nd president of the US. Hick was interested in Eleanor's life. She wanted the people to know what Eleanor thought and said.”

“The first lady,” George said.

“Not yet she wasn't. It's 1928. FDR was elected in '32. Hick liked Eleanor and the feeling was mutual. Until that time, Eleanor was FDR's silent partner, but all was not well in the Roosevelt' bedroom. Franklin was like most ambitious men. His appetites were huge, and Eleanor found out he was unfaithful. Afterward they were husband and wife in name only. Eleanor was very unhappy, but it was her duty to stand by FDR as he climbed the political ladder. It's how it is often done, once the marriage has hit the skids, but Hick brought a new joy to Eleanor's life. They became friends.”

“This isn't shaping up the way I thought it might,,” George said.

“Hick encouraged Eleanor to speak out. As Eleanor would come to say about it, 'I'm my husband's legs.'”

Eleanor and Hick traveled together and Eleanor became interested in the poor, the destitute, the workers who were treated so badly by employers. They weren't paid a living wage. Their employers made and spent vast fortunes, while the people who made them rich couldn't even make enough to feed their families,” Mr. Warner said.

“Do I hear Mrs. Miles' story in this yarn?” George asked.

Mr. Warner laughed.

“No, Mrs. Miles is spending her husband's fortune. Eleanor Roosevelt became a voice for the voiceless and Hick reported stories about the places Eleanor was going and the people she wanted to bring attention to. While FDR was president, Hick reported for the Park Service. She went to remote locations to report on whatever was taking place out of sight of Washington DC.”

“I recall a picture of Eleanor, face covered in coal dust as she came out of a West Virginia coal mine. Once Eleanor was the first lady, Lorena Hickok had an adjoining bedroom in the White House. That's how close they had become.”

“Sexually active one might ask,” George said.

“I wouldn't. It's none of my business, and you didn't ask such things at that time. It's written that Hick was a lesbian. Letters between them have survived, mostly Eleanor's to Hick, because Eleanor felt it necessary to destroy any evidence that could erupt in scandal. There was little known about homosexuality at that time. It's clear Eleanor and Hick shared a loving relationship. Of that there is no doubt. Whether or not it was sexual, only the two of them knew. Since both are gone, we'll never know,” Mr. Warner said. “Not that it's anyone's damn business what they did behind closed bedroom doors.”

“Inquiring minds want to know,” George said.

“By the way, Lorena Hickok died on May 1 of this year. She'd been sick for a while. After FDR's death, Eleanor moved herself and Hick to Hyde Park, New York, into the Roosevelt estate there. They lived together there, until Eleanor died in 1962. Hick remained in the house they shared, and she just died. The article is her epitaph, as presented by the Post. It's a fair article. No mention of romance. They were life long friends after they met. The biographers would have had a field day if Hick left any evidence behind. No doubt she had a cozy bonfire beside the house in Hyde Park before her death,” Mr. Warner said. “As a journalist, she'd have protected Eleanor's reputation at all cost. She left nothing Eleanor's enemies could use against her. She left no hint of scandal behind. She was a journalist and she knew what a vicious lot some journalists are.”

“That's harsh, coming from a newspaperman,” George said.

“The truth often is, George. While there is revolution in our streets, we do not live in enlightened times. In some ways, our species hasn't advanced much beyond Dark Ages thinking.”

“Science, medicine, and education are far advanced from Mid-evil period thinking,” George said.

“Ah, we do have an enlightened renaissance in all those areas, but one cannot equate educated men with the masses who believe in a spirit in the sky that controls everything. If that is true, he has one wicked sense of humor.”

“You just split with half the human race,” George said, amused.

“A race to where, I might ask,” Mr. Warner said. “Homosexuality, the uniqueness of men, isn't to be tolerated by fools. They hate that which they are. One might ask why? I won't. That was rhetorical. It's but a symptom of the human condition. There is no interest in why.”

“That's one philosophical point of view. No matter how true it is,” George said with an understanding of uniqueness among men.

“Thank you for telling me the story of Hick and Eleanor. I know there is love. I haven't figured out how it applies to me though. I haven't had the experience yet. I'm not sure in what context I should look for love. It was a rough road becoming who I am. I'm not sure love can fit into that equation.”

“You've been busy, George. I imagine being you is a full time job. I'm not saying I understand. I don't, but that's not your problem. I do have another story. It's a bit more personal,” Mr. Warner said.

“I'm hungry,” George said. “Thirsty too. I don't suppose they'll let me have a cup of coffee. Do you mind if I buzz the nurse and see what they'll let me have. I can't believe they intend to starve me to death,” George said, feeling a bit more connected to his world.

“By all means. I thought of bringing you coffee and donuts, but I remembered they had you on a rather bland diet earlier. They talked about releasing you today if you were feeling better,” Mr. Warner said, getting up to hand George the call button.

“Yes,” the nurse said, sticking her head in the door.

“I'm hungry,” George said.

“That's wonderful. Dr. Knox isn't here at the moment. He said to phone him once you were awake this morning. He'll be glad to hear that you are hungry. No nausea?” she asked.

“No. Just my stomach growling. Can I have real food or do I still need to eat the plastic stuff I got last night?”

“Real food, Hon. I'll be back in a few minutes,” she said, leaving the doorway.

“I remember Eleanor Roosevelt was an active woman. She was always bringing attention to one cause or another. I didn't know about Hick, but that does bring up a question,” George said, not sure how he wanted to phrase what he had to say.

“I'm all ears,” Mr. Warner said.

“You know that I'm not a lesbian?” George asked. “If the other story you have is a lesbian story, I want you to know that I'm not a lesbian, but I loved the first story.”

Mr. Warner had a little trouble finding the words he thought were appropriate. As a career news man, he seldom was at a loss for words, but not knowing anything about George, except that he was a good newspaper man, dealing with who and what George was had him unsure of how to say what he wanted to say.

“George, I don't have enough information on what you feel to give you an intelligent version of the story I want to tell you. If I offend you, let me know. It's the only way I'll learn, and I find myself wanting to understand who you truly are. For now, you're still George, my newest staff reporter. I'll do my best to sound intelligent, but the next story is right up your alley. I have a post operative male to female in my family. My Uncle Robert has become my Aunt Roberta.”

George's mouth dropped open as the door opened and the nurse brought George a tray with soft scrambled eggs, potatoes, orange juice, and a bowl of butter pecan ice cream.

*****

Chapter 13

Uncles To Aunts

At Sibley Hospital George wakes up after a difficult night but he wakes up alert and hungry. He finds Mr. Warner at the foot of his bed once more. He's been home and returned by the time George opens his eyes on Saturday morning.

“You can talk while I eat if you like,” George said.

Even the hospital food tasted good to George. He felt better but not good. The medications weren't as apparent and Mr. Warner was a surprisingly intelligent man. He seemed determine to see George through the crisis but George couldn't be sure why.

“You had another story I believe? I'd like to hear it.”

“Yes, I do. I've never told anyone this story. We don't talk about it at my parents' house, and what we say at my house is limited by the knowledge I don't have. I'm speaking with limitation still present. To make a long story short, I have an uncle who became my aunt.”

George stopped eating. He looked up to see if Mr. Warner was serious. His face said that he was absolutely serious.

“Your uncle?” George asked.

“To answer your question, I doubt anyone has confused him for a lesbian, but you never know. As I said, we don't talk about it. He's my father's brother. They were the only kids born to my grandparents on my father's side. Both my father and my uncle are more intelligent than most people. No, I did not inherit their brain power. That's why I am a newsman. I'm smart enough to get by, but nothing exceptional,” Mr. Warner said.

“ Whatever was responsible for their intellect, both are well known for what they add to any discussion. Uncle Robert was a GS-18 on the scientific side of the federal government,” Mr. Warner said.

“Uncle Robert took me to baseball games. He loved the New York Yankees. If the Yankees were in town, he'd come for me to go to at least one if not two games over a weekend,” Mr. Warner said.

“When I was eleven or twelve, Uncle Robert was going to New York City to meet with men who were in his category as far as brain power was concerned. He met two afternoons with these fellows, and on the first day we were in New York City, before his meeting, he gave me twenty dollars and said, “Have a good time. Be back at the hotel by six. The Yanks are playing tonight. We are going to Yankee Stadium.”

“He let you go off on your own?” George asked.

“He did. Didn't give it a second thought. If I was intimidated by the city, his confidence in me gave me confidence in myself. I started off trying to figure out the subway system. I went from one subway train to another. I ended up at the end of the line in Coney Island. It's on the Atlantic Ocean. It was late in the summer. It wasn't crowded. I went on the Cyclone, a roller coaster, five or six times,” he said.

“I got off the subway in Brooklyn. People always cheer when someone says he'd from Brooklyn. I don't know why. It's a place where people live. It had its own bridge. Otherwise, it was just a neighborhood.”

“Anyone try to sell you the bridge?” George asked with a laugh.

“I must have been there before they came up with that con. I ate four hot dogs from a cart a guy was pushing around Times Square. By that time It was getting late, and I went back to the hotel. My uncle came in and we took the subway to the Bronx and we ended up at Yankee Stadium. We stood out front for a few minutes. I'd seen the Yankees play lots of times, but being there, it was inspiring. This was the house that Ruth built,” Mr. Warner said with awe in his voice.

“It was before the war, WWII. The Babe had come and gone. Gehrig was in the midst of his Iron man run of consecutive games, and Joe DiMagoio joined the Yankees the year before. After he did, the Yanks won four consecutive World Series. It was great to be a Yankee's fan,” he said. “It was the first time I saw the Yankees play at home. It wouldn't be the last.”

“We went in and ate hot dogs. It was like going to the circus and the Yanks were in the center ring,” Mr. Warner said.

“You weren't sick of hot dogs by then?” George asked.

“No. It was a ball game. You must eat two or three to be able to call yourself a baseball fan. Besides, ball park franks are the best,” Mr. Warner said. “And I was eleven years old.

“I'm not a big sports fan. It's the flaw in my makeup. I never cared much for sports,” George said.

“You have questions, ask Arnie Siegal. Man has an encyclopedic knowledge about sports. Doesn't matter which sport. Arnie dominates the sport pages with his analysis,” Mr. Warner said.

“That's all there is about baseball. I was close to my uncle Robert. He treated me like a kid likes being treated. He gave me some freedom I wouldn't have had otherwise. He wasn't married. Didn't have kids of his own,” Mr. Warner said. “He liked spoiling me.”

“Fast forward to after I finished college and got married. My wife was pregnant with our second child. I was about thirty, and I was determined to become a newspaper man. My uncle dropped out of sight. We didn't have any idea where Uncle Robert had gone. My father looked everywhere. The only clue my uncle left behind, he left his GS-18 job with the Navy Department. He took a one year leave of absence, knowing his job wouldn't be there when he returned. He ran a program that was developing a new generation of secret weapons, and the government was worried he'd defected. The FBI came to my house and asked questions. When they said he could have defected, I laughed. He's a Yankees fan, He'll never stop going to Yankee games. He didn't defect. It made perfect sense to me if not to them.”

George sensed the mystery around the missing uncle.

“By this time our first child was born and the second one was on the way. I went grocery shopping on Saturday, and before I went to the grocery store, I stopped at my parents' for breakfast,” he said.

“Uncle Robert had been missing for over a year by this time. My father was close to his brother. Few people were in the same league with either of them. They were genuinely fond of each other. If he didn't call my father, I don't know who he would have called. Even the FBI stopped watching our houses. After a year, you figure someone is gone for good. Who goes away for a year,” Mr. Warner said.

“I could see the pain in my father's eyes. His brother had never dropped out of sight before. My father always knew where his brother was until now. At work, he said he'd be gone a year. A year had passed the month before, and if we thought he might return then, we'd given up on that idea.”

“I was still going to my parents' house on Saturday mornings. My wife and I thought it gave them a feeling of continuity. They always knew where I was. It helped for them to see me on Saturday. I was sure I'd never see Uncle Robert again, but I didn't tell my father that. There were any number of stories I knew about. Someone drops out of sight and isn't seen again. It's how I saw it at the time,” he said.

“After breakfast one Saturday morning, someone knocked at the door. I'd been answering that door all my life, and I jumped up and yanked the door open, and came face to face with Aunt Roberta.”

“Your mother's sister? You said your father only had the one brother,” George questioned.

“My mother was an only child. The woman stood there looking at my face. I looked at her face. Her expression told me she knew me but I didn't know her. She obviously resembled my Uncle Robert, but I didn't see it. It was a woman. My uncle was a man. At least he'd been a man. Neither of us said anything and my father came to find out who was at the door. My father said, “Robert.” How did he know? That threw me off balance. Like I said, my uncle Robert was male. I was confused and my father was hugging her saying, “Robert. Robert.” There was something wrong with that picture.”

“What happened,” George said, losing interest in his food.

“He was in a pink skirt and jacket with a white ruffled blouse. Her hair was the right color but shoulder length hair replaced Uncle Robert's crew cut. There was no doubt we were looking at a woman.”

“No one knew what to say. What do you say to your Uncle Robert, when he comes back as Aunt Roberta. How's tricks didn't seem appropriate. I tried to hide the embarrassment I felt. I couldn't imagine anything worse. Why did he come back at all?” Mr. Warner said. “I wasn't particularly enlightened at the time. I was stunned by the change in Uncle Robert.”

“Uncle Robert had a sex change,” George said. “I don't know that I could go there. Something about lopping off body parts that isn't very appealing to me.”

“My uncle was now my aunt. I had no clue that my uncle was anything but my uncle. All those years he kept that secret. Reading about the operation, he saw a way out of a life he had been forced to endure. Right away he began planning his leave of absence,” Mr. Warner said. “What courage he had to risk everything to make his dream come true.”

He went to Sweden to have the operation. He took hormones for months and months. He learn how to walk, modulate his voice, and watch the way woman moved before they operated on him. It gave him months to consider whether or not to go through with it.

Then there were months of therapy, and more lessons on his new body before we got to see the finished product. My uncle had become my aunt, and if my father didn't like it, he never said a word.”

“How did you break the ice,” George asked, trying to have some understanding of what Mr. Warner had told him.

“My father hugged Uncle Robert. He called him by name a couple of times before Aunt Roberta corrected him. My father stepped back, took a long look at his brother for the last time. He hugged my Aunt Roberta, saying her name over and over. They both cried. My mother cried. I cried for Uncle Robert. I'd known him all my life. How could he do such a thing to himself?” Mr. Warner said. “As I said, I wasn't too enlightened at the time.”

“Difficult adjustment,” George said.

“Nearly impossible for me. My father never missed a beat. He took Roberta to the table he asked my mom to fix her breakfast. That gave my mother something to do, while i stared. There they were. Siblings trying to adapt to a new wrinkle. My father took it as well as anyone could,” he said.

“I'd quizzed my father on it every time we saw each other. If my father had any reservations, he showed none to me. One day he heard me ask the same question for the hundredth time, and he glared at me, “What you need to understand is, this is how it is. If this is what makes my brother happy, than I'm happy for her. I loved my brother and I love my sister. This is how it is. We don't need to understand. We don't get to second think what is done. As long as your Aunt Roberta knows who she is, Nothing else matters. Don't you get it? My father never got angry with me but he was angry with me.”

“You said he was smart. Smart enough to know he didn't understand, but he didn't need to understand,” George said. “What happened?”

“I only saw Aunt Roberta at my parents' house. Maybe three or four times over the next few months. It had been winter when she came home, and it had become spring. It was the middle of baseball season. My Aunt Roberta called me one evening. “The Yanks are in town this weekend. What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?” It was that simple. Both my Aunt Roberta and Uncle Robert loved the New York Yankees. After that, we were OK. My second child had been born and Aunt Roberta came to the house to see both of them for the first time. I hadn't invited her over until she came to pick me up to go see the Yankees play.”

“It was so simple,” George said. “She was obviously smart enough to know not to push it. In time she knew you'd be her nephew. There is wisdom in that as well. You can't move too fast.”

“Believe me, I didn't. I was young and I had no understanding of how complex the world was, George. I was brought up in a world that went by the numbers. You did this. You did that, and you gave no thought to people who couldn't do it that way. You either did it that way or you got yourself in trouble, or so I thought, until I met Aunt Roberta. I was forced to examine how things were. I needed to admit that everyone wasn't just a like. Each person is different in his own way. It is that different that makes this country great. It doesn't matter how arrogant and tiny some people's minds are,” Mr. Warner said. “And that's the reason I'm here, George.”

“The day Mrs. Miles came to the City News. You called me into your office to reassure me that I was OK. I hadn't seen that side of you before. I knew I had you all wrong. I knew I didn't know you at all. I knew what you let me know. I'm learning, Mr. Warner.”

“You're young. The world does work in mysterious ways. You can't always judge something by the way you first see it. As often as not, we find ourselves changing our minds, as we get smarter, George. I should have seen this coming. Mayor Packard is not a man you want to cross. I let you cross him. Luckily Jack Carter was smarter than I was. If he hadn't had the feeling you were getting in over your head, you might still be lying in that field next to Loey's. That's another reason why I'm here. I did not see it coming and I should have. I know the mayor's reputation.”

“This is how it is,” George said.

“Thank you. I like that story even better than I liked the Hick and Eleanor story. Where is Aunt Roberta?”

“I haven't seen her in a while. She's working for NASA. She's helping with the lunar landing that's less than a year away. She hardly has time to call, she's so busy. They wouldn't give her the job she had as a man, but the Navy Department's loss was NASA's gain. Every one she works with knows her as Roberta.”

“It's a wonderful story,” George said, not wanting the breakfast that had grown cold, but his hunger had been satisfied.

“What I've learned,” Mr. Warner said. “I've learned that this is how it is, George. You didn't choose this. This is how it is, and no one else has to accept you, as long as you know who you are.”

“You said your father was smart. He boiled it down into simple terms,” George said. “I'll remember that, Mr. Warner.”

“See that you do, George. I've done what I came to do, and now I need to go to see my parents. I can honestly say that your breakfast didn't look that appetizing, but my mother's breakfast will be fabulous in comparison,” Mr. Warner said, standing up and collecting the folder from the windowsill. “Take all the time you need, George. Don't come back until you're good and ready, but is there a chance you'll make it to work on Monday? Continuity is important,” Mr. Warner said, remembering Dr. Knox's advice.

George laughed.

“I don't feel too shabby. I think I got off lucky. We'll see,” George said, and Mr. Warner left his hospital room.

George had free time on his hands for the first time since he went to work at the City News. He didn't feel good, but he didn't feel bad. He didn't think he could stay away from the newsroom once Monday rolled around. He was a newspaper reporter, and he needed to do his job.

*****

George overslept Monday, once he was back in his room. Mildred brought him breakfast. She worried about him being gone the entire weekend. George almost always came home in the evening.

George set his alarm Tuesday morning, and he walked into the newsroom a little after seven that morning. As a full-time reporter, he got his pick of desks that weren't currently being used by staff reporters, and he took the one with the Smith Corona he liked. Pops brought a name plate with George Hitchcock etched on it, placing on the desk in front of George.

“You feeling OK, George?” Pops asked. “Mr. Warner said you were assaulted Friday night. Spent the weekend at Sibley Hospital. You need time, son, you take it. I won't give your stories to anyone else.”

“I'm fine Pops. I might not stay twelve hours today, but I'll be OK,” George told him.

It was after ten and George had just come back with a fresh cup of coffee, when Pops called his name.

“Hitch, you're up. Can I trust you to get me the story?”

“Since when can't I get the story, Pops. Give it to me,” George said.

“Since you got whacked in the skull. You sure you want this? I can put Sampson on it. Maybe stay in today. Make some phone calls,” Pops thought out loud.

“Give me the damn story. I got hit in the head. My legs are fine.”

“7th Street southeast. See the woman there. It's Cyril's Haberdasher. You think you can find it?”

“How do I know which woman?”

“Says her name is Norma Desmond. Sounds fishy to me. She's the only woman there. Since the rest of the employees are men, you should be able to pick her out. Something about a woman bleeding in her doorway.”

“What about the cops?” George asked, putting on his jacket.

“Cops have been there. They've transported the woman. Go to Cyril's and get the story. Maybe follow up at the hospital, but you need to talk to this Norma Desmond.”

“I'm on it, Pops,” George said, heading for the stairs.

George did catch a cab. He was a full-time City News reporter now. He could even think about buying a car.

The taxi stopped in front of Cyril's. A woman was scrubbing the sidewalk at the front door.

“You Norma?”

“Who wants to know?” she said, looking up with one knee on the concrete and a scrub brush in her hand.

“George Hitchcock, City News. You called about a woman bleeding in front of this place,” George said. “You are cleaning up the blood,” he asked.

“You sure you ain't Sherlock Holmes? Damn fine piece of detecting if you ask me. Yes, this is her blood. Betsy Johnson,” Norma said.

“Who's Betsy Johnson?” George asked.

“Her name. The woman bleeding. I sat with her after I called to get her some help. She said she was Betsy Johnson. I asked what happened, but she just said she didn't feel good. A loss of blood can cause that, you know,” Norma said. “She lost a lot of blood. General Hospital. That's where they took her. She was white as a sheet, and that's a neat trick for a black woman. She was bleeding bad. You ask me, and because you didn't, I'll tell you. They do abortions back over there. I don't know which building but rumor has it they do abortions.”

“You tell the cops that?”

“No. A woman needs an abortion, what she going to do? You might say call her attorney, but if she can't afford no more kids, how she going to afford a lawyer? I heard about a place nearby. You ask me, and you didn't, someone botched the job. She was bleeding bad when I called for help.”

“What did you tell the cops?” George asked.

“I told them she was bleeding. She collapsed in my doorway. Cyril's doorway, not mine, but you get the idea. They looked at the blood, got a little pale. They were already white, so they were even more pale than poor Betsy Johnson. You need to go see what the story is with that woman, and then you need to come back here and find out which of those buildings is where they do the abortions. If you ask me, and you didn't, but that's what I'd do. Someone needs to know they did that woman wrong.”

“You from around here, Norma?”

“Yes, I'm actually a seamstress. I only clean up blood part-time.”

George left Norma and her bucket behind, flagging down the first cab that he saw.

*****

“General Hospital,” George said, and the cab was a far better option than walking today.

Going in General Hospital's main entrance, he immediately saw Judy Carmichael at the receptionists desk. He detoured into her reception area, and she saw him coming. She gave him a big smile.

“My word. If it ain't lover boy. What can I do for you today?” Judy asked.

“Hi, Love. They brought a woman in a little after ten. I was going to the ER. The cab dropped me in front. Figured it isn't much after eleven. She wouldn't be in a room this soon, would she?” George asked.

“I told you about the six hour wait. I'll bet she don't make it to a room as fast as that kid did. No one looking out for us black ladies here abouts,” she said.

“Well, my business here is done, Judy. Lovely to see you again,” George said.

“Wait a minute, Honey. I'll go with you. It might help. Go a name. All black women look a like to me,” she said. “I'm not looking at them. I'm looking at their husband.”

“Betsy Johnson. Norma Desmond said it was a botched abortion, and I'm sure she knew more than she told me. Betsy had lost a lot of blood, according to Norma,” George said. “Left plenty on the sidewalk where she collapsed.”

Judy moved ahead of George and went directly to the first nurse she saw in the ER.

“Come on, Lover boy. She's back here. They're trying to get blood into her at the moment. Nothing they can do but stop the bleeding and give her transfusions,” Judy said.

“Hey, Jill. This is a friend of mine. He wants to sit with Betsy. That OK with you. He's safe, but he owes me five bucks,” Judy said, kissing George on the cheek. “I was kidding. You don't owe me nothing, Sweetheart,” she said. “I got to get back to work.”

“Thanks, Judy. I'll come by to take you to lunch one afternoon,” George said.

“That's a date,” Judy said.

“I'm monitoring her vitals. She's doing a little better, but she lost an awful lot of blood, the doctor said. She's quiet as a mouse. We're giving her blood to replace what she lost. You a friend of hers?”

“George Hitchcock, City News,” George said. “I want to tell her story. Tell how she got herself into this fix.”

“Damn abortionists. She can't come here to get an abortion. They go into those back alleys. Can't afford no more kids. It's a crime the way women are treated. She isn't the first one I seen come in here this way,” the nurse said, her nostrils flaring. “It's a crime the way they treat women. Make them have to do this to themselves. It's criminal. As if us black girls don't got enough to deal with.”

“James,” Betsy Johnson said. “That you James. I'm sorry I did this. I don't feel that good, James. Hold my hand. I'm so scared.”

“Male voice. She thinks you're her husband. You hold her hand,” Jill said. “I'm going to step out for a minute. The doctor wants to know as soon as she's conscious. Try to comfort her, George.”

George held Betsy's hand in his. He immediately felt a connection to the struggling woman. She moved in small motions, like she couldn't get comfortable.

George thought that might be a good sign. She was waking up.

“I can't be here. I can't afford this,” Betsy Johnson said. “I got three babies at home. I can't afford no more. I got to do something. James is working two jobs. He can't work no harder. We can't afford no more kids. Not fair to bring kids into this sorry world. I couldn't put no more on James. He don't know I'm pregnant again.”

“It will be OK Betsy. You're going to be OK and James will understand. You are a good woman. Don't be fretting about things you can't control,” George said.

“Who are you?” Betsy Johnson asked, looking square into George's eyes.

“Just a friend, Betsy. I'm a friend who is going to tell your story. You shouldn't be in this fix. If things were different you wouldn't be here. They'll fix you up and you'll be home in no time.”

“You going to tell my story? I didn't think anyone cared about me. My husband works so hard. I got good kids. They deserve better than we give them, but James can't work no harder. I took to cleaning houses again. I don't make much, but we can't afford no more kids. Not fair to them. I got such good kids.”

Betsy's hand went limp, a buzzer started going off. The curtain was ripped out of the way and a half dozen doctors and nurses were all around Betsy as George moved back out of the way.

“Clear,” the doctor in charge said, shocking Betsy.

“Clear. Clear. Bag her. Now!”

“Clear,” the doctor ordered, speaking in shorthand and four other people inside the curtain scurried around when he did.

“What's happening?” George asked the next person who passed. “She was just talking to me. What's going on?”

“Get him out of here. Someone get him out of here,” the doctor in charge roared, holding up paddles to shock Betsy's bare chest again, again, and again.

The curtain was used to close George out. They couldn't shut out the sounds. The activity was frenetic. It continued for for about ten minutes. It suddenly went silent. There were no sounds except for heavy breathing and more silence. The loudest machine no longer beeped. There was one never ending buzz.

“Time of death, 11:43,” a soft voice said as rubber gloves came off.

All sounds behind the curtain ceased.

George realized he'd stopped breathing.

He gasped a deep breathe. The smell of alcohol, soap, and disinfectant permeated everything in the ER. One person after another rushed away from behind the curtain.

Someone had put Betsy's arms across her chest to cover her nakedness. The final person there stood staring into Betsy's face. He held the useless paddles before putting them down. He pulled a sheet over the dead woman's body. He looked drained and defeated. He turned and walked toward George, after remembering he was there.

“We did all we could,” the man said.

“I know,” George said.

He lifted his head to look at George.

“You knew her?” he asked.

“Her name is Betsy Johnson. What happened,” George asked, wanting the doctor to know her name.

“What happened? What happened? She just... Betsy just died,” he said, softening his tone from angry to sad.

“She was just talking to me,” George said.

“What happened. She went somewhere and got herself butchered, and they bring her in here and expecting me to patch her up. You can only pump so much blood into the human body at one time and Betsy lost too much blood. We couldn't pump blood into her fast enough to keep her alive. She'd lost too much blood by the time they brought her in here but we had to try to save her. I did everything I knew how to do but she died anyway.”

“Just like that,” George said, startled by how fast it happened.

“Just like that,” the doctor said, looking George over. “Who are you?”

“George Hitchcock, City News. You are?”

“Dr. Spencer. You're writing a story about this?” he asked.

“That's what I'm going to do,” George said.

“Don't write what I said about being butchered. Her family shouldn't read that. I was pissed and sometimes I speak without considering my words,” Dr. Spencer said. I know you need to write something, but don't write that.”

“Yes, sir. I intend to tell Betsy's story. That's what I told her I'd do. I keep my word, Dr. Spencer,” George said.

The doctor patted George's shoulder.

“Tell her story. Don't quote the butchered comment. No matter how true it is,” Dr. Spencer said, turning to walk away.

“Can I use your name, Doctor? I won't if you say no,” George said. “I know you did what you could. I'll say that too.”

“Go ahead. Use my name, just not the butchered part. Can't hurt. Maybe bring some sanity to the insane laws that force poor women to do this to themselves. Betsy Johnson should not be dead.”

“Dr. Spencer, if Betsy came to you, instead of going into a dark alley to get an abortion, would you have helped her?” George asked.

Dr. Spencer took a sudden interest in his shoes. He didn't look up for a long minute or two.

“I wouldn't knowingly break the law. I can't practice medicine if I loose my license to practice medicine,” Dr. Spencer said.

“If Betsy Johnson asked you to help her, you wouldn't have done it, knowing what you know now, knowing she'd die if you didn't help.”

“No!” he said, looking at his shoes again. “I won't break the law even if it might save a life.”

“Thank you,” George said. “At least you're an honest man. That was for my edification. I won't write that. You did your best doctor.”

*****

George felt like walking. The paper didn't go to press for four hours. He had plenty of time. George cried while he walked. A woman with a husband and children was dead. All their lives were forever changed, and George wanted to know who killed Betsy Johnson? He'd write Betsy's story. He'd come back to work to be a good reporter, and he'd tell Betsy Johnson's story. He'd tell the world about what Betsy did, because she couldn't afford any more kids.

It took thirty-five minutes for him to be in front of the Smith Corona he liked. He typed through his tears. He typed everything Betsy said. He wrote what the doctor told him, not mentioning that she'd been butchered. There was only one title he could think of using. Who killed Betsy Johnson. He typed as the words drained out of him. This was a story that needed to be told.

“George,” Pops said. “What's wrong with you?”

George ripped the copy out of the typewriter, handing it to Pops, after he'd said all he had to say.

Pops stood beside George's desk as he read. Before he finished, he put his hand on George's shoulder.

“You've had a tough day George. We all catch stories like this. You been knocked on the head and now you get a kick in the gut. Go home, George. Take the rest of the day. I'll see to this now. You go home and have a drink, and be back here first thing in the morning, and we'll hope for a better day.”

George went home. He laid on the couch, putting all the pillows behind him so he could look out at the park. He'd cried himself out before he got home. Suddenly exhausted, he fell asleep.

The phone's ringing woke him a little before four.

“Hello,” George said.

“Mr. George Hitchcock please,” a sweet voice said.

“This is George. How can I help you?”

“You said I should call you George. This is Mrs. Delesandro. I have someone who wants to talk to you. Wait just a minute.”

“Mr. Hitchcock, this is Jon. You remember telling me to call if I thought I might be getting in over my head?”

“I remember, Jon,” George said.

“I'd like to talk to you about getting my tennis career back on track. They told me I was preparing to turn pro, but when I ask my coach about it, he says I'm not ready to make that move yet. I'm getting rusty. I need to play against better competition.”

“That's what I've been told, Jon. With your skill set, you should be playing professional tennis players. It's the only way you'll become as good as your competition. Playing pushovers isn't going to help you. Can we arrange a meeting? I'll do some research and I'll know what to tell you if we schedule a meeting for later this week.”

“I'd like that,” Jon said. “Can I bring my mother?”

“I can come there, Jon. I know where you live,” George said.

“My mother will want to be here. Talk to her and she'll tell you when she can be off from work,” Jon said.

“Jon?” George said.

“Yeah!”

“I'm glad you called. I think I can help you,” George said.

After hanging up the phone, George picked it back up and dialed the main switch board at the City News.

“Arnie Siegal,” George said. “Tell him it's George Hitchcock.”

*****

There was a soft knock on George's door at about 6:30. George had fallen back to sleep, and he got up to answer the door.

“Mildred, you've already cleaned. The place is spotless,” George said.

“I know. I saw this in my paper a few minutes ago. I went out and bought you these. You looked so tired when you came in. I thought these might help,” she said, handing him five copies of that day's City News.

George opened the paper and saw the headline at the top of the front page. “Who Killed Betsy Johnson by George Hitchcock.”

“Your a sweetheart, Mildred,” George said, kissing her cheek. “Thank you.”

“It's above the fold this time. That's better, isn't it? You're coming up in the world, George. I read every word. It's going to move people,” Mildred said, leaving George to enjoy the small victory in a very long day.

*****

Chapter 14

Epilogue

George Hitchcock let Arnie Siegal drive him to the Delesandros' apartment. The top was down on Arnie's 1968 Cadillac convertible. It was fire engine red. George liked going in style. Arnie's car was impressive. The man in charge of the sports section at the City News knew how to go in style.

After George knocked, Jon opened the door. He was surprised to see Arnie Siegal standing beside George.

“Arnie! No one said you'd be coming,” Jon said.

“Hi, Jon. He had to ask me first, after he got your call. When he said who he wanted me to talk to, I was happy to hear it. I've been waiting for you to hit the big time, Jon. He tells me you got yourself sidetracked. You should be in New York City practicing for the US Open. That's where the real competition is. Why aren't you there?”

“I did get sidetrack. Randy, Detective Couch sat me down and gave me a good talking to. I have been acting like a kid, but I'm ready now. I'm ready to get on with my tennis career. Only have so many years to make the most of my God given talent, Arnie.”

George was certain that the detective's words were coming from Jon. Randy looked comfortable on the couch next to Mrs. Delesandro. His arm was stretched across Jane's shoulder, leaving no doubt where he stood. She leaned against him for support. They both listened carefully to the exchanges. Neither said anything. Jane smiled.

“Won't you sit. I can make some coffee if you like,” Mrs. Delesandro said. “This is my friend, Detective Randy Couch. He was able to get Jon's attention in a way I can't.”

“Don't know nothing about tennis, but I do know kids,” Randy said. “I've raised four of my own.”

“As I said, I don't know anything about tennis either. I brought the man who has all the answers to any sports question.”

“Nix on the coffee, Mrs. D,” Arnie said. “I'll only be a couple of minutes. I have a message for Jon, and I wanted to deliver it in person. George filled me in on the situation, and I was able to reach out to one of the top tennis coaches on the circuit. Luckily, I knew where he'd be. In New York for the Open. It's less than a month away. Any tennis player worth his salt will be at the Open.”

“The US Open,” Jon said with reverence in his voice.

“I haven't got a lot of time, Jon. Do you know who Gunther Holt is?”

“Yeah, he handles those British tennis players. He's one of the best coaches around,” Jon said. “Gunther Holt!”

“He is and one of his Brits has retired. I talked to him last night. He came here to see you play at the city championship this year. He couldn't believe you weren't under contract to someone. To cut to the chase, Gunther is interested in coaching you. What would you have me tell him, Jon? The man expects to hear something today.”

“Yes! Yes! Arnie, yes. Are you kidding me?” Jon asked. “Gunther Holt wants me!”

“I've got to warn you, he's not an easy man to work with. He'll hold your feet to the fire, and if you don't do what you're told, he'll drop you like a hot rock, Jon. He asked me why you weren't in New York. I simply told him you'd been in school. He wasn't impressed, but he saw you play and he thinks you have potential if you can get with the right coach.”

“This is what he told me. He'll only sign on as your coach if you follow his instructions. That is all his instructions, not just the ones you like. Don't be telling me you're a go and Gunther calls me in a few weeks and tells me you're dogging it. I don't do this as a rule, but it's hard to say no to George. He told me you needed my help. Not that many athletes I'd get involved with. Slants my perspective. A reporter needs to maintain his objectivity. A lesson George hasn't learned yet, and since I know you, well, don't fuck this up. Sorry about my French,” Arnie apologized.

Randy laughed an approving laugh while nodding his head.

“I do. I will. Gunther Holt! Where do I sign?” Jon asked.

“I'll tell Gunther you are a go. He'll call you within a day or two. He's going to want you in New York. Your city championship two years running qualifies you for the Open.”

“The US Open,” Jon said. “Thank you, Mr. Hitchcock. Sorry about the way I acted. I was confused.”

“Boy's not confused any more,” Randy said. “I'll want to go to New York to see him play. Take Mrs. Delesandro. Show her the city.”

“Sounds like a plan,” George said. “All's well that ends well, Jon.”

“You can make whatever arrangements your mother thinks wise,”

“And Randy,” Mrs. Delesandro said.

“Gunther will be able to secure tickets for whatever matches you want to see. It's a common courtesy given relatives.”

“It's so exciting,” Mrs. Delesandro said.

“Absolutely is,” Arnie said. “I've got to get back to make sure my sports pages aren't getting out of hand. When the cat's away, those mice are likely to do all kinds of mischief, Jon. I'm saving a headline, 'Delesandro knocks off top ranked player.' Don't let me down,” Arnie said, heading for the door with George behind him.

*****

George wasn't sure of the time. He'd met Arnie at nine, and they spent less than fifteen minutes at the Delesandros'. It was probably a few minutes after ten when he walked into the newsroom.

“George, where have you been?” Pops asked. “You're always here early. I depend on you to be available. You're a reporter now. You can't be running around without letting me know how to get in touch with you. There's been police called to that Jon Delesandro kid's apartment. You need to get over there and cover it,” Pops said.

“Just left there, Pops. Mrs. Packard raised a ruckus is my guess,” George said, not sounding that interested. “Arnie and I drove over to see Jon. A police detective was there. A friend of Jon's mother. I wondered why a police detective was conveniently at her apartment during our meeting. They looked friendly, but he was there for a reason other than friendship. Nothing Arnie or I had to say required protection.”

“There was a police car at the main entrance when we left. I suppose they were there for a reason. I covered the story that I thought needed to be told. The problem seems to have been resolved. If here's a new development, I'll cover it,” George said.

“How can you be so sure?” Pops asked. “This just came across the wire. You left before the call went out to the police.”

“Didn't anyone tell you, Pops, I'm a reporter. I'm paid to know stuff like this. It is Mrs. Packard and she was expected, Pops. Your phone's ringing,” George said.

“How can you be so sure, Hitch?” Pops asked.

“I told you, Arnie Siegal and I just left Jon Delesandro's apartment. There was a police detective there. He was cozy with Jon's mom, but I figured there was more to his being there than holding hands with Mrs. Delesandro. He was waiting for something, and now I know what he was waiting for.”

Pop's right eyebrow went up.

“It was Mrs. Packard, but you had no way of knowing that. Her chauffeur, a Harold Sizemore, was arrested,” Pops said. “Why does that name sound so familiar to me.”

“I wish I'd been there to see that. I missed him being arrested Friday night too. Harold is the one who tried to bash my brains out. He's the mayor's bodyguard. The guy I had a run in with at the mayor's news conference,” George said.

“Harold Sizemore?” Pops said. “There was a Harold Sizemore who played tackle on the city's football team.”

“That's Harold,” George said.

“For a rookie reporter, you sure as hell have your fingers in a lot of pies. You need to call Jack Carter. He is holding something for you. He needs your call by noon. The information he is holding will go public at one," Pops said. What in the hell do you have to do with Det. Carter?”

“He's arresting the murderer of Max Stein this morning. You can read about it in the City News, the only afternoon newspaper hereabouts. I got to call Jack. Don't worry, Pops. I got everything under control. You can trust me.”

Pop's eyebrow was stuck in the up position as he studied the City News' newest full-time reporter. He went back to his desk, but he didn't take his eyes off George, who was now on the phone and typing up a storm.

“Jimmy Vogal and Mrs. Stein were in custody for the murder of Max Stein. Detective Jack Carter, with his usual diligence said, 'I new who'd done it, but proving it and getting it to the D.A. took time and a little undercover work from a friend of the department.”

In a half hour George took the story Carter gave him to Pops' desk, dropping it into his in-basket. Pops reached into his in-basket to take George's copy out.

“Max Stein Murder Solved,” Pops said.

George watched him reading.

“Jimmy Vogal arrested,” Pops said, looking at George and than back to the copy.

“Mrs. Stein in custody,” Pops said, looking at George again. “Material witness also in custody. Jack Carter does his usual,wrapping up a case that had gone unsolved. Are you certain? Where do you get this stuff, George?”

“Jack Carter. I added the usual fine job line, because it's true. I was getting that information from the material witness right before I got clobbered by Harold outside of Loey's. Jack had to make sure he had Mrs. Stein covered before he arrested Vogal. He's had the material witness in custody since Monday. He clued me in when he came to the hospital to see me on Saturday. All I had to do was wait for his call and get the final details.”

“I suppose you're the friend of the department mentioned here? I suppose you think all your stories are going to make the front page of the City News,” Pops growled.

“That's not for me to say, Pops. I write the stories, you guys decide where they go, don't you?” George asked.

“The murder of a prominent local businessman goes unsolved for a year. Of course solving the murder goes on the front page. The city will rest easier once we tell them the Stein murder has been solved,” Pops said with certainty.

“Keep your eye on City Hall, George,” Pops said. “Jack Carter is going to interview the mayor after his news conference. He didn't tell you that, did he? He told me,” Pops said triumphantly.

No, Jack hadn't mentioned that he would be going to interview the mayor after the news conference. There was a good reason why he hadn't told him. Detective Jack Carter wanted to get to the bottom of why Harold Sizemore went to Loey's to attack me. He knew what he'd be told by the mayor. I knew what he'd be told, but Jack would make it clear that what happened to me wasn't acceptable to him, and Mayor Packard would get the message..

It didn't take long for Pops to have somewhere for George to go. It was lunch time. George was contemplating a stop at Jerry's.

“Hitch,” Pops called. “If you aren't too busy saving the universe, mayor is having a press conference. Cort's unavailable. Since you and Mayor Packard are old friends, figured you wouldn't mind taking this. Still have your credentials for City Hall?”

“Yes, I'd love to say hi to my favorite politician” George said, taking them out of his desk drawer. “What time.”

“No time. Says this afternoon. Go now. Get lunch on the way.”

“Don't get in any trouble,” Pops yelled as George turned toward the stairs. “And don't piss the mayor off this time.”

“Me? Get in trouble? Never,” George said, whistling his way down the stairs.

He turned toward City Hall once he stepped outside.

There were five reporters standing near the podium on the raised platform in the room where the mayor held press conferences. The only light in the room came from two ceiling lights over the podium.

George stood just to the right of the gathering, as reporters made small talk about the current stories they were working on. George stood far enough away to be easily seen by anyone standing at the podium.

Man mountain two held the door. The mayor entered at twenty past one with no sign of Harold. George looked behind him to be sure. If the mayor noticed George, he didn't let on.

Everyone in the room was within ten feet of the mayor.

“Thank you for coming. I am announcing my separation from my wife. We've been estranged for some time, and I've come to the conclusion that our marriage is over, and I am filing for divorce later this afternoon. I'll take questions,” Mayor Packard said.

There were two questions on why the mayor had decided to end his marriage. It was indefinite at best. He got up this morning and decided the marriage was over.

He didn't even have a cup of coffee before making the decision?

George held his hand high, as Mayor Packard ignored him. When there were no more questions, George jumped in.

“How did Mrs. Packard take the news, and does your decision when you got up this morning have anything to do with Harold Sizemore being arrested again. This time he was apparently arrested at the Delesandros' apartment. Wasn't Jon Delesandro the young man your wife was seeing? Does that have anything to do with the decision when you got up this morning? And what time do you get up?”

“No and no,” Mayor Packard said, glaring at George.

“Harold was your bodyguard, wasn't he. Wasn't he arrested Friday night at Loey's bar in southeast?” George asked.

“Yes, and yes,” Maryor Packard said, eyes blazing. “Mr. Sizemore is no longer in my employ.”

“Does Harold know he's been fired? He was driving your wife's car a few hours ago, when he was arrested at the Delesandros' apartment this time. The 1968 Mercedes is registered to you, Mr. Mayor. Harold Sizemore driving it is an indication he is still in your employee, wouldn't you say?” George said.

“No,” the mayor said, leaning into the microphone.

“Is Mrs. Packard having more than a casual relationship with Jon Delesandro?” George concluded.

Two other reporters raised their hand.

“Thank you for coming. This concludes this news conference,” Mayor Packard said, heading for the door being held open by Man Mountain two.

“What do you think of that,” one reporter said. “I knew he was looney tunes, but that went above and beyond looney.”

“Who's Jon Delesandro,” a reporter asked George.

“Jon who? I don't think I know him,” George said before leaving City Hall for the final time if he had anything to do with it..

He left the room and City Hall, heading for the City News newsroom. He had absolutely nothing to report, but it had been fun.

He told Pops the mayor had nothing to say, except he was divorcing his wife. George didn't have anything to say about it. He'd give his notes to Cort, the man who reported on City Hall. It was up to him if he wanted to follow it up with questions the mayor wasn't going to answer.

As far as George was concerned, the less said about the reason for the divorce, the better off everyone would be. Nothing would be gained by digging out the details, which some other newspaper might decide to dig out. The stories George wrote covered everything he'd ever have to say on the Mrs. Packard and Jon Delesandro affair.

*****

On Saturday morning, with George taking the day off, he sat in the back of the church that was filled to the rafters. They sang and rocked and prayed and sang some more. George sat just inside the doors of the church in the last pew.

Further along on the pew were two white couples. One couple was elderly. The other couple was young, having two elementary school age children with them. They'd be the families Betsy cleaned house for. He was glad to see that they thought enough of their maid to leave their well ordered lives to say goodbye.

There were more prayers. The choir sang and swayed, swayed and sang. Women used white hankies to dab at their wet cheeks. Men sat tall and stoic in suits that only came out for weddings and funerals.

After each prayer came silence. A cough, a sniffle, interrupted by the preacher's booming voice. There was beauty in the ceremony. A lot of people knew and loved the Johnson family.

Betsy looking too young to be gracing a casket, was a lovely shade of brown, little darker than a Hershey bar. Her face hadn't changed, except for the shade of brown, which made Betsy Johnson look healthier in her casket than at the time of her death.

George tried not to remember the face of the pale Betsy. The Betsy he sat with as death crept over her. George couldn't think of a more senseless death.

Who was it that sanctioned the death of a young mother in the prime of her life by denying her the proper healthcare that would have saved her life?

George watched Betsy Johnson's bronze coffin wheeled past him. Following the casket was a tall black man with pride in his anguished steps. In each hand was the hand of one of his two older children; his face a mask that hid his grief.

Behind him a man and a woman walked together. In the woman's arms, a child no more than two. She favored Betsy and she'd have been her mother. The man was her father. The child was Betsy's youngest, and her mother would now help raise her daughter's children. A burden thrust upon her in her golden years, but as Betsy's mother, she'd have it no other way.

Once they passed, people from the front of the church began to follow them. George stood and fell in line behind the group. The two couples sitting beside George fell in line behind him.

The burial was behind the church. It was a shady spot. There were flowers planted along the path to her grave site. The lawns surrounding the burial plot were perfectly cut. Between clusters of graves were gardens. The flowers were in full bloom, giving off a sweet fragrance that scented the late morning air.

George kept his distance. He had no connection to Betsy Johnson. He happened to be present when she died. No one would think that entitled him to barge into her funeral and start asking questions. “How do you feel about Betsy dying like that?'

George cringed, hearing the voice of an annoying reporter poking a microphones into the face of someone in mourning.

He did say a prayer for Betsy. These were the time George wanted to believe there was an god.

George wasn't a reporter today. He wasn't there to get the story. He was with Betsy when she left the world. He needed to make sure she received a respectful burial. It became his responsibility to do that. There were so many people.

It made him feel better to see all the people. He was glad Betsy had been so well thought of. It did make the entire affair easier for him, if not for them.

It was early afternoon when the people returned to the church to eat. Each woman prepared her specialty, adding it to the food that was plentiful enough for everyone to eat their fill.

George had no appetite. He returned to the church because everyone else did. The display of food was remarkable, and the men went first, filling their plates, and the women and children followed. Men always went first. George wondered whose idea that was.

Mr. Johnson stood next to the food, greeting each person who had come to send Betsy off. He shook every hand and didn't once waver. The children and their grandparents had gone. The day had already been too long for them.

George watched Mr. Johnson return home. He was alone.

George considered the task at hand. Did he really want to bring more pain to Betsy's husband? It was his final obligation to Betsy and he saw no way to avoid it.

Just before five, George knocked softly on the Johnsons' door. Not an insistent knock. A polite notification someone was there.

“Yes,” Mr. Johnson said, his eyes settling on George.

“Mr. Johnson, I'm George Hitchcock, City News.”

“I... I just buried my wife. I got nothing to say to you people. Don't you have any respect at all?” the anger was clear, and his words were the heaviest words George had ever heard a man utter.

He instantly regretted disturbing James Johnson's mourning. What right did he have to be here?

It was too late to turn back now.

“Mr. Johnson, I was with Betsy when she died. Her last words were about you and your children,. I'm certain she'd expect me to tell you what she said” George said in a plea for understanding.

Mr. Johnson came to attention. He regarded George differently.

“You're the one who wrote that article. You told my Betsy's story to the world! Won't you come in, Mr. Hitchcock. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I just now put a pot on the stove.”

After stepping inside, the door closed behind George.

The End Of Hitch

---

Writer's Note About Hitch:

When I heard a description of Lorena Alice 'Hick' Hickok, it captivated me. It is said that Hick was a lesbian. I believe she was trans long before anything was known about being trans. She did the things men did. She did things woman weren't allowed to do.

A few years ago I met Virginia, who was male trans. She had come to tell me her story in 2002. I was captivated by him. Virginia looked and talked like a man, because he was a trans man.

While I was coming out, I often ended up with hustlers and drag queens. They were the most fascinating people in the gay spectrum. They dressed up when they went out. They became different people.

Gay men dressed up toe go out in the 1960s. Most used false names. Many had their gay persona. Their gay life was often as far from who they were in their straight lives as you could get, but that was the game you needed to play if you wanted to be out in the 60s..

Some gay men in the 1960s got married to a woman, had families, distancing themselves from their homosexual feelings. They blended into the society that hated them. I mention this because I hear from “gay married men” more than I hear from any group I can identify. There are a large number of these men.

Bisexual men in the 60s were gay men in denial, according to other gay men. The same men who assumed fake identities when going to a gay bar. What do you think about bisexuals?

At the Stonewall bar in June 1969, drag queens dragged us kicking and screaming into the modern LGBTQ age. Were they men dressed as women? Were they trans dressing in a way that matched who they felt like they were? What do you think about drag queens? In the 1960s drag queens were the bane of gay men. People identified drag queens as gay men. In reality they weren't gay or men. They were trans for the most part. No one knew what that was.

In 1969 it was criminal for a man to go out in public in women's clothing. Who were the drag queens in the Stonewall? Why were they angry enough to throw the police out of the Stonewall?

Few people knew who trans people were in 1969. Certainly no one knew the word while Hick and Eleanor Roosevelt were friends.

What do you know about the gay people who blazed the trail for us? Do you know who Frank Kameny is? Larry Kramer? They should be your heroes. They stood up while we hid in our closets.

I created Hitch to write about what Hick might have been like if she entered journalism in the 1960s. I used a description of Lorena Alice 'Hick' Hickok that I heard on an NPR show to build George 'Hitch' Hitchcock, and it was the most difficult writing I've ever done.

It's time we rethink who we are as a people. How do you view bisexuals, lesbians, trans people? Are we a a people who respects everyone's right to be who they are? We weren't in the 1960s.

We've rethought the idea that bisexuals are in denial. Gay men and lesbians had no use for each other at one time. AIDS created the need for the LGBTQ Nation to come together to help the sick and dying in every way possible, because no one else seemed to care. That's how we became the LGBTQ Nation. It was out of necessity.

We lost our invisibility. People began to see us because we were dying. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and people we worked with friends from high school were dying all around us. Dying of AIDS.

Few of us know all the ways there are to be gay. I've been writing about it for 25 years now. I want to write a story for every way there is to be gay. I want to write stories about where gay people can be found.

EVERYWHERE!.

'Rick Beck Stories' in a browser will get you to the gay literary sites where I post my stories. You will find wonderful gay authors at these sites, writing about the many ways there are to be gay. Reading their stories will tell you more about yourself.

Happy reading!

Peace & Love,

Rick Beck

[email protected]