Rough Justice Read Free Page B

all the Watts there is to gots.”
    The assistant city editor, Vicki Goldblum, sat perched on the edge of the desk. “Well, what do you know? That might just save you from the wrath of your new boss.”
    â€œThe thought had crossed my mind,” I said. “Speaking of which, is my new boss here?”
    Rafferty made a vague gesture toward the ceiling. “With the People Upstairs. They’re discussing something about giving you a party … a going-away party … a retirement party …”
    â€œA necktie party, I think it was,” said Vicki.
    â€œSomething like that,” Rafferty said. “They ought to be down soon.”
    I took a long, sweet drag of my cigarette. “Well,” I said. “It’s still a nice day. Still.” And I left them there.
    I walked into the maze of cubicles that stretches over the vast white room. I heard the hum of computer keyboards, the soft murmur of voices rising over the white walls, under the rows of fluorescent lights. I came to my own space. Stood staring a second at the debris on my desktop. Finally, I shoved a pile of newspapers to one side. They splattered onto the floor. Where they had been, there was now revealed an old Olympia Standard typewriter. I sat down in front of it. Found a piece of paper under an old Big Mac carton. I tossed the carton in the trash. I rolled the page into the machine.
    I pulled a notebook from my pocket. Flipped it open. The pages were almost full. There were also some torn and crumpled slips that fell out onto the desk. Some of them were stained or smeared. They still smelled of Scotch.
    I never did get to see the Mets last night. I never even got to read my mail. I sat at the desk in my apartment until three in the morning. I sipped liquor and smoked and wrote down what Frank D’ Angelo had told me. Then I dug out some of my old clips on Tom Watts. I read through them, taking notes, sipping Scotch, smoking. Then, smoking and sipping Scotch, I wrote down the names of everyone I would want to call. Then I stumbled into the bedroom through a haze of cigarette smoke. Then I dropped facedown onto the unmade bed. Then I woke up, took off my clothes, put on some other clothes and came to work.
    Now, I started typing up some of my notes. I also started to scream at the top of my lungs: “Fran!” I kept on typing.
    A small voice called back at me: “What?”
    I stopped typing. “ What ?” I said. I stood up, looked over my cubicle wall.
    Fran was at her computer terminal at an open desk at the front of the city room. She was peering at the monitor. Her long black hair was tied back severely. Her monkey face was set and grim.
    â€œFran,” I explained—still at the top of my lungs. “Fran, not ‘What?’ More like: ‘Here’s your coffee, Mr. Wells. Black, just the way you like it. Mm mm.’ And, Fran—try to sound subservient.” She let out an angry breath at her screen and started to stand. I sat back down. “ What !” I muttered. I went on with my typing.
    Two voices, male and female, started up behind me.
    â€œHave you noticed,” said the man, “that ever since Cambridge was canned, there’s been a certain—I don’t know …”
    â€œSpring in his step?”
    â€œA lilt, I’d call it.”
    â€œA lilt in his voice, you mean.”
    â€œA lilt in his voice, a spring in his step.”
    â€œA gleam in his eye.”
    â€œA song in his heart.”
    â€œA pain in my ass,” I said, swiveling around.
    Lansing was sitting on the file cabinet to my left. She was eating a buttered hard roll. McKay was leaning against the partition to my right. He was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
    â€œSo what do we figure it’s gonna be now?” McKay asked no one in particular. The fat cheeks of his baby face curled with a smile. “Likability. Predictability.”
    I lit a fresh cigarette and