Bryce Harriman ducked into the stale, smoke-fouled office of his editor, Rupert Ritts. He had been waiting for this moment a long, long time, and he was determined to enjoy it, drag it out as long as possible. It would be a story he’d tell his kids and grandkids, put in his memoirs. One of the moments he’d savor the rest of his life.
“Harriman!” Ritts came around from behind his desk—his idea of a show of respect—and seated himself on one corner. “Take a seat.”
Harriman sat. Why not? Let Ritts talk a bit first.
“That was quite a piece you wrote on Hayward and that man, Buck. I’m almost sorry that cracker preacher got his ass sent back to Oklahoma. I hope he decides to move back to the Big Apple once his parole is up.” He laughed and picked a piece of paper from his desk. “Here’s something I bet you’ll be interested to hear: newsstand circ for the week ending today.” He waved the paper in Harriman’s face. “Nineteen percent above this same time last year, six percent above last week, sixty percent sell-through.”
Ritts grinned, as if the newsstand circulation and sell-through figures of the New York Post were the be-all and end-all of Harriman’s existence. Harriman kicked back in the chair, listening, a practiced smile on his face.
“And look at this. Advertising revenues up three and a half.”
Another pause so that Harriman might absorb and glorify in the stupendous news.
Ritts lit a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaled. “Harriman, don’t ever say I don’t give credit where credit is due. This was your story from beginning to end. You did it. Sure, I helped with some ideas here and there, gave you the benefit of my experience, nudged you in the right direction once or twice—but this was your story.”
Ritts paused, as if waiting. For what? Effusive, genuflecting thanks? Harriman leaned back and listened, still smiling.
“Anyway, as I was saying, you did this. You’ve been noticed, and I mean noticed, by the powers on high.”
Who was that? Harriman wondered. The big cheese himself? That would be a joke. The guy probably couldn’t even get into his father’s club.
Now Ritts dropped his bomb. “Next week, I want you to be my guest at the annual News Corporation dinner at Tavern on the Green. This wasn’t just my idea—although I heartily approved. It was”—and now his eyes flashed upward as if a heavenly host had issued the invitation—“his idea. He wants to meet you, shake your hand.”
Meet me, shake my hand. This was beautiful. God, this was beautiful. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends about this.
“It’s black tie—you got one of those? If not, I rent mine at a place opposite Bloomingdale’s. Discount Tux, best deal in the city.”
Harriman could hardly believe his ears. What a bozo. Not even ashamed to admit he rented his tuxes. “I have one or two, thanks,” he said coolly.
Ritts looked at him a little strangely. “You all right? You do know about the annual dinner, right? I mean, I’ve been in this business thirty years and let me tell you, this is something special. It’s Thursday evening, drinks at six in the Crystal Room, dinner at seven. You and a guest. Bring your squeeze, if you have one.”
Harriman sat forward. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Come alone, then. No problem.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t come at all. I’m otherwise engaged.”
“What?”
“I’m busy.”
There was a shocked silence. And then Ritts was off his perch. “You’re busy? Aren’t you listening? I’m talking about dinner with the man himself! I’m talking about the News Corp. annual fucking dinner!”
Harriman rose and dusted his sleeve, on which Ritts’s ashes had fallen as he’d waved his cigarette around in excitement.
“I’ve accepted an appointment as a reporter at a newspaper called the New York Times. Perhaps you know of it.” Harriman slipped an envelope out of his pocket. “My letter of resignation.” He laid it on the desk, right on the shiny place where Ritts usually perched his ass.
There it was. Said and done. He’d drawn it out about as long as he could. There was no point in wasting any more time: he had a new office to fix up, a lot to do. After all, Bill Smithback would be returning from his extended honeymoon on Monday to find the surprise of his life: Bryce Harriman, associate reporter, fellow colleague, occupying the office next door.
Now, that would be something.
God, life was good.
He turned and walked to the door, turning just once to get a final look at Ritts, standing there, mouth open, for once with nothing to say.
“See you around, old chap,” Harriman said.
{ 88 }