The Truth About Harry. Tracy KelleherЧитать онлайн книгу.
Company, a manufacturing business whose headquarters were once located next to Thirtieth Street Station. In 1991, the Singer Corporation bought out Nord Notions; operations were subsequently moved to Mexico.
Mr. Nord was a generous benefactor, as well as an industrial leader. Locally, he established the “Winter Coat Drive” to aid the Salvation Army. Perhaps his most generous act of charity—
Lauren backspaced and deleted the last word.
—of largesse was the rebuilding of the tiny town of San Margherita. Grateful for the protection the villagers had offered despite the risk to their own safety, Mr. Nord donated funds to build a new school, retirement home and library, restore the community’s small but noteworthy Romanesque church and establish a scholarship program to send promising students to universities in Italy and abroad. A plaque in his honor, affixed to the north wall of the town hall, proclaims in Italian, “Here he came to earth in a blaze of fire, and with God’s help, raised San Margherita from the ashes.”
Lauren leaned back. The quote was outrageous, and she could just see Dan Jankowski, the copy editor on duty that night, chuckling to himself before he hit the delete button and sent her a terse e-mail: “Try to keep your flights of fancy to under three inches. This is Metro, not Page One.”
It was bad to fabricate the story, even an obit. Really bad. Lauren, who wore professional integrity on her sleeve the way a lot of professional athletes had endorsement patches, knew it more than most. But she couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t like this one was ever going to see the light of day. Call it a revenge piece. A catharsis. A way to vent her reporter’s spleen. She’d just found out that her managing editor, Ray Kirkel, the douche bag, had passed her over for the State House reporter job in favor of Huey Neumeyer. Huey! An editorial assistant who couldn’t even photocopy straight. Maybe the fact that he was Ray’s wife’s cousin had something to do with the appointment.
“Everything to do with it!” Lauren snorted. One did not grow up in South Philly without acquiring a certain sense of cynicism. It was like cheesesteaks, the local culinary specialty—it went with the territory.
After three years pounding the Metro beat, generating more than the usual school board and two-alarm fire stories—and garnering an award from the Pennsylvania Press Association for her piece on teenage runaways—what did she get? A fax tossed on her desk and an order from Ray: “Two inches by deadline. An ad was pulled from the obit page, and I need to fill the space.”
Lauren had looked down at the bare-bones release from the mortuary. Harry Nord, the real Harry Nord, wouldn’t guarantee more than half a column inch, and that was with a free plug for the funeral parlor.
“So, this is my reward for all my hard work and effort?” Lauren wailed silently after Ray had waddled off in the direction of the men’s room. “The man wouldn’t know a crack reporter, let alone a crack story, if he fell over one,” she muttered under her breath. And to prove her point, she’d taken Harry Nord’s death notice and embellished it beyond recognition, turning it into the human interest story of the year, knowing full well it wouldn’t run, but getting a genuine sense of satisfaction nonetheless.
Tomorrow, she’d do the real obit on the real Harry Nord, and it would appear in a late edition. Ray would never know. As far as she could tell, he hardly ever looked at the paper except to scan the six-column photos of buxom, bikini-clad babes.
Without a second thought, Lauren hit Send and forwarded the text to the Copy Desk. End of story.
Yeah, right.
1
“I AM SO SCREWED,” Lauren mumbled into the shoulder of her fuzzy sweater. She slowly rubbed her forehead as if willing her headache to escape via the horizontal tracks she was tunneling in her cranium.
“What’s that?” Phoebe Russell-Warren arched her swanlike neck and thrust her shoulders back to get a better view of the television news conference at the front of the office lobby. At six foot one with impeccable posture—the effects of years of field hockey, she had once assured Lauren—Phoebe cut an impressive figure. The major bits of gold hanging off her earlobes and dangling from her slender wrists added to the Amazonian effect. “You don’t recognize the man standing next to Ray, do you?” she asked, peering elegantly ahead. “I know all the local broadcasters, at least those worth knowing, and he doesn’t look familiar.”
Phoebe wasn’t exaggerating her people skills. As Lifestyle editor, she knew everyone on Society Hill and the Main Line with a trust fund and a Porsche Boxster.
Lauren went up on tiptoe and frowned. “I can’t see anything clearly except Baby Huey’s dandruff on his navy blue blazer.” Unlike Phoebe, Lauren barely grazed the five-foot-three mark, even wearing clogs. Clogs, a turtleneck sweater and khaki pants—ah, yes, the wardrobe of the penurious and fashion-challenged reporter.
Phoebe turned her attention away from the news conference and stared down at Lauren. “What was it you said? Baby Huey?”
“It’s my new name for Neumeyer, intrepid State House reporter and genuine turd,” Lauren said, gripping her take-out coffee cup a little harder than necessary.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ray Kirkel, their fearless leader, intoned by the bank of glass doors, “I’m very excited to welcome you all here today for this important announcement.”
There was a pause. Lauren figured Ray was beaming into the television cameras from the local affiliate of the network news.
“Not that we’re not used to excitement on a regular basis here at the Sentinel,” he started up again.
“I wish you could see the man at the front next to Ray. He is an absolute dish.” Phoebe nudged Lauren.
Only Phoebe could get away with phrases like “an absolute dish,” Lauren thought. Lauren breathed in slowly and reluctantly leaned toward her friend. “Forget Dishy Mystery Man for a moment.”
“Forget him? Are you crazy? He has that dangerous look of a young Sean Connery playing James Bond. Maybe he has a Scottish accent, too? Nothing like a Scottish accent in bed. Or in the shower. Or up against the wall.”
Lauren went back to rubbing her forehead. “Phoebe, listen, I have something important that I really need to tell you.” The need to bare her soul was an unfortunate attribute of Lauren’s, and one that at the age of twenty-seven she hoped she would have left behind—the same way she’d cleared up her teenage acne and shed the fifteen pounds of puppy fat that once surrounded her waist like a plastic float.
“We’re gathered here today because of the passing of a great man,” Ray bellowed.
Phoebe reluctantly shifted her gaze to Lauren. “You need to confess something? The woman who doesn’t sleep around, indulge in illegal substances and only drinks wine or beer—and then in moderation? You won’t even buy me cigarettes when I run out.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “It’s about the obit,” she whispered.
“The obit?” Phoebe’s delivery wasn’t quite so sotto voce.
“Shh!” Baby Huey turned around. “You two are interrupting a unique moment here.” He looked at them sternly before shifting back to take in the action.
“If you only knew how unique,” Lauren moaned softly.
“As usual, the Sentinel came through,” Ray continued before raising his arm magisterially and pointing to a screen that had been set up to his right. Instantly, there appeared a giant image—an obituary. Lauren’s obit. Well, not her actual obit, but the obit she’d written.
“It just shows that with the right editorial guidance, even a junior member of the staff can make an impact,” Ray announced.
Lauren groaned. “Maybe he won’t mention my name.”
“Of course he won’t mention your name. Ray is a total asshole,” Phoebe said sympathetically.