publication's lawyers had stopped "the 50 most prominent closeted gays" and "New York's 50 most prominent bastards"âas in illegitimateâbut inexplicably allowed "the 50 most famous couples living in sin.")
Although his tenure had been brief,
The Columbia Journalism
Review
had already been on his case, accusing him of paying cash to sources, using pieces about composite characters and including both fact and fancy in his editorial mix, in what
The Review
called "faction." These accusations the editor blithely ignored. The reader was the ultimate judge, he argued, not a bunch of jealous failed journalists up on Morningside Heights. And so far, despite the scabrous copy he printed,
The Surveyor
had not been faced with a libel suit.
Boyd had been at his barber when his cell phone rang and his secretary told him that Sue Nation Brandberg wanted to see him urgently. Thinking that she must have a scandal to reveal, he left without his customary blow-dry, omitted his normal paltry (5 percent) tip and arrived at 62nd Street with still-wet hair, sweating as usual.
Sue answered the door herself. Judging from her appearance, Justin was sure there must have been a death in the family; her eyes were puffy and red, her tight-fitting pants-and-blouse outfit jet-black (though that, of course, could merely have reflected contemporary chic). And he noticed traces of runny mascara as he stretched up on tiptoes to air-kiss her. This was a woman in deep grief (deeper, if truth be known, than she had either felt or displayed when her beloved Harry died).
"Sue, what's wrong?" he asked as they headed to the sitting room upstairs.
"It's too terrible," she said. "My dog, Wambli, was
shot
last night."
"Migawd, Sue, how perfectly awful," Boyd responded, in his plummiest accent.
"I was supposed to have a play date with him this morning," she said, after which Hoover Dam broke and the flood of tears was fearsome.
Boyd tried to console her and then asked what had happened. It might or might not be a story; the gunshot angle was intriguing, but a mere dead dog was less so. He listened attentively as Sue recounted the sorry epic she had been told, identifying Genc as her houseboy.
"What do the police say?" Boyd asked.
"I haven't talked to them," she said.
"Good Lord, woman, why not?"
She explained Genc's illegal status and how she did not want to risk exposing him.
"I see," Justin said, though he really didn't. If she was so wrought up about her dog, as she obviously was, why would she care what happened to a household servant? That Genc had a more special role did not at that moment occur to the editor.
"I need you, Justin. You're clever and you have the resources to pursue this. Find out who those three bastards were."
"I admit it's pleasantly puzzling. And for you, dear, I'll try tohelp." She had been one of Justin's numerous smart-set dates, but no lasting relationship had developed. (One too-short lover in a lifetime was enough, Sue had concluded.)
She reached over and patted his knee, cooing, "Oh, Justin, I knew you would."
"I've got a young reporter who came to work for me not long ago. Worked so hard on the newspaper at Harvard he flunked out. He's smart, and God, is he eager. I'll put him on the case."
"Just one thing," Sue said. "Genc must be totally, totally off the record."
"Even if it should mean the difference between getting to the bottom of this mystery or not?"
Once again, there were echoes of OOOH! SHPIRT! in her head. "Yes," she replied. "Yes. Genc must not be compromised."
"Okay, I'll figure how to play this and I'll tell my man. His name is Frederick Rice, by the way, though he's usually known as Scoop."
NINE
S ome people called Freddie "Scoop" Rice brilliant, while others thought him only glib. Some thought his ever so slightly chubby boyish features sexy, others that he resembled an overgrown choirboy who had eaten too many Hershey bars. But the words that almost always occurred in any conversational
Although his tenure had been brief,
The Columbia Journalism
Review
had already been on his case, accusing him of paying cash to sources, using pieces about composite characters and including both fact and fancy in his editorial mix, in what
The Review
called "faction." These accusations the editor blithely ignored. The reader was the ultimate judge, he argued, not a bunch of jealous failed journalists up on Morningside Heights. And so far, despite the scabrous copy he printed,
The Surveyor
had not been faced with a libel suit.
Boyd had been at his barber when his cell phone rang and his secretary told him that Sue Nation Brandberg wanted to see him urgently. Thinking that she must have a scandal to reveal, he left without his customary blow-dry, omitted his normal paltry (5 percent) tip and arrived at 62nd Street with still-wet hair, sweating as usual.
Sue answered the door herself. Judging from her appearance, Justin was sure there must have been a death in the family; her eyes were puffy and red, her tight-fitting pants-and-blouse outfit jet-black (though that, of course, could merely have reflected contemporary chic). And he noticed traces of runny mascara as he stretched up on tiptoes to air-kiss her. This was a woman in deep grief (deeper, if truth be known, than she had either felt or displayed when her beloved Harry died).
"Sue, what's wrong?" he asked as they headed to the sitting room upstairs.
"It's too terrible," she said. "My dog, Wambli, was
shot
last night."
"Migawd, Sue, how perfectly awful," Boyd responded, in his plummiest accent.
"I was supposed to have a play date with him this morning," she said, after which Hoover Dam broke and the flood of tears was fearsome.
Boyd tried to console her and then asked what had happened. It might or might not be a story; the gunshot angle was intriguing, but a mere dead dog was less so. He listened attentively as Sue recounted the sorry epic she had been told, identifying Genc as her houseboy.
"What do the police say?" Boyd asked.
"I haven't talked to them," she said.
"Good Lord, woman, why not?"
She explained Genc's illegal status and how she did not want to risk exposing him.
"I see," Justin said, though he really didn't. If she was so wrought up about her dog, as she obviously was, why would she care what happened to a household servant? That Genc had a more special role did not at that moment occur to the editor.
"I need you, Justin. You're clever and you have the resources to pursue this. Find out who those three bastards were."
"I admit it's pleasantly puzzling. And for you, dear, I'll try tohelp." She had been one of Justin's numerous smart-set dates, but no lasting relationship had developed. (One too-short lover in a lifetime was enough, Sue had concluded.)
She reached over and patted his knee, cooing, "Oh, Justin, I knew you would."
"I've got a young reporter who came to work for me not long ago. Worked so hard on the newspaper at Harvard he flunked out. He's smart, and God, is he eager. I'll put him on the case."
"Just one thing," Sue said. "Genc must be totally, totally off the record."
"Even if it should mean the difference between getting to the bottom of this mystery or not?"
Once again, there were echoes of OOOH! SHPIRT! in her head. "Yes," she replied. "Yes. Genc must not be compromised."
"Okay, I'll figure how to play this and I'll tell my man. His name is Frederick Rice, by the way, though he's usually known as Scoop."
NINE
S ome people called Freddie "Scoop" Rice brilliant, while others thought him only glib. Some thought his ever so slightly chubby boyish features sexy, others that he resembled an overgrown choirboy who had eaten too many Hershey bars. But the words that almost always occurred in any conversational
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