Saving Grace by Barbara Rogan

reporters. The weekly journal had outgrown its facilities years ago, but its steady increase in circulation was no match for the spiraling cost of space in the city. With moving unthinkable, each new addition to the staff reduced the per-capita allowance of space. Thus status at the Probe was defined in square feet and the possession of such luxuries as a door. The last inhabitant of Barnaby’s cubicle had died of AIDS. Barnaby launched his campaign for the eight-by-ten glass-enclosed cubicle the day he found out about his predecessor’s illness; he was as relentless in pursuit of the space as his corporate counterparts were of corner offices and executive-washroom keys.
    The door also had the functional benefit of reducing the racket to a muffled roar. Barnaby slammed it shut and reached for his phone book. He had told Hasselforth some, not all of the story. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his editor, it was just his nature always to keep something in reserve.
    He dialed the number of the Department of General Services and asked for Arthur Speigel. Speigel was a mid-level functionary in the DGS, one who, like many others in the municipal bureaucracy, owed his job to Fleishman’s recommendation. This made him the journalistic equivalent of a hostile witness. Barnaby, of course, had no power of subpoena. His power was discretionary, vested solely in his troublemaking capacity. Speigel didn’t like taking his calls, but he didn’t dare refuse them. Now he came on with a wary “Hello?”
    “Hey, Artie, how’s it going?”
    “What is it, Barnaby? I’m busy.”
    “Then I won’t waste your time. Have you got those figures I asked for?”
    There was a pause. “I’ve got ‘em. But I’m telling you up front, they’re misleading.”
    Barnaby uncapped his pen. “So, what is Rencorp paying the city?”
    “You can’t look just at the rent. There are a lot of other factors—”
    “What are we, playing patticake here? Just give me the goddamn rent and I’ll go bother someone else.”
    “A couple thousand a month,” Speigel said unhappily.
    Barnaby laughed deep in his throat. “Two thousand? You’re kidding.”
    “The building’s in a lousy neighborhood. Before Rencorp took it over, it was occupied by some printer that hadn’t paid rent in months. The place was a wreck. They spent a fortune fixing it up.”
    “And the building is how big?”
    There was a rustling of paper. “About forty-five thousand square feet. You got to understand that this building is located right in the heart of south Eastborough. Rencorp’s employees weren’t exactly thrilled about the move.”
    “So Rencorp’s doing the city a favor,” Barnaby said.
    “You could say that. Their move opened up a lot of jobs for the borough; and as a gesture of support for the community, they opened up a day-care facility, which your paper is always bitching we don’t have enough of.”
    “That’s very touching, Arthur, considering their savings in rent. Do you know what that kind of space is worth on the open market?”
    “You guys are always looking at the down side.”
    “And Fleishman approved this sweetheart deal?”
    “What are you talking? These things go through a dozen city agencies till they end up here. It’s got nothing to do with party politics.”
    Barnaby cackled rudely. “Please, dude. You know and I know that nothing goes down in Eastborough without our friend’s approval.”
    “If you know so much, what are you asking me for?”
    “Arthur, Arthur,” Barnaby sighed. “Why all the indignation? Now you’ve got me thinking something’s not kosher.”
    “What’s not kosher? You know Jonathan. He sees a chance to snag hundreds of jobs and a day-care center for his borough, he’s not exactly gonna spit on it.”
    “He’s a prince,” Barnaby agreed. “Did you know that Rencorp got a massive tax abatement when they moved to Eastborough? For the next ten years they’ll be virtually exempt from state and municipal