wood, but
there the resemblance to a club ended; where in a men's club the
walls would be decorated with animal heads from bygone safaris,
Will's walls were adorned with trophies of another kind—photos of
male ballet dancers—and one he made no attempt to hide.
When he saw Laura he quickly said, "I'll get
back to you later, dear," and hung up and greeted her. Will was
a dapper, portly man in his mid-forties with a moon-shaped face,
brown hair and a small mustache. Sleek was the word Laura always
associated with him. Besides young men in ballet troupes, he listed
among his other weaknesses a love of custom shirts, wide ties,
suspenders and a lime cologne imported from the Caribbean, all of
which were in evidence today.
"Sit, sit, darling," he said, waving Laura
to a wing chair in front of his desk. "How are you? You feeling
all right?" Asked in a conspiratorial tone.
"Fine, Will, just fine." She appreciated
his concern, but also wished she had never had to let him know about
the operation. At least he didn't know about the nightmares . . .
"Good, so what can I do for you?"
She told him about her morning. ". . . And I'd
like to get off features for a couple of weeks to follow up on it.
Less time, of course, if the killer is caught quickly."
"Laura, I won't mince words with you—no pun
intended. The answer is no."
Before she could protest he began the underline: "I
pay you a fair stipend to hobnob with the swells, and what do you try
to sell me—mean streets, that's what you're trying to sell me, but
I'm not buying. Lord, I already know about mean streets. Everybody
knows about mean streets. No news down there. Whatever has possessed
you?"
"It happened in my neighborhood, Will. I heard
the sirens and got curious—"
Now out of his chair, he began pacing. "Laura,
if I want stories about a little neighborhood tease whose boyfriend
killed her because she wouldn't put out, I've got two ex-cops with
brewer's droop I can send forth. But ask me if I can send them over
to the Palace Hotel to interview Prince Ranier or Mick Jagger, just
ask me."
Laura took a deep breath. "All right, I'm asking
you, Will."
And now a touch of anger had edged into her voice.
"And you're not being fair. This was no neighborhood tease. This
was a kid who kept old people company after school. I've tried to get
you on this before . . . teenage girls are disappearing in South
Philly. As soon as the identification is complete you're going to see
she was the latest. Will, for Christ sake, she was raped and
murdered. And I'm betting they're going to find the same thing
happened to the others. This is big. George Sloan and Seven Squad are
on it. There's a serial killer loose in South Philly . . ."
He sat back and seemed to be reconsidering. "You
say George Sloan's on the case . . . ? Well, doesn't signify."
Pointing to a framed photograph of Glen Caruthers, the billionaire
who owned the Globe, he said, "Laura, you know our policy here.
We leave the national and international stuff to the Inquirer, the
local to the Daily News, and we stick to human interest. The kind
that titillates, not upsets. And, I might add, we've done very damn
well following that policy."
"But this is human interest—"
"Yes, but not the right kind. If they were rich
kids from Bryn Mawr, fine. But not teenagers from your neighborhood.
Besides, I read that story on the weekend and I'm not sold that the
disappearances are related."
"But we did get scooped. Don't we care about
that? Remember, I was the first one to pitch the story to you . . .
By the way, what's so wrong with my neighborhood?"
"What's wrong is you're in it. You insist on
living down at the docks like you were into rough trade. You could
have a place in Society Hill, or a condo on Rittenhouse Square, or a
carriage house on the Main Line. But you insist on living down there.
Beats me why."
He flopped in his chair and swiveled until his back
was to her.
"Laura, sometimes you make me feel just like
your mother.
there the resemblance to a club ended; where in a men's club the
walls would be decorated with animal heads from bygone safaris,
Will's walls were adorned with trophies of another kind—photos of
male ballet dancers—and one he made no attempt to hide.
When he saw Laura he quickly said, "I'll get
back to you later, dear," and hung up and greeted her. Will was
a dapper, portly man in his mid-forties with a moon-shaped face,
brown hair and a small mustache. Sleek was the word Laura always
associated with him. Besides young men in ballet troupes, he listed
among his other weaknesses a love of custom shirts, wide ties,
suspenders and a lime cologne imported from the Caribbean, all of
which were in evidence today.
"Sit, sit, darling," he said, waving Laura
to a wing chair in front of his desk. "How are you? You feeling
all right?" Asked in a conspiratorial tone.
"Fine, Will, just fine." She appreciated
his concern, but also wished she had never had to let him know about
the operation. At least he didn't know about the nightmares . . .
"Good, so what can I do for you?"
She told him about her morning. ". . . And I'd
like to get off features for a couple of weeks to follow up on it.
Less time, of course, if the killer is caught quickly."
"Laura, I won't mince words with you—no pun
intended. The answer is no."
Before she could protest he began the underline: "I
pay you a fair stipend to hobnob with the swells, and what do you try
to sell me—mean streets, that's what you're trying to sell me, but
I'm not buying. Lord, I already know about mean streets. Everybody
knows about mean streets. No news down there. Whatever has possessed
you?"
"It happened in my neighborhood, Will. I heard
the sirens and got curious—"
Now out of his chair, he began pacing. "Laura,
if I want stories about a little neighborhood tease whose boyfriend
killed her because she wouldn't put out, I've got two ex-cops with
brewer's droop I can send forth. But ask me if I can send them over
to the Palace Hotel to interview Prince Ranier or Mick Jagger, just
ask me."
Laura took a deep breath. "All right, I'm asking
you, Will."
And now a touch of anger had edged into her voice.
"And you're not being fair. This was no neighborhood tease. This
was a kid who kept old people company after school. I've tried to get
you on this before . . . teenage girls are disappearing in South
Philly. As soon as the identification is complete you're going to see
she was the latest. Will, for Christ sake, she was raped and
murdered. And I'm betting they're going to find the same thing
happened to the others. This is big. George Sloan and Seven Squad are
on it. There's a serial killer loose in South Philly . . ."
He sat back and seemed to be reconsidering. "You
say George Sloan's on the case . . . ? Well, doesn't signify."
Pointing to a framed photograph of Glen Caruthers, the billionaire
who owned the Globe, he said, "Laura, you know our policy here.
We leave the national and international stuff to the Inquirer, the
local to the Daily News, and we stick to human interest. The kind
that titillates, not upsets. And, I might add, we've done very damn
well following that policy."
"But this is human interest—"
"Yes, but not the right kind. If they were rich
kids from Bryn Mawr, fine. But not teenagers from your neighborhood.
Besides, I read that story on the weekend and I'm not sold that the
disappearances are related."
"But we did get scooped. Don't we care about
that? Remember, I was the first one to pitch the story to you . . .
By the way, what's so wrong with my neighborhood?"
"What's wrong is you're in it. You insist on
living down at the docks like you were into rough trade. You could
have a place in Society Hill, or a condo on Rittenhouse Square, or a
carriage house on the Main Line. But you insist on living down there.
Beats me why."
He flopped in his chair and swiveled until his back
was to her.
"Laura, sometimes you make me feel just like
your mother.
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