Janet is in her forties. No husband. No kids. Maybe no fella. He never asked.
— What are you going to do, Janet? If the worst…
— If Matt doesn’t need me, maybe I’ll move to Florida. My sister’s there. Who the hell knows? First things first. I gotta get the stuff in this office packed, and then shipped. To your house or storage or—
— My house. I can sort it out later. Some stuff goes up to the museum, the stuff in the hall…
— I know. I got your memo from three years ago somewhere. But we need to seal the office too, so nobody steals anything.
— Perish the thought.
— You better get out there. Or they’ll make a citizen’s arrest.
Briscoe dreads going out to make a speech, but he has to say something. He remembers a guy at the old Journal-American, an editor who used to stand on his desk and wave a pica ruler like a sword, urging his wards to charge the barbed wire. The paper died anyway. But while they lasted, his speeches caused great laughter in Mutchie’s. He thinks: Above all, I will not stand on a desk. Or wave my last pica ruler.
— Let’s go, he says.
Janet follows him into the city room, which now gets quieter. Heads turn to Briscoe. A new song is on the CD player.
Why, oh why, do I
Live in the dark?
And is abruptly clicked off. Briscoe goes to the city desk. Logan is there, wearing his black armband. Briscoe glances at the windows and sees a light snow falling through the purple darkness of West Street.
Then he faces the dense circle of people that has formed around the city desk, more than two hundred of them, many sipping drinks, chewing pizza, some with arms folded, others with hands jammed in pockets. Men, women, some in the rear standing on desks, photographers making pictures, some old reporters taking notes from the habit of a lifetime. Briscoe clears his throat and begins to speak.
— As most of you know, oratory is not my thing. So in the tabloid spirit, I’ll try to be short and, uh, sweet. I want to thank every one of you for giving me the best years of my newspaper life. You also gave New York a newspaper that added to this city’s knowledge and intelligence and — for want of a better word — its genius. Not one of us who worked here ever had to apologize for being part of the New York World. And that was not because of me. It was because of you. Journalism is a team sport. And you were the team.
They applaud. Briscoe hopes they are applauding themselves, not him.
— Now everything has changed. I don’t have to tell you why. Don’t have to explain that the delivery system is changing by the hour. That the recession has killed too much advertising revenue. You know all that. But I hope every one of you gives everything to the World online — everything that you gave to the newspaper. Make it real journalism, reported, edited, where the facts are beyond dispute.
He pauses and turns to Logan.
— In Matt Logan, you have one of the greatest editors I ever worked with, and he’ll make sure that happens.
They applaud some more.
— Wherever the hell I am, I’ll be reading you. And remember to kick ass, and take names. Thank you — every single one of you.
Logan nods to the left, where Fonseca is paused before the CD player. Briscoe thinks: Good, the kid made it. Then, from out of the past, from the vanished beery walls of the Lion’s Head, from other saloons now gone, from many snowy nights when nobody went home, come the Clancy Brothers. A ballad. A lament.
Of all the money that e’er I had
I spent it in good company
And all the harm I’ve ever done
Alas ’twas done to none but me…
Logan is singing hard, and so is Briscoe, and so are others who were formed by those nights on Sheridan Square when all of the Clancys were still alive. Fonseca is not singing. Too young to know the words. Briscoe sees Sheila McKibbon from the dayside copy desk off near the windows, singing, her face dark with melancholy. Another graduate of the Lion’s Head. And there, taller than some of the men, wearing a down coat that is wet on the shoulders, newly arrived, is Helen Loomis. She is smoking. And singing.
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To memory now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all…
Briscoe starts moving through the crowd, hugging every one of them, whispering his thanks. The singing goes on. He makes his way to Helen. Her eyes are mildly glassy, from cold, or sadness, or whiskey. It doesn’t matter to Briscoe. Or to her.
— Thank you for coming, Helen, he whispers.
— Thanks for everything, Sam.
— You okay?
— No.
— Neither am I.
— Yeah. I can see.
— We’ll have lunch next week.
— That would be great, Sam.
— Sloppy Louie’s, okay?
— We’ll have to settle for dim sum, Sam.
Briscoe hugs her again, and feels her loneliness pushing into his own lonesome heart. He kisses her cheek, and then starts walking to his office to retrieve his jacket and coat. Still singing. The wake still building.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should go and you should not
I’ll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all…
Logan is outside the office as Briscoe leaves. Briscoe hugs him.
— Sam, see ya, man, he says. May the wind be always at your back.
5:20 p.m. Bobby Fonseca. City room.
Leaning on the edge of a desk in the city room, music playing, everyone milling around, he wants to cry, but knows he won’t. Reporters don’t cry. Someone told him that the song at the end, “The Parting Glass,” was out of the Lion’s Head and he wishes he had known such a place. He wasn’t even born when they had all those nights of song and argument. Neither was Victoria Collins. She wanted so much to come here today, but the message said no outsiders, and even with her credit line, she was an outsider. He’ll see her tonight. Maybe take her to his place in Brooklyn. Where will Mr. Briscoe go? He wonders what kind of sickness leads someone to slash a woman’s flesh. Any woman’s flesh. Cynthia Harding’s flesh. Mary Lou Watson’s flesh. Or Victoria’s flesh. So that all the passion and desire and laughter flow to the floor.
— Don’t be glum, Bobby.
Matt Logan. A consoling hand on Fonseca’s shoulder.
— I need you, kid. I need you to kick ass. I need you to help make this a great, professional website.
— Thanks, Matt.
— Call the desk Sunday at nine. I’ll be here. I want you to do a follow on the Patchin Place murders. Unless something else is breaking.
— Will do. And Matt? I’ll try hard to kick some ass.
A fist bump on the shoulder, and Matt Logan moves to a knot of the others. Fonseca thinking: We’re not orphans yet. So why do I want to cry?
And here comes Barney Weiss, Nikon hanging from a strap.
— Hey, kid, we’re going drinking and you’re invited.
— Where?
— We’re tryin’ to figure that out. There’s some kind of benefit someplace near the High Line… Remember what Bernie Bard once said: If it ain’t catered, it ain’t journalism.
Fonseca chuckles. He doesn’t know who Bernie Bard was, but he loves the tabloid attitude. He moves across the city room, in search of a Coke.