The Poet

"Like he was taking orders and then he'd go out and…"

"Right."

"You tell Bob Backus about this yet?"

"Yeah, he was just in here."

Rachel looked at me.

"That parade is sounding better and better all the time."

"You're forgetting the neatest part," Clearmountain said. "And what parade?"

"It's nothing. What's the neatest part?"

"The bulletin board. We traced the number to a location."

"And?"

"Union Correctional Institution, Raiford, Florida."

"Oh, my God! Gomble?"

Clearmountain smiled and nodded.

"That's what Bob Backus thinks. He's going to have somebody check it out. I already called the prison and asked the captain of the day where that line went to. He said it was to the supplies office. And, see, I had noticed that all of Gladden's calls to that number were placed after five P.M. eastern time. The captain told me that the supply office was closed and locked up every day at five. Opens up at eight every morning. I also asked him if there was a computer in that office for keeping track of orders and supplies and such and he said there sure was. I said what about a phone and he said there was one but it wasn't connected to the computer. But believe me, this is not a guy who knows a modem from a hole in the ground. This is a guy who volunteers to go to prison every day. Think about that. I told him to check again on the phone line, like some night after the office is closed up and-"

"Wait a minute. He isn't-"

"Don't worry, he's not going to do anything. I told him not to mess with things until he hears from us. For now, the network should remain on line, after five in the East, that is. I asked him who works in there and he told me Horace Gomble. He's a trustee. I see you are already familiar with him. I guess each night he sticks the phone line into the computer before he locks up and goes back to his cell."

Rachel canceled lunch with me because of the new developments. She said I'd have to grab a cab back to the hotel and that she'd call me when she could. She said she might be going back to Florida but would let me know. I wanted to stay, too, but fatigue was finally setting in from my sleepless night.

I took the elevator down and was walking through the lobby of the federal building, thinking about calling Greg Glenn and checking my messages, when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Hey, hot shot, howzit hanging?"

I turned around and Michael Warren walked up to me.

"Warren. I just tried to call you at the Times. They said you were out."

"I was here. Supposed to be another press conference at two. Thought I'd come early and see what I could dig up."

"Like another source maybe?"

"I told you, Jack, I'm not talking to you about that."

"Yeah, well, I'm not talking to you either."

I turned and started away. He called after me.

"Then why'd you call me? To gloat?"

I looked back at him.

"Something like that. I guess. But you know, Warren, I'm not really mad at you. You went after a story that was given to you and that's cool. I can't blame you. Thorson had his own agenda and you didn't know about that. He used you but we all get used. I'll see you."

"Wait a minute, Jack. If you're not pissed off, why don't you talk to me?"

"Because we're still competitors."

"No we're not, man. You're not even on the story anymore. I had the front page of the Rocky faxed to me this morning. They gave it to somebody else. Only place your name appears is in the story. No bylines, Jack. You're not on the story. You are the story. So why don't we go on the record here and let me ask you a few questions?"

"Like 'How do you feel?' Is that what you want to ask?"

"That's one of them, yeah."

I looked at him a good long moment. No matter how much I didn't like him or what he had done, I couldn't deny the empathy I had for his position. He was doing what I had done so many times before. I looked at my watch and out at the parking circle beyond the lobby. There were none of the waiting cabs I had seen the day before.

"You got a car?"

"Yeah, a company car."

"Give me a ride to the Chateau Marmont. We'll talk on the way."

"On the record?"

"On the record."

He turned on a tape recorder and put it on the dashboard. He just wanted the basics from me. He wanted to quote me about what I had done the night before rather than rely on a secondhand source like an FBI spokesman. That was too easy and he was too good a reporter to settle for a spokesman. Whenever possible he went straight to the source. I understood this. I was the same way.

Telling him the story somehow made me feel good. I enjoyed it. It wasn't anything I hadn't already given Jackson at my own paper, so it wasn't like I was revealing company secrets. But Warren had been around at almost the start of the trail and I liked being the one who told him where it had led and how it had ended.

I didn't tell him about the latest developments, about the PTL network and Gomble running it from a prison. That was too good to give away. I planned on writing that one myself, whether it was for the Rocky or one of those publishers in New York.

Finally, Warren drove up the short hill to the entrance of the Chateau Marmont. A doorman opened the door but I didn't get out. I looked at Warren.

"Anything else?"

"No, I think I got it. I have to get back to the federal building for the press conference anyway. But this is going to be great."

"Well, you and the Rocky are the only ones that got it. I'm not planning to go to 'Hard Copy' unless it's six figures."

He looked at me, surprised.

"Just kidding, Warren. I'd break into the records room with you at the foundation but, hey, I draw the line at selling my story to the tabs."

"What about the publishers?"

"I'm working on it. You?"

"I gave up once your first story came out. My agent said the editors he talked to were more interested in you than me. You had the brother, you know? You were obviously on the inside. Only thing I'd be able to sell was one of those quick-and-dirty jobs. I'm not interested. I've got a reputation."

I nodded and turned to get out of the car.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Thanks for the story."

I was out and about to close the door when Warren started to say something but then stopped.

"What is it?"

"I was going… ah, hell, look, Jack, about the source on that story. If-"

"Forget it, man, it doesn't matter anymore. Like I said, the guy's dead and you did what any reporter would do."

"No, wait. That's not what I'm saying… I don't give up sources, Jack, but I can tell you who isn't a source. And Thorson wasn't my source, okay? I didn't even know the guy."

I just nodded, saying nothing. He didn't know that I had seen the hotel phone records and that I knew he was lying. A new Jaguar pulled under the parking overhang and a couple dressed head to toe in black started getting out. I looked back at Warren, wondering what he was trying to do. What scam could he be pulling by lying now?

"That it?"

Warren turned a hand upside down and nodded.

"Yeah, that's it. Being that he's dead and you were there, I thought you might want to know."

I looked at him for another moment.

"Okay, man," I said. "Thanks. I'll see you around."

I straightened up and closed the door, then bent down to look at Warren through the window and gave a wave. He snapped off a military-style salute and drove away.

46

In my room I connected my computer to the phone line and dialed into the Rocky's computer. I had thirty-six E-mail messages waiting for me. I hadn't checked in two days. Most of the in-house messages were congratulatory, although they weren't explicitly worded as such because the senders probably hesitated to do so, wondering if it was proper to congratulate me for killing the Poet. There were two from Van Jackson asking me where I was and to call and three from Greg Glenn asking the same. The Rocky operator had also dumped my phone messages into my E-mail basket and there were several from reporters across the country and from Hollywood production companies. My mother and Riley had also called. There was no doubt I was in demand. I saved all the messages in case I wanted to call back and signed off.