Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside by Ed Gorman

Jimmy’s secret.’
    â€˜I guess I should break my word to him. I need to help you.’
    â€˜I’d appreciate that.’
    â€˜So you’ll buy me lunch?’
    â€˜I’ll buy you lunch if you can wait till one thirty. We’ve got an important press conference coming up.’
    â€˜Yeah. Man, they’re really on Ward’s ass. I’ve been watching the telly all morning.’
    Telly. British. Cute.
    â€˜I cry every time they put Jimmy’s picture on. I can’t believe how much I miss him. I feel like I did when Roger died.’
    â€˜Who’s Roger?’
    â€˜My border collie. And don’t make fun of me. You live in my house, a dog’s your only chance of staying sane.’
    â€˜I cried when my old tomcat Doc died.’
    â€˜How old were you?’
    â€˜Thirty-eight.’
    â€˜Are you shitting me? You cried about a cat when you were thirty-eight? Is that really true?’
    â€˜Really true.’
    â€˜Wow. Maybe you’re not so bad after all.’
    â€˜One thirty then. Royale Hotel. The restaurant. How’s that sound?’
    â€˜You and Jimmy would’ve gotten along. Especially after you told him you cried about a cat when you were thirty-eight.’
    I actually did have a cat named Doc once. That part of the story was true. I sort of fudged the age, though. Doc died when I was eight.

EIGHT
    W hile there are no punches thrown – at least not that often – press conferences are a form of boxing matches. There is a very real quest for a knockout. Under most circumstances Jeff Ward wasn’t a household name outside his district. But with my least favorite not-news network already hinting that Ward was somehow implicated in the murder, the rest of the press, their tabloid credential intact, would be all too eager to follow suit. Maybe they would’ve been reluctant if he hadn’t had the playboy image. But sex and now the death of one of his own staffers was too much to pass up.
    Both sides here were performing a script. As far back as silent films you saw a mad-dog press attacking a pompous top-hatted politician on the steps of a government building. Reporters raging in silence for the head of the man they were stoning to death with their words. The pompous politician more pompous than ever. Until the fatal question. And then, in the way of silent films, a great melodramatic seizure of some kind when the question is asked. The pol clutching his heart; staggering, then falling. His aides grabbing him. A close-up of the pol’s face as he dies. Jubilation on the faces of the reporters. All was right in America again.
    TV has turned news conferences into gladiatorial contests. They’re fun but sometimes I feel sorry for even the people I hate. I wouldn’t do any better than they did.
    All of us inside headquarters were tense. We stood at the front windows staring out at the press. I recognized the network reporters as well as the not-news reporter who was going to fry us for sure. Right now the camera people were shimmying and nudging into position for the best shots. The men and women vying for news stardom were checking their clothes and their makeup and their hair. The security people we hired were now in place around the narrow rostrum from which Ward would speak and take questions. The police were helping with the surging reporters. They doubtless enjoyed shoving the press around.
    Everybody around me started applauding. Ward was downstairs now, talking with the staffers. He wore a very conservative blue suit, a white shirt that could blind you, and a tie more appropriate for a funeral than a press joust. On one side of him was Mrs Ruth Watkins. On the other was Sister Louise.
    Mrs Watkins was smoking a cigarette and hacking. She was maybe five feet tall and around seventy-five years old. The baggy black dress made her appear shriveled. The voice said cigarettes and whiskey. In a crisis you go with what you can