Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery by Scott Dennis Parker Page A

Levitz. The portly man constantly had his necktie
loosened, his open collar dirty around the inside ring, and a cigarette hanging
from dried lips. The unlit stick bobbed up and down as he spoke and handed out
assignments. Each assignment was on a slip of paper torn from a stack held
together by an iron rod and a cast iron nut. Levitz claimed it was a piece of
the Hindenburg but few believed him although no reporter, copy boy, or
secretary ever said so to his face.
    When Levitz called out a story and assigned a reporter, that man—they
were all men—would plow through the throng and snatch a piece of paper Levitz
handed out. Barbara Essary, the editor’s secretary, sat at a nearby desk and
jotted notes. Sometimes the boys in the newsroom swapped stories. As a rule,
Levitz didn’t mind the switching except in those times when he reminded his
reporters that he was the editor and he assigned the stories as he saw fit.
    This was one of those times.
    “I think we all know which ones I'm talking about," Levitz
continued. “There’s the crazy guy who jumped in front of a moving car and lost,
and the mugging death of William Silber, local artist. The latter's more of a
fancy obit, the former's just a basic crime blotter filler piece.”
    Gordon looked down a re-read the slip of paper listing the job he already
had. A puff piece on the local nightclub owner, Bruno Clavell, who had recently
built his first club in Houston after a successful string of similar nightclubs
in Dallas, Ft. Worth, San Antonio, and Austin. It didn’t amount to much, but
he’d certainly get to dust off his tux.
    In the stuffy room, not every reporter wore a jacket. Gordon ditched his
long ago to the back of his chair next to his brand-new desk near the window.
Next to him, Jack Hanson, an older man with three kids and a wife, needed more
deodorant. His body odor wafted around him like a fog. Gordon eased away under
a false pretense, all the while wondering how Hanson had three kids.
    “I’m gonna get that top story,” Johnny Flynn said to Gordon. Shorter than
Gordon by at least four inches, Johnny nonetheless had an effortless aplomb
that surrounded him. His charm and good looks opened a lot of doors and he nearly
always had his tie cinched tight. “And I’ll get the next promotion by, you
know, actually writing something that’s true.”
    Johnny, a rival reporter, still hadn’t accepted the fact that Gordon
received a promotion for fabricating a news story. To him, you wrote and then
you accepted the accolades. What made matters even worse for Gordon was that he
couldn't say anything about the nature of the story. For all Johnny knew,
Gordon’s story was about a bank robbery foiled by the police. The real story
involved Nazis in Houston. As a result, he had to suffer Johnny’s tirades and
oneupmanship.
    Gordon hated it. But he loved his desk next to the window so when Johnny
got a little too full of himself, Gordon would just saunter over to his desk
and stretch out while Johnny had to content himself with a small hovel in the
middle of the newsroom.
    “Don’t talk about stuff you don’t know a damn thing about,” Gordon
whispered. He nodded to their boss.
    “Y’all done?” Levitz asked. His cocked eyebrow spoke volumes.
    Both junior reporters nodded.
    Levitz sniggered. “There’ll be no switching. You get what you get and you
won't throw a fit.”
    What was this, kindergarten?
    “Harry,” Levitz said, “got a dime.”
    Harry Vinson plunged his hand into his pocket and produced the coin.
    “Now, since Johnny here wrote the last big piece for us, I’m gonna let
him call it. What’s it gonna be, Johnny?”
    “Heads,” Johnny called out.
    Harry flipped the dime in the air, catching it between his open palms. He
uncovered and called out, “Tails.”
    The grin on Gordon’s face could’ve lit up the marquee at the Metropolitan
movie house. “I’ll take…”
    “Not so fast, Gordie,” Levitz said, using the nickname Gordon