the survivors. Tracking down relatives of the victims. But my editor also wants drama. By drama, he means sleaze. Know what sleaze is, Dennis?”
Denny did not answer, riveted by the reporter’s words, immersed in his father’s tragedy.
“Sleaze is a lousy approach to news. Started by TV.Gossip, innuendo … the worse the better.
Inside Story. Tough Copy.
No holds barred, kid. The sleazier the better. So, newspapers have to keep up with the sleaze factor. Your father’s the only living survivor of the scandal—theater owner’s dead, city inspector’s dead, even the investigator’s dead. That leaves your father. The problem, kid, is your father isn’t talking. When someone tracks him down, he always says: ‘No comment.’ That makes him fair game. And, frankly, I think it’s going to be brutal this time. For him, for your mother, for yourself. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary.”
The reporter spoke quietly, sympathetically, in contrast to the cruel words that came out of his mouth.
“What can I do to help?” Denny asked. Yet felt it was a useless question.
“Your father has never given an interview in all these years, and I respect him for that. But that means he never gave his side of the story. The human side. People have never found out what kind of man he is. What kind of family he has. Maybe a story from you can humanize him. Maybe if you tell us about him it will help. What do you say, Dennis?”
“I don’t know what to say,” Denny said. “My father always told me not to talk about it to anybody. Not even to answer the phone.”
A light leaped in the reporter’s eyes. “That’s the kind of thing I need, Dennis. The fact that he’s trying to protect you,
protect his family.
This can give the public an entirely different picture of your father. Right now, a lot of people wonder about him. He’s mysterious, and it’s easy to make him a scapegoat. We can change that around. Our storycan be first, can set the pace for other newspapers, television, radio …”
“I don’t know,” Denny said. He was afraid he was betraying his father by talking to this reporter.
“What’s your name?” he asked, stalling, having to say something.
“Les Albert.” The reporter searched his pockets, came up with a limp, soiled card. “Here’s my card. The
Telegram
’s phone number, too. Think it over, Dennis. Call me. Collect. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll drop by again. But time is a factor.”
“I don’t know,” Denny said, aware that he was repeating himself, must appear slow and stupid. Yet the reporter, with his sad, red-streaked eyes, seemed sympathetic.
“Trust me,” Les Albert said. “I mean it.”
That was the problem, Denny thought, as he closed the door: could he really trust him?
He listened to the reporter’s footsteps receding, the porch door opening and closing. In the living room, he looked out the window, waited patiently. After a few minutes, Les Albert emerged from the shadows of the driveway and walked to a car parked at the curb. An old model, nondescript, faded green. He took a camera from the car and swung it toward the house. Denny drew back, let the curtain fall into place. Although he was out of sight, he felt exposed and defenseless.
He took out the reporter’s card and began tearing it in two, but stopped. He found some Scotch tape in his desk and repaired the card, then slipped it into his wallet.
Next day, more knocking as he walked by the 24-Hour Store and turned to see assistant manager Dave rapping on the window, beckoning him inside. Denny hesitated, then entered.
“I’m sorry about the job,” Dave said. “I didn’t realize Mr. Taylor wasn’t hiring teenagers.” He patted his roof as if to make sure it was still there.
“That’s okay,” Denny said, although it wasn’t. He felt as if somehow Dave had betrayed him.
“Sounds like age discrimination, doesn’t it?” Dave said, obviously trying to be friendly.
Denny didn’t feel
Denny did not answer, riveted by the reporter’s words, immersed in his father’s tragedy.
“Sleaze is a lousy approach to news. Started by TV.Gossip, innuendo … the worse the better.
Inside Story. Tough Copy.
No holds barred, kid. The sleazier the better. So, newspapers have to keep up with the sleaze factor. Your father’s the only living survivor of the scandal—theater owner’s dead, city inspector’s dead, even the investigator’s dead. That leaves your father. The problem, kid, is your father isn’t talking. When someone tracks him down, he always says: ‘No comment.’ That makes him fair game. And, frankly, I think it’s going to be brutal this time. For him, for your mother, for yourself. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary.”
The reporter spoke quietly, sympathetically, in contrast to the cruel words that came out of his mouth.
“What can I do to help?” Denny asked. Yet felt it was a useless question.
“Your father has never given an interview in all these years, and I respect him for that. But that means he never gave his side of the story. The human side. People have never found out what kind of man he is. What kind of family he has. Maybe a story from you can humanize him. Maybe if you tell us about him it will help. What do you say, Dennis?”
“I don’t know what to say,” Denny said. “My father always told me not to talk about it to anybody. Not even to answer the phone.”
A light leaped in the reporter’s eyes. “That’s the kind of thing I need, Dennis. The fact that he’s trying to protect you,
protect his family.
This can give the public an entirely different picture of your father. Right now, a lot of people wonder about him. He’s mysterious, and it’s easy to make him a scapegoat. We can change that around. Our storycan be first, can set the pace for other newspapers, television, radio …”
“I don’t know,” Denny said. He was afraid he was betraying his father by talking to this reporter.
“What’s your name?” he asked, stalling, having to say something.
“Les Albert.” The reporter searched his pockets, came up with a limp, soiled card. “Here’s my card. The
Telegram
’s phone number, too. Think it over, Dennis. Call me. Collect. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll drop by again. But time is a factor.”
“I don’t know,” Denny said, aware that he was repeating himself, must appear slow and stupid. Yet the reporter, with his sad, red-streaked eyes, seemed sympathetic.
“Trust me,” Les Albert said. “I mean it.”
That was the problem, Denny thought, as he closed the door: could he really trust him?
He listened to the reporter’s footsteps receding, the porch door opening and closing. In the living room, he looked out the window, waited patiently. After a few minutes, Les Albert emerged from the shadows of the driveway and walked to a car parked at the curb. An old model, nondescript, faded green. He took a camera from the car and swung it toward the house. Denny drew back, let the curtain fall into place. Although he was out of sight, he felt exposed and defenseless.
He took out the reporter’s card and began tearing it in two, but stopped. He found some Scotch tape in his desk and repaired the card, then slipped it into his wallet.
Next day, more knocking as he walked by the 24-Hour Store and turned to see assistant manager Dave rapping on the window, beckoning him inside. Denny hesitated, then entered.
“I’m sorry about the job,” Dave said. “I didn’t realize Mr. Taylor wasn’t hiring teenagers.” He patted his roof as if to make sure it was still there.
“That’s okay,” Denny said, although it wasn’t. He felt as if somehow Dave had betrayed him.
“Sounds like age discrimination, doesn’t it?” Dave said, obviously trying to be friendly.
Denny didn’t feel
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