unbelievable.”
“But that’s only because you know me, Peter. Your readers, they don’t have a clue what I look like.”
“It’s a first-person story. We’d have to run a picture,” Cartwill said.
“Hell, you don’t have to use
mine.”
Bang Abbott pointed across the newsroom at some good-looking kid standing at the coffee machine. “Put
his
face on the damn thing. Who cares?”
“I’m sorry, mate.”
“Your loss. I’ll sell it to the
Enquirer.”
Bang Abbott was annoyed that Cartwill didn’t acknowledge the obvious hook in the story.“How many shooters you heard of that got balled by a superstar? And then fuckin’ robbed? C’mon, Peter, gimme a break.”
Cartwill said, “Actually, it’s good you stopped by. You remember this one?” He handed Bang Abbott a color print, an eight-by-ten. “We put it on page two.”
“Sure. That’s Cherry after the Grammys. Outside the Viper Room.”
“And you’re quite certain it’s her?” Cartwill asked.
Bang Abbott felt like he’d been kicked in the nuts. Did Cartwill know about the look-alike? He said, “You guys bought the damn picture! Of course it’s her.”
But he was studying the photograph closely. Cherry—if it
was
Cherry—had been wearing a leather miniskirt and Chanel shades when she came out of the club and dashed across Sunset. Bang Abbott’s flash had caught one side of her face, a washed-out exposure typical of night shoots. Lev was at her side … but what did that prove? After all, it was Lev who’d told Bang Abbott that Cherry had duped him more than once.
Cartwill said, “We got an e-mail about this one, Claude. From a nurse at Cedars, she’s a faithful reader of our paper. She said Cherry couldn’t have been at any after-parties that night because she was in the emergency room, getting her stomach pumped.”
Bang Abbott didn’t take his eyes off the picture. The longer he studied it, the less certain he was. The woman could have been Cherry Pye, or she could have been the double he’d photographed on the stretcher behind the Stefano—in such poor light, it was impossible to say.
“It’s Cherry, man. Who the hell else would it be?” Bang Abbott blustered. “The guy walking beside her, that’s her bodyguard. Name’s Lev. Here, look.”
Cartwill took back the print without glancing at it. “We really don’t ask many questions. You know that, Claude. This is a competitive business, and things happen.”
“Not to me they don’t.”
“However, the IDs must be one thousand percent positive,” Cartwill went on. “It’s really the only rule we have. We run a shotof Charlize, it better damn well be Charlize. It’s not their lawyers we’re worried about, it’s our reputation.”
Bang Abbott said, “Your reputation?”
Peter Cartwill seemed dead serious. “Readers buy our paper to see photographs of fabulous people living fabulous lives. If they think we’re faking our pictures, they won’t buy the paper anymore. The stories themselves can be total bullshit, and often they are, but so what? The public has no way of knowing what’s true and what’s not. But the photographs have to be real, Claude, because that’s what gives credibility to the journalism.”
“You bet,” said Bang Abbott, thinking: Did he just say “journalism”?
“They see a photo of Julia leaving the supermarket, they’ll believe she’s got two cartons of Marlboros in the bag because she’s desperately trying to drop ten pounds for the new Soderbergh film. But it
must
be Julia in the picture for the story to play.”
“What are you sayin’, Peter?”
Cartwill tapped a forefinger on the desk. “Be careful, that’s all. We don’t want to get burned.”
“No worries,” Bang Abbott said thinly. When he stood up, he noticed that the color print from the Viper Room shoot was pinned firmly beneath the editor’s left elbow.
“In the old days, there was wriggle room. You know—a wink and a nod,” Cartwill said. “Not
“But that’s only because you know me, Peter. Your readers, they don’t have a clue what I look like.”
“It’s a first-person story. We’d have to run a picture,” Cartwill said.
“Hell, you don’t have to use
mine.”
Bang Abbott pointed across the newsroom at some good-looking kid standing at the coffee machine. “Put
his
face on the damn thing. Who cares?”
“I’m sorry, mate.”
“Your loss. I’ll sell it to the
Enquirer.”
Bang Abbott was annoyed that Cartwill didn’t acknowledge the obvious hook in the story.“How many shooters you heard of that got balled by a superstar? And then fuckin’ robbed? C’mon, Peter, gimme a break.”
Cartwill said, “Actually, it’s good you stopped by. You remember this one?” He handed Bang Abbott a color print, an eight-by-ten. “We put it on page two.”
“Sure. That’s Cherry after the Grammys. Outside the Viper Room.”
“And you’re quite certain it’s her?” Cartwill asked.
Bang Abbott felt like he’d been kicked in the nuts. Did Cartwill know about the look-alike? He said, “You guys bought the damn picture! Of course it’s her.”
But he was studying the photograph closely. Cherry—if it
was
Cherry—had been wearing a leather miniskirt and Chanel shades when she came out of the club and dashed across Sunset. Bang Abbott’s flash had caught one side of her face, a washed-out exposure typical of night shoots. Lev was at her side … but what did that prove? After all, it was Lev who’d told Bang Abbott that Cherry had duped him more than once.
Cartwill said, “We got an e-mail about this one, Claude. From a nurse at Cedars, she’s a faithful reader of our paper. She said Cherry couldn’t have been at any after-parties that night because she was in the emergency room, getting her stomach pumped.”
Bang Abbott didn’t take his eyes off the picture. The longer he studied it, the less certain he was. The woman could have been Cherry Pye, or she could have been the double he’d photographed on the stretcher behind the Stefano—in such poor light, it was impossible to say.
“It’s Cherry, man. Who the hell else would it be?” Bang Abbott blustered. “The guy walking beside her, that’s her bodyguard. Name’s Lev. Here, look.”
Cartwill took back the print without glancing at it. “We really don’t ask many questions. You know that, Claude. This is a competitive business, and things happen.”
“Not to me they don’t.”
“However, the IDs must be one thousand percent positive,” Cartwill went on. “It’s really the only rule we have. We run a shotof Charlize, it better damn well be Charlize. It’s not their lawyers we’re worried about, it’s our reputation.”
Bang Abbott said, “Your reputation?”
Peter Cartwill seemed dead serious. “Readers buy our paper to see photographs of fabulous people living fabulous lives. If they think we’re faking our pictures, they won’t buy the paper anymore. The stories themselves can be total bullshit, and often they are, but so what? The public has no way of knowing what’s true and what’s not. But the photographs have to be real, Claude, because that’s what gives credibility to the journalism.”
“You bet,” said Bang Abbott, thinking: Did he just say “journalism”?
“They see a photo of Julia leaving the supermarket, they’ll believe she’s got two cartons of Marlboros in the bag because she’s desperately trying to drop ten pounds for the new Soderbergh film. But it
must
be Julia in the picture for the story to play.”
“What are you sayin’, Peter?”
Cartwill tapped a forefinger on the desk. “Be careful, that’s all. We don’t want to get burned.”
“No worries,” Bang Abbott said thinly. When he stood up, he noticed that the color print from the Viper Room shoot was pinned firmly beneath the editor’s left elbow.
“In the old days, there was wriggle room. You know—a wink and a nod,” Cartwill said. “Not
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