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The idea had a sudden appeal. He realized that what he really wanted was junk food. Hamburgers and french fries. Not what they served these days in McDonald’s or Burger King, but the little tiny ones they used to sell for a dime, the kind they sort of steamed on the grill over chopped onions. In those white tile buildings with no booths, just round-seat stools by a counter, where everything was stainless steel. He could practically smell the damned things.
He had a little trouble finding where they kept the keys to the cars. He supposed they took them from the ignition last thing when they locked up for the night. He finally found a rack of keys in a little cupboard in the pantry off the garage. They were all in little numbered leather cases, except the key to the Rolls, which had a Rolls insignia on it.
Which was which?
He didn’t want to take the Rolls. He was going to go to a hamburger joint and sit on a round stool and eat cheap little hamburgers and french fries, and you don’t take a Rolls-Royce to do that.
He took one key and worked his way through a Cadillac coupe and a Buick station wagon before it worked in the ignition switch of an Oldsmobile sedan he didn’t remember ever having seen before. He remembered vaguely that Sally had said something about having to get Mrs. Dawberg a new car, and that he’d told her to go ahead and do it.
He thought he remembered a White Palace or a Crystal Palace or whatever the hell they called those joints about a mile away, but when he got there, there was a Sunoco gas station, so he drove on. When he stopped at a red light, he decided it had been some time since he’d last had a little sip, and pulled the cork from the Hennessey bottle and took a little nip.
Thirty minutes later, not having found what he wanted, he decided to hell with it. What he would do was go by the Ledger. It wouldn’t be a cheap little White Palace hamburger, but the cafeteria operated twenty-four hours a day, and he could at least get a hamburger, or something else. And it was always a good idea to drop in unannounced on the city room. Keep them on their toes.
He drove to the back of the building and pulled the nose of the Oldsmobile in against a loading dock, and took another little sip. He could hardly walk into the city room carrying a bottle of cognac, and there was no telling how long he would be in there.
There was a tap on his window, and he looked out and saw a security officer frowning at him. With some difficulty, Arthur J. Nelson managed to find the window switch and lower the window.
“Hey, buddy,” the security officer said, “you can’t park there.”
“Let me tell you something, buddy,” Arthur J. Nelson said. “I own this goddamned newspaper and I can park any goddamned place I please!”
The security officer’s eyes widened, and then there was recognition.
“Sorry, Mr. Nelson, I didn’t recognize you.”
“Goddamned right,” Arthur Nelson said, and got out of the car. “Keep up the good work!” he called after the retreating security officer.
He entered the building and walked down the tile-lined corridor to the elevator bank. Windows opened on the presses in the basement. They were still, although he saw pressmen standing around. He glanced at his watch.
It was not quite one A.M. The first (One Star) edition started rolling at two-fifteen. Christ alone knew what it was costing him to have all those pressmen standing around for an hour or more with their fingers up their asses at $19.50 an hour. He’d have to look into that. Goddamned unions would bankrupt you if you didn’t keep your eye on them.
He got in the elevator and rode it up to the fifth, editorial, floor, and went into the city room.
He felt eyes on him as he walked ac
ross the room to the city desk.
Well, why the hell not? I don’t come in here at this time nearly often enough.
There were half a dozen men and two women at the city desk. The city editor got to his feet when he saw him.
“Good evening, Mr. Nelson,” he said. “How are you, sir?”
“How the hell do you think I am?” Nelson snapped.
“I’d like to offer my condolences, sir,” the city editor said.
“Very kind of you,” Arthur Nelson said, automatically, and then he remembered that goddamned cop, whatsisname, Wohl.
“I’ve got something for you,” Nelson said. “The cops have found my son’s car. It was stolen from the garage at his apartment when ... it was stolen from his apartment.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You haven’t heard about it?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I’m telling you,” Nelson said. “And they’re giving me the goddamned runaround. Somewhere in Jersey is where they found it. Some Jersey state trooper found it, but he wouldn’t tell me where.”
