Love, Come to Me(70)

“Come in,” Heath said, recognizing Damon’s businesslike rap on his office door. Heath occupied the only private room on the whole floor, while Damon worked in the room that the rest of the editorial staff used. There, the walls were papered with maps, the corners were filled with bookshelves, and everyone sat at small green desks. Although working so near the others served the purpose of making Damon seem marginally more approachable, it also allowed him to keep an eye on everything that went on. Having a fondness for stretching his legs every half hour, Damon would saunter through the counting room, the editorial room, and the composing room, his alert black eyes taking notice of countless details of work in progress. “Anything new to report?” Heath asked, without looking up from the story in front of him.

“Still more backlash about the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment. Something’s coming in on the wire about an earthquake in San Francisco . . . supposedly a big one. And the water pail in the corner of the editorial room has a new dent.”

“You know, Damon, I’d feel a sight better about your sense of perspective if you didn’t mention the water pail in the same breath as the earthquake.”

One of Damon’s rare smiles appeared. “I know which one is going to have more immediate consequences for me.”

“It’s beyond me where you got so much compassion.”

“It’s possible my temper would improve if I didn’t have to stay up until three so many mornings, getting the paper to press.”

“When you have a wife to get home to, I’ll start feeling guilty about that.”

“Then I’ll let you know as soon as I find a woman worth marrying.”

“I’m sure one’s waiting for you somewhere,” Heath replied dryly. “But you’d find her a lot quicker if you stopped looking at a woman’s genealogy before giving a thought to the rest of her attributes.”

“I’ve been brought up to have a healthy respect for bloodlines. Bad blood will always tell, you know.”

“No offense intended . . . but it doesn’t matter who her great-grandfather was. It’s not him you’ll be climbing into bed with every night.”

“I suppose not,” Damon replied without conviction.

Abruptly Heath changed the subject. “What was it you came here to talk about?”

“Transportation. There’s only one hack parked outside that the reporters can use for special assignments. Most of the time Ransom uses it to cover the police department, which means that whenever the others need it, it’s not there. We keep on telling them to go out and discover the news, to be there as it’s happening instead of waiting to hear it secondhand, but if a story’s not within walking distance, we can’t begin to—”

“I understand. We’ll get another hack.”

“One other thing,” Damon said blandly. “I’ve been approached by several parties—who prefer to remain nameless—to talk to you about something that everyone on Newspaper Row has. Everyone but the Examiner.”

“What in the hell would that be?”

“A doorman.”

“A doorman?” Heath repeated incredulously.

“To take cards from visitors.”

“Hell’s afire!”

“It’s a matter of prestige—”

“You tell them,” Heath said with ominous softness, “that we’ll get a doorman when they start producing a paper that will have more than one good use in an outhouse.”

Lucy had her own struggles to deal with. She stood in the front hallway as furniture was being carried in and rolls of wallpaper being unfurled, and she turned circles as she became the target for a bombardment of questions.

“Mrs. Rayne, where should we put this table?”

“Mrs. Rayne, was this paper supposed to go in the first room on the second floor, or the second room on the first floor?”

“Mrs. Rayne, pardon me, but did you want the sofa against the wall or in the center of the room?”

“Mrs. Rayne. . . did you want me to paint the trimmings in the dining room blue or cream?”

“Stop!” Lucy cried suddenly, holding up her hands as if to ward them all off. Taking a deep breath, she looked from face to face and spoke rapidly. “That table should go between the two velvet chairs in the parlor. The wallpaper—first room, second floor. Sofa against the wall. The trimmings should be cream.”

As the little crowd dispersed, two more deliverymen came through the hallway, bearing more packages.

“Mrs. Rayne . . .”

“Mrs. Rayne . . .”

If anyone said her name one more time today, she would scream!

“Mr. Rayne, you wanted to see me?”

“I did,” Heath said, setting his pen down and folding his forearms as he rested them on his desktop. “Have a seat, Bartlett.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you recall the discussion we had the other day about doing personal interviews?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because it’s a relatively new field in this business, no one can do them really well—except the Chicago Sun— and maybe the New York Tribune. But interviews are going to become very important for the Examiner, Bartlett. People like to read about other people.”