'Love and news, two four-lettered words.'

Picking at her salad, she observed him out of the corner of her eye. He was drinking steadily, bemused.

'If you dislike journalism so much,' she said, 'how come you're in it?'

'How come a wh.o.r.e's a wh.o.r.e?' he retorted.

'That's no answer.'

'And that's no question you asked.'

'I mean, something got you into journalism. What got you into it?'

'That's a question,' he decided. He set down his gla.s.s and began to eat his salad reflectively. 'I was born in Oakland,' he said. 'Ever know anybody born in Oakland?'

'No,' admitted Victoria. 'All I know about Oakland is what Gertrude Stein said about it. "When you get there, there's no there there."'

Ramsey eyed her with bleary respect. 'Exactly,' he said. He concentrated on his salad, then seemed to recall what he had been speaking about. T was no good at sports, but good at writing. Not from my parents - they had a clothing store. Writing was a natural gift. I intended to write books. Those writers seemed to live well and independently. But after two years at a junior college I was given a scholarship to the School of Journalism at the University of Wisconsin. That was my downfall.'

The salad plates had been removed, and they were being served rack of lamb, with new potatoes and fresh peas. Ramsey considered the food, and finished his drink.

He became aware of his partner. 'Where was I?' he asked.

'In Madison, Wisconsin.'

'Yes. I was a feature writer on the Daily Cardinal. I was very gifted, too gifted. A magazine in New York - forget its name - gave me a free-lance a.s.signment. An expose about Big Ten football. Recruitment. Did I tell you it was an expose?'

'You were starting to.'

'It was very good. Result, the New York Times hired me. Features. Some by-lines. Result, the Giant - E. J. Armstead -he offered me more money. About ten years ago. Been on the Record ever since.'

'So what's bad about that?' Victoria wanted to know.

'Books,' Ramsey mumbled. 'Always wanted to do books.'

31.

'Why didn't you?'

'I did. Wrote one.'

'You did?' She was surprised. 'You wrote a book that was published? What about?'

'Novel about Rousseau. Not Jean Jacques. Henri, Henri Rousseau. French primitive painter, died 1910. A real primitive, toll inspector, sometimes postman, turned painter.'

'I'd like to read it. What was it called?'

'The Postman Always Rings Twice. Naw, I'm kidding. Never mind what it was called.'

T would like to read it, Nick.'

'Unavailable, even in rare-book stores. Sold 344 copies.'

'Why don't you write another one?'

'Would you, with that kind of encouragement?'

Victoria nodded her head vigorously. T would, if that's what I wanted to do most in the world.'

He snorted. 'You would. You're a romantic. You even think newspapers are romantic. You think there are big beats around every corner, derring-do, clandestine meetings, earth-shaking news.

That's what you believe, isn't it?'

'Yes, that's what I believe. I think being on a newspaper is one of the last romantic things in the world.'

'Honey, this is big-time, big commercial time, and you're going to lose your girlish laughter fast.

Maybe newspapers were romantic once. When your father was a young newsman, battered felt hat, ancient Underwood typewriter, stubby pencils, underworld connections, making deadlines, Extras in the street. Honey, that world is as dead as the one-hoss shay. You know what a newspaper is now? Something you read if happened to miss last night's television. Something that shovels in words between the ads. No more regular typewriters, no more stubby pencils, no more Extra-read-all-about-it. Just one big electronic rig-up, filled with computers and tapes. It's one big bore, with no future. Take my word for it and spare yourself a lot of grief.'

'I hope you're wrong,' she said.

'For your sake, I hope I am.' He signaled a pa.s.sing waiter and held up his empty gla.s.s. 'One more for the road,' he called.

When he turned back, he found her eyes hard on him.

'Nick,' she said, 'why do you drink so much?'

He gave her a wicked smile. T don't know,' he said. 'You're the investigative reporter. You find out.'

The next morning, at her desk early, Victoria Weston was still thinking about Nick Ramsey when she heard her name on the loudspeaker. It was a summons from the managing editor. Taking up a notepad and ballpoint pen, she hurried to Ollie McAllister's office.

32.

Studying the contents of a manila folder, he told Victoria to draw up a chair.

'Your first a.s.signment,' he said.

'I am ready,' she said, indicating her pad and pen and wondering what the a.s.signment would be.

'Since Edward Armstead has just taken over, we haven't as yet had time to determine what investigative stories we want to get into. However, to keep you busy we have some news features that need doing. Especially one we want to get into the works right now.'

Victoria waited tensely.

McAllister looked up. 'Ever heard of Sam Yinger?'

'Who hasn't? He murdered all those kids.'

'He's going to die in the electric chair at Green Haven prison two days from now. Since his crime - horrendous as any I've heard - has imprinted itself on the public consciousness, we figure there's wide interest in how Yinger spends his last hours or last day. Especially now that the state has restored capital punishment. He'll be one of the first big names to burn under the new law. What we want is a color story, really. There you are in a cell on Death Row. Soon you are going to be extinguished as a human being. How do you spend your final hours? What are you doing? What are you thinking? Do you get the picture?' 'I get it.'

'Is it scary, or isn't it for a subhuman like Yinger? We don't know. We hope to find out.

Unfortunately we - and all of the press - have been refused visits or interviews. We can't get to Yinger directly. But as it turns out, we can get to him indirectly - that is, at second hand.' 'I'm not sure I understand.'

'You will in a moment,' said McAllister. 'Here at the Record we have on the payroll a large number of tipsters in every field. We have some in city hall, some in the D.A.'s office, some in the state capitol.' He paused for effect. 'And we have some in the underworld.'

Victoria was not surprised. But because McAllister obviously was playing it for effect, she said, 'Really? Isn't it terribly dangerous for them, informing on their friends?'

'Yes, it is, although they rarely give us anything important. But they are people always short of money. They tip us off to small things, when they think they can do it safely. Well, one of our more productive underworld tipsters is a man named Gus Pagano. Does the name mean anything to you?'

'I don't think so.'

'Probably not, because Gus Pagano was a local story and you were in Chicago at the time. Three years ago Pagano was a minor crime figure. Not a killer, but a thief. One night the cashier of a hotel on the Park, on Fifth Avenue, was held up.

She set off a silent alarm. Just as the robber was making his escape, a squad car arrived and two of the city's finest got out of it. The robber gunned them down, killed them, and got

33.

away. The police, as you know, don't take murder of a policeman lightly. A wide net was thrown out. Suspects were pulled in, and among them was Gus Pagano. Immediately three witnesses pointed him out as the police killer. He denied it, protested his innocence, but then what else would one expect from a hardened criminal? Anyway, Pagano was tried, found guilty, sentenced to the chair. He was incarcerated at the Green Haven Correctional Facility. He continued to insist upon his innocence. Although unlettered, he liked to read, and he began to read up on the law. Then Pagano began to file appeals, as well as write letters to all the New York newspapers. A few of us on the Record were impressed by his letters, and we decided to have our legal staff monitor one of his appeals. As a result, there was a long delaying action and his execution was put off time and again. Finally Pagano lost his last appeal, and a firm date was set for his execution. He was on Death Row, getting ready to meet his Maker, when another man was picked up for murder in Atlanta and confessed to the killings of which Pagano had been accused. In fact, the real murderer very much resembled Pagano, so the mistake by all the witnesses was understandable. Anyway, Pagano was released from Death Row and released from prison and was a free man.'

'And now he's working for you?'

'Yes. It came about quite simply. Some time after he'd gotten out of prison he came up here one.

day to see us, ostensibly to thank us for our help in appealing his case. Actually he was looking for money. He admitted to being back in the mob, back into petty crime, but the pickings were poor.

He wondered if we'd pay him to be an informant. We were wary. He could hardly be regarded as the most trustworthy of parties. But Dietz said he was street-smart and ordered me to give him a chance. Se we put him on a modest retainer. Most of his leads were too vague and cautious to be of any value, but gradually he began to phone in tips - three, four, five - that led to fairly big stories.

We've kept him on the payroll ever since.'

'What's he got to do with Sam Yinger?' asked Victoria.

'Pagano knew Yinger slightly before either of them was in Green Haven. I don't know if that amounts to much. More important, Yinger now occupies the cell on Death Row that Gus Pagano occupied before he was found innocent and released.'

McAllister waited for Victoria's reaction, and she reacted almost at once. 'I get it. Since we can't get to Yinger, we find out what he's going through in that cell before his execution from Pagano, who went through the same experience.'

'You've got it. Get the material from Pagano - and write it about Yinger.'

'When do I see Gus Pagano?'

34.

'Any minute. He's on his way here. He has an idea what we want from him. You can talk to him in our conference room next door. Here's a file of clips about the Yinger crime. Brief yourself on it. When you're finished with Pagano, go write the story. No more than eight hundred words. Turn it in to me this afternoon.' He directed her to a side door. 'Good luck, young lady.'

Gus Pagano proved to be a dapper, slender, youngish man, perhaps thirty-five, who looked like a fugitive from an Edward G. Robinson gangster movie. His five-foot-eleven-inch frame was encased in a tight pinstriped double-breasted blue serge suit. He wore blue suede shoes. He had a full head of curly black hair, close-set eyes, a long hawklike nose, thick lips, and pocked cheeks. He was indeed street-smart, and book-smart, as well as a fast and glib talker.

Setting eyes on Victoria, he removed his snap-brim felt hat, carefully placed it on the round conference table and offered her a small bow. 'I'm Gus Pagano,' he said. 'You're the first looker I've seen on this paper.'

'Thank you, Mr. Pagano.' She settled into a wooden chair. Although there were eight chairs around the table, Pagano took the one next to Victoria.

'So you're writing about Sam Yinger,' he said, 'and what it's like to get ready to die.'

'What it feels like, waiting for the electric chair, and what a cell on Death Row is like.'

'They can't get to Yinger, so they want to know what I know.'

'That's right.'

'They told you I was on Death Row right up to the wire, before I was sprung? You know about that?' 'Mr. McAllister told me.'

'And Yinger's in the cell I used to have. Okay, I can't tell you from my feelings what Yinger feels like today. I was a special case. I was in there on a b.u.m rap, and all I could think was that I was going to roast for something I didn't do. I was bitter, just plain bitter. Yinger's another case. He finally admitted he did it. You know what he did, don't you?'

Victoria tapped the folder on the table. T read the coverage of the trial by the Record.'

Pagano shook his head. 'A real crazy, and sick as h.e.l.l. He goes out with this woman - what was her name -?' 'Caroline.'

'Yeah, Caroline, a schoolteacher. Yinger goes out with her twice, and she finds him too weird to go out with him anymore. She doesn't answer his calls. One night he spots her with another guy on a date, and he goes berserk. Next day he goes to her school, in the cla.s.sroom where she's teaching English to six young ethnics - six young kids eight to ten years old, one little boy and five girls - and he shoots Caroline dead, and then he goes around the cla.s.sroom and murders all six kids.' 'I know all that,' Victoria said.

Ignoring her, Pagano went on. 'He almost gets away, until someone spots him a few days later.'

Pagano shook his head again. 'He went into Green Haven after I got out. It's loons like him who give all of us a bad name. I can't help you about Yinger.'

'What about his living conditions? How does he live? How does he spend his time?'

Pagano waited for Victoria to find her notepad and take out her pen, and then he began talking.