Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗
- Author: Winn Schwartau
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it yet. Maybe in a few days when you can get a little more to
tie it up. Not now. I’m sorry.”
Case closed.
Shit, shit shit, thought Scott. Back to square one.
Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close. At
five foot five with wisps of brown scattered over his balding
pate, he only lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the image.
His bargain basement suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather
than walked down the hallways at First State Savings and Loan
where he had been employed since graduating from SUNY with a
degree in accounting twenty four years ago.
His large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out of
place on the subways at New York rush hour. His loyalty to First
State was known throughout the financial departments; he was
almost a fixture. His accounting skills were extremely strong,
even remarkable if you will, but his personality and appearance,
and that preposterous cartoon voice, held him back from advancing
up the official corporate ladder.
Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.
He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind
of predicament before . . .he thought about the
lawyer . . .hiring one like he told that reporter . . .but could
he afford that . . .and he wasn’t sure what to do . . .was he in
trouble? Yes, he was . . .he knew that. That reporter . . .he
sounded like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he was
just asking questions . . .what was his name . . .?
“Ah, Mr. Mason?” Scott heard the timid man’s Road Runner voice
spoke gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his desk
from Higgins’ office. It was after 6P.M. and time to catch a
train back home to Westchester.
“This is Scott Mason.”
“Do you remember me?”
Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.
“We spoke earlier about First State, and I
just . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . . .apologize . . .for the
way I acted.”
Scott’s confirmation. Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman sounding
beancounter from First State. What did he want?
“Yes, of course, Mr. Sidneys. How can I help you?” He opened
his notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to
go home. But Sidneys . . .maybe . . .
“It’s just that, well, I’m nervous about this . . .”
“No need to apologize, Hugh.” Scott smiled into the phone to
convey sincerity. “I understand, it happens all the time. What
can I do for you tonight?”
“Well, I, ah, thought that we might, maybe you could, well I
don’t know about help, help, it’s so much and I didn’t really
know, no I shouldn’t have called . . .I’m sorry . . .” The pitch
of Sidneys’ voice rose as rambled on.
“Wait! Don’t hang up. Mr. Sidneys. Mr. Sidneys?”
“Yes,” the whisper came over the earpiece.
“Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?” The fear, the
sound of fear that every good reporter is attuned to came over
loud and clear. This man was terrified.
“Yes, I’m OK, so far.”
“Good. Now, tell me, what’s wrong. Slowly and calmly.” He
eased Sidneys off his panic perch.
Scott heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the nerve to
speak.
“Isn’t there some sorta rule,” he stuttered, “a law, that says if
I talk to you, you’re a reporter, and if I say that I don’t want
you to tell anybody, then you can’t?” Sidneys was scared, but
wanted to talk to someone. Maybe this was the time for Scott to
back off a little. He stretched out and put his feet up on his
desk, making him feel and sound more relaxed, less pressured.
According to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in his brain
and if wanted to convey calm on the phone, he merely had to
assume the position.
“That’s called off the record, Hugh. And it’s not a law.” Scott
was amused at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys showed. “It’s a
gentleman’s agreement, a code of ethics in journalism. You can
be off the record, on the record, or for background, not for
attribution, for confirmation, there’s a whole bunch of ‘em.”
Scott realized that Hugh knew nothing about the press so he
explained the options slowly. “Which one would you like?” Scott
wanted it to seem that Sidneys was in control and making the
rules.
“How about we just talk, and you tell me what I should
do . . .what you think . . .and . . .I don’t want anything in the
paper. You have one for that?” Hugh was feeling easier on the
phone with Scott.
“Sure do. We’ll just call it off the record for now. Everything
you tell me, I promise not to use it without your permission.
Will that do?” Scott smiled broadly. If you speak loudly with a
big smile on your face, people on the other end of the phone
think you’re honest and that you mean what you say. That’s how
game show hosts do it.
“OK.” Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. “Those papers you say
you have? Remember?”
“Sure do. Got them right here.” Scott patted them on his clut-
tered desk.
“Well, you can’t have them. Or you shouldn’t have them. I mean
it’s impossible.” Hugh was getting nervous again. His voice
nearly squeaked.
“Hugh, I do have them, and you all but confirmed that for me
yesterday. A weak confirmation, but I think you know more than
you let on . . .”
“Mr. Mason . . .”
“Please, call me Scott!”
“OK . . .Scott. What I’m trying to say is that what you say you
have, you can’t have cause it never existed.”
“What do you mean never existed?” Scott was confused, terribly
confused all of sudden. He raised his voice. “Listen, I have
reams of paper here that say someone at First State is a big
crook. Then you say, ‘sure it’s real’ and now you don’t. What’s
your game, Mister?” Playing good-cop bad-cop alone was diffi-
cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to reality.
“Obviously you have them, that’s not the point.” Sidneys reacted
submissively to Scott’s ersatz domineering personality. “The
only place that those figures ever existed was in my mind and in
my computer. I never made a printout. They were never put on
paper.” Hugh said resolutely.
Scott’s mind whirred. Something is wrong with this picture. He
has papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose sta-
bility is currently in question. The contents would have far
reaching effects on the S&L issue. A highly visible tip of the
iceberg. McMillan, involved in that kind of thing? Never, not
Mr. Clean. What was Sidneys getting at?
“Mr. Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a cup of
coffee somewhere. It might be easier if we sat face to face.
Get to know each other.”
Rosie’s Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson
River docks on Manhattan’s West Side. The silver interior and
exterior was not a cliche when this diner was built. Rosie, all
280 pounds of her, kept the UPS truckers coming back for over
thirty years. A lot of the staff at the paper ate here, too.
For the best tasting cholesterol in New York, saturated fats,
bacon and sausage grease flavored starches, Rosie’s was the
place. Once a month at Rosie’s would guarantee a reading of over
300.
Scott recognized Hugh from a distance. No one came in there
dressed. Had to be an accountant. Hugh hugged his briefcase
while nervously looking around the diner. Scott called the short
pale man over to the faded white formica and dull chrome booth.
Hugh ordered a glass of water, while Scott tried to make a light
dinner of it.
“So, Hugh, please continue with what you were telling me on the
phone.” Scott tried to sound empathetic.
“It’s like I said, I don’t know how you got them or they found
out. It’s impossible.” The voice was uncannily like Pebbles
Flintstone in person.
“Who found out? Does someone else know . . .?”
“OK,” Hugh sighed. “I work for First State, right? I work right
with McMillan although nobody except a few people know it. They
think I do market analysis and research. What I’m really doing
is helping shelter money in offshore investment accounts. There
are some tax benefits, I’m not a tax accountant so I don’t know
the reasons, but I manage the offshore investments.”
“Did you think that was illegal?”
“Only a little.
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