“Sorry to interrupt,” she told the group. “Mark, something’s up. Thought you’d want to know.” She stopped, glancing about the room with jerky little bird-twists of her head, as if she wanted to be alone with me.
Bruno decoded this signal with ease, offering, “I must be on my way, my friends. Besides, I have finished—I have told you of my plans.”
Glee rose from her chair, flipping her notebook closed, her interview abruptly ended. She asked Bruno, “Can I reach you at your motel if I need a few more quotes for my story?”
“But of course,
chère
Glee.” He edged toward the doorway, nodding a farewell to each of us. Then he stopped, remembering. “This weekend, however, I shall drive to Milwaukee—with regard to the matter we discussed. But you can reach me on Monday.” And he left the office to retrace his path through the newsroom.
Crossing to the doorway, Glee called after him, “Travel safe, Bruno. Good luck.” She waved.
I muttered, “He’ll need all the luck he can get.” Judging from the driving technique I’d witnessed the previous morning when he’d roared up to Grace Lord’s house, I wouldn’t want to share the same road with him.
Glee commented to Lucy and me, “He’s quite a character.”
I laughed at the understatement.
Lucy wondered aloud, “But is he ‘news’?”
“Absolutely,” said Glee with mock gravity. “He and Carrol Cantrell are the two biggest figures in the small world of miniatures, at least according to the experts at
Nutshell Digest.
”
Lucy looked at Glee as if she were joking.
From the papers that Glee carried with her notes, she pulled a copy of the magazine in question, displaying its cover. The headline under the
Nutshell Digest
masthead read,
DUMONT PREVIEW: MIDWEST MINIATURES SOCIETY TO CONVENE.
The trace of a grin twisted Lucy’s mouth. She cracked, “It’s aptly named.” The comment was dry, but from Lucy it was the equivalent of a knee-slapper.
Watching this exchange, I couldn’t help but notice how strikingly different these women were from each other. Glee Savage: fifty-two, still man-hungry, flashy dresser, glib talker, features editor (soft news). Lucille Haring: some twenty years younger, no interest in men (lesbian, in fact, but no active love life to my knowledge), not much of a dresser, not much of a talker, managing editor (hard news, hard as nails). In so many ways, they were polar opposites, and yet, their working relationship was comfortable and cordial, each respecting the other’s talents, each admiring the other’s success in a profession once dominated by men.
Continuing the discussion of
Nutshell Digest,
Glee nudged her glasses into reading position and flipped to a magazine page she had dog-eared, telling us, “The lead story details a history of bad blood between Carrol and Bruno. Apparently they’ve managed to keep out of each other’s way for years, even though their success has been mutually dependent. The story closes by posing an unanswered question: ‘Come September, when these feuding titans cross paths, will there be fireworks in Dumont?’”
“Tempest in a teapot,” said Lucy, dismissing the petty dispute. She turned to me. “There’s a
real
controversy brewing with the County Plan Commission, and it may well lead to fireworks.”
That
caught my attention. I had an inkling I was about to hear about Dr. Benjamin Tenelli for the second time that morning—not two hours earlier, at breakfast, Sheriff Pierce had told me about the retired obstetrician turned civic crusader. I asked my editor, “Their porn report?”
“Just issued. The Commission’s report, authored by a Dr. Tenelli, concludes that the adult bookstores on the edge of town impede commercial development along the highway. What’s more”—she snorted—“the porn shops are thought to ‘scare away tourists.’”
Glee cracked, “Silly me—I always thought it was the brutal winters.”
I added, “Not to mention Dumont’s lack of casinos and discount malls.”
Lucy said, “The report makes no specific recommendation regarding enforcement of the obscenity ordinance, but the implication is clear: Dumont County would be well served by a crackdown on smut.”
I thought for a moment. “Is tomorrow’s editorial page locked up yet?”
Lucy reminded me, “Not if you say it’s not.”
I paused again. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some writing to do.”
As they left my outer office, I retreated to my desk.
The Register backs Douglas Pierce for sheriff of Dumont County
by MARK MANNING Publisher,
Dumont Daily Register
S
EPT. 16, DUMONT WI—SHERIFF DOUGLAS PIERCE, DUMONT COUNTY’S CHIEF LAW-ENFORCEMENT OFFICER, HAS DEMONSTRATED DURING HIS FIRST TERM OF SERVICE THAT HE IS A DEDICATED, ABLE, AND EFFECTIVE PUBLIC SERVANT. BY ANY OBJECTIVE STANDARD OF JUDGING HIS PERFORMANCE AS SHERIFF, HE DESERVES TO BE RETURNED TO THAT OFFICE.
Mr. Pierce (45) points out that during his tenure, crime rates have fallen some 14 percent in our community. Department expenses have remained consistently within budget, and he has presented a responsible plan for the long-overdue modernization of the county’s jail facilities. He has proven himself a skilled administrator—as well as a good cop.
Daniel Ken (35), Mr. Pierce’s opponent in this election, is a deputy lieutenant within the sheriff’s department, having risen through the ranks as a detective in the footsteps of his mentor, Mr. Pierce. Interviewing Lieutenant Kerr at the
Register
’s editorial offices, we found him to be affable, intelligent, and committed to public service. If given the opportunity, he could doubtless dispatch effectively the duties of the office he seeks, and we applaud his eagerness to serve the community in this broader capacity.
We disagree, however, with Mr. Kerr’s position that the sheriff’s department should play a more aggressive role in enforcement of the county’s obscenity ordinance, a wrongheaded bit of lawmaking that runs contrary to every journalistic principle as well as to the First Amendment.
We fear that Mr. Kerr’s position, coupled with the curious findings of the County Plan Commission (reported elsewhere on these pages), neither serves nor protects the liberties of Dumont’s citizenry. In our view, this issue alone disqualifies Mr. Kerr as a tenable candidate.
On November 7, Dumont’s voters will be best served by returning Sheriff Douglas Pierce to office. We offer him our enthusiastic endorsement.
N
AMING NAMES IS PART
of my business. During my career as a reporter, I quickly learned that the name in the first sentence was the most crucial detail of the story: Who did it? As publisher of my own paper, I direct my staff in the reporting of news, but my own writing is generally limited to the occasional editorial. When a column appears under my byline in Dumont, readers know that my words are not restricted to the objective transmission of facts. Rather, I now tread boldly into the realm of opinion—and I’m still naming names.
As a publisher, I view election endorsements as one of my most serious responsibilities. They are also among my greatest risks. Even in a smallish town like Dumont, where the stakes aren’t seemingly all that high, the election of public officials provides the thrust and rhythm of grassroots democracy; for most people, participation in government begins and ends in the voting booth. And in local elections, voters are far more likely to feel some connection, whether real or imagined, to the names on the ballot. Chances are, when I urge my readers to elect so-and-so, half of them will be miffed.
“Why so early?” asked Neil at breakfast that Saturday. He set the morning paper on the kitchen table, folding the editorial page to face out. “I support Doug too, but the election is nearly two months away. Tactically”—he tapped my endorsement with his finger—“wouldn’t this have more impact in November?”
He’d raised a good point. Standing at the counter, waiting for the toaster to pop, I explained, “The report from the County Plan Commission needed a quick rebuttal, so I decided to rush ahead with Doug’s endorsement, since the election could now be riding on the porn issue. Doug
deserves
to be reelected, and everyone knows it—why let the public be diverted by this censorship campaign?”
Neil raised a brow. “Censorship?”
The toast popped. “In the final analysis, that’s what this porn battle really is. Regardless of whatever lofty motive is invoked to justify it—whether it’s public decency or political correctness or economic expediency—it’s still a case of using governmental force to restrict adult access to materials deemed offensive. In my book, that’s censorship.” I was buttering toast so vigorously, it broke, leaving my palm covered with greasy crumbs. Though agitated by the topic and by the minor mess, I couldn’t help laughing.
“Let me do that,” Neil volunteered, rising from the table, crossing to the counter, taking the knife from my clean hand. He set to work buttering the toast, stacking the slices with architectural precision on a bread plate. Since neither of us was rushing to work that morning, we hadn’t dressed yet. Standing there at the counter, we both wore bathrobes, flannel for fall. I was barefoot, but Neil wore bulky gray boot socks—he’d had the foresight to realize the tile floor would be cold.
“You’re right, of course,” he told me, still buttering (there was a lot of toast, enough for Thad and Sheriff Pierce, should they join us). “Any attempt to define ‘acceptable’ reading—or viewing—is censorship, pure and simple.”
Washing my hands under the faucet, wiping them with a towel, I razzed him, “Don’t take it
too
personally.”
He paused. “And what is
that
supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I reminded him, “that you’ve always had a taste for smut.”
“I resent that.” His indignation wasn’t genuine. “I’ve always had a
rarefied
taste for smut.” Though his words sounded oxymoronic, they were a precise statement of fact. Long before I met Neil, he began amassing a sizable collection of videos—specifically, gay porn videos. Curiously, though, his interest in this material had always been more academic than prurient, and his favorite tapes could be described as cerebral, as opposed to down and dirty. His collection was stored back at the loft in Chicago; we both agreed that we’d be playing with fire if any of these videos were kept in Dumont, where an inquisitive sixteen-year-old might get ahold of them.
Returning to the topic of the election, I told Neil, “I just hope that the committee’s report doesn’t stir up enough public sentiment to hurt Doug’s chances. This Tenelli character apparently has plenty of pull.” The coffeemaker had finished brewing, and I carried the pot to the table.
Neil followed with his artful arrangement of toast, perfectly buttered to a golden sheen. “I doubt that Doug has anything to worry about—the
Register
’s endorsement ought to lock it up for him.”
“Don’t be so sure.” I sat. “Endorsements can backfire, especially in small towns, where everyone seems only too eager to trash the ‘local rag.’”
Neil sat next to me. “Are you being cynical?” He smiled. “Or just insecure?”
“A bit of both,” I admitted, returning his smile, telling myself to relax. It was Saturday, after all, and far too early in the day to get worked up over “issues.” Another cool autumn morning, it was a perfect opportunity to enjoy each other’s company. We’d had precious few of these quiet times during the past year.
So I paused, rested my hand on Neil’s, and stated the obvious: “I’m really glad you’re here—I mean working in Dumont on the Quatro project. It feels like we’re living together again.”
“We
are
—at least for a few months. Then it’s back to the old ‘arrangement.’” He was referring to the routine of alternating weekends between Dumont and Chicago, requiring long hours on the road. This future separation was not a happy thought, so Neil brought his discourse back to the present. “I really need to set up a workroom here. I’ve been spending my weekdays working out of a spare office at Quatro, which is fine, but I feel like a squatter. I need a ‘base’ outside the plant.”
“Take one of the spare bedrooms,” I suggested. There was plenty of extra room in the house. “Or rent an office somewhere.” There were plenty of vacant storefronts downtown; retailing in Dumont, as everywhere, had followed the population growth to the farther reaches of town.
“An office?” He seemed surprised that I suggested it, and I could tell that it had sparked some interest. Then he frowned, dismissing the idea. “Too permanent. I just need some space for a desk, a drafting table, and my computer.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure you could find a short-term lease somewhere.” I was scheming, of course. If we were to set him up in an office, he might begin to entertain the notion of moving his practice to Dumont. He could leave the Chicago firm and set out on his own here. But that would mean leaving the recognition and satisfying pace of his big-city career, which he would be reluctant to consider. What’s more, building his practice here would be slow going at first. Still, there was no risk—I could easily support him and provide the capital for his venture. I dared not breathe any of this, however. My motives were unabashedly selfish, and I knew he would find any offers of financial assistance demeaning. From the start, we had lived our relationship as equal partners. Though my own fortunes had outpaced his, though eight years his senior, I could never assume the position of boss and provider. And I would never want to.
“Maybe one of the bedrooms would work,” he thought aloud, adding, “though it doesn’t seem very professional.”
“No need to fret over it now,” I told him, pouring coffee for both of us. “Let’s just ease into the weekend and enjoy it.”
He smirked. “Easy for you to say. I need to gird for battle at the supermarket. We’re out of peanut butter, remember.”
“Thad goes through that stuff awfully fast,” I remarked innocently.
Neil eyed me askance. “You’ve been putting away quite a bit of it yourself.”
I couldn’t argue the point, as peanut butter had been a weakness since childhood. Shifting the topic, I joked, “Maybe Miriam Westerman was right—we’re
terrible
parents, making the kid fend for himself at breakfast. We ought to be whipping up eggs and things.”