Private affairs : a novel (42 page)

"Have you asked him why?"

"Of course not; it would make me sound weak."

"He already knows you're weak. I've been pushing you for months to get the paper moving, and you haven't been able to do it, and he knows it." He looked at his watch. "I want to talk to him, so we're going to have to make this fast. I'm bringing in a new editorial staif. I can find jobs for both of you on one of my New Mexico papers; that goes for the features and news editors, too. If any of you don't want them, you're on your own; my new people will be here next week."

"Next week!" They barraged him with angry excuses and defenses, voices rising, faces red.

"That's enough," Matt said.

"You could have given us some warning!" the business manager blurted.

"I've given all of you seven months of warnings. What did you think I meant when I said I expected a profit?"

The two men looked at each other. "Not many major papers in New Mexico," the business manager said.

"They're not major." Matt handed them an accordion folder. "These

are descriptions of the papers and the towns they're in. If you take the jobs and get used to the way I run a newspaper, I may be able to shift you to larger ones in a few years. Think about it while I talk to Dugan."

The editor put out his hand. As Matt took it, he said, "I'm sorry. I wanted to make it work, but it was like a brick wall."

Matt nodded, thinking he'd probably been too harsh. "Let me know what you decide."

"You can't do this—" the business manager snorted, but the editor maneuvered him from the office, and in a few minutes Dugan arrived.

"Thanks for coming in, Ernie," Matt said as they shook hands. "It's too crowded out there for poker and a quiet talk. Who called up the troops?"

"Seems we both did," said Dugan. "Because of the love and trust we have for each other."

Matt shook his head. "You know damn well I wouldn't do that to you. I told you on the phone we could handle our problems informally. This isn't a battlefield, Ernie."

"Well, now, Matt, I guess it's beginning to look like one. You and I've taken care of little things in the past, but this looks like it's getting too big for that. You called your friends; I called mine. What did you want to talk about?"

"Damn it, Ernie, calm down. I want to talk about anything that's bothering you. But get this straight: I didn't call my friends, as you put it." A thought struck him. "Did Chet tell you I called that meeting in the conference room?"

"Now, Matt, listen, I don't talk about other people. You and I can still get along; all it takes is some honest negotiating. If you really want to talk, maybe we should get started?"

Matt took a folding chair and poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups on a table beside him. Helpful Chet. I'd rather you didn 't tell him I told you about his crew . . . don't tell him I said anything. . . . And the son of a bitch probably said the same thing to Ernie. Don't tell Matt I told you about the army he's going to hit you with. . . .

But what was in it for Chet? After more than twenty years with Rourke, why would he play both sides? Matt watched Dugan blow on his hot coffee. All Chet had managed to do was make it a damn sight harder for Matt Lovell to prevent a strike—

All he'd managed to do? That was quite a bit.

Matt felt his anger build. If Elizabeth were there, she would have been able to defuse it, as she had so often with her sharp comments that helped him understand others because she was better with people than he was.

But for months he'd been without her steady presence, and though he was getting better at holding himself back, he still found himself often wishing she were there to help him—especially with Chet. Somehow, she'd always known just what to say about Chet to make Matt smile and calm down.

But of course she wasn't there; he was on his own. He had to calm down and he had to be patient, because at the moment there was nothing he could do about Chet. The two of them worked for Rourke and had no business squabbling in front of Ernie Dugan, who was on the other side, however much Matt once thought they had in common. He drank his coffee, burned his tongue, and in a black mood said, "All right, Ernie. You've got a list?"

"I do. And you know where it starts, Matt. The accident in the pressroom shouldn't have happened. The reason it happened, no one was willing to spend money on new presses—"

"Agreed."

"—so two men . . . what?"

"I said I agreed. Don't give me this bullshit, Ernie. We took a chance and postponed buying new presses; we made a mistake and we're doing all we can to make up for it. We've made a cash settlement to both men; we're picking up medical expenses not covered by insurance; we're holding their jobs for them; we've ordered new equipment for the pressroom. We've also started a phased purchase of a new computer system. You haven't got a grievance, Ernie. You've got past history."

"Well. Not quite." Dugan tugged at his beard, avoiding Matt's eyes. "Too many things postponed around here. Not just the presses, but also salaries, bonuses, overtime, profit sharing—"

"We've never talked about profit sharing, Ernie."

"Don't I know it. I'm saying if we want peace and harmony around here it's about time we did. Then there's the pension plan—"

"We have the best of any paper in Tucson."

"Which isn't saying much. And we have to look at vacations, sick leave, overtime, assignment schedules—"

"All right."

"What?"

"Tell me if I understand you correctly. You want to negotiate everything after you'd pledged to freeze benefits for two years, or until the Call is profitable. You want to get more of everything, and the hell with making the paper stronger. Is that right, or did I leave something out?"

"What the fuck, Matt, you've never talked to me like that!"

"You've never brought me ultimatums. What the hell has gotten into

you, Ernie? In all the times we've talked and played poker, we've never threatened each other."

"Poker's fine when people are friends," said Dugan heavily. "Not when one of them is putting on a good-buddy act to get the other one to sell out."

"You son of a bitch," Matt said quietly.

"Fuck it, Matt, we're not working for the same people. I have a membership to answer to; you've got a corporation. I didn't think of it at the time, but when the owner of a paper cozies up to the head of the union there has to be a reason."

/ didn 7 think of it at the time. The image of Chet Colfax came to Matt as clearly as if Dugan had said his name. "And somebody helped you think of it, Ernie. Right?"

Dugan ran furious fingers through his beard. "Labor and management don't sleep in the same bed; if they do, somebody's getting screwed. I can think for myself."

"Were you thinking for yourself all these months when you said I was honest and we understood each other and could work together?"

There was a silence. "Are we going to start talking about our contract, or not?" Dugan asked.

"We're not." Matt poured more coffee, spilling some on the table. He felt cold. Stupid, he thought. A babe in the woods, believing in Ernie. Rourke had seen that. If you think you know Dugan, I can't argue. Whether Chet had put him up to it, or Ernie had decided on his own that they were adversaries, Matt Lovell had been stupid and naive. Looking for a friend, for Christ's sake, when in fact they stood on opposite sides of a war zone.

But he hadn't completely lost his wits: he'd made contingency plans. What made him feel cold was that he had to use them.

"Let's go out and talk to the others," he said, moving to the door. "I want them to hear this."

"You're going around your editor?" Ernie demanded.

"I've cleared what I'm going to say with my editor and business manager. Come on, Ernie, you asked for this."

At the head of the table, with Ernie glowering at him from a seat halfway down one side, Matt stood and faced the two rows of men. Chet sat apart, in a far corner of the room. "We made progress the first couple of months after I bought the Call; since then, we've barely held our own, and the place is about as lively as the dugout of a losing team. In fact, I mentioned to someone last week that the staff acts like it's throwing the paper the way a team throws a game."

"Just a fucking minute—!" Dugan burst out.

"Not yet, Ernie. You'll have your turn when I say so. I'm not making accusations; I'm telling you how it looks to management. I came here to talk and find out what you're worried about and find a way to work together to put some life into this paper. In other words, I came here to cooperate, and I find my friend Ernie Dugan expecting me to negotiate at gunpoint. Ernie"—he focused on Dugan—"you must have some friends over at the Sentinel; you've been trying to organize that paper for years."

When he paused, Dugan growled, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Gunpoint, Ernie." Matt's voice was like steel. "I've been talking all week to Bill Falworth about buying the Sentinel. He hadn't intended to sell, but he's been rethinking that, and it looks like we'll be able to reach an agreement. And I'm not sure whether I want to own two papers in Tucson."

When it sank in, Dugan was on his feet, his face dark with rage. "You fucking bastard! You're saying you'd shut down the Call!"

Matt's face was expressionless. "With labor problems at the Call, especially after months of poor performance, I'd be a fool to put money into bigger benefits for a gang that's holding me up when I can buy the Sentinel and run it my own way."

Dugan began to pace, skirting the chair in the corner where Chet sat rigidly, alarm in his round eyes. "Three papers in this town and you want to close one of them down. Take jobs away from people, knowing they couldn't get other jobs because there'd only be two papers left, and you'd own one of them."

"That's the picture," Matt said evenly.

"Goddammit. Goddammit. You planned this! You started talking to Falworth before we even knew you were coming to Tucson! You'd destroy this paper to get your way!"

"No. I'd shut down the Call because it isn't profitable and the union's demands will make it impossible to turn it around."

"We don't have demands! We have an agenda!"

"You have demands. I didn't hear anything about greater productivity, longer hours, more aggressive investigating, better reporting, more careful editing. I didn't hear any ideas from you about helping the people of the state or helping the Call survive. All I heard were demands. And not one of them had anything to do with the fact that this paper doesn't have enough readers to make a profit."

"Goddammit, we can work all that out in negotiations! We understand each other; we can talk, dammit—"

"In the same bed? With one of us getting screwed? Sit down, Ernie; 1*11 tell you exactly what we can work out.*'

Dugan stopped pacing. "My job is negotiating, not sitting and listening.*'

"My job is making this paper profitable. When you sit down, I'll tell you how we're going to do that."

Dugan gave a furious kick to the leg of an empty chair, sending it skidding, then came back to his place and sat down. "We'll start with the contract," Matt said. "If you demand a new one with different terms, we'll go on negotiating with the Sentinel. If you'd rather we didn't do that, we'll stay with the current contract, but we'll extend it for eighteen months with the same terms and no new negotiations. Don't say anything, Ernie; you'll waste your energy. I've only started. I'll say it again: we're freezing salaries and benefits for eighteen months. That goes for everybody: editors, management, staff. But we have to cut other costs, too. We'll find more efficient ways to do everything and we'll cut out waste and perks, but at most that will save about five percent, and I'm aiming for twenty. That means reducing the staff. We'll work it out together, or you work it out alone; I don't care, as long as costs are down twenty percent in six months. No one will be hired to replace workers who quit or retire or die; the least essential workers will be let go; reporters who insist on writing the kind of mediocre crap you've been turning out lately will be out. The same goes for photographers. I'm bringing in a new editor and top staff from some of my other papers—"

A rustle ran down the table; the men looked at Dugan, then quickly away. They might have had a weapon if Matt had kept his old team, but now they had nothing.

"—because I'm sick and tired of the Call being second-rate. I can't believe you aren't, too. If the paper shows a profit, we'll negotiate a new contract in a year and a half, with pay increases directly related to performance. We'll do our share to help: we're starting a new contest right after Labor Day; we'll have billboards, radio and television advertising, a telephone circulation drive, and a larger bonus for bringing in advertisements. But we can only bring readers to the paper once or twice; the way to keep them is by giving them a superior product. I expect the Call to be superior; I expect it to be profitable in eighteen months. Are there any questions?"

A chair scraped; Matt turned and saw Chet Colfax leave the room. Ernie stared at his hands and was silent. Someone asked about overtime, someone else asked about medical insurance, and finally the science editor said carefully, "About improving stories. . . . There's been a . . . feel-

ing that if we didn't knock ourselves out, if we just did an okay job, we could bargain for a better contract."

Matt kept his face still. "How?"

"By trading better work for better pay. The feeling was that if we were already doing top work, we had no leverage. But if we're keeping the current contract for a year and a half—and we'll have to vote on that, but we don't seem to have any alternative—I'd like to talk about using more photos, more graphics, maybe color?"

Others began to make comments and suggestions; the discussion caught fire. Matt listened, putting in a word now and then but mostly letting the others talk while he thought about Chet. How often had Chet been in Tucson in the last seven months? While Matt Lovell had been running around the southwest, buying newspapers or visiting his family in Santa Fe, how often had Chet been helping the staff of the Call think about trading better work for better pay? How many times had Chet hopped over to Tucson to make sure there was a feeling that reporters and photographers should only do an okay job?