dk.solesurvivor-第11节

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mes；　grinning　looters　running　in　the　streets。　Earthquake…cracked　avenues；　buildings　in　rubble。　A　young　Hispanic　woman　jumping　to　her　death　from　the　sixth　floor　of　a　burning　building。　A　brooding　sky　and　a　Pacific…facing　mansion　teetering　on　the　edge　of　ruin　on　a　rain…soaked；　sliding　hillside。　In　general；　no　journalistic　enterprise；　whether　electronic　or　print；　built　its　reputation　or　revenues　on　good　news。
　　Behind　the　reception　counter　was　Dewey　Beemis；　the　bination　receptionist　and　security　guard；　who　had　worked　at　the　Post　for　over　twenty　years；　since　an　insanely　egotistical　billionaire　had　founded　it　with　the　naive　and　hopeless　intention　of　toppling　the　politically　connected　Times　from　its　perch　of　power　and　prestige。　Originally　the　paper　had　been　quartered　in　a　new　building　in　Century　City；　with　its　public　spaces　conceived　and　furnished　by　the　uberdesigner；　Steven　Chase；　at　which　time　Dewey　had　been　only　one　of　several　guards　and　not　a　receptionist。　Even　a　megalomaniacal　billionaire；　determined　to　prevent　the　dehydration　of　his　pride；　grows　weary　of　pouring　away　money　with　the　tap　open　wide。　Thus　the　grand　offices　were　traded　for　more　humble　space　in　the　valley。　The　staff　had　been　pared　down；　and　Dewey　had　hung　on　by　virtue　of　being　the　only　six…feet…four；　bull…necked；　plank…shouldered　security　guard　who　could　type　eighty　words　a　minute　and　claim　awesome　puter　skills。
　　With　the　passage　of　time；　the　Post　had　begun　to　break　even。　The　brilliant　and　visionary　Mr。　Chase　subsequently　designed　numerous　striking　interiors；　which　were　celebrated　in　Architectural　Digest　and　elsewhere；　and　then　died　in　spite　of　his　genius　and　talent；　just　as　the　billionaire　would　one　day　die　in　spite　of　his　vast　fortune；　just　as　Dewey　Beemis　would　die　in　spite　of　his　mendable　variety　of　skills　and　his　infectious　smile。
　　'Joe！'　Dewey　said；　grinning；　rising　from　his　chair；　a　bearish　presence；　extending　his　big　hand　across　the　counter。
　　Joe　shook　hands。　'How're　you　doing；　Dewey？'
　　'Carver　and　Martin　both　graduated　summa　cum　laude　from　UCLA　in　June；　one　going　to　law　school　now；　the　other　medical；'　Dewey　gushed；　as　if　this　news　were　only　hours　old　and　about　to　hit　the　front　page　of　the　next　day's　Post。　Unlike　the　billionaire　who　employed　him；　Dewey's　pride　was　not　in　his　own　acplishments　but　in　those　of　his　children。　'My　Julie；　she　finished　her　second　year　on　scholarship　at　Yale　with　a　three…point…eight　average；　and　this　fall　she　takes　over　as　editor　of　the　student　literary　magazine；　wants　to　be　a　novelist　like　this　Annie　Proulx　she's　always　reading　over　and　over　again…'
　　With　the　sudden　memory　of　Flight　353　passing　through　his　eyes　as　obviously　as　a　dimming　cloud　across　a　bright　moon；　Dewey　silenced　himself；　ashamed　to　have　been　boasting　about　his　sons　and　daughter　to　a　man　whose　children　were　lost　forever。
　　'How's　Lena？'　Joe　asked；　inquiring　about　Dewey's　wife。
　　'She's　good。　。　。　she's　okay；　yeah；　doing　okay。'　Dewey　smiled　and　nodded　to　cover　his　uneasiness；　editing　his　natural　enthusiasm　for　his　family。
　　Joe　hated　this　awkwardness　in　his　friends；　their　pity。　Even　after　an　entire　year；　here　it　was。　This　was　one　reason　he　avoided　everyone　from　his　old　life。　The　pity　in　their　eyes　was　genuine　passion；　but　to　Joe；　although　he　knew　that　he　was　being　unfair；　they　also　seemed　to　be　passing　a　sad　judgment　on　him　for　being　unable　to　put　his　life　back　together。
　　'I　need　to　go　upstairs；　Dewey；　put　in　a　little　time；　do　some　research；　if　that's　okay。'
　　Dewey's　expression　brightened。　'You　ing　back；　Joe？'
　　'Maybe；'　Joe　lied。
　　'Back　on　staff？'
　　'Thinking　about　it。'
　　'Mr。　Santos　would　love　to　hear　that。'
　　'Is　he　here　today？'
　　'No。　On　vacation；　actually；　fishing　up　in　Vancouver。'
　　Relieved　that　he　wouldn't　have　to　lie　to　Caesar　about　his　true　motives；　Joe　said；　'There's　just　something　I've　gotten　interested　in；　a　quirky　human　interest　story；　not　my　usual　thing。　Thought　I'd　e　do　some　background。'
　　'Mr。　Santos　would　want　you　to　feel　like　you're　home。　You　go　on　up。'
　　'Thanks；　Dewey。'
　　Joe　pushed　through　a　swinging　door　into　a　long　hallway　with　a　worn　and　stained　green　carpet；　age…mottled　paint；　and　a　discoloured　acoustic…tile　ceiling。　Following　the　abandonment　of　the　fat…city　trappings　that　had　characterized　the　Post's　years　in　Century　City；　the　preferred　image　was　guerrilla　journalism；　hardscrabble　but　righteous。
　　
　　To　the　left　was　an　elevator　alcove。　The　doors　at　both　shafts　were　scraped　and　dented。
　　The　ground　floor…largely　given　over　to　file　rooms；　clerical　offices；　classified　ad　sales；　and　the　circulation　department…was　full　of　Saturday　silence。　In　the　quiet；　Joe　felt　like　an　intruder。　He　imagined　that　anyone　he　encountered　would　perceive　at　once　that　he　had　returned　under　false　pretenses。
　　While　he　was　waiting　for　an　elevator　to　open；　he　was　surprised　by　Dewey；　who　had　hurried　from　the　reception　lounge　to　give　him　a　sealed　white　envelope。　'Almost　forgot　this。　Lady　came　by　few　days　ago；　said　she　had　some　information　on　a　story　just　right　for　you。'
　　'What　story？'
　　'She　didn't　say。　Just　that　you'd　understand　this。'
　　Joe　accepted　the　envelope　as　the　elevator　doors　opened。
　　Dewey　said；　'Told　her　you　hadn't　worked　here　ten　months；　and　she　wanted　your　phone　number。　Of　course　I　said　I　couldn't　give　it　out。　Or　your　address。'
　　Stepping　into　the　elevator；　Joe　said；　'Thanks；　Dewey。'
　　'Told　her　I'd　send　it　on　or　call　you　about　it。　Then　I　discovered　you　moved　and　got　a　new　phone；　unlisted；　and　we　didn't　have　it。'
　　'Can't　be　important；'　Joe　assured　him；　indicating　the　envelope。　After　all；　he　was　not　actually　returning　to　journalism。
　　As　the　elevator　doors　started　to　close；　Dewey　blocked　them。　Frowning；　he　said；　'Wasn't　just　personnel　records　not　up　to　speed　with　you；　Joe。　Nobody　here；　none　of　your　friends；　knew　how　to　reach　you。'
　　'I　know。'
　　Dewey　hesitated　before　he　said；　'You've　been　way　down；　huh？'
　　'Pretty　far；'　Joe　acknowledged。　'But　I'm　climbing　back　up。'
　　'Friends　can　hold　the　ladder　steady；　make　it　easier。'　Touched；　Joe　nodded。
　　'Just　remember；'　Dewey　said。
　　'Thanks。'
　　Dewey　stepped　back；　and　the　doors　closed。　The　elevator　rose；　taking　Joe　with　it。
　　The　third　floor　was　largely　devoted　to　the　newsroom；　which　had　been　subdivided　into　a　maze　of　somewhat　claustrophobic　modular　workstations；　so　that　the　entire　space　could　not　be　seen　at　once。
　　
　　Every　workstation　had　a　puter；　telephone；　ergonomic　chair；　and　other　fundamentals　of　the　trade。
　　This　was　very　similar　to　the　much　larger　newsroom　at　the　Times。　The　only　differences　were　that　the　furniture　and　the　reconfigurable　walls　at　the　Times　were　newer　and　more　stylish　than　those　at　the　Post；　the　environment　there　was　no　doubt　purged　of　the　asbestos　and　formaldehyde　that　lent　the　air　here　its　special　astringent　quality；　and　even　on　a　Saturday　afternoon　the　Times　would　be　busier　per　square　foot　of　floor　space　than　the　Post　was　now。
　　Twice　over　the　years；　Joe　had　been　offered　a　job　at　the　Times；　but　he　had　declined。　Although　the　Gray　Lady；　as　the　petition　was　known　in　some　circles；　was　a　great　newspaper；　it　was　also　the　ad…fat　voice　of　the　status　quo。　He　believed　he'd　be　allowed　and　encouraged　to　do　better　and　more　aggressive　reporting　at　the　Post；　which　was　like　an　asylum　at　times；　but　also　heavy　on　ballsy　attitude　and　gonzo　style；　with　a　reputation　for　never　treating　a　politician's　handout　as　real　news　and　for　assuming　that　every　public　official　was　either　corrupt　or　inpetent；　sex…crazed　or　power　mad。
　　A　few　years　ago；　after　the　Northridge　earthquake；　seismologists　had　discovered　unsuspected　links　between　a　fault　that　ran　under　the　heart　of　L。A。　and　one　that　lay　beneath　a　series　of　munities　in　the　San　Fernando　Valley。　A　joke　swept　the　newsroom　regarding　what　losses　the　city　would　suffer　if　one　temblor　destroyed　the　Times　downtown　and　the　Post　in　Sun　Valley。　Without　the　Post；　according　to　the　joke；　Angelenos　wouldn't　know　which　politicians　and　other　public　servants　were　stealing　them　blind；　accepting　bribes　from　known　drug　dealers；　and　having　sex　with　animals。　The　greater　tragedy；　however；　would　be　the　loss　of　the　six…pound　Sunday　edition　of　the　Times；　without　which　no　one　would　know　what　stores　were　conducting　sales。
　　If　the　Post　was　as　obstinate　and　relentless　as　a　rat　terrier　crazed　by　the　scent　of　rodents…which　it　was…it　was　redeemed；　for　Joe；　by　the　nonpartisan　nature　of　its　fury。　Furthermore；　a　high　percentage　of　its　targets　were　at　least　as　corrupt　as　it　wanted　to　believe　they　were。
　　Also；　Michelle　had　been　a　featured　columnist　and　editorial　writer　for　the　Post。　He　met　her　here；　courted　her　here；　and　enjoyed　their　shared　sense　of　being　part　of　an　underdog　enterprise。　She　had　carried　their　two　babies　in　her　belly　through　so　many　days　of　work　in　this　place。
　　Now；　he　found　this　building　haunted　by　memories　of　her。　In　the　unlikely　event　that　he　could　eventually　regain　emotional　stability　and　con　himself　into　believing　life　had　a　purpose　worth　the　struggle；　the　face　of　that　one　dear　ghost　would　rock　him　every　time　he　saw　it。　He　would　never　be　able　to　work　at　the　Post　again。
　　He　went　directly　to　his　former　workstation　in　the　Metro　section；　grateful