The front office thought the radio car would give us a break in spot
news coverage, and I guessed as wrong as they did. I had been covering
City Hall long enough, and that's no place to build a career--the Press
Association is very tight there, there's not much chance of getting any
kind of exclusive story because of the sharing agreements. So I put in
for the radio car. It meant taking the night shift, but I got it.
I suppose the front office got their money's worth, because they played
up every lousy auto smash the radio car covered as though it were the
story of the Second Coming, and maybe it helped circulation. But I had
been on it for four months and, wouldn't you know it, there wasn't a
decent murder, or sewer explosion, or running gun fight between six P.M.
and six A.M. any night I was on duty in those whole four months. What
made it worse, the kid they gave me as photographer--Sol Detweiler, his
name was--couldn't drive worth a damn, so I was stuck with chauffeuring
us around.
We had just been out to LaGuardia to see if it was true that Marilyn
Monroe was sneaking into town with Aly Khan on a night plane--it
wasn't--and we were coming across the Triborough Bridge, heading south
toward the East River Drive, when the office called. I pulled over and
parked and answered the radiophone.
* * * * *
It was Harrison, the night City Editor. "Listen, Sandy, there's a gang
fight in East Harlem. Where are you now?"
It didn't sound like much to me, I admit. "There's always a gang fight
in East Harlem, Harrison. I'm cold and I'm on my way down to Night
Court, where there may or may not be a story; but at least I can get my
feet warm."
"_Where are you now?_" Harrison wasn't fooling. I looked at Sol, on the
seat next to me; I thought I had heard him snicker. He began to fiddle
with his camera without looking at me. I pushed the "talk" button and
told Harrison where I was. It pleased him very much; I wasn't more than
six blocks from where this big rumble was going on, he told me, and he
made it very clear that I was to get on over there immediately.
I pulled away from the curb, wondering why I had ever wanted to be a
newspaperman; I could have made five times as much money for half as
much work in an ad agency. To make it worse, I heard Sol chuckle again.
The reason he was so amused was that when we first teamed up I made the
mistake of telling him what a hot reporter I was, and I had been visibly
cooling off before his eyes for a better than four straight months.
Believe me, I was at the very bottom of my career that night. For five
cents cash I would have parked the car, thrown the keys in the East
River, and taken the first bus out of town. I was absolutely positive
that the story would be a bust and all I would get out of it would be a
bad cold from walking around in the snow.
And if that doesn't show you what a hot newspaperman I really am,
nothing will.
* * * * *
Sol began to act interested as we reached the corner Harrison had told
us to go to. "That's Chris's," he said, pointing at a little candy
store. "And that must be the pool hall where the Leopards hang out."
"You know this place?"
He nodded. "I know a man named Walter Hutner. He and I went to school
together, until he dropped out, couple weeks ago. He quit college to go
to the Police Academy. He wanted to be a cop."