Not for long, though. Scuzzy was back from the Hollywood beat. Summer was a slow time and he was eager to get back on the Corcoran story. During his work the previous winter, all he found was smoke, no fire. Now he had to find the kindling. Where was “Coughing Andy?” He was the key, Scuzzy knew. He had checked every phone book, every local web site and every reverse phone directory within 100 miles of Washington, looking for an Andrew White or Whit or Whiteside. Nothing. If he’d only call again. He knew he was on to something. He knew he had the lucre to loosen Andy’s lips. If only he’d call.
And, finally, late in July, “coughing Andy” dialed Scuzzy’s number in Orlando.
“Andy, baby, where’ve you been, my man,” Scuzzy literally shouted into the phone. “Been looking all over for ya, high and low. You gave me a good lead, but I need some more info, man. This could be a scorcher, turn the country upside down.”
“Yeah, I know,” the voice on the other end of the phone said, coughing as usual. “I was waiting to see if you’d write anything. But you never did.”
“Well, your old girlfriend didn’t help me out too much.”
“You found her, huh?” Andy said. “Wasn’t that enough? She should’ve given you a nice juicy interview.”
“Yeah, I talked to her mom like you suggested and then found her at a Kansas City clinic. But she got spirited away before I got a chance to meet her. She must have friends in high places.”
“Yeah, very high,” Andy said. “I told you. She was stolen away from me by Corcoran, that jerk. He won’t let anyone near her now.”
“Why, man, why?” Scuzzy asked. “What’s the big secret. You know, I got roughed up a bit trying to get into that clinic of hers. There were some goons there protecting her. Could you help me out here?”
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “Guess they’re playing for real.”
“So tell me, Andy, what’s wrong with you and your girlfriend?” Scuzzy asked. “What’s the big secret?”
“You know, I’m not in such great shape here,” Andy said. “I need some help.”
“Help” is what Scuzzy was always ready to provide, the bigger the story, the more “help” he was prepared to give.
“That’s not a problem, mate,” Scuzzy said. “For a good story, we pay very well.”
“I need a lot of help, man,” Andy said, coughing loudly into the phone. Scuzzy had to hold his phone away from his ear, the cackling was so loud. “Like seven figures, y’know, like a million or so. I really need it. You see, man, I got the AIDS bug and I need a lot of help.”
Scuzzy sat stunned in his chair. AIDS, Sally Winters, rumors of the president’s health, the First Lady’s reaction to the mention of Sally’s name – they all came flooding back in a wash of images. Now he understood the goons. Now this was beginning to make sense. And he, Scuzzy Schwartz — king of the tabs, gossip and rumor-mongering — had sat on this story for six months! “Coughing Andy” could have talked to anyone—the Enquirer, the National Globe, The New York Times, for Christ sakes. This story, if he broke it, could set him for life. Book contracts, movie deals, TV shows — this had Easy Street written all over it. Woodward and Bernstein were pikers compared to this. They took a year and a half to bring down a president. He could do it with one headline.
“Now, Andy, listen to me,” Schwartz said very carefully, trying hard to contain his excitement. “This is big, very big. We can make a big splash with this. Both of us, you and me together. I’m not sure how much we’re talking about here, but I promise you, we’ll help you. We’ll get you some help, for sure. But you gotta promise not to talk to anyone else—not the Enquirer, not The Post, not CNN, not anyone, you understand? This has to be just our deal, you and me, okay?”
“Yeah, sure man,” Andy said, cackling into the receiver. “No problem — just bring me some money. That’s what I really need.”
“Sure, sure, no problem,” Scuzzy said. “Now — you got any photos? Photos would be great. Give us credibility, cinch the deal, okay? I’ll even tell you my nickname — Scuzzy. Yeah, Scuzzy Schwartz. That’s what people call me. I’d love to sit down and talk and hash this over.”
“I need the bread, man, the bread,” Andy said. “Can you bring the bread with you? I need it bad.”
“No problem,” Schwartz said. “No problem. We can work something out. Now, son, what’s your name and where do you live…”
Scuzzy was on a plane to Washington within the hour.
By the time Scuzzy landed at Reagan National Airport outside Washington, an FBI report had landed on Jack McCord’s desk with Schwartz’s phone conversations of the day. “Thought this would be of interest,” said a scribbled hand-written note from Joe Crane. His agents had notified him that something was up and that the White House would be interested. Were they ever. Crane’s note was fastened by a paper clip that bookmarked a transcript of the conversation between Schwartz and Whiteside. McCord already knew who Whiteside was. The initial FBI investigation had come across him as the agency looked into Sally Winters’ background. Now Schwartz was on his trail. This was not good. This could be devastating. Kramer asking about Sally. Schwartz meeting with Whiteside. Sterner measures were needed to keep the president’s secret a secret and keep the president the president. McCord quickly called his private detectives and told them to follow Schwartz wherever he went in D.C. And if he met with Whiteside, he told them firmly, send him a message that pursuing this story would no longer be painless.
As was his wont, Scuzzy was again toying with headlines as he flew up to Washington. “Moralist Prez Caught in Love Tryst” was now too tame. How about: “Right-wing Prez has AIDS.” Wow, Scuzzy thought. What a story. Maybe “coughing Andy” had photographs. Too bad he didn’t find out about this affair out during the campaign, Schwartz mused to himself, the course of history could have been changed.
By late afternoon, Schwartz was at Whiteside’s apartment. “Coughing Andy” lived in the Adams Morgan section of Washington, a funky mixed neighborhood near the elegant DuPont Circle area. His home, though, was neither funky nor elegant. It was run-down apartment building, a tenement really. The front door was slightly ajar, but Scuzzy rang the buzzer next to Whiteside’s name anyway. There was a scratchy voice over the intercom.
“Andy, this is Scuzzy Schwartz. Can I come up?” The buzzer rang and Schwartz let himself in.
Whiteside lived in apartment 4-D and when Schwartz knocked on the door, he was stunned by what he saw. The man who opened the door looked horrible. Though just a few years out of college, the visage that greeted Scuzzy looked much older. His clothes barely hung onto his body, his belt was cinched at the waist. He had a scraggly beard and there were sores on his lips and his cheeks. He wore a baseball cap, but it was still apparent that he was going bald. He walked with a limp and had a loud cough and a bad case of the sniffles, even though it was hot and humid outside. Scuzzy felt like donning surgical gloves before he entered the apartment. But he was used to dealing with low-lifes, so, true to form, his manner belied none of his trepidation. Good stories meant going where others were loath to tread and this apartment would certainly make his list of Top Ten seedy joints, Scuzzy thought.
Looking for a place to sit, Schwartz picked up a clump of clothes on the couch. “Just drop them anywhere,” Whiteside said. “They gotta be cleaned anyway.”
Schwartz gingerly placed them on the floor, then looked at the stained and lumpy couch. Maybe it was better to stand. Gingerly, he perched himself against an arm rest. Whiteside leaned against the wall.
“I got the goods,” Andy said, “but I need the bread first. I want to know I can live. Did you bring it? Like, in cash, maybe?”
Scuzzy was a veteran in these kinds of negotiations. He knew the difference from a shakedown and a negotiation and this seemed like the real thing. Sources like Whiteside were usually desperate for money, any money, though Whiteside seemed more desperate than most.
“Tell me about Sally—how did you meet her?”
Whiteside told Scuzzy how they met at college and started dating, then they grew apart when she started working for “the senator,” as he said with disdain.
“How do you know she was seeing Corcoran?” Schwartz asked. “It could have been someone else, even on his staff.”
“No, it was him, that fucker,” Whiteside said. “I knew. At first it was, the senator this and the senator that. Then I was seeing her less and less. Then not at all. Too busy. Too important. It was obvious. This wasn’t no top aide she was seeing. It was him. And I got the proof. How much is it worth to you?”
“Wait, wait,” said Scuzzy. “Not so fast. Now you say you have AIDS. Are you sure? Have you been tested?”
“Tested? Do you think I’d look like this if I had a bad cold? C’mon man, of course, I took a test. It’s been downhill ever since.”
“And what about Sally?” Scuzzy asked. “Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
“Sally — of course, the same as me,” Andy said.
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Whiteside said. “Why do you think she went home to Kansas? She needed a place to stay and didn’t have any money no more. She’s got it. I’ve got it. Maybe the president’s got it too. Serves him right, stealing my girl…”
Maybe, thought Scuzzy. Sounds crazy, but it would be a hell of a story if it were true.
“What about her father, Roger Winters, the militia leader,” Schwartz said. “How does he figure in all of this?”
“Her father?” Whiteside laughed. “Some dopey weekend soldier in the backwoods preparing to overthrow the government of United States? Give me a break! All she used him for was money now and then. We did a lot of drugs then and it got expensive sometimes.”
“How’d she get a job on Corcoran’s staff?” Scuzzy asked. “Through her father and his militia contacts with Corcoran?”
“Nah, she met someone at a pro-life march who was a volunteer for Corcoran. She signed up and that led to the job. She talked the right talk, was cute. It wasn’t hard for her.”
“So, what’s your proof? Let me see the pictures” Scuzzy said.
“I got letters and pictures you could use,” Whiteside said. “But I want my money up front. I need it for drugs for my treatment. I can turn this thing around, but I need the money, man. Why didn’t you write the story the first time I called?”
Scuzzy started to explain that he didn’t have enough hard evidence, but Whiteside cut him off and started rambling about his other efforts to sell his story. It was all kind of jumbled and disconnected, but from what Scuzzy could tell, he sounded as if Whiteside had tried to peddle his story to The Post, then the Washington Times, even calling the local gossips. But each time he started to mention money, they lost interest.
“You should have just called me again,” Schwartz said. “You knew I was interested.”
“Yeah, no offense, but would anyone believe a supermarket tab?” Andy said. “I was afraid it would be dismissed.”
“But you did call in the end.”
“I’m desperate, man, you’re the only one who listened. Maybe others will now too.”
“I’m prepared to pay,” Scuzzy told him, scanning the distance from himself to the apartment door in case he needed to make a fast escape. “though you’re initial offer is a bit tall.”
“Well, these drugs are expensive and, obviously, I don’t got no insurance,” Whiteside said.
“Well, if you got the goods, as you say, I think $50,000 would be a fair price,” Schwartz said.
“Oh—c’mon. No way!” Whiteside said angrily. “Lots of other papers out there would be happy to pay me for this story.”
Yeah right, Scuzzy thought. If those papers were willing to pay, you wouldn’t be talking to me. “Can you give me a peak at your proof? That might free up my wallet some,” Schwartz said.
So Whiteside brought out a large manila envelope and showed Scuzzy photos of himself and Sally, another of Sally and Corcoran and a letter she wrote to him after she returned to Kansas.
Schwartz stared at the photos for a long time, trying to imagine what Sally Winters was like and how she could have led the moral senator astray. He wanted as much titillation as possible. She had a soft face and long straight, blonde hair, almost as if she had stepped out of Haight-Asbury of the 1960s. Her clothes were demure, but her figure was full and her smile broad and it was easy to see how a busy man could be distracted by her.
Then he opened the letter. The envelope was postmarked in Kansas. Her handwriting was small but legible and it was clear that Sally was trying to be apologetic to Whiteside. “I know I hurt you, Andy, and I’m sorry,” she wrote. “Being with the senator was too good to be true. I thought it would lead somewhere, but I guess I was naive. I was never more than a diversion for him, though I still hope he becomes president. Now that I’m sick, I guess I’m being punished for doing the wrong thing. I’ve never been able to handle relationships very well anyway. Again, Andy, I’m sorry.”
Scuzzy read and reread the letter several times. Was this enough to hang a story on? It would help if he could track down Sally, but even if he did not, this might be enough.
“How do you know she has AIDS?” he asked.
“I know because I have it,” Whiteside said. “She got it first, then I got tested and found out I had it too. That’s why she’s sick too.”
“Is that why she left Corcoran’s office?”
“She was embarrassed that she was sick all the time,” Whiteside said. “He was out campaigning then anyway, so he wasn’t around much.”
“Do you still write to her?”
“Naw,” the young man said. “Several months ago, my letters starting being returned. She was in some clinic in Kansas City, but I guessed she moved. I wrote to her in care of her mother, but never heard back.”
“Okay,” Scuzzy finally told Whiteside. “I like this. I’ll up my price to $75,000.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Whiteside said. “I need at least six figures, like high six figures. There’s this other reporter at the Enquirer—”
“Bet he hasn’t talked to Sally yet,” Scuzzy said.
“You talked to Sally? How did you find her?”
“I know where she is,” Scuzzy said carefully. He didn’t, of course, but he had talked to her, however briefly. He had been down this road before. He knew when he had a fish on the line. “I’ve talked to her by phone and I’m leaving D.C. tonight to fly out there to talk to her again. Bet the Enquirer doesn’t have that. And if she backs up what she told me on phone, I don’t even need your letter or photos.”
With that, Scuzzy started moving towards the door. He got a few steps when Whiteside broke down. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Two-hundred—how’s that?”
“How about one-hundred and we call it a deal?”
“How much do I get in cash?”
Scuzzy had him and he knew it. “I’ll give you $5,000 in cash right now for the photos and the letter and I’ll give you a check for the other ninety-five. And you’ve got to sign an exclusionary agreement. I got it right here. If you talk to anyone else before our story runs—anyone, not just a reporter, but a lawyer or an agent or even the janitor downstairs—the deal’s off and we stop payment on the check. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, where do I sign?” Whiteside said, his eyes glowing at the prospect of instant cash. “How long before the story runs?”
“Dunno,” Scuzzy said. “Gotta talk to Sally. Probably next week. Sit tight and we’ll be fine.” With that, he handed a document to Whiteside for his signature. After Whiteside scrawled his name, Schwartz wrote out a check for $95,000. Then he peeled off five one-thousand dollar bills and handed them to Whiteside with the check. He had written it out ahead of time, leaving only the number blank. That’s how big time journalism works, Scuzzy thought to himself.
Then he carefully took the manila envelope and put it his knapsack. But as a precaution, he stuffed the photos down his pants. If somehow he lost those letters, at least he’d have the photos.
Of course, he had no intention of tracking down Sally right away. That could wait. Be a good follow-up. He had a story to write. The mainstream media might not think Whiteside was credible enough to go into print. But they didn’t write for the Top Star News.
As Scuzzy left Whiteside’s apartment, he saw a dark, large, late-model Mercury parked at the curb. How odd, he thought, for such a fancy car to be in such a seedy neighborhood. He didn’t have time to think much more about it. From nowhere, two husky men approached and pummeled him in the ribs, then threw him into the back seat of the car. Within minutes, there was a blindfold over the eyes and more fists in his mid-section.
“Hey-hey-hey,” Scuzzy screamed. “I’m only a reporter, not some secret agent. What have I done?”
“Too much,” said one of the men as the car sped off. “You’re on the wrong story at the wrong time.” Fifteen minutes later, they dumped him in a dark parking garage. “Go back to the Kardashians,” one of them said as Scuzzy’s rump landed on the hard concrete. “Go back to where you belong.” The car quickly sped off.
For a few minutes, Scuzzy didn’t move, half expecting a second car to run him over. His ribs ached and his stomach tumbled like a bowl of jelly. He felt like throwing up. Slowly, he managed to remove the blindfold and take stock. He was alive, in one piece, hurting in all kinds of places — and missing his knapsack. Bastards! he thought. Anxiously, he felt down the back of his pants — oooh, that hurt, they must have pummeled his shoulder as well—for the envelope with the pictures. He breathed a sigh of relief. The pictures were still there. He story was safe.
Just then, a vehicle screamed around a corner. Scuzzy hurriedly rolled to one side, his body piercing in pain, just missing the car as it sped off. He hid for several moments under one of the parked cars, trying to catch his breath and contemplating his next move. Were they still waiting for him? Unlikely, he thought. If they — whoever “they” were — had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be breathing now. This was a message. And he knew only one way to respond. He was back in his hotel room typing within the hour.
Headlines brought fame, which bought protection, Scuzzy told himself, wincing with each keystroke. He would stop by a hospital later. First, he had a deadline to make.