There Fell a Shadow Read Online Free Page A

father?”
    Holloway nodded. “That he was. My father and, I may say, one of the most distinguished black journalists of his generation.” He looked at each of us in turn. “The first black man ever to be awarded the Pen Medal. The first to break the color barrier of the White House press corps. First in ties, first in tails, first in the hearts of his countrymen. My old man.” He swirled his liquor meditatively. “Not his fault, of course, but a lot for his son to live with all the same.” With a deep breath, he came around again, said more brightly: “At any rate … At any rate, Sentu was the perfect little country for me. For the three of us. It wasn’t big enough for anyone to send a staffer. But it was just rich enough in precious metals for everyone to take the occasional dispatch. And if it fell …” He cocked his head, chuckled his wicked, elfin chuckle.
    â€œIf it fell to the rebels … That was a story worth covering. And it did. And it was. And we were there.”
    â€œSo now,” Colt said, “every time I wander through town, these two corral me and force me from my warm hotel room out into the cold dark night.”
    â€œYes, it’s real hard to do,” said Holloway.
    â€œThen they ply me with liquor til I get all sentimental-like and tell them what great war correspondents they were before they got fat and rich and old.”
    â€œBy God, we were great,” said Wexler. Colt made a face. Holloway laughed. Wexler went on: “No, now wait a minute, wait a minute. I admit that Holloway and I have … how shall I put it? Matured, over the years. Moved on to other things, positions more in keeping with our dignity. We haven’t merely … continued in the same rut day after day.”
    â€œPitiful,” said Colt. “I mean, pitiful.”
    â€œBut the record here is clear,” Wexler announced. “Crack correspondent Solomon Holloway managed a series of interviews with the rebel leaders that brought the story to the front page for the first time. I remember hearing how they waved the clips of it in each other’s faces on the Senate floor as they debated what the U.S. should do. And you have to understand: the rebels hated us. I mean, they hated the western press with a passion. Solomon scooped us all, the black buzzard.”
    â€œYeah, yeah,” Holloway said. Colt snorted into his drink. “But this is the man,” Holloway went on, indicating Wexler, “who got a Pulitzer out of it.”
    â€œAh!” said Wexler, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “But I was just trying to get out of there alive.”
    â€œI have to admit: it’s kind of amazin’ you did,” said Colt with a laugh. Then, to me: “Wex was sending stuff out of Mangrela when most of us were runnin’ for our precious little lives. That was the capital city, Mangrela. Man, when it fell, the rebels … They came in there, there was shittin’ and shootin’ and shellin’ enough for everyone. After the U.S. choppers left … Well, none of us stuck around to find out what happened after that.”
    â€œExcept Wex,” Holloway said.
    Lansing and McKay looked him over appreciatively. So did I. He shimmered a little through the haze of scotch that was now floating before my eyes. Still, he did not look like the heroic type. He seemed too elegant, too well kept. Sometimes, though, those are the best ones: the playing fields of Eton type.
    I called to the waitress. A round for the playing fields of Eton.
    â€œWell,” said Wexler. “I had something to prove, too, I suppose. I’d come to New York from the mainline of Philadelphia. Used a number of connections to land myself a fairly prestigious journalistic post. And then promptly had myself fired.” He said it lightly. He drained his glass with a casual flair. The pain of it flickered only dimly at the corners of his