by Harlan Coben
"I told you," Myron said.
"You're really going to stick with the dying-child story?"
"It's the truth."
"And how did you get Dennis Lex's name?"
"From the bone marrow center."
"They just gave it to you?"
Myron's turn. "I too am not without my own, uh, talents." It somehow didn't sound right when he said it about himself.
"So you're saying that the bone marrow center told you that Dennis Lex was a donor--that about right?"
"I'm not saying anything," Myron said. "Look, this is a two-way street here. I want some information."
"Wrong," Granite Man said. "It's a one-way street. I'm a Mack truck. You're like an egg in the road."
Myron nodded. "Cutting," he said. "But if you're not going to give me anything, I'm not giving you anything."
The guy with the gun stepped closer.
Myron felt a quiver in his legs, but he didn't blink. Maybe he did overplay the wisecracks, but you don't show fear. Ever. "And let's not pretend you're going to shoot me over this. We both know you won't. You're not that stupid."
Granite Man smiled. "I might beat on you a bit."
"You don't want trouble, I don't want trouble. I don't care about this family or its fortune or any of that. I'm just trying to save a kid's life."
Granite Man played air violin for a moment. Then he said, "Dennis Lex is not your salvation."
"And I'm just supposed to believe you?"
"He's not your donor. That much I personally guarantee."
"Is he dead?"
Granite Man folded his arms across his paddleball-court chest. "If you're telling the truth, the bone marrow people either lied to you or made a mistake."
"Or you're lying to me," Myron said. Then added, "Or you're making a mistake."
"The guards will show you out."
"I can still go to the press."
Granite Man walked away then. "We both know you won't," he said. "You're not that stupid either."
16
Bruce Taylor was in print-journalist garb--like he'd gone to his laundry hamper and dug out whatever was on the bottom. He sat at the bar, scooped up the free pretzels, and pushed them into his mouth as though he were trying to swallow his palm.
"Hate these things," he said to Myron.
"Yeah, I can see that."
"I'm at a bar, for crying out loud. I gotta eat something. But nobody serves peanuts anymore. Too fattening or some such crap. Pretzels instead. And not real pretzels. Little tiny buggers." He held one up for Myron to see. "I mean, what's up with that?"
"And the politicians," Myron said. "They spend all that time on gun control."
"So what do you want to drink? And don't ask for that Yoo-Hoo crap here. It's embarrassing."
"What are you having?"
"The same thing I always have when you pay. Twelve-year-old Scotch."
"I'll just have a club soda with lime."
"Wuss." He ordered it. "What do you want?"
"You know Stan Gibbs?"
Bruce said, "Whoa."
"What whoa?"
"I mean, whoa, you get involved in some hairy-ass shit, Myron. But Stan Gibbs? What the hell could you possibly have to do with him?"
"Probably nothing."
"Uh-huh."
"Just tell me about him, okay?"
Bruce shrugged, took a sip of Scotch. "Ambitious s.o.b. who went too far. What else do you need to know?"
"The whole story."
"Starting with?"
"What exactly did he do?"
"He plagiarized a story, the dumbass. That's not unusual. But to be so stupid about it."
"Too stupid?" Myron asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we both agree that stealing from a published novel is not only unethical but idiotic."
"So?"
"So I'm asking if it's too idiotic."
"You think he's innocent, Myron?"
"Do you?"
He chucked down a few more pretzels. "Hell no. Stan Gibbs is guilty as sin. And as stupid as he was, I know plenty stupider. How about Mike Barnicle? The guy steals jokes from a George Carlin book. George Carlin, for chrissake."
"Does seem pretty stupid," Myron agreed.
"And he's not the only one. Look, Myron, every profession's got their dirty laundry, right? The stuff they want swept under the rug. Cops got their blue line when one of them pounds a suspect into the earth. Doctors cover each other's asses when they take out the wrong gallbladder or whatever. Lawyers ... well, don't even get me started on their dirty little secrets."
"And plagiarism is yours?"
"Not just plagiarism," Bruce said. "Wholesale fabrication. I know reporters who make up sources. I know guys who make up dialogue. I know guys who make up whole conversations. They run stories about crack mothers and inner-city gang leaders who never existed. Ever read those columns? Ever wonder why so many drug addicts, say, sound so friggin' poignant when they can't even watch Teletubbies without a tutor?"
"And you're saying this happens a lot?"
"Truth?"
"Preferably."
"It's epidemic," Bruce said. "Some guys are lazy. Some are too ambitious. Some are just pathological liars. You know the type. They'll lie to you about what they had for breakfast just because it comes so naturally."
The drinks came. Bruce pointed at the empty pretzel bowl. The bartender replaced it.
"So if it's so epidemic," Myron said, "how come so few get caught?"
"First off, it's hard to catch. People hide behind anonymous sources and claim people moved, stuff like that. Second, it's like I said before. It's our dirty little secret. We keep it buried."
"I'd think you'd want to clean house."
"Oh, right. Like cops want to. Like doctors want to."
"You're not the same thing, Bruce."
"Let me give you a scenario, Myron, okay?" Bruce finished up his drink, and now he pointed to his glass for a refill. "You're an editor with, say, The New York Times. A story is written for you. You print it. Now it's brought to your attention that the story was fabricated or plagiarized or maybe just totally inaccurate, whatever. What do you do?"
"Retract it," Myron said.
"But you're the editor. You're the dumbass responsible for its publication. You're probably the dumbass who hired the writer in the first place. Who do you think the higher-ups are going to blame? And do you think the higher-ups are going to be happy to hear that their paper printed something false? You think the Times wants to lose business to the Herald or the Post or whatever? And hell, the other papers don't even want to hear about it. The public already doesn't trust us as an institution, right? If the truth gets out, who gets hurt? Answer: everyone."
"So you quietly fire the guy," Myron said.
"Maybe. But, again, you're this editor for The New York Times. You fire, say, a columnist. Don't you think a higher-up is going to want to know why?"
"So you just let it go?"
"We're like the church used to be with pedophiles. We try to control the problem without hurting ourselves. We transfer the guy to another department. We pass the problem to someone else. Maybe we team him up with another writer. Harder to make shit up with someone looking over your shoulder."
Myron took a sip of his club soda. Flat. "Okay, let me ask the obvious question then. How did Stan Gibbs get caught?"
"He was dumb, dumber, and dumbest. It was too high profile a piece to plagiarize like that. Not only that, but Stan rubbed the feds' face in a public crapper and flushed. You don't do that if you don't have the facts, especially to the feds. My guess is he thought he was safe because the novel had a negligible print run from some shitass vanity press in Oregon. I don't think they published more than five hundred copies of the thing, and that was more than twenty years ago. And the author was long dead."
"But someone dug it up."
"Yup."
Myron thought about it. "Strange, don't you think?"
"So maybe the feds were so pissed they set him up."
"How do you figure?" Bruce countered. "The novel exists. The passages Stan copied exist. There is no way around that."
Myron mulled that one over, looking for a way around it. Nothing came to him. "Did Stan Gibbs ever defend himself?"
"He never commented."
"Why not?"
"The guy's a reporter. He knew better. Look, stories like these become the worst kind of brushfire. Only way to get the fire out is to stop feeding the flame. No matter how bad, if there's nothing new to report--nothing new to feed the flame--it dies out. People always make the mistake of thinking they can douse the flame with their words, that they're so smart, their explanations will work like water or something. It's always a mistake to talk to the press. Everything--even wonderfully worded denials--feed the flames and keep it stoked."
"But doesn't silence make you look guilty?"
"He is guilty, Myron. Stan could only get himself in more trouble by talking. And if he hung around and tried to defend himself, someone would dig into his past too. Mainly his old columns. All of them. Every fact, every quote, everything. And if you've plagiarized one story, you've plagiarized others. You don't do it for the first time when you're Stan's age."
"So you think he was trying to minimize the damage?"
Bruce smiled, took a sip. "That Duke education," he said. "It wasn't wasted on you." He grabbed more pretzels. "Mind if I order a sandwich?"
"Suit yourself."
"It'll be worth it," Bruce said with a suddenly big smile. "Because I haven't yet mentioned the last little tidbit that convinced him to keep quiet."
"What's that?"
"It's big, Myron." The smile slid off his face. "Very big."
"Fine, order fries too."
"I don't want this to become public knowledge, you understand?"
"Come on, Bruce. What?"
Bruce turned back to the bar. He picked up a cocktail napkin and tore it in half. "You know the feds took Stan to court to find his sources."
"Yes."
"The court documents were kept sealed, but there was a bit of nastiness. See, they wanted Stan to provide some sort of corroboration. Something to show he didn't totally make the story up. He wouldn't offer any. For a while he claimed that only the families could back him and he wouldn't give them up. But the judge pressed. He finally admitted that there was one other person who could back his story."
"Back up his made-up story?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"His mistress," Bruce said.
"Stan was married?"
"Guess the word 'mistress' gave it away," Bruce said. "Anyway, he was. Still is, technically, but now they're separated. Naturally Stan was hesitant about naming her--he loved his wife, had two kids, the backyard, whatever--but in the end he gave the judge her name under the condition that it stay sealed."
"Did the mistress back him?"
"Yes. This mistress--one Melina Garston--claimed to have been with him when he met the Sow the Seeds psycho."
Myron's brow creased. "Why does that name ring a bell?"
"Because Melina Garston is dead now. Tied and tortured and you don't want to know what."
"When?"
"Three months ago. Right after the shit hit Stan's fan. Worse, the police think Stan did it."
"To keep her from telling the truth?"
"Again that Duke education."
"But that makes no sense. She was killed after the plagiarism was discovered, right?"
"Right after, yeah."
"So it was too late by then. Everyone thinks he's guilty already. He's lost his job. He's disgraced. If his mistress now comes out and says 'Yeah, I lied,' it wouldn't really change a thing. What would Stan have gained by killing her?"
Bruce shrugged. "Maybe her retraction would have removed any doubt."
"But there's not much doubt there anyway."
The bartender came over. Bruce ordered a sandwich. Myron shook him off. "Can you find out where Stan Gibbs is hiding?"
Bruce waved down the bartender again. "I already know."
"How?"
"He was my friend."
"Was or is?"
"Is, I guess."
"You like him?"
"Yeah," Bruce said. "I like him."
"Yet, you still think he did it."
"Murder, probably not. Plagiarize ..." He shrugged. "I'm a cynical guy. And just because a guy is a friend of mine doesn't mean he can't do dumb things."
"Will you give me his address?"
"Will you tell me why?"
Myron sipped his flat club soda. "Okay, this is the part where you say you want to know what I have. Then I say I have nothing and when I do, you'll be the first to know. Then you get kinda huffy and say I owe you and that's not good enough, but in the end you take the deal. So why don't we skip all that and just give me the address?"
"Will I still get my sandwich?"
"Sure."
"Fine, then," Bruce said. "Doesn't matter. Stan hasn't talked to anyone since he resigned--not even his close friends. What makes you think he'll talk to you?"
"Because I'm a witty dinner companion and natty dresser?"
"Yeah, that." He turned to Myron and looked at him heavily. "Now, this is the part where I tell you that if you find anything, anything, that suggests that Stan Gibbs is being set up, you tell me because I'm his friend and I'm a reporter hungry for a big story."
"Not to mention a sandwich."
No smile. "You got me?"
"Got you."
"Anything you want to tell me now?"
"Bruce, I got less than nothing. It's just a thread I need to snip away."
"You know Cross River in Englewood?"
"A mid-eighties condo development that looks like something out of Poltergeist."
"Twenty-four Acre Drive. Stan just came back to the area. He's renting there."
17
The Morning Mosh was not really the establishment's name. Located in a converted warehouse downtown on the West Side, the Mosh had a neon sign that changed as the day went on. The word Mosh stayed lit all the time, but in the morning it blinked Morning Mosh, then Mid-Day Mosh (as it now read) and later on, Midnight Mosh. And that's Mosh, not Nosh. Myron had expected a bagel store. But the letter was M, not N, and this place was Mosh. As in Mosh Pit. As in some retro heavy-metal band minus the talent blaring sounds that could strip paint while kids danced--and we're using that term in its loosest form here--in a pit, careening off one another like a thousand pinballs released into the machine at the same time.
A sign by the front door read FOUR BODY PIERCE MINIMUM TO ENTER (EARS DON'T COUNT).
Myron stayed on the sidewalk and used his cell phone. He called the Mosh's number. A voice answered, "Go for it, dude."
"Suzze T please."
"Dig."
Dig?
Suzze came on two minutes later. "Hello?"
"It's Myron. I'm out on the curb."
"Come in. No one bites. Well, except for that guy who bit the legs off a live frog last night. Man, that was so cool."
"Suzze, please meet me out here, okay?"
"What-ev-er."
Myron hung up, feeling old. Suzze came out less than a minute later. She wore bell-bottom jeans with a gravity-defying waist that stayed up south of her hips. Her top was pink and much too small, revealing not only a flat stomach but a bottom-side hint of what interested the fine folks at Rack Enterprises. Suzze sported only one tattoo (a tennis racket with a snake's head grip) and no piercings, not even her ears.
Myron pointed to the sign. "You don't meet the minimum piercing requirement."
"Yeah, Myron, I do."
Silence. Then Myron said, "Oh."
They started walking down the street. Another strange Manhattan neighborhood. Kids and the homeless hung out together. There were bars and nightclubs alongside daycare centers. The modern city. Myron passed a storefront with a sign: TATTOOS WHILE U WAIT. He reread the sign and frowned. Like how else would you do it?
"We got a weird endorsement offer," Myron said. "You know the Rack Bars?"
Suzze said, "Like, upscale topless, right?"
"Well, topless anyway."
"What about them?"
"They're opening up a chain of topless coffee bars."
Suzze nodded. "Cool," she said. "I mean, taking the popularity of Starbucks and mixing it with Scores and Goldfingers, well, it's totally wise."
"Uh, right. Anyway, they're having this big grand opening and they're trying to generate excitement and media attention and all that. So they want you to make a, uh, guest appearance."
"Topless?"
"Like I said on the phone, I had an offer I wanted you to refuse."
"Totally topless?"
Myron nodded. "They insist on nipple visibility."
"How much they willing to pay?"
"Two hundred thousand dollars."
She stopped. "Are you shitting me?"
"I shit you not."
She whistled. "Lots of cha-ching."
"Yes, but I still think--"
"This was, like, their first offer?"
"Yes."
"Do you think you could get them up?"
"No, that would be your job."
She stopped and looked at him. Myron shrugged his apology.
"Tell them yes," she said.
"Suzze ..."
"Two hundred grand for flashing a bit of booby? Christ, last night I think I did it in there for free."
"That isn't the same thing."
"Did you see what I wore in Sports Illustrated? I might as well have been naked."
"That isn't the same thing either."
"This is Rack, Myron, not some sleazoid place like Buddy's. It's upscale topless."
"Saying 'upscale topless' is like saying 'good toupee,' " Myron said.
"Huh?"
"It might be good," he said, "but it's still a toupee."
She cocked her head. "Myron, I'm twenty-four years old."
"I know that."
"That's like 107 in women-tennis years. I'm ranked thirty-one in the world right now. I haven't made two hundred grand over the past two years on tour. This is a big score, Myron. And man, will it change my image."
"Exactly my point."
"No, listen up, tennis is looking for draws. I'll be controversial. I'll get tons of attention. I'll suddenly be a big name. Admit it, my appearance fees will quadruple."