The Fugitives

by Christopher Sorrentino

  “I paid Wendell his money,” said Argenziano, his cheek still pressed against the tree.

  “That you did,” said Hanshaw. “Robbed Peter to pay Paul, ennit. What, you think nobody knows about you and the basketball? All your big orders with Wendell’s sports book? People know. People talk and people listen. Wendell didn’t have to buy your story to take what you owed him, but your friends back in New York, they couldn’t buy it. I mean, come on, Bobby: Jackie? Not a flashy guy. No wife, no kids, no girlfriend, no nothing. I bet when he disappeared you could take everything he owned and put it in a cardboard box. But he’s the guy who’s supposed to have run off with four hundred and fifty grand.” Hanshaw shook his head. “You’re just not real good at betting on anything, are you?”

  “It’s not your business,” said Argenziano.

  Hanshaw looked at Argenziano’s Glock. It was small in the palm of his hand. He put it away in his pocket. “Not my business, no. I just do what I’m paid for. But Wendell got a little job of work from your friends in New York, Bobby. What was he going to do, say go fuck yourself? You paid him off with their money. Maybe he didn’t want to be held responsible. And besides: bridge jumper like you? You make him nervous, ennit? You’re going to win big one day, you’re going to lose big one day and get angry, who knows? This is a safe option.”

  Argenziano was quiet. He was thinking hard.

  “What about these guys?” he said, finally.

  “What about them?” said Hanshaw.

  “They’re reporters, you Indian moron. That’s the whole reason they’re here. They print all this and everything goes to shit for everybody.”

  “That is a problem,” said Hanshaw.

  “Let me take care of them like I was going to.”

  “Like down in Nebising.”

  “I had to do it, Hanshaw. Let me do them, and then we’re even. I’ll disappear today. Right now. No one’ll ever hear from me again.” He turned slowly, his arms spread, and then began backing away. “OK? Honor is served.”

  “Honor,” said Hanshaw. He pulled out Argenziano’s gun and fired twice at Argenziano’s legs, striking him in the thighs. The pop of the pistol echoed through the rows of trees and faded. Argenziano went white, sagged to the ground, and vomited. Hanshaw turned to face the others. “Reporters,” he said. He nodded.

  “I don’t know anything about any of this,” Mulligan said. “She’s the reporter.” He pointed at Kat.

  “All on her, huh?” Hanshaw kept nodding. He tested the barrel of the gun with his fingertip and then returned it to his pocket. He looked down at Kat. “You picked a real winner, little sister.” He said it kindly. “What are you doing with this non?”

  “And who’m I supposed to be with?” she asked.

  Hanshaw studied her for a moment. “Play it that way, if you want, little sister.” The giant shrugged.

  “Stop calling me that. Anyway, he’s right. I’m the reporter. Let him go. Let him run away again.”

  They all stood without saying anything, except for Argenziano, who moaned and cursed.

  “Fuck, Hanshaw, yo,” said Jeramy, finally.

  “I only get paid for Bobby,” said Hanshaw. “I didn’t hear word one about collateral damage.”

  “Hanshaw, you be straight trippin.”

  “Will you please shut up with that bullshit,” said Hanshaw. He took Argenziano’s gun out again and pointed it at Mulligan. “There’s this story,” he said. “Do you want to hear a story?”

  Mulligan nodded.

  “The Lone Ranger and Tonto are ambushed by hostile Indians. Comanches or something. They fight, they’re outnumbered, they’re crouching behind the fallen bodies of Silver and Scout, and finally they’re surrounded. The Comanches move in, and the Lone Ranger says to Tonto, ‘Looks like this is it, Kemosabe. We’re in real trouble now.’ And Tonto looks at him and says, ‘What you mean, “we”?’ ” He nodded again. “That’s real funny,” he said. “I love that story.” He put the gun up and looked at it.

  “Your lucky day,” he said to Mulligan. “Both of you take the fuck off. Don’t even give me a second to think about all the reasons why I should just drop you in this hole and forget you ever existed.” He raised the gun over his head and fired a shot into the air, as if to provoke a stampede. “Run.”

  Mulligan ran, heading back toward the corn. He heard the gun go off again and again, and couldn’t keep himself from turning to see what had happened: it was Hanshaw, but his huge arm was no longer pointing the gun at the sky. Kat was running too; she was headed in the opposite way, and even as Mulligan considered calling out or trying to signal her he realized that she knew perfectly well the direction in which he was heading; that she was deliberately trying to get as far away from him as she could.

  EARLIER TODAY

  Nables was disappointed. He’d been summoned to the executive editor’s office via e-mail, and reflexively recalled a time when such a summons would have come via telephone, a call that would have been answered by his secretary. But he’d never had a secretary. The title had been declared obsolete, perhaps even offensive, at some point when he’d been in his mid-thirties. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with being a secretary. His mother had been a secretary. It was considered a step up. Half his friends’ mothers had worked as domestics for Skokie Jews and Gold Coast Irish. His mother had been proud to be a secretary. Nables shook his head. No more. Now he had assistants and interns, young people who usually expected to be given something interesting to do. He spent time hiding from them.

  He put on his jacket and left his file cabinet enclosure to ride the elevator to the eighth floor. The reception area there had been redone recently, walls knocked down, and now there was a chilly space to traverse, sparsely decorated with low-slung furniture, before he found himself standing before Melody, the receptionist, if that’s still what you were allowed to call her. She didn’t even greet him, simply picked up her phone when he appeared, spoke a few words into it, and shooed him with one hand toward Pat Foley’s office.

  Foley rose when he entered. Two other people were seated in the room. “Ike,” he said.

  “Hello, Patrick,” said Nables.

  “Ike, you know Susan Richter, our vice president of advertising sales. And this is Ted Denomie. Ted, this is Isaac Nables, one of our paper’s crown jewels.”

  “Fan of your work,” said Denomie.

  “Thank you,” said Nables. They shook hands.

  “Ike, take a seat. Ted represents the Northwest Michigan Band of Chippewa Indians. He’s on the board.”

  “It’s actually the corporate commission. The business side of things,” chuckled Denomie.

  “Of course, of course,” said Foley. “Ted’s come to us with some concerns that Sue and I thought it would be worthwhile to bring you in on.”

  “What sort of concerns?” said Nables, carefully seating himself in a chair.

  “Ted tells us that one of your people is looking into a loss that may have taken place at one of the casinos his group operates.”

  “Manitou Sands,” said Denomie.

  “That’s correct,” said Nables. “She’s in the field gathering information. I intend to evaluate it when she returns. I’m not sure yet if there’s a story there.”

  “Who’s on it?” asked Richter. Nables stared at her for two full seconds before answering.

  “Kat Danhoff.”

  “She’s young, isn’t she?” said Foley.

  “She’s experienced enough. Been with us for a few years now. Was with the Free Press before that.”

  “Young and enthusiastic,” Foley continued undeterred.

  “What are Mr. Denomie’s concerns?” asked Nables.

  “Primarily,” said Richter, “that there really isn’t much there that’s newsworthy.”

  “That’s what we’ll be determining,” said Nables.

  “It’s a story about a possible theft, Ike, am I right?”

  “That’s part of the story, yes.”
r />   “What’s the other part?” said Richter.

  “I was getting to that. The discovery of the theft may also have uncovered systematic illegal activity at the casino, possibly related to organized crime. Black money.”

  “Phew,” said Denomie. “That sounds serious, Mr. Nables. I thank you for bringing it to our attention.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Nables.

  “How committed are you?” asked Denomie.

  “We have to evaluate Kat’s information. Beyond that, our editorial process is confidential.” Nables looked at Foley.

  “I’m going to ask you to share your thoughts with Ted,” said Foley.

  “That’s unusual,” said Nables.

  “Still,” said Richter.

  “Please, Ike,” said Foley.

  “If Kat’s information pans out, we’ll run a story. If the story appears to be bigger, we’ll investigate further and run follow-ups as warranted.”

  “Would it be possible,” said Denomie, “to put your story on hold? Just until we can find out if anything’s going on, put a stop to it.”

  “I would encourage you to do just that. But that can’t have any bearing on whether and when we run a story.”

  “Why not?” asked Richter.

  “I would hope to maintain a definite separation between Mr. Denomie’s agenda and our mission,” said Nables.

  “Agenda’s a pretty strong word, Ike,” said Foley.

  “Agenda derives from the Latin, agere, meaning ‘do.’ It is the plural form of the gerund, agendum. Its current meaning, containing no pejorative connotation whatsoever, originates in the 1600s.”

  “Thank you for the vocabulary lesson,” said Richter.

  “You’re welcome,” said Nables.

  “Ike has a master’s in English,” said Foley to Denomie. “What is it, UIC?”

  “Northwestern,” said Nables.

  “Be that as it may,” said Richter, “Ted’s interests and ours aren’t all that far apart.”

  “Ours?” said Nables.

  “The Mirror’s.”

  “In what sense?”

  “Let me field that, Susan,” said Denomie. “If I may. This kind of attention really shakes public confidence in the legitimacy of casino gambling.”

  Nables’s face remained completely blank.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Denomie continued. “But we’ve worked hard to ensure that our reputation is spotless.”

  “Maybe not hard enough,” said Nables.

  “Maybe not, Ike. But is it fair to throw mud on us before we’ve had a chance to take action? I don’t need to tell you these are tough times. People are thinking carefully about where they want to spend their vacation dollars. And, to be blunt, a story like this could cost us dearly.”

  “That’s no concern of mine,” said Nables.

  Richter exhaled audibly, turning down the corners of her mouth.

  “I knew you’d feel that way,” said Foley. “It’s one of the reasons why everyone around here looks up to you with respect.” He gestured at Richter. “Sue, would you mind?”

  “By all means.” She reached into a briefcase that had sat on the floor beside her like a well-trained dog. “Here’s our BPA numbers from last quarter. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. The important numbers are here, here, and here. They establish our rate base for the standalone sections. Including yours, Ike. You can see that the numbers have declined, which means that even if we could continue to maintain ad sales at our current volume, revenue is down. But of course lineage drops along with circulation, a trend dramatically illustrated in this graph.” She reached to retrieve another document from the briefcase, and to Nables it looked as if she were reaching down to pet that obedient dog.

  “I see,” said Nables.

  “This newspaper can’t sustain itself if these trends continue.”

  “And how can my editorial decisions contribute to the reversal of these trends?”

  “If I may, Ike,” said Denomie. “In my position, I approve all the advertising expenditures for the casinos and other holdings in our hospitality and leisure portfolio. Chicago’s well within our visitor radius, and the Mirror’s always been an important partner of ours.”

  “Very important,” said Richter, under her breath, almost reverently.

  “Our own revenue declines, if any occur, will have to be met with corresponding cuts in our advertising budget. And I’m forced to determine where to apply those cuts. It’s best, as you can imagine, if it doesn’t even become an issue.”

  “I see,” said Nables.

  “Ike,” said Foley, “this is tough for all of us.”

  “Less for some than others, I’ll bet,” said Nables.

  “I’ll let that pass. I think we’re obscuring the point if we get involved in a discussion of principle. We want to survive to fight another day. Ted’s been frank with us, and we respect that.”

  “Money’s always frank,” said Nables.

  “Ike, I need to know you’re on board with this,” said Foley.

  Nables was silent.

  TODAY

  Mulligan hid for a long time. He waited until fear had been completely overwhelmed by cowardice, and then waited some more until cowardice had been overwhelmed by self-disgust. After a while, there was nothing but the pale sound of branches stirring in the wind, and the distant cawing of a crow. He came out, cautiously, only when he heard the approaching sirens. He found Argenziano by the tree where he’d been shot. Mulligan didn’t look for very long but he could tell that they’d done something special to him, something extravagant.

  The first cops arrived, in separate SUVs whose headlights flooded the scene and blinded Mulligan. There were two of them, and they approached with their weapons drawn.

  “Freeze,” said one.

  Mulligan put his hands in the air and one of the cops came over while the other held his gun on him.

  “Put them on your head and spread your legs,” said the first cop.

  The rear door of one of the SUVs swung open. Mulligan saw Kat leaning out of the backseat.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “He’s the one who was with me.”

  “Kat,” he said. She retreated into the vehicle and shut the door without another word.

  “What happened here, sir?” said the first cop, frisking him anyway.

  “Can you put those away?” Mulligan asked.

  “Procedure, sir,” said the second.

  They holstered the guns after they’d looked around.

  “They really did a job on him,” said the second cop, crouching before Argenziano. “Did you see what happened?” He got to his feet, and brushed off his knee with one hand.

  “I didn’t,” said Mulligan. “I mean, I saw them shoot him in the legs.”

  “Them? How many?”

  “Two guys,” said Mulligan.

  “Can you describe them?”

  “I didn’t really get that good of a look at them.”

  The cop approached him gingerly, favoring the knee he’d gotten down on, and Mulligan could see now that he was the older of the two, maybe fifty. He wore a dark, sickle-shaped mustache and had ice-blue eyes.

  “And you got away. Got lucky, I guess.”

  “I guess,” said Mulligan.

  “She was with you?” The cop gestured at the SUV and its passenger.

  “I guess she was behind me,” said Mulligan.

  The cop had stopped about a foot from Mulligan, who reflexively took a step backward.

  “You guess.”

  “I took off when I saw the chance.”

  “You left her.”

  “Everybody had guns.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Everybody else did. People were getting shot, for Christ’s sake.” Mulligan’s voice broke. He felt like he was near tears. “I ran while I had a chance.”

  “Just looking out for number one,” said the cop.

  “It’s not like I’m her boyfriend or anything.�
��

  “What are you?” The cop stared at Mulligan until he looked away.

  “Cliff,” the other cop said, finally. He sounded as if he’d been waiting to speak. “What about this?” He was standing beside the open grave, panning his flashlight beam across its length.

  “That,” Cliff said, turning from Mulligan, “I can’t fucking begin to guess. Let’s get the detectives out here.”

  More vehicles, cars and vans, began showing up. A perimeter was established. Barricade tape, gloves, tools, cameras, receptacles, casting materials, measuring wheels, evidence placards. It wasn’t long before Mulligan spotted the helical masts of the news vans, sailing in to ensure that a story, fresh from the edit suite, received the moment of attention it deserved. Finally, a detective spoke to Cliff, who gestured at Mulligan. The detective looked him over.

  “Does he need to go to the hospital?”

  “He’s fine,” said Cliff. “You’re just fine, right?”

  Mulligan could have done without Cliff’s sarcasm, but he was happy to agree: he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Already a man with a perfect head of hair wearing a khaki parka was picking his way over, accompanied by a guy with a camcorder balanced on his shoulder.

  “Keep him away from me,” Mulligan said.

  The detective nodded, but Cliff was way ahead of him: he was with Mulligan on that, at least.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said, “sir.”

  They put Mulligan in the back of an unmarked police car then, Cliff placing his hand on the top of his head to guide him in as if he were in handcuffs. He sat there a long time, watching the lights strobe over the scene outside. Finally, the detective got in the front seat and drove him back to the station, where he waited to tell his story in a small interview room. A window set in one wall looked directly into a matching room, like a mirror image on the other side of the glass. After a while, a uniformed sergeant led Kat into the matching room and left her there. She and Mulligan gazed at each other through the glass for a moment, and as Mulligan tried to think of some amusing pantomime to communicate with her, she came to the window, lowered the venetian blinds, and closed the slats.