such short notice.”
“No biggie,” Morgan said. “Just had to reschedule a
few things, that’s all.”
“Really? Such as what?”
Morgan stammered, “I, uh, meetings, you know.
Banks. A bank.”
“Oh, well I hope the bank understood,” Chester said
with complete sincerity. If this guy realized Morgan was
full of shit, he wasn’t letting on. “Let’s walk.”
Morgan followed Chester as he strolled down Fifth
Avenue. He matched the man step for step, tried to keep
his stride the same length but damn, the man had long
legs. Instead Morgan shortened his paces and walked
faster. It was two blocks before Chester spoke again.
“How’s the job hunt going?” he said.
“It is what it is. There’s always room for good workers,
I figure I’ll take a little time, weigh my options and see
what the best fit is for me.”
“Really,” Chester said, his voice either distant or disbelieving. “Any good leads? Anything coming down the
pike?”
“Always something coming down,” Morgan replied.
“Just a matter of who makes me the most attractive offer.”
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“I understand that,” Chester said. “Hold on a second.”
Chester stopped at a vending cart and ordered a hot
dog. He paid, then slathered ketchup, mustard and relish
on it. He wolfed the dog down in three bites, still standing
at the cart, then wiped his lips with a napkin and continued walking.
“Sorry, did you want one?”
“S’okay,” Morgan said. “I just had breakfast an hour
ago.”
“Really,” Chester said softly.
Morgan silently cursed himself. It was nearly twelvethirty. The fact that he had a late breakfast gave away
that Morgan had woken up late. If he’d woken up late,
he had nothing better to do. No job, no interview.
Morgan could feel himself falling behind, and hoped
Chester would let it slide.
“Your friend Ken spoke highly of you,” Chester said.
“It really is a shame. Always the young, talented ones
who go before their time.”
“I know what you mean,” Morgan said. The truth was,
Ken was only a half-decent worker. A man with some bad
habits and with maybe a quarter of the brainpower
Morgan possessed. He didn’t say any of this to Chester,
of course, but if this guy spoke so highly of Ken Tsang
he’d be simply blown away by Morgan Isaacs.
If it took this little to impress Chester, Morgan could
probably have his job in less than five years.
“I know I mentioned this to you before,” Chester continued, “but Kenneth did some work for our firm. He was
a good man, a good soldier, and recommended you as
someone who could do the same kind of work if, well, if
you ever decided to pursue other opportunities.”
“What kind of work did Ken do for you?” Morgan
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said. “Whatever it was, modesty aside, sir, I guarantee
Ken didn’t know the half of what I’m capable of.”
“Is that right?” Chester said, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, sir.”
Chester nodded. He seemed pleased.
“I don’t know what kind of money you were making
at your last job,” Chester said, “but I hope you’ll find that
if you do decide to work for us, the pay will be commensurate with what you’d expect.”
Morgan was slightly surprised, considering this guy
was bringing up salary before even discussing the job. It
must be either crap work or a crappy salary, and Chester
probably figured he wouldn’t waste any time, that if
Morgan didn’t like the payoff, he’d walk away.
“What kind of figures are we talking about?” Morgan said.
“Well, we would have to start you out at the bottom of
the ladder. I’m sure you understand. So many people
competing for so few jobs these days. If you’re not comfortable with that, I can move on. Ken did give me a few
other names.”
Morgan felt his neck grow hot under his collar.
“What kind of money are we talking about?”
Chester stopped walking. He reached inside his coat,
pulled out a ballpoint pen. Then he walked over to a garbage can on the corner, tore a page off a loose newspaper. He scribbled something on the paper, then held it out
for Morgan to see.
Morgan felt his stomach lurch, felt his hands go cold.
Chester crumpled the scrap up and threw it back into the
trash, then he kept walking. Morgan was unable to move
for a moment, before snapping out of it and jogging to
catch up.
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This couldn’t be right. Nobody started at the bottom
of any company and made that much money.
Chester was walking faster. Morgan’s short legs
couldn’t keep up, so he found himself half walking, half
jogging to keep alongside the man.
“If you’re interested,” Chester said, “you’ll be downstairs outside of your apartment tomorrow at 1:00 p.m.
You’ll be dressed just like you are now. Let me make this
clear. You do not have the job. Not yet. If you tell anybody
about the offer, or if you’re one second late, you’ll never
see me again.”
“I’ll be there,” Morgan gasped.
“Good,” Chester said. The man stopped walking. Out
of nowhere, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside them. Chester walked over, opened the door and
climbed in.
“Wait!” Morgan said. “Don’t you need to know where
my apartment is?”
Morgan’s words faded into the roar of the exhaust as
Chester’s car sped away, leaving the young man confused, excited and ready.
10
When we arrived back at the Gazette, I followed Jack to
his desk. Yet as we rounded the corner, I saw Tony Valentine approaching. When Tony saw me his face lit up.
Actually I couldn’t tell if his face lit up, considering there
was enough self-tanner on there to make George Hamilton
look pale, and his face was pumped with enough Botox to
iron out a shar-pei. But he did have a big smile on his face,
and his gait picked up when he saw me coming.
“Henry!” Tony exclaimed, jogging up and placing his
arm around me. “I’ve been looking for you. Where’ve you
been all morning?”
“Chasing a story,” I said. “Tony, have you met Jack
O’Donnell?”
Tony shook his head, but took Jack’s hand and did a
neat little bow. “Not yet, but your reputation precedes
you, Mr. O’Donnell. It’s a pleasure.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Valentine,” Jack replied. His
tone surprised me. As a hard news man, I didn’t think Jack
would have much use for Tony Valentine. Tony had recently been brought on board at the Gazette to kickstart
the paper’s flailing gossip pages, which had grown stale
with coverage that revolved mainly around celebrities who
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stopped being famous before I was born. Tony was one of
the top
names in the gossip field—if you could call it
that—and already his columns were among the most
e-mailed on the Gazette Web site. He dressed like he was
auditioning to be James Bond on a daily basis, and smiled
like he was being paid to. We had nothing in common other
than our employer, and I preferred to keep it that way.
“Henry,” Tony said. “Glad we ran into each other. Do
I have an offer for you!”
“I already have life insurance,” I said.
Valentine laughed. “That’s a good one. Seriously now,
have you heard of Belinda Burke?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t
place it. “Sounds familiar,” I said, “but I’m not sure why.”
“Belinda was a contestant on Marry My Mother-in-
law. She won a million bucks by setting her mother-inlaw up with the dentist who walked from Dallas to
Newark stark naked.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Match made in heaven.”
“Well, Belinda has quite a story to tell. So naturally
she’s decided to write a memoir.”
“That’s nice. Literature was getting a bit stale.”
“I totally agree! Anyway, she was going to use this
ghostwriter named Flak. Just one word, like Madonna. He
ghostwrote Joe the Plumber’s autobiography, did a wonderful job. Anyway, Flak came down with syphilis and I
thought you might want to give it a crack. I know Belinda’s
agent and could get you two a meeting, no problem.”
“Um…why would I want to ghostwrite the memoir
of a D-list celebrity nobody’s going to remember in
twelve months?”
“Because there’s fifty grand in it for you if you can
deliver a manuscript in a month.”
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“Somebody thinks she’s worth fifty grand?”
“Oh, heck no. She got a million bucks for the book.
You get fifty k just to write it.”
“She can’t write it herself?”
Valentine laughed, deep and hearty. “Henry, I don’t
think the woman can read. But that’s not the point. Her
publisher is a little worried Belinda might have a short
shelf life, and they want to get the book out before the
next season of American Idol takes attention away from
her.”
“The money sounds great, but I’m just not really into
that kind of thing. I never saw myself as that kind of
writer.” I looked at Tony. “Just out of curiosity, why come
to me? What’s in this for you?”
Tony grew a sly smirk. His eyes narrowed. I could tell
Tony Valentine was far more calculating than he let on.
“See, I knew you were a smart one. Here’s the deal,
Henry. If you take this job, you get the money. That’s how
you win. If Belinda publishes the book, she adds a few
ticks on to her fifteen minutes. She wins. And because I
got you the job and we work at the same paper, you feed
me exclusive info from the book that I can run in my
column. I win. We all win, Parker.”
“Wow,” I said. “It’s like a whole big circle of ethics
violations.”
“Say what you will, but who loses here?”
“Sorry, Tony. I have to say no.”
“No apologies necessary,” Tony said, taking a hair
pick from his suit jacket and running it through his glistening hair. That was a first. “But I hope you understand
why I put it on the table.”
“I do. I appreciate you looking out for me. And
Belinda. And you,” I said. “If you know anyone who
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wants me to test canned food for botulism, my Friday
night is free.”
“See, that rapier wit. One more thing I love about you,
Henry. See you around. And it was nice to meet you, Mr.
O’Donnell.” Tony walked away, whistling a tune I
couldn’t identify but was definitely Sondheim.
“Have a good one,” Jack said as Valentine rounded
the corner.
“Have a good one?” I said to Jack. “It took you a
month just to give me the time of day.”
“You should be nicer to him,” Jack said.
“You can’t be serious,” I replied. “Jack, he’s a gossip
hound. A bottom feeder. He makes a living shoveling
garbage.”
“And he’s necessary for the survival of this newspaper,” Jack said abrasively. “You can ride your high horse
until it dies of thirst, but this is not a business that’s
growing, in case you haven’t noticed. We didn’t have a
real gossip columnist for years. Now, people are talking
about Tony. Besides, what do you think a newspaper is?
Every day, we print a hundred pages, give or take, and
reach over a million readers. You think every one of them
wants to read about crime and corruption? Some of them
need cheddar-flavored potato chips in their daily routine.
Something you know is crap but you enjoy it anyway. You
like steak, Henry?”
“Yeah, why?”
“How do you like your cut—lean and tough, or a little
more flavorful?”
“More flavor, I guess. Why?”
“You know what puts the flavor in steak? Fat. Too
much fat, in case you don’t keep up on healthy trends, is
bad for you. But it makes the steak taste like a slice of
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heaven. That’s what gossip is. It’s fat. Without it, the
paper is leaner, tougher, but doesn’t have as much flavor.
Maybe it’s the kind of flavor that increases your cholesterol or hardens your arteries, but most people live in the
moment. You get what I’m saying, sport?”
“I get it,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“You like your job, don’t you?” I nodded. “Then live
with it. You do your job the best you can, don’t worry
about everyone else.”
“But don’t you think, you know, that the Gazette
should have a higher standard? You’ve been here, what,
thirty years?”
“What do you think the Gazette is?” Jack said with a
laugh. “Our job is to report the news for the paper. It’s
not the news’s job to get to us. This company is the sum
of what we make of it. Now, if you want to work for a
company that only reports what you want, go start a blog.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t have
to like it.”
“Like it, hate it. It ain’t changing,” Jack said. “Now
here’s the deal. I want you to call Brett Kaiser.”
“Why me?”
“I’ve heard of his firm before. They handle civil litigation, among other things, including libel. Which means
they know a lot about newspapers, which means, no
offense, kiddo, he’ll be a little less threatened by a—how
should I put this?—wet-behind-the-ears guy like you.”
“I’m not that wet behind the ears,” I replied.
“Come on, Henry. What was it, a year ago that you
could finally rent a car without paying extra fees?”
Rather than argue (and lose), I just nodded. We went
to my desk, Jack perching on the corner while I picked
; up the phone. I dialed the number for Kaiser, Hirschtritt
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and Certilman from the paper Talcott gave us. A woman
picked up on the first ring.
“Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman, how may I direct
your call?”
“Hi, I’d like to speak with Brett Kaiser.”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
I looked at Jack, knowing where this was about to go.
“My name is Henry Parker. I’m with the New York
Gazette. ”
“Hold on,” she said, wariness in her voice. “I’ll put
you through.”
The next thing I heard was a dial tone. I placed the
receiver down.
“You got hung up on,” Jack correctly surmised. I
nodded. “Go home.”
“What?”
“It’s been a long day. Get some rest. We’re going to
be working like dogs over the next few days, and I don’t
need you conking out on me.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got almost fifty
years on you.”
“True, but while you were smoking from atomic bongs
and doing keg stands in college, I was chasing leads. Get
some rest, Parker. I’ll see you here tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll see you at eight,” I said.
A smell greeted me in the apartment that I did not
immediately recognize. It resembled some sort of meat,
maybe chicken or fish, something sweet and citrusy—all
mixed with the tangy smell of something burning.
Making my way through the pungent stench to the
kitchen, I found the oven on and some sort of concoction
roiling and baking inside that, from the look of the sauce
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85
coating the insides of the appliance, didn’t seem to be
enjoying it. As I got closer, a small bit of smoke escaped
the oven, so I quickly shut the device off.
“Amanda?” I yelled. “Are you here?”
There was no answer, so I tried again.
“Amanda?”
I heard a squeak as the bathroom door opened. The
shower was still running, and I could see Amanda’s wet head
poking from behind the curtain. Her hair was filled with
shampoo and her eyes looked at me through a haze of steam.
“Henry?”
“Amanda, what the hell are you doing?”
“Bowling. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“You’re aware that this apartment was about thirty
seconds from being on the eleven o’clock news.”
“What?” she said, wiping suds from her face.
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