The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  I took the door key out from its hiding place under one of the pieces of steel and unlocked the door. Jean led me into the bathroom and had me sit down as she undressed my bandage. She reacted nonchalantly when she saw the blue and purple bruising around the wound where the blood had crusted and turned a darkened red. She took a bottle of ethanol from the cabinet above my head, poured some of it onto a towel, and then dabbed it against the skin.

  Jean took a small knife, sterilized it with my Zippo, then proceeded to cut away at dead skin and tissue while I did my best to pretend it didn’t hurt.

  “How bad is the oil leak?” she asked.

  “Not too bad. It can be fixed. Hernández can fix it if he wants to fix it. I could fix it, too.”

  “He might appreciate it,” she said with a nervous smile.

  I flinched, but laughed. “He could appreciate it. He could also become mad as hell with me for fixing it.”

  We both laughed together. She cut another piece of skin off, seemingly uninterested when I winced and groaned loudly.

  “Both of us we were lucky,” she said.

  “I know that.”

  “No. You were lucky. I was also lucky.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She paused as she applied a fresh bandage to my arm and then placed her hands in her lap. It was different with her than it was my other girls. With them, our intimacy was a visceral experience. Jean’s presence I couldn’t quite describe. She knew about the others, though she had never complained. I never referenced them directly.

  “You were lucky,” she said. “The bullet might have killed you. I was also lucky. The bullet might have killed me, too. I looked at the bullet hole before I left the car in the garage. It went through your seat and through the back seat. The hole was right where I was sitting before I moved up to the front seat.”

  She paused, then looked down at her hands in her lap.

  “If I had not moved up to the front seat before the man fired the bullet it would have gone through your arm,” she said. “It would have gone through your seat. It would have gone through me. Or it might have stayed inside me. I do not know. I know I would have been shot if I had not moved when I had.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “It does not bother you?”

  I turned my head, confused. “Well, of course. Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Then why do you ask me if it bothers me?”

  “You have been in situations like that before, too. You talk as though the possibility of death scares you.” “

  “You mean you do not understand why I fear dying?”

  I stammered, still bemused. She was trying to make a point without directly stating it. Was she embarrassed? Ashamed?

  “…..no, I understand,” I said slowly. “It sounds like this is the first time you have been scared of dying. Why? What’s different?”

  I pressed the bandage against my arm as she covered it with tape. She put the supplies back into the cabinet and we walked through the aisle into the dining area, which we had converted from two sleeping cabins after tearing out the remaining sections of the wall and installing a table. There, Jean prepared dinner on the small stove while I numbed the throbbing ache in my arm with a shot of imported whiskey. Unable to smoke in the car, I moved over to the window and gazed out at what little passed for a scenic view.

  There was a vast mechanical graveyard where a parking lot had once been. It was owned and controlled by a local recluse who specialized in selling Chevy parts and watered-down gasoline. Beyond the barbed wire fence, the football stadium stood like the ancient coliseum in Rome, its large robust grandeur diminishing all other structures including the skyscrapers on its left and right. Tenement buildings lined the street behind it, the residents wary of outsiders but friendly once a relationship was established. A large mural recreating the final moments of the 2014 Super Bowl Championship covered the right wall of the building where it met with the street corner, the blue and green and white paint faded and the dark complexions of the players’ faces blurred from time and abandonment.

  Jean came with two plates of stir-fried chicken and placed one in front of me. We ate wordlessly. I read the newspaper while sensing her eyes on me the whole time. I asked her what was wrong, but she only shrugged. When I folded the newspaper and asked her a third time, she put down her fork and held her hands in her lap.

  “I want to ask what Tom said to you,” she said. “I do not think you will tell me. But I think it is not right for me to think you will not tell me unless I ask you. So I will ask. What did Tom tell you?”

  “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. “Don’t let it get to you. He’s worried about me. That’s all.”

  “He seems much more worried than he did before. He used to speak to you in front of me. Now he asks to speak to you alone. I think it is because he said things about me that he does not want me to hear.”

  “Like I said, he’s worried.”

  “He thinks I am not a good person for you to be near.”

  “No. Something bothers him that has nothing to do with me, but it makes him afraid.”

  I smiled as she scooped up her plate and mine before I was finished and put them away. She then returned with a small glass of milk.

  “I want to ask about your ISA project,” she said. “How has it gone?”

  I hesitated, drumming the table with my fingers as I looked out the window. In reality, the project had not gone far despite a year of patiently waiting for phone calls that never arrived. Of listening to unproductive small talk and hearing promises that were rarely fulfilled.

  But I had persevered. Demanding, insisting, threatening; whatever it took to get what I wanted. One after another, my contacts had stalled, passing me onto another, all of them offering vague promises. Sufficient to keep me biting, but not substantial enough to hold onto.

  Tomorrow, that would change.

  “Is there anyone you talk about it with?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “You do not want anyone to know what you are doing.”

  “It’s safe that way.”

  “Sometimes I am worried, too.”

  I gave her an amused look.

  “I appreciate the worry but I wish it went to better uses. I’ve done pretty well for myself.”

  Jean whispered her reply.

  “I think you are right. I also think you have been fortunate.”

  I got up to leave the dining area. Jean reached out and touched my hand, and then let go. Although it was far from late I said goodnight to her and retreated into my compartment, locking the door out of habit. The outer door to the car was secure with double lock and a bolt, but if an intruder got in I wanted one final barrier to slow them down as I retrieved my shotgun underneath my bed. My room was sparse and confined. A closet on the right was open and revealed the few articles of clothing I had accumulated over a year. A table with my typewriter on top was in the center of the room, and my bunk was situated to the left.

  I eased into my bed, taking a folder from a container underneath my bunk. I opened it up to look at the dozen or so pages of classified information my previous ISA contact had provided me during our last meeting. Giving it a once over for the thousandth time, I flipped it shut and threw it back in the container, heaving firmly. The meeting with my new ISA contact coincided with a scheduled rendezvous with Casey. He, too, wanted more information.

  McCullen would probably want the whole ISA investigation halted. The prospect didn’t discourage me. I’d keep it up on the side.

  I had dealt with far worse in the past year; the innumerable sleepless nights, the unruly sources haggling with me right before deadline, and the ever-present possibility of death by a rival stringer either in the field or on some random street corner. There had been a few near misses along the way.

  At first, I had endured by t
hinking of my father and the thought of rescuing him. But over time I had come to relish those moments, to thrive on them.

  In a way, Tom was wrong about me, as was I. I hadn’t changed. I had merely adapted. It was the unwritten law of our world; you adapted to the environment or you didn’t make it.

  My father had done it. So could I.

  Chapter Three

  The guards outside the newspaper building ignored me and I offered them the same courtesy as I walked in and took the elevator to the newsroom. I was greeted by the faint sound of typewriters pecked by frantic fingers. The culture within the room had developed its own tempo that fluctuated throughout the day. In-between hasty sessions at the keyboard, writers took hasty sips at steaming cups of coffee and brief puffs on cigarettes nestled in their ashtray. If they weren’t typing they studied editing notes on stories that hadn’t fit into yesterday’s issue.

  Olan’s door was closed, which was unusual for that time of day. Normally it was kept ajar for errand boys to run in and out delivering internal memos or requested clippings from the downstairs morgue, where copies of all the previous issues were stored. Olan closed the door only when he started to work on the layout, typically five minutes before lunchtime.

  It had only taken a few months to pick up on the small details that made up the typical newsroom day. There was the predawn arrival of half-awoken writers, followed by a hurried pace for several hours as they consulted with their counterpart stringers on the day’s story ideas. A caffeine rush fueled intense background research or additional phone calls before lunch. Then there’d be the long stretch home toward deadline, an exact time we wouldn’t know until that morning.

  Port was pouring bourbon into his coffee as I approached him and clapped him on the shoulder. Not expecting it, he swore as he nearly dropped his bourbon. He saw me and cursed at me with a laugh and shook my hand. His baggy eyes indicated he was hung over or recovering from a night of experimenting with a new drug. Or both. It was hard to tell which one; Seattle was a laboratory for introducing new drugs to the market.

  I walked up to McCullen’s office door and opened it without knocking, hoping I could start the meeting on the appropriate note.

  McCullen was at his desk signing a document with his fountain pen. He looked up at me, deadpan, and then pushed the document to the side and placed it underneath a pile of folders. He had a cigarillo in his mouth. He took a long drag and blew a large cloud into the air.

  He gestured at my bandage with his small cigar. “How is the arm?”

  I glanced at it, shrugged. “I’ve had worse done to me.”

  “I know.”

  I discreetly noted the perspiration on his forehead and how his hand trembled slightly just for a moment as he took the cigarillo out of his mouth and flicked the ash away. I chalked it up to sleep deprivation. He wasn’t nervous around me, or anyone.

  McCullen rose, wiping some ash from the lapel of his single-breasted silk suit. His emerald-crested cufflinks sparkled brightly. His fingers, capped with thick ruby rings, also glistened underneath the light. A large fire mountain gemstone lapel pin matched his oak brown eyes that were fixed on me intently.

  He turned and flicked more ash off his cigarillo, waving at one of his many phones.

  “I just got off talking with Shoreline,” he said. “Got a call from their publisher.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They said one of their stringers is dead, his companion, too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said as I lit a cigarette.

  McCullen picked up a copy of our newspaper that bore his name from his desk and held it up, turning to the news section. My short piece on Shoreline was on the lower right-hand corner. He tapped the thin paper with his finger.

  “What did you expect me to tell him when he tells me one of his stringers was found on Route 99 double tapped in the head and chest?”

  I grinned. “You could tell him the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “I didn’t kill him,” I said. “Or his partner.”

  “They died chasing after you in their territory.”

  I shrugged. “It was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down. We got the story and they didn’t.”

  He stood tall and returned to his desk and took a long drag on his cigarillo, readopting the mannerisms of a cultured gentleman.

  “Don’t mistake my point,” he said. “I appreciate the effort on your part. And I don’t care what they think. Their man lost to my man. However, I do care about keeping the peace. I’m not interested in getting involved in feuds. Blood is not cheap. Lives are, but I don’t like replacing them every three weeks. It interferes with my main priority, which is to make money, and every time there is a feud I tend to make less of it.”

  “What did you tell the publisher?” I asked.

  “I’m sure he and I will come to an agreement.”

  Translation: Either he had paid them off or offered a deal.

  McCullen put down his cigar. “There’s something else to discuss. You’ve been doing this ISA investigation for a while. So far you’ve provided Olan with a few short briefs. But it’s not anything I would call consequential. Nothing more than what we get from other sources.”

  “That’s going to change soon. I’ve got a source I’m meeting today.”

  “Is he going to give you anything?”

  “Not sure.”

  He paused, allowed for a bit of silence to add weight to his statement. “Sorry, kid. But I think it is time for this investigation to end.”

  “Come on, boss. I just need a little more time to work on it.

  “How much more?”

  “A month or so.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I would, but then in a month you’ll convince me to give you another month. Face it, kid; you’ve turned it into some sort of personal crusade. Sooner or later others here will get the same idea about their own little fantasies and want to chase after them. This is a business, not your personal hobby. There are plenty of other things for you to write about that goes on in this city alone. The ISA doesn’t have a presence here.”

  The office grew silent. I couldn’t find the words to say that would get me out of this without crossing a very clear yet invisible line McCullen had drawn long ago. His authority wasn’t to be challenged.

  I was also intrigued by his appearance. The perspiration on his forehead, the trembling of his hand, the erratic determination in his voice.

  Again, it wasn’t fear. Just nervousness.

  “You can’t pursue this anymore,” he said. “I’ve told Olan the same.”

  I said nothing.

  “Can I take your silence as an acceptance of my instructions?” he asked.

  “You can,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Forgive me, but I must get an exact answer. Will you or will you not pursue this anymore?”

  “I will not pursue this matter anymore for the newspaper.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you not trust me?”

  McCullen leaned on his desk with his hands behind his back. He then picked up a fresh cigarillo and lit it. He walked over to the window and peered out of it, lifting back the thick curtains. The glass window was bulletproof, three inches thick. One story said it had only been replaced once after a delivery boy had tried to kill him with a .30-06 round. The bullet had barely dented the glass. Word got around soon after and the rumor protected McCullen more than the glass did.

  He looked back at me. His lips parted and the words were forming on his tongue but he closed his mouth. He paused and smoked and peered out the window as if fascinated by some specific object.

  “I like you, Farrington,” he said. “You show a lot of potential. But I need to know you can do what you’re told. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. I would hate to have to dispense with you as I’ve had to do with others who were not so cooperative.”

&nb
sp; “Like you said, it’s your newspaper,” I replied. “I’m just here to write.”

  ***

  After I had made some phone calls to a few sources that morning I headed downstairs to the lobby. At the front door, a person’s reflection appeared in the glass window to my right. Ninety nine times out of a hundred, it was nothing.

  But I always looked. Tom had explained why: A decade or so ago one of his pals had been ambushed right outside the building by a terminally ill assassin.

  I kept moving and walked back to my car two blocks down in the newspaper’s underground garage. There, I stopped and pretended to search for my keys. There were others coming and going on foot but none of them stuck out. I got in the car and pulled up to the surface level and drove onto the street. I drove several blocks before I got that old intuition again and checked my rearview mirror.

  Three other cars had emerged from the garage and turned onto the road as well. I couldn’t make out any of the drivers. I kept going down the street for several blocks and then turned. The street was too popular; two of the cars followed.

  I then made another slow turn onto an unkempt road.

  This time, just one car followed. The driver tried to play it casual, pretending to be either lost or in no hurry at all.

  McCullen wasn’t a fool. His instincts were right. Technically, I’d keep my word. The investigation would be done for me on my personal time. However, McCullen wouldn’t see it that way. A stringer didn’t work every hour of the day, but it wasn’t like working for a news site; newspapers had a sense of ownership over their stringers.

  But I wasn’t going to let this go. Rumor had it the ISA was building another detention facility in Eastern Washington near the Tri-Cities. That same rumor claimed the location would be finished in a few months and immediately begin transferring prisoners from existing facilities. If my father was among them, it would present the ideal opportunity to rescue him on the open road in the same fashion McCullen had plucked me out of their hands.

  Thanks to Casey, right now all I had was a rumor. He was playing hard ball until he got more information he could use.

  Driving across SoDo and through the rows and rows of decayed buses and trains and down power lines, I treated McCullen’s spy just like another rival stringer, chasing after the same story. However, I had to lose him at some point. He couldn’t see me head into Bellevue, where I had no legitimate reason to go besides my ISA investigation.