The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “So who ya?”

  “I’m Eddie,” the stout man said. “My partner is Collins.”

  “So ya want us to buy the publishin’ rights to ya paper?”

  “It’s a good deal for all of us.”

  “What’s in this for you?”

  “It’s too much risk to do it ourselves,” Collin said. “We’d save money by working with ya. Meanwhile, ya make money for takin’ on the risks. You don’t have to hire no one extra. It’s easy money if there was any.”

  Olan shrugged, feigning a lack of interest. “Why do ya come to us?”

  They both eyed me. I refused to smile.

  “What guarantees do we have that you will keep your word?” I asked them. “It’s an exclusive contract, is it not?”

  “Contact our friends,” Collin said, hanging Olan a letter of introduction. “We have plenty. They will tell you that Eddie and I are straight shooters.”

  “I’m sure your aim is straight when you shoot,” I said.

  “We have much to lose if you don’t keep your word. We have to trust you as well. If we didn’t we wouldn’t have come to you. There are plenty of…alternative means to publish our paper. We chose you because we believe you are the best option at our disposal.”

  “Where’s the contract?” Olan asked. “I got ya proposal right here, but there’s no papers to sign.”

  “A handshake is all we need,” Eddie said. “That is, if you agree to the terms of the contract.”

  “One condition, though,” Collins said. “We want this guy to shake, too.”

  They extended their hands. I accepted them after getting a nod from Olan. They said nothing to me about my reputation but it clearly had left an impression.

  The Ballard library had been the first of many “death knocks” to cement that reputation. A pravda safe house the next week. Two weeks later, a delivery center. Town gossip had done the rest.

  Phillip escorted the two out. A minute or so later Olan got a call from him down in the lobby. All safe.

  We both smiled.

  The deal had been a significant break. Few besides Olan and myself knew how much the war had depleted our coffers.

  “Let’s hope they didn’t think it was a friggin’ steal,” he said.

  Looking at the wall map, I observed how much territory our newspaper had gained in the past months. We had secured Georgetown and the old International Airport. The airport runway had been cleared, repaved. Small planes would soon run low level flights to the rest of the state.

  We also had stringers operating out of West Seattle, competing with the independent newspaper crew based out of White Center. So far, our reputation preceded us like a lethal disease and killed all resistance. The newspapers knew that if they resorted to brutal tactics against us the same would be used against them.

  “Any further bullshit with the ISA or the pravdas?” Olan inquired.

  “No,” I said.

  “What about the drones?”

  “Griggs just got his hands on an internal memo. The operators can’t activate the weapons systems without direct approval from the director. They specifically named us for why.”

  “Front page material?”

  “Afraid not. This one we keep under wraps.”

  “Why?”

  “They might rescind it if we do.”

  “That seems smart. But people should know eventually. Especially Pike Place.”

  One of my men had told me Jean had been seen near Pike Place. If we ever published the memos, I would personally give her copies.

  We both were caught unprepared when my father came in. He was dressed in a plain brown suit, white shirt and brown tie. He had his fedora in his hand and a notepad sticking noticeably out of his back pants pocket

  He told Olan he wished to speak with him alone. Olan nodded and waved me out. I stepped out into the hallway. An errand boy sprinted around the corner and bumped into me. He fell, dropping a pile of papers. I frowned at him as he scrambled to pick up the papers.

  “Sorry, Mr. Farrington!” he cried. “Didn’t mean to bother you!”

  He then paused and looked up at me as though a sports fan trying to get an autograph from his favorite athlete. I asked him what he wanted. He kept gawking. The natural curiosity in his eyes reminded me of the way I used to regard my father at the same age, full of wonder at a man I now realized I had hardly known.

  “Don’t you have a message to deliver?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  He ran off. In the middle of the newsroom I noticed one of the writers at his desk with his hands in his lap. It was Billy, one of the newest writers fresh off the street. He had been hired during a dry season. It had been the worst period of the war when few were keen on joining our newsroom. He had accepted the position to avoid legal troubles we didn’t bother to inquire about.

  His tray contained no stories. I knew none of his had been finished since the morning. I had given him leeway his first day when his stringer had sent a story precisely at deadline. But he had missed other deadlines. I knew the stringer, Howard. He was competent. The war had disrupted their beat.

  The unproductiveness didn’t worry me. It was Billy’s fear, his weakness. I could feel it across the room like a bad taste in my mouth. The lack of confidence would get him killed. Others, too.

  That had to change.

  Billy’s hands moved up and he placed a piece of paper on the desk, red ink dots and lines and dashes all over it. A copy-editor had sent it back.

  Moving between the aisles, I approached Billy’s desk. His big eyes grew larger when he saw me. He hastily inspected his notes again. He had typed up a half-written story so far.

  “Ah…Mr….Mr. Farrington,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  I ripped the story out and read it. I didn’t get past the first sentence before I ripped it apart.

  The voices quieted down. The rattle of typewriters softened. The other writers turned their ears towards us. I glared at them to butt out. The key pounding resumed. I turned to Billy and poked him in the chest. He took the abuse without protest. Because he was weak.

  “This is the third time they’ve sent back one of your stories!” I said.

  “I’m….I’m sorry, Mr. Farrington.”

  “Sorry doesn’t mean shit! Sorry doesn’t help. Sorry doesn’t write. Sorry doesn’t meet deadline.”

  “I’m trying….to…get it done,” he stammered.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Billy coughed. He looked sickly and acted the part. His ashen white face appeared perpetually stricken with some ailment. But he didn’t lack for commitment. He still showed up for work every day.

  “Wasn’t too long ago I couldn’t even write,” he said. “I’ve come a long way.”

  “That doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I leaned with one hand against his desk. He cowered and shrank in his chair. I hated to see a boy so easily terrified. For his sake, I pretended to relish it.

  “I’ll get the story done,” Billy uttered in a soft voice. “I swear. If it takes me until deadline, I’ll get it done.”

  He swallowed hard as small beads of sweat formed on his brow and trickled down the side of his face.

  “Don’t miss deadline again,” I said. “Or I’ll make you never miss it for the rest of your life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I pointed at the typewriter. “And you can start by writing a better lead sentence. Yours is shit. It’s boring. I want something with balls, get me? Try some bourbon if that helps.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fantastic. See you at deadline.”

  My office was stuffy when I entered it. I opened the metal shudders on the window. An errand boy came in with the latest stats for circulation. I spent the next hour writing up the numbers on the chart and updating the map. As I was finishing Jamie called me. One of his men h
ad seen a stringer from the White Center newspaper snooping around Fauntleroy. Technically it was our territory but hadn’t been formally acknowledged.

  I was divided. We didn’t need a new enemy in our current war. Yet word couldn’t get around that our territory was vulnerable in certain areas.

  “Give him a beating, but don’t kill him,” I ordered. “He needs to learn his lesson. Confiscate his notes and tell him to stay out of the area. Make sure he gets the message.”

  “Sure thing, boss. Ya want me to do the same with another other stringers we come across?”

  “Exercise your own judgment. If they got to be killed, do it quietly. Don’t leave a mess. And make sure none of the boys know the guy they got to kill. We don’t need blood feuds or petty vendettas complicating things. It’s bad for business.”

  “I got ya, boss. Don’t worry ‘bout a thing. We’ll take care of it.”

  I opened the top drawer and took out a folder, throwing it and a pen on the desk. I opened the folder and took out several documents. They were confidential files from the ISA, courtesy of Griggs.

  With my feet up on the desk, I read through them with the same excitement of an archeologist discovering a two thousand-year-old artifact. It was like getting an unfiltered glimpse into the inner workings of the ISA. Their public veneer was that of a fully united agency with a strong esprit de corps. All members were like comrades.

  From what I already knew the propaganda was a sick joke. The document showed it was much worse. In their contract, the ISA officer union had managed to get officer communication on the agency’s intranet exempted from the Cybersecurity Act. Thus, those who jailed dissidents were free to express their dissent.

  And there was plenty of it.

  It was clear the ISA could not sustain a long-term campaign. Nor would they attempt one. My reputation and that of my boys had done their work. The ISA’s program within Seattle was falling apart as a result. Their volunteers were no match for men who knew every ugly street and graffiti-laden alleyway.

  One comment revealed the official story on Cutman’s death didn’t fool many. This more than anything else had caused a sudden drop in morale.

  Then I found a document with Casey’s name. Below it was his rank: Section Chief, Information Security – Organized Crime.

  My father appeared at the door. He asked if he could come in. He stood in front of the shelf by the wall and admired all his old books. I wondered why Tom hadn’t thrown them out once father had left.

  I offered father a cigarette as I lit one for myself. He turned it down.

  It amazed me how youthful he seemed. A freshly shaved face and a tapered haircut had removed years from his face to the point where we might have been mistaken for siblings.

  Several times I attempted to speak. I couldn’t settle on an appropriate way to initiate. Since that first conversation our interactions had been brief chats in-between long hours at my desk and out in the field.

  Father skimmed his old titles and muttered quietly as he read them. He then remarked about how wonderful it was to hold one in his hands again.

  “Now you understand now why I had them?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Father slowly closed the book and placed it back on the shelf.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  I blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Well, if I’m going to be a stringer, it would seem prudent to ask you what beat you would like me to cover.”

  I stared at him. He had to be joking.

  His serious gaze remained.

  I sat on the edge of my desk with both hands pressed against it and lowered my face so I glanced at the floor. My eyes didn’t lie. They couldn’t.

  “Father…” I started.

  “What, son?”

  “Do you really want to do this? You could work as a writer in the newsroom. Some of my stringers are looking for a better writer. In fact, there’s a writer right now who needs help. You’d make a great mentor.”

  Father finally laughed. But his tone was full of grief.

  “Do you think so little of me now? Have I lost all respect from you?”

  “No. No. No. This has nothing to do with it.”

  “I think it does.”

  He exhaled loudly. “I remember how you used to look at me. You were proud to be my son, to have me as a father.”

  “I still am.”

  “Not in the same way. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about some things. It wasn’t fair of me to not tell you, or your mother, about who I was. I should have tried to explain everything sooner. I shouldn’t have let your mother encourage you. I should have trusted you enough to tell the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked.

  He came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm but calm. “This is something I learned late in life. We are responsible for our actions. What we don’t understand is that the consequences aren’t always immediate. Sometimes, they take years. We can think we avoided it. But you can’t cheat. All you can do is delay. It can’t be postponed forever. I thought I had evaded the consequences. I decided to pretend things hadn’t happened. And as you got older I kept seeing more and more of myself in you. It became obvious that you needed to hear the truth so that you knew where that path would lead you. How much better would things have turned out if you had known?”

  “I turned out alright. I managed to get this far, didn’t I?”

  He gave me a strange look.

  “I’ve been reading the papers,” he said. “I know what they call you.”

  Knowing who he had once been, what he himself had done, I expected him to regard me with pride. The disappointment in his voice was hard to hide.

  “It had to be done,” I said.

  He took a cigarette from my desk and lit it.

  “I’m sorry, Roy,” he said.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I truly did fail you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I insisted.

  “Yes, I did. I failed.”

  “Failed how?”

  He struggled to speak. His voice was high. “I wanted you to be a better man.”

  I held a straight face as he wiped his eyes.

  “I want a beat,” he said. “Preferably something to do with the ISA.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have contacts within the agency.”

  “They won’t talk to you. Not now that you’re a fugitive.”

  He glared like he used to when I was a kid and he was furious with me, his voice quiet but reproving.

  “You leave that to me,” he said. “I’ve done this business for more years than you’ve been alive.”

  “A lot has changed in that time.”

  “Not that matters. If it had, the newspaper wouldn’t be around. Or the ISA.”

  “But what if you’re caught?” I asked. “They won’t give you a second pardon.”

  “Don’t want one,” he said as he opened his jacket and brought out his Colt pistol. He tucked it back inside the holster. “This is my pardon.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t ever let them take me, Roy. I’m not leaving this city.”

  Something had changed him. Drugs. Solitary confinement. Loneliness. More blame I placed at the feet of the ISA.

  “You’re going to do what you want, no matter what I say,” I told him. I lowered my voice. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to tell you what to do.”

  “You’re the editor. It comes with the job.”

  “But you’re my father.”

  “Yes. And had I been more like you, I’d be sitting in that chair right now, giving someone else the same orders you do. But then again, if I had, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

  I half-expected Griggs to be out on the job when I called. To my surprise he answered right away. When he asked why I called I grimaced and sat down in my chair.
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  “Someone’s coming down to meet you at the safe house this evening,” I said. “He’ll have all the credentials, so you’ll know he’s legit.”

  “Who?”

  “My father.”

  Griggs wasn’t dumb. He picked up on the tension in the office, but kept his thoughts private.

  “I’ll be waiting for him,” he said.

  “Look, he knows a lot about the ISA. He’s got additional contracts. When he gets there, chat with him and let him share what he knows. He’d make a good partner to work with.”

  “A partner? Finally! And your old man? Talk about irony. Now, do you want him working on the same leads or what?”

  I glanced at my father, who that had trademark mischievous look in his eye. I had to smile.

  “I think he has some leads of his own,” I said. “Just help him. He’ll help you, too.”

  After the call, I turned to father. He fidgeted as though regretting the things he had said to me.

  “What’s the story?” I asked.

  “Leave it to me. You’ll know when I’m done.”

  “You can trust Griggs. He saved my life once. He’s a lot like Tom.”

  “I’m glad you found a friend like him.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Just your forgiveness.”

  I was protesting when he walked up to me and embraced me. I put my arms around him but my hands remained up and away. We hadn’t been close and the last time he had hugged me had been back at my high school graduation.

  Father released me and then stepped back, wiped his eyes again. “I wish you’d understand why I did what I did. But now I get it. You can’t explain it. I don’t think a father is meant to.”

  I nodded.

  “Some advice about that girl,” he said. “I know she left.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t go after her. If she’s the right one, she will come to you. If you have to go after her, she’s all wrong. Trust me. On that particular subject, I do know something.”

  He strode out of the office. I sat down in my chair and looked at the partially opened door. More typewriter clatter. It quickened, reached a fever pitch, then tapered off.