admiration. “It’s just a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve
been following your career ever since that nasty
business of your murder accusation. All those guns and
bullets, and now here I am, working with you. Sir, it is
an honor. ”
While I pried the goop from my brain, I shook Valen
tine’s hand, then looked at Wallace. The name Tony
Valentine did sound familiar, but I couldn’t quite place
it…
“Tony is our new gossip reporter,” Wallace said en
thusiastically. “We were able to pluck him from Us
Weekly. Today is his first day.”
“And not a day too soon,” Tony said, pressing the
back of his hand against his forehead, as though diag
nosing a strange malady. “As much as I admire your
paper—and Wallace, please don’t think otherwise—it
was lacking a certain pizzazz. A certain panache, if you
will. A certain sexiness.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re here to bring sexy
back.”
Tony pursed his lips and smiled. “You’re a clever
one, Henry. I’m going to have to keep my eye on you.
So, guess what my new column is going to be called?”
“Do I have to?”
“You most certainly do.” Tony waited a moment,
then blurted out, “‘Valentine’s Day.’ Isn’t that a riot?”
“Better than the ones in L.A.”
“True, true. By the way, Wallace told me you covered
the Athena Paradis murder a while back. Is that so?”
“You heard right,” I said. Athena Paradis was a pro
16
Jason Pinter
fessional celebrity/diva who was gunned down outside
a nightclub where she was performing tracks off her
upcoming album. I investigated the murder, and nearly
lost my life in the process.
“Let me tell you, the day that girl died, it was like
the day I learned Diana had been killed. Athena was just
one more reason for me to get up in the morning. I
don’t think I slept for a week after that. I can’t imagine
how you must have felt.”
“Sure,” I said. “Lost tons of sleep.”
“No doubt,” Tony said. “Listen, Henry, it’s been a
pretty pleasure. We’ll have to go out for a dirty martini
one of these nights. I want to hear all about what you’re
working on. Okay?”
“I’ll be checking my calendar right away,” I said.
“Terrific. Wallace, on with the show?”
As Tony and Wallace walked away, I saw Wallace
turn back to me. There was a remorseful look in his eye.
Immediately I knew Tony’s hire was at the behest of
Harvey Hillerman. Gossip was a commodity in this
town. I knew it; I’d been the subject of it. For the most
part, the Gazette had kept its beak clean, relegating
society and gossip stories to the weekend Leisure
section. Now we would all be fighting tooth and nail to
compete for page-one space with Mr. Tony Valentine. I
wondered how much an embroidered pocket square
cost.
After a long day I left the Gazette thoroughly ex
hausted. I checked my cell phone, found one voice mail
waiting. It was from Amanda. We’d been seeing each
other steadily over the last few months, trying to start
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17
over on a relationship that broke from the gate too fast.
I didn’t want to screw things up this time, so I was more
than happy to take it slow. Dinner and movies, walks
through Central Park. I sent flowers to her office, she
sent me meatball subs for lunch. It was harmony.
As I put the phone to my ear to listen to the message,
I heard a strange voice say, “Henry Parker?”
I turned to see a man approaching me. He was dirty
and disheveled, wearing rags that looked about to fall
off his deathly skinny frame. A black briefcase was
slung over his shoulder. He carried it like it either
weighed fifty pounds, or he was just barely strong
enough to hold it to begin with. His eyes were blood
shot, fingernails dirty. His eyes glowed wide from
sunken-in sockets—a skeleton with a pulse. Despite
his haggard appearance he looked to be young, in his
early thirties. I’d never seen the man before in my life,
yet for some reason he looked oddly familiar.
“The city’s gonna burn,” he rasped. “I need to talk
to you.”
“You can send any press inquiries through the
switchboard,” I said, picking up my pace.
“Are you,” he said, the words coming out through
yellowed teeth, “Henry Parker?”
I started to walk faster. I had no idea how this man
knew my name, but from the looks of him I certainly
didn’t want to find out. The image of Frank Rourke—
a pretty strong and belligerent man to begin with—
being beaten by a crazed reader with a homemade
weapon crossed my mind. In my few years at the
Gazette I’d received plenty of mail from readers. Mostly
positive from people who enjoyed my stories, but still
18
Jason Pinter
plenty from people who thought I was either a hack or
still remembered all the unwanted attention I’d received
a few years ago when I was thought to have killed a
police officer.
It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in
minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe
indefinitely.
“I am,” I said, offering my card. He looked at it, just
stared at me with those sunken eyes. I turned to walk
away, speeding up as I headed through Rockefeller
Plaza. I turned back. The man began to walk faster, too.
The rubber on his sneakers was falling apart, and the
gray overcoat he wore was tattered and soiled.
“Please, Henry, I need to talk to you. Oh God, it’s
important. You don’t know what’s going on. You don’t
know what’s going on. Never seen anything like it.”
Suddenly he closed his eyes and retched, a cough
threading beads of phlegm through his gaunt fingers.
“Call the Gazette tomorrow,” I said. I gave him the
switchboard number. He didn’t seem to care. I walked
faster, a slow trot, but my heart began to race when I
saw that the man was matching my pace.
“Henry,” he said, his eyes now terrified. “We need
to talk! I’m begging you, man!”
“Sorry, don’t have time,” I said. I picked up the pace,
broke into a run and crossed the street just as the light
was turning red. As I reached the other side I looked
back. The man was about to race through the oncoming
traffic, but then apparently thought better of it.
Our eyes met for one moment. His were pleading,
scared, and for a moment I debated crossing back over
to see what he wanted. Then I saw him reach into his
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19
pocket, put something to his nose and take a quick snort.
That was all I needed to see.
I turned around and headed toward
the subway. If he
really needed to reach me, he could call. I’d been
through enough over the last few years to know there
were some things you needed to turn your back on.
2
I arrived home half an hour later. I left Amanda a
message. We had plans to have dinner and catch a movie
tomorrow night, and I wanted to order tickets in
advance. New York prices being what they were,
between service charges, snacks and tickets themselves,
you practically had to win the lottery to afford them. A
few months ago Amanda had received a nice year-end
bonus, and Wallace Langston had told me to expect a
promotion in the near future. Both of our salaries had
crept higher over the last few years, and we’d begun to
think more about where we wanted to be. This apart
ment had served its purpose, but I wanted more space.
We weren’t living together, but she would spend
three or four nights a week here and then crash in her
friend Darcy Lapore’s guest room the rest of the time.
The number of nights spent next to each other had
begun to creep up over the last few weeks. It was still
early and we were still healing from recent wounds. Re
gardless, our relationship had grown more serious and
I started to think about where our future was headed.
At some point we’d have to have one of those talks.
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21
Where you each share your hopes and dreams. The
“where do you see yourself in five years” part of the job
interview, only for a position you wanted the rest of
your life. Tonight, Amanda was crashing with Darcy. I
figured I’d eat dinner, pop in a movie and veg out.
Nights like that were sorely underrated.
I peeled off my clothes, stepped into a hot shower.
The day seemed to rinse right off me. I thought about
that man who’d confronted me, how there was a look
of genuine terror in his eyes. I began to regret turning
from him. And hoped he actually did call the next day.
When I got out of the shower, I threw on a pair of
shorts and a T-shirt. I was six foot one depending on the
shoes, a hundred and ninety pounds of lean, mean, vendor
hot dog-eating machine. My brown hair was getting a
little longer, and I made a mental note to stop by Quik
Cuts tomorrow during lunch. I warmed up a plate of
leftover chicken masala Amanda had cooked over the
weekend. In my place, leftovers were made to last.
I sat down and began to eat, washing the food down
with a glass of iced tea. I splayed a few newspapers in
front of me and read while I did. The Gazette’s pages
looked naked without the familiar byline of Jack
O’Donnell. I hoped wherever he was, he was getting the
treatment he needed.
Dinner was a long affair. I made the pasta last, and
made the newspapers last. I gorged myself on every
word, fascinated at just how many stories there were
within this small teeming city.
When I finished, I was getting up to put my dishes
in the sink when the phone rang. I picked it up. Didn’t
recognize the caller ID.
22
Jason Pinter
I clicked Send and said, “This is Parker.” I’d strug
gled with my greeting for a long time. Since this was
my work phone as well as personal, saying hello felt too
casual. As did “Henry.” I considered, “Parker, Henry
Parker,” but Amanda threw a dirty sock at me the first
time I tried it. “Parker” sounded nice, succinct.
“Is this Henry Parker?” the voice on the other end
said.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Henry, I’m Detective Makhoulian with the NYPD.
Are you busy right now?”
I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. What
the hell did the cops want with me at this hour? I wasn’t
working on any stories that had NYPD involvement,
and I didn’t speak to any cops on a regular basis with
the exception of my friend Curt Sheffield.
“Detective, it’s pretty late and I just got home from
work. What’s this about?”
“I apologize for the hour, but I was hoping you could
answer a few questions.”
Not wanting to appear defensive, I said, “Question
away.”
“Does a man fitting this description sound familiar?
About six-two, thin as a bone. Brown hair, hazel eyes,
the look of a serious drug problem, among other issues,
much of which involve hygiene. That ring a bell?”
I felt my pulse quicken. “Actually, a man fitting that
description was waiting for me outside my office when
I left work tonight. I didn’t really speak to him. A col
league of mine was recently assaulted by a disgruntled
reader, and from the look of this guy he wasn’t much
of a conversationalist.”
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23
“Interesting,” Makhoulian said. And he genuinely
sounded interested. “Listen, Mr. Parker, I need you to
come down to the county medical examiner’s office
tonight. You know where it is?”
“Thirtieth and first. I’ve been there before. I’m a
reporter with the Gazette, I’ve spoken with the medical
examiner. Leon Binks still works there, right?”
“Yes, he does. And I know who you are, Mr. Parker.
This has nothing to do with any previous involvement
you may have had with the NYPD.” He didn’t need to
say it, but I could tell Makhoulian was speaking about
Joe Mauser and John Fredrickson, the two cops who
were involved in my being hunted across the country
for a murder I didn’t commit. “I’m going to need you
to meet me at the M.E.’s office in one hour. Will that be
a problem?”
“No, but I would still like to know what all this is
about. Like I said, tonight was the first time I ever saw
this guy. If my night is being interrupted, please have
the decency to tell me why.”
“This man I’m speaking of, he was found two hours
ago in an apartment in Alphabet City, dead from two
gunshot wounds to the head. We have reason to believe
you were the last person to see him alive.”
“Okay,” I said, my stomach beginning to turn. Dead?
What exactly had that guy wanted to talk to me about?
While the last thing I wanted was to get tied up in
the murder of some junkie, I felt some sense of
remorse. “Listen, Detective, no disrespect, but this guy
probably saw one of my stories and figured a reporter
might be more inclined to listen to him than a cop.
Maybe he just wanted attention. And now he’s dead,
24
Jason Pinter
and while it really is a shame, I don’t know what I can
offer to help the investigation.”
There was silence on the other end. Then Makhou
lian said, “This man’s name was Stephen Gaines. Does
sound familiar?”
“No, sir, it doesn’t.”
“Tha
t’s very interesting.” I was beginning to worry.
Why was that interesting? “I’m still going to need you
to meet me at the M.E.’s office. One hour,” Makhoulian
said, “because according to his birth certificate and
medical records, Stephen Gaines was your brother.”
3
There are times in your life when you walk forward
despite knowing that something unexpected, even dan
gerous, lies just around the corner. This allows you to
steel yourself; to prepare for it. You go over the different
permutations in your mind, positive and negative,
weighing how each might impact you. Then when the
blow comes, you’re able to soften it a bit. Retaliate if nec
essary.
When Detective Makhoulian said those five words—
Stephen Gaines was your brother—they hit me,
knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to prepare,
no time to soften the blow.
At first I didn’t believe it. Or I didn’t want to. But
I’d heard the name Makhoulian before. I’d spent enough
time with cops, mainly my buddy Curt Sheffield, that
it rang with a modicum of familiarity. If Curt men
tioned him, that was a good sign. The man spoke ear
nestly, a minimum of sympathy. Like a cop.
Sitting in the back of a taxi, I tried to wrap my head
around it. I’d never heard of a Stephen Gaines before.
The last name did not sound familiar. Gaines.
26
Jason Pinter
On the street earlier, Gaines looked older than me by
four or five years. Of course, considering how strung
out he looked, it could have swayed a few years in
either direction. But if he was older, it meant he was
gone from my life long before I was aware of his exis
tence. I had too many questions to ask, and unfortu
nately Leon and Detective Makhoulian wouldn’t be
able to answer them. At least not all of them.
I stepped out at the corner of Thirtieth and First in
Manhattan’s Kips Bay. The medical examiner’s office
had a facade of light blue, the stone dirty, as if the
building refused to modernize. It was a block away
from Bellevue Hospital, one of the more notorious
medical centers in the city. Prisoners from Riker’s
Island, as well as criminals from New York’s central
booking requiring medical attention, were among the
most frequent guests. And if you happened to be in the
emergency room late at night, you’d be in the company
of numerous men in orange jumpsuits and chains,
armed police at the ready. Just a few blocks away were
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