Last Words

by Rich Zahradnik

  “I don’t care if you saw Jimmy Hoffa do it,” said Worth. “You’re done—”

  “Wait a minute.” Garfield held up his hand. “Big Johnny’s son-in-law committed murder?”

  “For revenge. I was there. I have a firsthand account and Poborski’s last interview. Declan’s killers worked for him.”

  “Please remember this is Taylor.” Worth stood. “He should never have been on this. How do we even know it’s true?”

  “Easy enough. We check it out.” Garfield picked up the phone. He looked at Taylor. “Where was this?”

  “Three two three eight Netherland Avenue in Riverdale.”

  “Who’s in the cop shop? Hello, Fahey. Anything going on in the Bronx?” The editor-in-chief kept his eyes on Taylor as he spoke into the receiver. “Where was the triple? Any idea what happened?” He hung up the phone. “Three dead at that address, including a mob guy named Karl Poborski. Nobody knows why. You have this exclusive?”

  “No one else is on it. It also ties into the death of Mark Voichek.”

  Garfield folded his arms and looked across the newsroom. The editor-in-chief liked scoops more than anything else in the world.

  “How can he do a story?” Worth licked his lips. “We fired him.”

  “He still works for me through today’s deadline, right?”

  “Well, I guess, but—”

  “I’ll give it that long. Type up what you’ve got. If it proves out, we’ll see what happens next.”

  “You got it.” Taylor started for his desk.

  “Absolutely no mistakes.”

  “No. None.”

  He might be head, leg, and arm sore, but he had a deadline for a good story. The ultimate painkiller. When he got to his desk, a sheet of copy paper had been paper rolled into the Selectric. A typed note from Laura. There was also a manila envelope propped on the keys. He pulled out the note.

  Dick B. took the pix in this envelope about three months ago outside an apartment on East 30th. Declan convinced Dick to follow Constable. He told Dick he wanted shots for a “This Is Your Life” surprise album for Daddy’s birthday.

  Once he got them, Dick realized that was a lie and Declan planned to blackmail his father. Declan confirmed this after Dick gave him the pix. He kept this one set of prints. He’s a pretty scared kid.

  Taylor stopped reading to pull out the photos. They were Exhibit A in a divorce proceeding. Black and whites of Constable McNally in various passionate embraces with a blond woman. In the last one, with a full view of her face, Taylor realized the woman was Celebration Jones, Big Johnny’s mistress. His heart thudded in his ears. He read the rest of the note.

  Here’s a quote from Bennett we can use:

  When I gave the pictures to him, Declan whistled and smiled weirdly. He said, ‘Daddy, Daddy. What would Grandfather say?’ He yelled at me for not staying longer and getting more indecent poses. I said I don’t do that sort of thing. This was supposed to be a birthday surprise, not something nasty. He tried to pay me two hundred for them. I don’t need money. I didn’t want any money for doing something like this. Now I don’t know what’s going on.

  I waited for you but it’s getting close to deadline. I’m going to take a couple of the pics and ask McNally what was going on between him and his son.

  —LW

  He read those last two sentences again. Fear ripped through him. Laura was on her way to McNally’s townhouse to question him about the blackmail.

  He dialed and demanded Dellossi get on the phone.

  “I’ve sent a squad to bring you in. Do not fucking move.”

  “Don’t care about that. Are detectives on their way to McNally’s house?”

  “Why would I do that on your word alone? You make shit up.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dellossi. He shot three men. Laura Wheeler is headed over there to talk to him. She doesn’t know what he did. Declan was blackmailing his father. We’ve got the pictures. She’s going to show them to him. What do you think he’s going to do then?”

  “You come in here and explain your whole big story to me. I love a good tale.”

  Taylor hung up. He ran the zigzag path from obits to Garfield’s office.

  “Laura’s in trouble. She’s on her way to McNally’s. Declan was blackmailing his father over an affair. ”

  “How do you know?”

  “We have pictures.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Fucking useless.”

  “What about the story?”

  “This is the story. I’ll phone it in if I can.”

  “No, Taylor. This is for the police— Goddammit, Taylor—.”

  He didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t care if he lost his job five minutes after getting it back. He was in a near panic when he got out to 28th. He’d been behind on this story the entire time. He knew what McNally would do when confronted with those pictures. He’d killed already.

  Taylor had the story all wrong. Now Laura faced a murderer. He couldn’t lose her.

  A checker cab with an off-duty light came down the street. He stepped out to block its path. Tires squealed.

  “Goddammit. Are you crazy, man?”

  “Twenty bucks to Sixty-ninth off First.” Twenty bucks he didn’t have.

  “I’m off duty.”

  “Thirty. Keep it off the meter.” Easy to bid it up when he didn’t have it. “I’ll throw in another ten if you get me there in less than ten minutes.”

  “Get in.”

  The cabbie jumped lights and blew stale yellows to pull to the front of the McNally townhouse in what Taylor clocked at nine minutes.

  “Thanks. Wait for me.”

  “I’m done tonight, man. Pay me now.”

  “Don’t have it. You’re going to have to wait if you want the money.”

  “You are not jumping a forty dollar fare.”

  “Report it then. There’s a guy with a gun inside here, so if you could call that in too, I might live long enough to pay you.”

  “What a shitty night. Drunks and crazies. I hate St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Taylor didn’t wait to see what the cabbie did. The door to the townhouse was ajar. He eased it open. Two more adultery photos lay on the floor as if dropped there. He picked them up. On the wall, a framed black-and-white photo of cops in old-fashioned uniforms hung lopsided. The glass in a second frame was cracked. Between them, a smear of blood on the wall. There had been a struggle here.

  Please just let Laura be all right. The story didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. Taylor pulled the .32 out of the holster.

  He crept down the dark hallway. At the back of the house, music played. He checked the living room, which was dark and empty. On a side table sat a glass that gave off the sharp bite of whisky straight.

  The music increased in volume as he approached Declan McNally’s rumpus room. It turned into a distinct song. Irish voices sang a chorus about a whistling gypsy.

  The room appeared little changed from his earlier visit. The television was tuned to The Merv Griffin Show, and a stereo turntable by the wall nearest him spun an album. The song finished, the tone arm lifted automatically, glided over the LP and started playing the same record again. He came around the back of the wingback chair. Laura sat in it with her hands tied in front of her. A trickle of blood ran from her hairline down the side of her face, which was tinged red. She looked at him with relief. He almost hugged her right then but checked himself. First he had to make sure she wasn’t badly hurt.

  “Are you all right?” He dropped the gun into his jacket pocket and stooped down to untie the cord cutting into her wrists.

  “It’s him,” she whispered. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hands lightly. “How bad are you?”

  “I showed him the pictures. He hit me hard. Right out of the blue. I crashed into the wall. I hurt here.” Her hands free now, she pointed to the side of her head. “Could be a lot worse.”

  �
�McNally?”

  “He went to get his gun.”

  “He killed Poborski.” Taylor untied her ankles from the chair legs. She stood and immediately slumped into him, and he held her up.

  “Still dizzy.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Taylor!” She gripped his arms hard, and he thought she was going to swoon into dead weight. Cold metal pressed the back of his neck.

  “She said you knew about the pictures.” McNally was right behind him. “I wasn’t sure if that was true, so I’m so glad you came. It’s good we’re all here together.”

  “Easy, McNally. We don’t need any more bodies tonight. I’m going to let Laura sit.” He pulled slowly away from the gun barrel, lowered her to the chair and turned around with his hands out in front.

  “Over there.” McNally pointed to the couch with a .38 police service revolver. His other hand held a whisky. He gulped it like a thirsty man drinking water. “Both reporters. This completes my night.”

  “Let us go, McNally.”

  “Why would I do that?” The barrel of the gun drew lazy circles in the air.

  Taylor took one end of the couch, his legs tensed to spring when he saw an opening. “We’re not cops. We’re not going to stop you. Take off. Go anywhere you like.”

  “You’re fucking worse than cops. I really thought I’d taken care of things with Poborski. The detectives were going to believe my story. I’m one of them. I’d get off. I’d be a goddamn hero, but this bitch shows up with those pictures.”

  “You know this bitch left pictures back in the newsroom, right?” Laura asked.

  “I’ll fix that.”

  The man was drunk and on the edge. He’d just shot three people.

  Keep him talking and wait for a chance. That was Taylor’s only option. Focus like this was the last story he’d ever do. Or it would be. “Why was your son blackmailing you?”

  “I get it. A last interview. Your last interview. Sure, why not?” McNally moved over by the stereo, probably to get the best angle on both of them. He swallowed another gulp of whisky. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, my boy wasn’t a good boy. Not just bad. Evil. Black hearted.”

  “What did he want from you?”

  “What? Why, everything. Oh he said he was angry with me for cheating on his mother. Who he loved so very dearly. He said I needed to be punished. All lies.” McNally laughed without mirth. “My son loved no one. He got money from me. A car. That wasn’t enough. More money every month. He kept at me no matter what I did. He required I pump the guys on the force for info to help him expand his drug business at Columbia. If I didn’t help him, he threatened to destroy my marriage, my career. My whole life. I know Big Johnny. That fat fuck would wreck me if he saw those photos. Me with his woman. Me cheating on his little girl. It’s okay for him to do it. Just not me. Then two weeks ago, Declan announced we were done. He was going to give the pictures to Big Johnny, no matter what I did. No matter what I paid. He said he needed to be free of me. He said the only thing he wanted was nothing. To bring on anarchy. Anarchy? What the fuck does that mean? I took care of the problem. I couldn’t let him tear everything down. He was a monster out to destroy everything I’d built. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “How did Poborski get involved?”

  “That made perfect sense.” McNally spoke like a man sure of his logic. “I asked Poborski for his help because he’d lost the contract. No one would suspect me of working with the loser. I told him I’d help him out if he fixed my problem. He fucked up. Didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Too much of a big shot. Big shot? An old Polock fuck. He picked Spignolli and that moron got cute with the drugs and the homeless clothes. Believe me, it’s not because you’re so damn smart.” He pointed the gun at Taylor. “It was fucking stupidity that got you sniffing around. As it turned out, I couldn’t get him the salt contract back. Hell, I figured he’d take another bone once we were in business together. It wasn’t as big, but it was money. The big shot didn’t like that. He went nuts about trust. Mobsters and their fucking trust. He threatened me. He threatened my wife. He threatened to go to Big Johnny. I had to end that too.”

  “You don’t want two dead reporters. The pictures are in the newsroom. How are you ever going to make this fly?”

  “I’ll figure out a good story. I like this life.”

  He leveled the gun at Taylor. It stopped wavering.

  A bottle exploded against the side of McNally’s head. A big shard of glass with a Smirnoff’s label landed in Taylor’s lap. The revolver went off.

  The gagging smell of vodka again.

  “You like this life!” screamed Lydia from the doorway to the rumpus room. “How do you think you got this life? You bastard. You killed my son. You killed him.”

  McNally staggered and somehow kept on his feet. His first shot had gone wild, through the window over the couch.

  He trained the revolver on his wife’s face. “What the fuck?” McNally sounded bewildered as blood poured down his face. “Honey, you usually sleep when you take your pills.”

  Taylor pulled the .32 from his pocket, took a step to make sure of his aim and shot McNally in the right shoulder. He spun back toward Taylor. McNally yelled in pain and fell to the carpet, grabbing at his shoulder. Taylor took the gun out of McNally’s limp hand. Lydia McNally kicked her husband in the back and howled something unintelligible. Taylor pulled her away by the shoulders.

  She shook loose and wandered down the hall. “I need another bottle. I broke my damn bottle.”

  A crash from the kitchen.

  He checked McNally. His eyes were alive and full of rage. He moved over and crouched in front of Laura. “How are you doing?”

  “A little less dizzy. With one serious adrenaline high.”

  Taylor looked at his watch.

  “How much time?”

  “Twenty-five minutes until the three-star edition closes.”

  Sirens pulled up out front. He sat down on the couch and dialed the city desk. Laura joined him. She looked exhausted but offered a little smile.

  “I’ve got one for you, Mr. Garfield. Have you got a slot?”

  “I put an AP story out of Saigon into a hole on page one in case you didn’t make it in time.”

  “What’s the Saigon story?”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  “Another big town fell. The whole country’s going into the toilet. Same old same old.”

  Same old same old. Billy would be buried forever under the same old same old.

  “How long?”

  “Twenty column inches if we get this to the shop floor in seventeen, no sixteen minutes. That’s drop dead.”

  “It’s not much space.”

  “Write a goddamn follow-up tomorrow. Go.”

  “All right. This won’t be same old same old. Byline, C.S. Taylor and Laura Wheeler.” Laura squeezed his arm hard and held on. “Dateline, Manhattan. First graph, City attorney Constable McNally ordered a mob hit on his son, Declan, to stop the sixteen-year-old from blackmailing him over an affair with a mistress the senior McNally shared with his father-in-law, Manhattan Democratic party boss John Scudetto.”

  Garfield whistled low. “This is good, Taylor. You can come see me tomorrow.” Ambulance men started working on McNally, who groaned and swore. Somewhere down the hall, Lydia McNally yelled obscenities at a policeman.

  “Second graph.”

  In ten minutes, Taylor had dictated twenty column inches to the word. He pulled Voichek’s obit out of his pocket.

  “I’ve got one more thing for tomorrow’s paper.”

  * * * * *

  Rich Zahradnik has been a journalist for 30-plus years, working as a reporter and editor in all major news media, including online, newspaper, broadcast, magazine, and wire services.

  Zahradnik held editorial positions at CNN, Bloomberg News, Fox Business Network, AOL, and the Hollywood Reporter, often writing news stories and ana
lysis about the journalism business, broadcasting, film production, publishing, and the online industry. In January 2012, he was one of 20 writers selected for the inaugural class of the Crime Fiction Academy, a first-of-its-kind program run by New York’s Center for Fiction.

  A media entrepreneur throughout his career, he was founding executive producer of CNNfn.com, a leading financial news website and a Webby winner; managing editor of Netscape.com, and a partner in the soccer news website company, Goal Networks. Zahradnik also co-founded the weekly newspaper, the Peekskill Herald, at the age of 25, leading it to seven state press association awards in its first three years.

  Zahradnik was born in Poughkeepsie, New York, and received his B.A. in journalism and political science from George Washington University. He lives with his wife Sheri and son Patrick in Pelham, New York, where he teaches elementary school kids how to publish online and print newspapers.

  For more information, go to www.richzahradnik.com.