The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  Carl didn’t say anything.

  “Now try explaining to all the widows and parents why you lived, and they didn’t even stay in one piece,” Fred added. “And then you go to all their funerals and memorial services and everyone is looking at you, wondering the same thing: You survived because you were a coward or something.”

  “What did you decide?” Carl asked.

  “I decided I ain’t God and it’s not my job to figure it out why he or whoever the runs the universe figured I was worth keeping around a little while longer. If anyone had a problem with that, they could take it up with them.”

  Chapter Six

  “What’s going on?” Carl asked.

  They were downtown near the viaduct. Driving north past Pioneer Square. In the center of the open space was a group of men huddled in a circle, their arguments vivid and fierce but without animosity.

  Usher chuckled. After their first encounter, he had taken a peculiar liking to Carl, was eager to show him around town. That morning he had invited Carl to join him for a drive. This is where they had ended up.

  “They’re reopening Pike Place.”

  Carl recognized the name. The market had once been a widely known tourist site. The earthquake had destroyed many of the buildings and the business owners not killed or run out by the rioters had taken their services elsewhere.

  “How? Why?”

  “Good question for a reporter to ask,” Usher said as he buttoned his mid-level button on his coat and smelled the cold sea air.

  They started to walk toward the committee.

  “How do they expect to make money here?” Carl inquired.

  “Another good question to ask.”

  “If there was no demand for what they’re doing, why would they do it?” Usher replied.

  Carl took out his pen and notepad, but Usher admonished him put away just as they got men. The men were middle-aged. Weathered features and steely looks gave a glimpse into their pasts, their postures bent slightly forward as though prepared for an attack at any moment.

  “Gentlemen, this is Carl Farrington,” Usher said.

  The men said nothing as they individually shook Carl’s hand. Their grips were tight and reluctant.

  “We’re busy,” one of them said matter-of-factly. “Can it wait?”

  “Just wanted you to meet him,” Usher said as he led Carl away. After they were at a distance he said, “I’ll talk to them, arrange an interview. They’re highly secretive. The only reason they’re not telling us to get lost is because I know them.”

  “Who don’t you know?”

  “No one worth knowing.”

  “Hehe. Why did you bring me here, then?” Carl asked.

  “Because I wanted you to see this with your own eyes, not hear about it. It’s a lesson you need to take to heart. Don’t believe what you hear and what you read. Norton may be a decent man, but the guys that run the other papers here won’t be. They’ll print whatever they want, and you’ll be tempted to do the same to keep up and provide copy. Don’t do it. Remember what I told you. Don’t believe what you hear and read. Believe what you see, and question that, too.”

  “Does another paper plan to do a story on this?”

  “Not that I know of. I just heard about it this morning. That’s why you must experience things for yourself. You must live. You can’t just write about what other people do. You must do it. Then you can tell what’s true and a lie, what is and what isn’t.”

  “I’m not quite sure what that has to do with Pike Place,” Carl said.

  An arm around his shoulder, Usher took Carl over to the street where a group of children were playing. They froze when they saw the two men, huddling close as though to protect themselves.

  “Who’s he?” one of the kids asked, pointing at Carl.

  “It’s alright,” Usher said. “He’s not here to stop you from having fun.” He had Carl introduce himself, then shake each of the children’s hands. Carl felt silly doing it, but he didn’t argue. The children’s wary gazes washed away as they started giggling at him.

  “He’s funny,” a girl said to Usher. Her friendly tone suggested they knew each other well.

  “He’s a reporter for Cascadian,” Usher said. “You can trust him. Anything you hear or see going on, you can let him know. Or better yet, let me know, right?”

  They all nodded in unison from eldest to youngest. They left for their decrepit-looking car, only to find several vagrants attempting to get inside. Usher scared them off merely by glancing at his hip where Carl knew he kept his automatic pistol. Looking around the street block, Carl realized they were being observed from the many windows on different floors of the structures.

  “Lovely spot,” Carl said once they were back inside the car and driving out of downtown. “The people here must be equally as pleasant as your pals.”

  “They’ve spent the last five years fighting for their lives. Before the newspapers moved in, gangs ran this part of town. Some of those thugs are still there, but they’re smart enough not to bother people with money. They also aren’t as dumb as their predecessors.”

  “How so?”

  “Number one rule for a gang is to never cause trouble in your own neighborhood. It’s not just bad luck; these are the people who will protect you when the going gets rough.”

  “What does anything of this have to do with shaking those men’s hands and those kids back there?”

  “It’s called socializing. Pretty basic. Social trust weakens when you introduce something foreign or unknown. The people trust each other because they know each other. They don’t know you, so they don’t trust you. It’s not enough to write stories. It’s not enough to report on what’s going on in their lives. You must be a part of their life. They must trust you and know you won’t do them wrong. That’s starts by telling them your name and demonstrating that you’re not the enemy.”

  Carl tapped his fingers on the door. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Yeah, it does. I wouldn’t be wasting my time driving you there if it didn’t.”

  “Why are you doing it?”

  Usher wagged his finger. “That’s off limits.”

  They drove to other neighborhoods, where Usher introduced Carl to people of importance and relevance there; the local barterer, the old-timer who had been there and seen it and done it even though he hadn’t bought the t-shirt.

  But they also chatted with people the street who appeared relatively friendly. Their opening welcomes developed into lengthy discussions about what was happening in the city that Carl knew would make good stories. He was astounded by how eager they were to tell him what they had heard or seen.

  It amazed him how normal they were despite their circumstances. There were no awkward pauses, no strange mannerisms as they talked or abrupt changes in their tone. There were no random outbursts in the middle of conversations. Nothing he said seemed to offend them.

  “You do pretty good,” Usher said as they got back in the car. “I’m worried about you, though.”

  “How so?” Carl asked.

  “I think you might end up loving this place too much.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s got something you’ve always wanted and won’t get anywhere else. And you’ll give up everything else to keep it.”

  ***

  Over time, daily rituals set in. Each morning was greeted by the smell of black coffee brewing on the large pot in the kitchen before one of the men volunteered to bring it around to every desk. Gossip exchange hands like different currencies, then they were off to track down the day’s story.

  After the afternoon deadline, they celebrated at a local bar, or two. As Norton had promised, they were paid at the end of each week so that even the most spendthrift man had money to drink away.

  The arrival of newspapers had brought with it a surge in small pubs eager to take advantage of the new residents. The Cascadian reporters preferred the Fighting Sailor, a pub featuring mariner décor a
nd artifacts from the city’s former fishing industry. The dank feel of salty air swirling through the door, they’d fill up the entire counter and all order the same initial round of home-distilled Jamaican-style rum. More rounds consisting of Irish whiskey or Swedish vodka left most of them inebriated, but lively enough to break out in song.

  Few of them possessed a singing voice, among them Fred and Duong. The odd duo would stand on an old wooden sailor’s chest, doing their best to stay in tune as they sang fraternity ballads and military hymns. As they struggled on, Carl would sit at the end of the counter, surveying any women that might enter the pub. Hardly a night went by without at least one large group of females entering with piqued interest and mischievous smiles. Carl took an immediate liking to the women in general. They were talkative, friendly, and lighthearted. The combination at first took the men by surprise. They soon learned that the only thing they had to fear was not acting like the men they were which, incidentally, was exactly what the women seemed to crave.

  His reputation soon caught up with him. Ironically, it seemed to only attract more and more women. The men never brawled over a woman. The women would catfight each other over a desired man; many times, the man formed a temporary ceasefire by taking both girls home.

  Night after night, Carl concluded the evenings back at his place, every time pleased whatever girl happened to be in his company. Hardly any of his friends went home alone.

  Those that did, like Fred, did so voluntarily. There was never a shortage of willing women.

  ***

  “What are you reading, sir?” Carl asked as he was passing by Norton’s open-door office.

  Norton’s eyes looked up, his head remaining still. He set the book down, pushing a card in-between the pages, then motioned Carl in.

  “Shouldn’t you be working?” Norton said.

  “I’m on break.”

  Norton glanced at the clock, then smiled. “Which explains why I’m not working either.”

  Carl picked up the book, looking for a title but finding nothing. “What is this?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “It’s funny; you have a physical copy.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t read a physical book in years.”

  Norton opened the book again, seemingly humored by Carl’s remarks.

  “I’ve never warmed up to ebooks,” he said. “I used them, but damn it if I didn’t hate it.”

  “Why?”

  “It felt fake. It’s not just about the book. It’s the experience. To touch it and know it’s real. You’re reading it the same way someone five centuries ago would have read it. That creates a connection. It’s something you can touch and feel and even smell.”

  “That doesn’t seem normal,” Carl said sarcastically.

  “Normal people seldom achieve anything of greatness,” Norton declared. “It’s not the average person who accomplishes the things that make history what it is. It takes an incongruity, an eccentricity to break out of the norms, to pull off what others tell you is the impossible. And I don’t want to be restricted by unwritten rules about what is and is not odd. On the contrary, I want to be the odd man out.”

  Carl went to leave, but then stopped and asked which Shakespeare play he was reading.

  “Macbeth,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “To get an idea of how men with potential for greatness are destroyed by their own corrupt nature.”

  “That’s a bit of a mouthful.”

  “Considering that Macbeth is decapitated at the end of the play, I think it’s worthy of more than a passing note to determine what exactly brought his demise and how I, as a leader of men, can avoid duplicating the same choices. Have you read Macbeth?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not surprised. His work isn’t in vogue, as it were. I swear sometimes I felt like I was living in some country where literature and music and plays and beliefs could become acceptable or unacceptable with the passing wind, depending on the current regime. One day they are popular, the next they’re verboten. It’s not the same to have a library on a tablet or a portable drive or something like that. It’s quite different to walk into an entire building and find it full of books. You don’t always find what you’re looking for, but you discover what you need. Like I said, it’s an experience.”

  “Too bad they don’t exist anymore.”

  Norton flashed a brief smile as he picked up Macbeth again. “There’s an old library not far from here. It’s closed, but it’s worth checking out if you’re so inclined.”

  “Where? And how do I get in?”

  “That’s for you to learn. If you’re so inclined, that is.”

  Carl returned to the newsroom. Ian was waiting for him along with a group of reporters. He held a copy of yesterday’s newspaper.

  “What?” Carl asked.

  Ian tossed him the paper. “Read your story.”

  Carl turned the page and searched for it, and after finding it scanned through the paragraphs. The last one made his face turn red. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he threw it on the ground and stormed out of the newsroom, only to run back in to pick it up and go back to the hallway.

  He pushed open the door to the copyeditors room. They looked at him, a mishmash of old men and women plus a few children. They had been vetted by Norton himself, but one of them had managed to slip past his watchful eye.

  Holding the paper up in the air, Carl roared at them. Whoever did it, he would make an example out of them.

  “Which one of you edited the last paragraph of my story?” he demanded.

  No one spoke. Then a young boy raised his hand.

  “You did it?” Carl asked.

  “No. I just wanted to know who you are.”

  “Carl Farrington. So, who messed with the story?”

  “Which one was it? They don’t have bylines, remember?”

  Temporarily caught off-guard, he grumbled and spread the pages open. He read the headline aloud, then said “Somebody better fess up.”

  “I did it.”

  A girl stood up and made her way toward him. He recognized her as the girl he had bumped into a while back. He tried to think of her name, but it didn’t come to mind. Had she even given her his name?

  It didn’t matter.

  She stopped in-between the row of desks with one hand at her side, the other holding a red pen. She didn’t appear upset or defensive. She was thin, but not skinny, wearing a long modest skirt and flowered blouse. Her wavy dark brown hair fell down her shoulders and behind her back.

  “I edited the story, if you want to know,” she said. “Why?”

  Taken aback by her controlled demeanor, he stammered before continuing.

  “The last paragraph you split up one sentence into three,” he said. “You ruined the flow.”

  “I did not. It was too confusing.”

  “I wasn’t confused.”

  “Well, I was.”

  “Then that’s your problem.”

  Everyone looked at her to see her response. Her face did not change. “It is my problem. Which is why I changed it. I’m here to make sure the reader understands it. Just because you do doesn’t mean the whole world knows what you’re thinking. Or is that what you expect of them?”

  “Don’t change anything in my stories unless you talk to me first.”

  “How am I supposed to know it’s your story?”

  “Check first.”

  “I’m not going to check with you every time I read a story.”

  “Then expect to hear from me often,” Carl warned, pointing at the others. “The same goes for you all. Don’t mess with my writing without talking to me.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”

  In the hallway, he was turning the corner when she called to him from the doorway.

  “Hey.”

  He stopped.

  “Aren’t you going to look at me when I talk to you?” she demanded.


  He slowly turned to faced her.

  “You never apologized for knocking me down,” she remarked with a smile.

  “If you’re expecting an apology, prepare for disappointment.”

  “You’re a strange man, Mr. Farrington,” she said.

  “Mr. Farrington was my old man. He’s dead, and I’m not taking away his title, so call me Carl.”

  “Very well, Carl. Why are you’re so uptight?”

  “I care about my work and I don’t want someone like you ruining it.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know your writing style. Next time, I’ll check before changing anything.”

  She had barely finished speaking before he muttered his thanks and left her standing in the hallway. Back in the newsroom, Ian was sitting at his desk and chuckling amongst the other reporters.

  “What’s so funny?” Carl asked.

  Ian showed a handful of money. “I had a bet you would go and yell at the copyeditors for making that change. Others didn’t think it was enough for you to blow up. But you did. And so, we made bets on it. You made me a handsome profit for today.”

  Carl looked at them, then laughed. He couldn’t take himself too seriously. Once they had shared a chuckle together, he scooped some of the money from Ian’s hand.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” Ian complained.

  “No, it’s a tax I just levied.”

  “I didn’t agree to it.”

  “No shit. That’s why it’s called a tax and not a donation.”

  Carl resumed work on his story. When deadline approached, he tossed his completed story in the bin, sharing a cigar smoke with Fred who had come in early and decided to put away his chewing tobacco for a week. The chitchat was interrupted by a call from Usher requesting to meet with Carl sometime soon to meet a possible source.

  As he hung up the phone, he saw that same girl – he still didn’t know her name - enter the newsroom along with several other copyeditors. She came to his bin and looked at his story, raising an eyebrow.

  “Is it alright if I take it?” she asked.

  “If you don’t ruin it, sure.”

  In a graceful motion, she slipped it between her arm along with the other stories she had collected. She joined the other copyeditors and left the room as a haze of cigar smoke poured from the mouths of celebratory reporters.