Tony then shot at the Mustang’s tires, causing it to sink as the weight leaned to the right. He pointed it back at Carl. “So sorry. Truly. But I can’t let you get the scoop on us. Your story must wait until tomorrow.”
Carl stared quietly. He could scrounge for a tire. But the hour was late, and there was no telling how long it would be before he’d find one and get back to the newspaper.
A part of him didn’t care.
Tony perceived the change in Carl’s mood. He put away the pistol and tipped his hat.
“I’ll be seeing you. Hopefully not too soon, though.”
Tony got in his car and was gone by the time Carl picked up the strip loaders and refilled his revolver. He looked at the Mustang, thinking of how he would explain the damage to Tom.
It would depend.
First, he would have to survive Norton’s wrath.
***
It was nearly midnight by the time Carl got back to the Cascadian. He entered to find an empty lobby other than two overnight guards.
The newsroom was equally vacant, dark and eerily noiseless.
He turned the lights on went over to his desk. Carl set his camera on the desk and began typing.
It took just a few minutes. None of the details had faded in his memory. The difficult wasn’t remembering what had happened. He took out the completed story and set it in the bin.
“Working late?” Norton asked, appearing in doorway to the room. His tie was slightly loosened, his suspenders dangling from his hips.
“Just wanted to get this done,” Carl said quietly.
Norton walked into the room and eyed the paper in the bin. “So, it’s done?”
“Yes.”
He took the copy and told Carl in a stiff voice to remain seated. He left the room and came back several minutes later, ordering Carl to report to his office.
Carl sat down with his chin tucked close to his chest.
“Look up straight at me!” Norton barked.
The rebuke startled him. He straight up instantly.
“That’s right,” Norton said. “You look me in the eye.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norton sat on the side of his desk, his arms crossed. “You disobeyed an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you joined this newspaper, you swore to obey me.”
“I know.”
Norton’s tone was ruthless. “Then what in the name of God is your excuse for tonight?”
“There’s no excuse. I didn’t have one, and I don’t have one. If that means you get rid of me, then so be it.”
Norton’s eyes narrowed as he grinned. “You want me to get rid of you? I know self-destructive behavior when I see it. You are all but begging me to get rid of you.”
Pushing his chair to the side, Norton approached the window and leaned against the sill. He went back to his desk and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Get out.”
Carl kept his chin high and nodded, trying to accept his fate with dignity. The sentencing had not been as dramatic as anticipated. In a way, it seemed to make things worse than a public denunciation in front of the others.
He was on his way out the door when Norton stopped him. “I saw you had some trouble with the Mustang.”
“Yes. I’ll get it fixed. Tell Tom that, if you will.”
“Me? I got a newspaper to run, Farrington. You tell him tomorrow when you come in!”
Carl frowned. “I’m allowed to collect my things?”
Norton rolled his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about? I said, ‘get out,’ not ‘get out of this newspaper.’ You’re a writer, you speak the language. You should know the difference.”
Carl was hesitant to move. The unexpected mercy caught him speechless.
“Um, thank you?”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not keeping you because I happen to take a liking to you. You owe me. And don’t ever forget, it’s not yours to question me when I give an order.”
“Just to do or die, right?”
“I’d prefer the former.”
***
Carl knew as soon as he arrived back at his place someone was inside. He always left a small piece of plastic he against the bottom of the door when he left each morning.
It was missing. Strangely, there door had no signs of a forced entry.
His revolver in hand, he reached for the handle and found the door unlocked. He opened it but stood off to the side as the door swung against the wall.
He heard a voice. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”
They were trying their best to hide their identity.
It didn’t fool him.
He entered and closed the door. “Some of us have to work.” He put away his revolver and walked to the desk, turning the lamp on.
The soft light shone on Kaylyn’s face as she looked up at him from the chair. She was still wearing her overcoat, underneath it one of her dresses. Her hair fell over her left shoulder. She played with it as she looked up at him with a trace of concern.
“How was the library without me?” he asked.
She looked down, slowly played with her hair. Her hands were shaking.
“They said that you were in some sort of trouble,” she said. “You did something you weren’t supposed to?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Carl tossed his keys and wallet on the desk, removing his coat. When he got back from the closet, Kaylyn was standing in the middle of the room.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Why are you here?”
“How long are we going to play this game?”
“We’re not. I stopped playing it”
“Do you not want me here?”
“Depends on why you’re here.”
Holding her hands together, Kaylyn drew near to him so that he could feel the faint smell of liquor on her breath. There were probably several empty shot-size bottles in her coat pocket.
Her chest fell and rose quickly as she spoke into his ear. “Why does it have to be this way?”
He went to answer when she kissed him. It didn’t last long; she broke away as he tried to pull her close.
“I’m not like all the other girls,” she said. “I won’t be taken that easily.”
Carl smiled for a moment. Then he abruptly slapped her.
She gasped, but the outrage was feigned. “What was that for?”
“For taking so long to come around.”
“Alright.”
Chapter Fourteen
As Kaylyn lay asleep in his arms, Carl had spent the whole night coming up with an explanation for Tom for how he had damaged his precious Mustang.
No way was he going to admit Tony Marconi had done it. No need to start a feud between them.
He met Tom in the hallway, still without an excuse. His friend had bags under his eyes, a large cup of coffee in his hands.
“I know,” he mumbled.
“I’m going to repair it,” Carl swore. “Good as new.”
“Don’t bother.”
“What?”
Tom chuckled and took a sip of coffee. “You should have been there last night when the announcement was made.”
“And?”
“No. You weren’t there. You can see it yourself when we get to work.”
Kaylyn appeared in the hallway, dressed but barefoot. She tied her hair into a ponytail. She carried her flats in her hand and smiled at Tom, who waved slightly.
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?” Carl asked.
Her eyes went to Tom, who had a clever look on his face.
“You let her in?” Carl asked him.
Hiding a smirk with his hefty mug, Tom sipped nosily. “Now, about my car?”
“Alright, alright. Fair enough. Not like you didn’t do me a favor.”
“I’m not sure who the favor was for.”
“Don’t eve
n try,” Kaylyn said playfully as he walked away.
Tom looked at his watch, nodded toward the elevator. “We got to get to work. You’ll see.”
The Mustang had handled fine for Carl, even with the damage brought by the other night’s drive. However, Tom had driven it too long to not miss the subtle differences in its performance with separate tires. He did a masterful job ignoring it as they drove to work.
“It sure took you a while to get the story,” Tom said. “We waited for you.”
“Too bad I didn’t make deadline.”
Tom glanced at him. “You didn’t know? Norton ordered them to hold the presses until you came back. He and those bigwigs got into a huge argument over it. They wanted to go right then, but he told ‘em to wait for you. Didn’t he tell you that?”
Carl sat in his seat with a dumbfound look. Norton’s chastisement suddenly made sense.
Tom parked the Mustang on the curb along the street just south of the Cascadian building. The reporters were gathered in the newsroom by Childs near his office. He cleared his throat to kill the side conversations.
“As some of you heard last night, we’ve decided to provide you all with your own vehicle,” he said. “Like our uniforms, the cars will also be similar. That way, we can recognize each other, and others will know who we are. We’re creating an impression, so might as well do it right.”
He took a bag from his desk and a clipboard and began reading down the list, handing each of them a car key that had the driver’s license number written on a small card.
“Why do we need driver’s licenses here?” Duong asked. “If they know who we are, will that really change anything?”
“It would seem. But the powers that be apparently talked to their pals. Believe it or not, having a license protects us legally. All of the licenses are valid, but they’re not regular ones, as you will see.”
Childs handed Carl his keys and the license number with extra force behind the gesture. “Try not to wreck this one, eh?”
“I’ll try.”
Handing out all the keys, Childs led them downstairs and out the back of the building to the parking lot. They stopped when they saw rows of antique cars, all glistening fresh coat of coal black paint. The makes were varied - Buicks, Fords, General Motors, Oldsmobiles, Chevrolets, and Lincolns. So were the models; coupes, sedans, convertibles, even a few touring cars.
Their eyes were lit up like that of children arriving in the living room on Christmas morning. Ian stepped out of the group, his eyes transfixed on blue-painted Chevy.
“The 1932 Roadster,” he uttered. He looked at his card; the license plate numbers matched.
Childs grinned, motioning at the cars. “These are your new means of transportation. Take care of ‘em. We’re putting together a list of friendly garages that can work on them. They’ll also supply us with gasoline. Don’t try to futz with them yourself. We did significant modifications you might unwittingly wreck if you try to do a repair job on your own.”
They scattered across the parking lot searching for their allotted car. Carl walked past two rows, laughing as Ian repeatedly kissed the side of the Chevy.
Fred was limping worse than usual, moving like a slug over to a sedan. He popped the hood and inspected the engine.
Carl found his vehicle at the end of the lot, parked by the wall. It was a small Ford coupe, scarcely enough room for two to fit inside. He got inside and took hold of the steering wheel, adjusting the seat to make himself comfortable.
The dashboard was not that different from Tom’s Mustang. Everything was manual, including the radio attached to the underbelly.
Tom tapped the car roof and bent down to look at Carl. “Looks like you’ll be doing the driving from now.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine in the passenger seat.”
“Bullshit.” Carl tossed him the keys. “I did a number on your baby. I owe you. Besides, didn’t they give you one?”
Tom juggled the key in his hand. “They don’t see the need for us to take two cars, then.”
“Whatever. You’re driving. Somebody’s got to do the shooting.”
Tom tapped the car roof with his fingertips. “They’re not going to let us do this forever, you know. At some point, they’re going to split us up.”
Carl chuckled as he got out. “Yeah, when one of us is dead. Even then, I doubt you’ll be far behind me.”
Standing next to Tom, he discreetly pointed at Fred walking away from his car. The man a distant stare in his eyes like that of a man hopelessly lost.
“What’s up with him?” Carl asked.
“Who knows? He hasn’t been happy as long as I can remember.”
“Something ain’t right.”
“Nothing we can do about it.”
They were heading back to the newsroom when Tom prodded Carl in the side. “So, you love that gal?”
“Shut up.”
“Just wondering. I was thinking of getting a tuxedo and wanted to know if I needed it to match. Best man gotta look good.”
“You’re a jackass.”
“Worse. I’m a reporter.”
***
After the night’s incident, Carl fully expected to be placed on the ISA’s most wanted list. He also eagerly anticipated the news. For others in the city landing on the list was a curse, but to reporters it was a peculiar privilege. Arrest guaranteed a life-long prison sentence, but the repercussions merely added to their reputation. To be so loathed and detested by the ISA was an honor few achieved.
However, when the ISA finally updated the list and distributed the names internally to agents, Usher and Kenning informed him that his name wasn’t among them. Their tense standoff notwithstanding, Kenning hadn’t taken the threat personally. Likely he had written it off as the impetuous act in the heat of the moment.
When Carl read the list, he saw one name he recognized: Tony Marconi. The Fremonty had somehow been credited for killing the ISA informant.
Carl faked nonchalance when told, but when he got home he was so bothered by it he couldn’t do anything except grab a book and sit at his desk. He scarcely acknowledged Kaylyn when she arrived later.
“What are you reading?” Kaylyn asked.
“Words. Just words.”
“Don’t tease. What is it?”
He looked out the window. It was a late Saturday morning. Outside the building it was damp and cold, the windowpane dripping with condensation. At that moment there was a break in the clouds, tiny rays of sunlight shining on the glass like small bits of golds in a riverbed. The sun was just beginning to rise on the horizon, hinting of a warm day.
He was tempted to go out for a drive in the Ford, possibly take her along.
Kaylyn lay the sofa to his right. After arriving, she had undressed except for a robe she stashed at his place. She crossed and re-crossed her legs in a way that finally drew his attention.
“It’s a book on politics,” he said.
Sliding off the sofa, she strove over to him, her robe trailing across the floor. She put a hand on his shoulder and peered down at the book, her lips brushing against his ear.
“Tell me, oh knowledgeable one,” she said. “What do I need to know about politics?”
“It’s bad for your health.”
She kissed him and then went to change into her clothes she had left on the floor from the other night. Carl went back to reading, but paused to reflect on how well they got along.
The harmony between them had taken him by surprise. By outward appearances, it would seem like that. They seldom talked during the week, despite seeing one another every single night at Slim Marie’s. Kaylyn would greet him like any other guest at the entrance, sometimes show him to his seat along with Tom, Duong, Ian and Fred - if he showed up. But to the casual observer, there was nothing to suggest they were lovers. They never held hands or kissed in public.
She also seemed unconcerned about competition from other women, which he found peculiar.
She never broached the subject. He never brought it up.
She didn’t know it but following their first night together he had stopped seeing other girls, and those who sought him out he politely rebuffed. There seemed no need for them while he had her. Yet, he wondered if men and women meant to be this amicable.
Now clothed in a patterned dress, Kaylyn took a chair and sat next to Carl, watching him read with her chin in her hand. “I like watching you think.”
“How do I look?”
“Contemplative.”
“Never knew it could be so sexy.”
She took a cigarette from the small oak box in the side desk drawer and lit it, smoking quietly. He tried to read more, but her closeness distracted him.
“Is it hard to kill people?” she asked.
“I don’t think about it anymore. I just do it.”
“Are you worried it might cause you to stop feeling normal emotions?”
He grinned at her, plucking the cigarette from her mouth and taking a long drag on it before shoving it back between her lips.
She put her chin on both hands, smiling. “Everyone calls you ‘Killer Carl.’ I wonder how accurate it is.”
“Deadly accurate.”
She took the cigarette out of her mouth and blew short puffs into the air. “You never asked me why I came to Seattle.”
“It doesn’t make a difference to me. Should it?”
“No.”
***
Carl stopped at the Fighting Sailor on his way back to the Cascadian to check something underneath the hood. The engine had been making a strange noise. He was supposed to take it to one of the maintenance garages, but he preferred to do it himself.
As he closed the hood and went back to the driver’s side, he spotted Fred’s car parked right outside the Fighting Sailor.
Strange. It was unusual to see a reporter there so early in the day before deadline.
He parked in the pub’s lot next to Fred’s car, and went inside. It was odd to be there during the day, the atmosphere much more serene, and depressing. There were no women walking about. The bar had a handful of men leaned over the counter staring at the drinks in their hand.
The Redeemers Page 20