scratched his head. She could tell he’d learned something, and was troubled by it.
“I got a call today. From someone I wasn’t really expecting to hear from, like, ever.”
“Your dad,” Amanda guessed.
“No,” Henry said, somewhat relieved. “But you’re
close. Paulina Cole.”
“No freaking way,” she said. “Why the hell would that
bitch call you?”
“Something happened to her. Recently. Someone kidnapped her, threatened to kill her daughter.”
“Oh God,” Amanda said. “What happened?”
“The guy let her go, but asked her to do some sort of
favor for him. She wouldn’t tell me what she had to do.”
“Was it,” Amanda said, grimacing, “sexual?”
“I didn’t get that feeling. But she wants to find out who
this guy is, but can’t go to the cops. My guess is she thinks
this guy is connected. And maybe he is.”
“So she came to you,” Amanda said.
“She told me if I found the guy, I could have whatever
story there was.”
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“If there is one. If this guy isn’t just some loon who
took umbrage with one of her scorch-the-earth columns.”
“I get the feeling it was more serious than that. One
thing I know about Paulina Cole, she doesn’t scare easily.
This guy was serious, and he scared her so bad that she
won’t go to the cops and came to me. I have access to the
cops she doesn’t. And I can investigate without drawing
attention, because if this guy does have a mole in the
NYPD he wouldn’t expect anything from my end. They’re
watching her. Not me.”
“But if they find out that someone is asking questions
about this guy, it won’t matter who it comes from.”
“Curt,” Henry said. “I can trust Curt.”
“Maybe,” Amanda said. “But who can he trust?”
Henry didn’t seem like he could answer that, so he just
leaned back. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think you might be putting him in danger?”
Amanda said.
“When I talk to him,” Henry said, “I’ll tell him everything. Including that we think they might have people
inside the PD. Curt is smart. If there’s information to get,
he can get it without drawing suspicion.”
“And how do you know he’ll do it?”
Henry looked at her, his eyes full of confidence.
“Because Curt is like me.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I suppose he is. What are you going
to tell Jack?”
Henry sighed. Looked back over at the table. Stared
at the bottle of wine, debating pouring another glass. As
much as she enjoyed watching him pass out, watching
him breathe as he slept, she was kind of hoping he’d be
in the mood to fool around a little.
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“That’s a little more complicated.” He looked at her.
“I can’t tell him.”
“About Paulina?”
Henry nodded. “I have to cue Jack in on the lead, but
if he finds out I got it from Paulina, that I’d even spoken
to the woman who tried to ruin his career…he’d never
speak to me again. Plus Jack deserves better.”
“From who?” Amanda asked.
“From me. I don’t really know. But the bottom line is
that he doesn’t need to know. Not right now. If we catch
this guy, it’s old news. But for now…I can’t do that to him.”
“You know him better,” Amanda said. “If you think it’s
the right thing to do, then trust your judgment. But at some
point you need to tell him, because he’ll eventually find out.”
“I know and I will. But now’s not that time. We’re
getting close on this story, and I still need to know who
was really responsible for my brother’s death. Somehow
this all connects with the Fury.”
“So you do believe this boogeyman exists.”
“I think there’s someone who knew about the plans to
kill my brother before anyone else, and maybe even
pulled the strings. Stephen was working for some sort of
cartel, and in every organization, legitimate or not, there’s
“You think that might be this guy?”
Henry shook his head. “The CEOs never get their hands
dirty. They have people below them to do that for them. If
this person does exist, he’s been able to hide in the shadows
because he didn’t take stupid risks. The blond guy is acting
on this person’s behalf. So even if he’s not the gold at the
end of the rainbow, he knows where the pot is located.”
“So what are you then, some sort of freaky ass leprechaun?”
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Henry laughed. “Got me the luck of the Irish.”
“You’re not Irish,” Amanda replied.
“Yeah, but Jack is. I knew he was back for a reason.”
“Come to bed. I hear leprechauns are lucky.”
“Are lucky, or get lucky?”
Amanda stood up. Pulled her shirt over her head.
Smiled at him as he gazed up and down her body.
“I guess we’ll have to find out.”
22
The glass sat in front of him. Empty. The last remnants
of the liquid sloshed in his mouth, and he finally swallowed it, his taste buds begging for more.
“Fill it up, Jack?”
Jack O’Donnell looked at the bartender, a big Irish
bloke named Mickey, and said, “One more. Then I’m cutting myself off.”
Mickey laughed. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve
heard you say that, Jacky boy.”
“I mean it this time,” Jack said, but something in his
voice made the barman laugh. Jack had to smile. “Hit me
once more.”
“You got it.”
Mickey took the nozzle from beneath the bar, brought
it up to Jack’s glass and filled it to the brim with fizzy,
bubbly soda.
“Here,” Mickey said. He reached into a small plastic
tray and removed a single maraschino cherry. Holding it
by the stem, Mickey delicately placed it on top of the soda
and said, “Voilà. Figure since you’re drinking girly drinks
these days, you might as well go the full nine and have
it look girly, too.”
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“You’re a saint,” Jack said. He raised the glass and
tipped it toward Mickey. “To never swilling a pint of that
godforsaken ale again.”
“You can toast to that, my friend. ’Fraid if I do the
same I’ll be out of a job.”
“This world today you’ll be out of a job in the next six
months anyhow.”
“Did you come here just to ruin my day, Jack?”
“I’m the black cloud hanging over every man’s driveway,” Jack said with a grin. He sipped the soda.
“As long as you pay your tab,” Mickey said, cleaning a glass.
Jack held up the soda glass, shook it gently, the ice
cubes clinking. “This stuff, what do you charge for it?
Two bucks a glass?”
“Four,” Mickey said, slight embarrassment in his voice.
&n
bsp; “Four dollars,” Jack said. “What does it cost to manufacture? Three cents?”
“No idea,” Mickey said. “I’ll tell you one thing, it
costs a whole lot more than three cents to buy the syrup.”
“See, this is exactly what’s wrong with this country,”
Jack said.
“Christ, here we go.”
“No, hear me out. My paper, you can buy it on the
street for fifty cents. And for that fifty cents, you get hundreds of articles written by some pretty smart people—
okay, some of them are dumber than my shoes—about
everything you need to know about the world. Now, for
this little glass of sugar piss, you could buy one of my
newspapers for eight straight days.”
“I thought it was more expensive on the weekends.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Jack continued. “Anyway,
people don’t value things like that anymore. When I
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started out in this business, you couldn’t walk down the
street without seeing everyone carrying a copy of the
morning’s paper under their arm. Now, they’re doing everything but reading. iPods, BlackBerries, video games,
text messages, bird calls, Pictionary. It’s like people go
out of their way to be ignorant.”
“Why are you here, Jack?” Mickey asked. Jack was
surprised to see that the look on Mickey’s face wasn’t
jovial, but serious enough to get Jack to forget about his
rant. “You say you’re on the wagon. Haven’t had a drink
in two months. I give you credit for that, my friend, and
it’s always good to see you back around here. But it seems
kind of stupid to me for a man trying to stay off the sauce
to hang out at a bar. Not exactly the best atmosphere to
keep you focused, know what I mean?”
Jack nodded. He didn’t have a reply for that. It just felt
natural, coming back here, like a memory that haunted
you but kept tugging at the edges of your subconscious.
It was only in the last few years that the drinking had
really become a problem. Back in the day, a lunch without
three martinis was a lunch wasted. An after-work cocktail
wasn’t an occasion; it was part of the job. You went home
sauced, you woke up hungover, and everything in between was done to even it out. Now, drinks at lunch were
almost passé. Expense accounts had been slashed like a
murder victim, and if you ordered a second drink you
might get a look.
Now, everything was moderated. People judged you. It
was a few years ago when Wallace Langston pointed out
that Jack’s face was looking red, puffy. Wallace recommended a good dermatologist who helped cure his wife’s
rosacea. Jack, perplexed, took the number but never called.
He lied to Wallace and told him he’d seen the doctor,
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Jason Pinter
though in retrospect that might not have been the wisest
course of action since it made the editor in chief even
more suspicious when the symptoms began to worsen.
He’d never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of putting
down the pen until he was either good and ready, or dead
and buried. And last year, he was neither. It was Paulina
Cole who forced his hand, by printing a newspaper article
that swung an ax at his reputation, left him alone and
crying on his bedroom floor.
Jack O’Donnell refused to go out like that. Refused to
go out a laughingstock.
In order to restore his reputation, he needed one last
home run, one last story to remind the public just why
they’d trusted him for the better part of half a century.
First, though, he needed to clean up. Funny thing, he
was never in denial about his alcoholism. With every
drink, Jack knew he was feeding the beast. It was easy to
justify, easy to rationalize. Jack was one of the city’s
most respected newsmen. He’d earned that reputation.
He’d sold nearly a million books, written God knows
how many bylines.
Jack used to have an agent. Good guy named Al Zuckerberg. Tall, wispy Jew who had a company down in
Union Square. For two decades, like clockwork, Al would
negotiate his contracts every two or three years. And if
Jack was ever late with a manuscript or running short on
ideas, Al would be over with a bottle of Johnnie Walker
Blue within the hour.
Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Al.
Jack hadn’t written a book in nearly ten years. At some
point, Al must have given up. No squeezing blood from
a stone. Jack had wrung himself out.
Good businessman, Al was. He realized that once Jack
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was tapped out, his energies would be better spent on
other authors who would bring in new money. Jack still
received royalty payments, but they were dwindling.
They’d afford him a few nice meals a year, maybe pay
off some of his mortgage. But that’s all.
This story, this lead he was chasing with Henry, Jack
knew this was his last chance. A big hit, and his reputation was restored. Jack still had some fight left in him,
but what really stoked the coals was watching Henry
work. Watching his career take off like Jack’s had long
ago. He was a pit bull, that young man, clutching a lead
with his teeth and shaking it until the truth came loose.
Jack felt strong coming back. Felt like he had enough
strength and desire to do his best work in a long, long time.
But when that was over, Jack wasn’t sure how much
he’d have left. At least, he thought, the paper would be
in good hands with Henry. If Jack had died, if the alcohol
had overcome him, he would have died a joke. His reputation would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering
ashes. Now, he could change that. Going out with a bang
wasn’t such a bad thing.
The glass began to grow warm in his hand. The ice
cubes had begun to melt. Jack watched the soda turn
from black to muddy brown as it mixed with the melting
ice. He pictured, just for a moment, Mickey reaching
behind the bar, picking the bottle of Jim Beam up, tilting
that long neck and pouring a healthy swallow of bourbon
in. He could taste it on his tongue, smiled briefly. Then
he looked at the glass and set it on the table.
“Getting the urge, huh,” Mickey said. He took the
glass of soda away from Jack, gently, poured it out and
placed the glass behind the bar. “Maybe you should go
home, Jack.”
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Jason Pinter
The old man laughed. He reached into his briefcase
and pulled out an orange prescription tube. Mickey
looked at it, confused.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Antabuse,” Jack said. “My little blue pill.”
“I don’t get it,” Mickey said. “What’s that, for depression or something?”
“No, think of it as insurance. You’re supposed to take
one of these babies once a day. The chemicals in this tiny
pill, when mixed with alcohol, make you feel like Keith
Richards
after a six-month bender. Kind of the negative
reinforcement equivalent for alcoholics of sticking your
finger in an electrical socket.”
“So, what, you drink and you get sick?”
“So sick you’ll never want to drink again.”
“Does it work?”
Jack shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
“I thought you said you took a pill once a day.”
“You’re supposed to,” Jack said, “but I haven’t taken
a single pill.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
Jack stood up. He tugged a crumpled twenty from his
wallet, flattened it out and put it on the table. He then took
the pill bottle and placed it on top of the money.
“Because when I decide to do something, whether it’s
track down a story, get a source to open up, or quit drinking,” Jack said, “I don’t need a damn pill to motivate me.
See you around, Mickey.”
Jack walked outside. He stood outside the bar for a
moment, looked up and down the street. Some days he
could barely recognize this city. Since his return he’d
become more sensitive to what it used to be. Keenly aware
of what it was not anymore and never would be again.
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Even his old habits like drinking could not be enjoyed,
replaced by something artificial that was meant to fill the
void. If not for Henry, if not for the injection of new blood
into his old, tired veins, Jack O’Donnell knew there was
a good chance his disease would have been the end of him.
Tomorrow was a new day, and would hopefully bring
new leads. He was proud of Henry for finding out information on Brett Kaiser’s possible killer. That the doorman
had seen this blond man coming and going at odd hours,
while Kaiser’s wife left the apartment, left him no doubt
that this man held the key to many, many questions.
Tomorrow they would hopefully answer those, but he
also could be certain that new questions would be asked.
The key to reporting was answering the questions faster
than new ones could be asked, catching up with the trail
of lies while it was still warm. Give any suspect enough
lead time, they would cover their tracks sufficiently, prolonging the investigating or snuffing it out altogether.
Tomorrow they’d be back on the trail. Jack felt invigorated, for the first time in years knowing he was working
on something important, that his job and reputation were
no longer being held hostage by the bottle.
At some point they would unravel the whole spool of