Parker 05 - The Darkness (10 page)

Chester would let it slide.

"Your friend Ken spoke highly of you," Chester said.

"It really is a shame. Always the young, talented ones

who go before their time."

"I know what you mean," Morgan said. The truth was,

Ken was only a half-decent worker. A man with some bad

habits and with maybe a quarter of the brainpower

Morgan possessed. He didn't say any of this to Chester,

of course, but if this guy spoke so highly of Ken Tsang

he'd be simply blown away by Morgan Isaacs.

If it took this little to impress Chester, Morgan could

probably have his job in less than five years.

"I know I mentioned this to you before," Chester continued, "but Kenneth did some work for our firm. He was

a good man, a good soldier, and recommended you as

someone who could do the same kind of work if, well, if

you ever decided to pursue other opportunities."

"What kind of work did Ken do for you?" Morgan

The Darkness

77

said. "Whatever it was, modesty aside, sir, I guarantee

Ken didn't know the half of what I'm capable of."

"Is that right?" Chester said, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, sir."

Chester nodded. He seemed pleased.

"I don't know what kind of money you were making

at your last job," Chester said, "but I hope you'll find that

if you do decide to work for us, the pay will be commensurate with what you'd expect."

Morgan was slightly surprised, considering this guy

was bringing up salary before even discussing the job. It

must be either crap work or a crappy salary, and Chester

probably figured he wouldn't waste any time, that if

Morgan didn't like the payoff, he'd walk away.

"What kind of figures are we talking about?" Morgan said.

"Well, we would have to start you out at the bottom of

the ladder. I'm sure you understand. So many people

competing for so few jobs these days. If you're not comfortable with that, I can move on. Ken did give me a few

other names."

Morgan felt his neck grow hot under his collar.

"What kind of money are we talking about?"

Chester stopped walking. He reached inside his coat,

pulled out a ballpoint pen. Then he walked over to a garbage can on the corner, tore a page off a loose newspaper. He scribbled something on the paper, then held it out

for Morgan to see.

Morgan felt his stomach lurch, felt his hands go cold.

Chester crumpled the scrap up and threw it back into the

trash, then he kept walking. Morgan was unable to move

for a moment, before snapping out of it and jogging to

catch up.

78

Jason Pinter

This couldn't be right. Nobody started at the bottom

of any company and made that much money.

Chester was walking faster. Morgan's short legs

couldn't keep up, so he found himself half walking, half

jogging to keep alongside the man.

"If you're interested," Chester said, "you'll be downstairs outside of your apartment tomorrow at 1:00 p.m.

You'll be dressed just like you are now. Let me make this

clear. You do not have the job. Not yet. If you tell anybody

about the offer, or if you're one second late, you'll never

see me again."

"I'll be there," Morgan gasped.

"Good," Chester said. The man stopped walking. Out

of nowhere, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside them. Chester walked over, opened the door and

climbed in.

"Wait!" Morgan said. "Don't you need to know where

my apartment is?"

Morgan's words faded into the roar of the exhaust as

Chester's car sped away, leaving the young man confused, excited and ready.

10

When we arrived back at the
Gazette,
I followed Jack to

his desk. Yet as we rounded the corner, I saw Tony Valentine approaching. When Tony saw me his face lit up.

Actually I couldn't tell if his face lit up, considering there

was enough self-tanner on there to make George Hamilton

look pale, and his face was pumped with enough Botox to

iron out a shar-pei. But he did have a big smile on his face,

and his gait picked up when he saw me coming.

"Henry!" Tony exclaimed, jogging up and placing his

arm around me. "I've been looking for you. Where've you

been all morning?"

"Chasing a story," I said. "Tony, have you met Jack

O'Donnell?"

Tony shook his head, but took Jack's hand and did a

neat little bow. "Not yet, but your reputation precedes

you, Mr. O'Donnell. It's a pleasure."

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Valentine," Jack replied. His

tone surprised me. As a hard news man, I didn't think Jack

would have much use for Tony Valentine. Tony had recently been brought on board at the
Gazette
to kickstart

the paper's flailing gossip pages, which had grown stale

with coverage that revolved mainly around celebrities who

80

Jason Pinter

stopped being famous before I was born. Tony was one of

the top names in the gossip field--if you could call it

that--and already his columns were among the most

e-mailed on the
Gazette
Web site. He dressed like he was

auditioning to be James Bond on a daily basis, and smiled

like he was being paid to. We had nothing in common other

than our employer, and I preferred to keep it that way.

"Henry," Tony said. "Glad we ran into each other. Do

I have an offer for you!"

"I already have life insurance," I said.

Valentine laughed. "That's a good one. Seriously now,

have you heard of Belinda Burke?"

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't

place it. "Sounds familiar," I said, "but I'm not sure why."

"Belinda was a contestant on
Marry My Mother-in-

law.
She won a million bucks by setting her mother-inlaw up with the dentist who walked from Dallas to

Newark stark naked."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Match made in heaven."

"Well, Belinda has quite a story to tell. So naturally

she's decided to write a memoir."

"That's nice. Literature was getting a bit stale."

"I totally agree! Anyway, she was going to use this

ghostwriter named Flak. Just one word, like Madonna. He

ghostwrote Joe the Plumber's autobiography, did a wonderful job. Anyway, Flak came down with syphilis and I

thought you might want to give it a crack. I know Belinda's

agent and could get you two a meeting, no problem."

"Um...why would I want to ghostwrite the memoir

of a D-list celebrity nobody's going to remember in

twelve months?"

"Because there's fifty grand in it for you if you can

deliver a manuscript in a month."

The Darkness

81

"Somebody thinks she's worth fifty grand?"

"Oh, heck no. She got a million bucks for the book.

You get fifty k just to write it."

"She can't write it herself?"

Valentine laughed, deep and hearty. "Henry, I don't

think the woman can read. But that's not the point. Her

publisher is a little worried Belinda might have a short

shelf life, and they want to get the book out before the

next season of
American Idol
takes attention away from

her."

"The money sounds great, but I'm just not really into

that kind of thing. I never saw myself as that kind of

writer." I looked at Tony. "Just out of curiosity, why come

to me? What's in this for you?"

Tony grew a sly smirk. His eyes narrowed. I could tell

Tony Valentine was far more calculating than he let on.

"See, I knew you were a smart one. Here's the deal,

Henry. If you take this job, you get the money. That's how

you win. If Belinda publishes the book, she adds a few

ticks on to her fifteen minutes. She wins. And because I

got you the job and we work at the same paper, you feed

me exclusive info from the book that I can run in my

column. I win. We all win, Parker."

"Wow," I said. "It's like a whole big circle of ethics

violations."

"Say what you will, but who loses here?"

"Sorry, Tony. I have to say no."

"No apologies necessary," Tony said, taking a hair

pick from his suit jacket and running it through his glistening hair. That was a first. "But I hope you understand

why I put it on the table."

"I do. I appreciate you looking out for me. And

Belinda. And you," I said. "If you know anyone who

82

Jason Pinter

wants me to test canned food for botulism, my Friday

night is free."

"See, that rapier wit. One more thing I love about you,

Henry. See you around. And it was nice to meet you, Mr.

O'Donnell." Tony walked away, whistling a tune I

couldn't identify but was definitely Sondheim.

"Have a good one," Jack said as Valentine rounded

the corner.

"Have a good one?" I said to Jack. "It took you a

month just to give me the time of day."

"You should be nicer to him," Jack said.

"You can't be serious," I replied. "Jack, he's a gossip

hound. A bottom feeder. He makes a living shoveling

garbage."

"And he's necessary for the survival of this newspaper," Jack said abrasively. "You can ride your high horse

until it dies of thirst, but this is not a business that's

growing, in case you haven't noticed. We didn't have a

real gossip columnist for years. Now, people are talking

about Tony. Besides, what do you think a newspaper is?

Every day, we print a hundred pages, give or take, and

reach over a million readers. You think every one of them

wants to read about crime and corruption? Some of them

need cheddar-flavored potato chips in their daily routine.

Something you know is crap but you enjoy it anyway. You

like steak, Henry?"

"Yeah, why?"

"How do you like your cut--lean and tough, or a little

more flavorful?"

"More flavor, I guess. Why?"

"You know what puts the flavor in steak? Fat. Too

much fat, in case you don't keep up on healthy trends, is

bad for you. But it makes the steak taste like a slice of

The Darkness

83

heaven. That's what gossip is. It's fat. Without it, the

paper is leaner, tougher, but doesn't have as much flavor.

Maybe it's the kind of flavor that increases your cholesterol or hardens your arteries, but most people live in the

moment. You get what I'm saying, sport?"

"I get it," I said. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"You like your job, don't you?" I nodded. "Then live

with it. You do your job the best you can, don't worry

about everyone else."

"But don't you think, you know, that the
Gazette

should have a higher standard? You've been here, what,

thirty years?"

"What do you think the
Gazette
is?" Jack said with a

laugh. "Our job is to report the news for the paper. It's

not the news's job to get to us. This company is the sum

of what we make of it. Now, if you want to work for a

company that only reports what you want, go start a blog."

"I understand what you're saying, but I don't have

to like it."

"Like it, hate it. It ain't changing," Jack said. "Now

here's the deal. I want you to call Brett Kaiser."

"Why me?"

"I've heard of his firm before. They handle civil litigation, among other things, including libel. Which means

they know a lot about newspapers, which means, no

offense, kiddo, he'll be a little less threatened by a--how

should I put this?--wet-behind-the-ears guy like you."

"I'm not that wet behind the ears," I replied.

"Come on, Henry. What was it, a year ago that you

could finally rent a car without paying extra fees?"

Rather than argue (and lose), I just nodded. We went

to my desk, Jack perching on the corner while I picked

up the phone. I dialed the number for Kaiser, Hirschtritt

84

Jason Pinter

and Certilman from the paper Talcott gave us. A woman

picked up on the first ring.

"Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman, how may I direct

your call?"

"Hi, I'd like to speak with Brett Kaiser."

"And who may I ask is calling?"

I looked at Jack, knowing where this was about to go.

"My name is Henry Parker. I'm with the
New York

Gazette.
"

"Hold on," she said, wariness in her voice. "I'll put

you through."

The next thing I heard was a dial tone. I placed the

receiver down.

"You got hung up on," Jack correctly surmised. I

nodded. "Go home."

"What?"

"It's been a long day. Get some rest. We're going to

be working like dogs over the next few days, and I don't

need you conking out on me."

"In case you haven't noticed, I've got almost fifty

years on you."

"True, but while you were smoking from atomic bongs

and doing keg stands in college, I was chasing leads. Get

some rest, Parker. I'll see you here tomorrow. Nine o'clock."

"I'll see you at eight," I said.

A smell greeted me in the apartment that I did not

immediately recognize. It resembled some sort of meat,

maybe chicken or fish, something sweet and citrusy--all