53
“You look like you could use a drink,” McCracken said.
I made a show of looking at my watch. “It’s still morning.”
“But you had quite a scare this week.”
“Aw, you know me. Nerves of steel.”
He smirked, got up from behind his desk, and strolled to the bar.
“What’s your poison?”
I turned and ran my eyes over the options.
“Knob Creek,” I said. “But if you want to keep me working here, you better lay in some Irish whiskey.”
“Bushmills, right?”
“That’s my usual, but Locke’s Single Malt would be better.”
“Done.”
He poured and handed me the bourbon. For now, it would have to do.
“How are you with the way things turned out?”
“Happy to be alive. Otherwise, everything pretty much sucks.”
“A shame about Parisi,” he said.
“Templeton, too.”
“At least our client’s happy.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “No way the cops can hang murder and robbery charges on Mario now.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Um.”
“Annunzio sent over a check, and he threw in a thousand-dollar bonus.”
“How nice.”
“He’s putting us on retainer, too.”
“Good to hear.”
“Do you need a few days off, or can I toss you another case?”
I took a moment to think about it, then said, “I’d like to stay busy.”
“But nothing too heavy?”
“For now, I think that would be best.”
“Got a call from Walmart yesterday. Somebody’s been pilfering electronics from their store on Silver Spring. The manager will set you up with a job in the storeroom next week.”
“I dunno. Someone’s bound to recognize me.”
“Shear off that mop and shave your head,” he said. “And I’ll get you a pair of horn-rims with window-glass lenses. Not even Yolanda will recognize you then.”
“Unless I take my pants off,” I said.
I wandered into my office, opened the box containing the new Walther, and dry-fired it, testing the trigger pull. Then I fired up the computer, logged on to The Ocean State Rag, and caught up on the local news I’d missed while I was in lockup. Parisi’s arrest had been the main story for three days running. I picked up the desk phone and dialed.
“Mulligan? I was hoping you’d call.”
“Hi, Mason.”
“Are you okay?”
“It was touch-and-go for a while, but I’m fine now.”
“Are you up to writing a first-person account of your ride with Parisi?”
“I was on a case for McCracken when it happened,” I said. “He can be a sticker for confidentiality. I’ll have to check with him first.”
After we signed off, I wandered into McCracken’s office.
“I’ll have to clear it with Annunzio,” he said.
Ten minutes later, he popped his head into my office and gave the okay. I spent the rest of the day pounding out the story. After I checked it over, I e-mailed it to Mason. Then I leaned back in my chair and allowed myself to dream a little.
After a half hour or so, I bent over the keyboard and searched the real estate listings for Jamestown, the town that occupies the largest island in Narragansett Bay. In a year or so, I’d have enough cash from Joseph to make a down payment. Something cozy and secluded with a view of the water. If Yolanda relented and let me move in, I wouldn’t need it, but it could be our place to slip away for romantic weekends. Putting it in my name would be a risk, but Tuukka & Associates Insurance Underwriters of North America could hold the title. Nobody had to know that I was the sole stockholder.
Life after The Dispatch was coming into focus now, and I was starting to like the way it looked.
Whenever I visited Rosie at Swan Point Cemetery, it had nearly always been raining, but Saturday morning dawned clear. The sky was alive with Canada geese getting an early start on their annual pilgrimage from Hudson Bay to the Chesapeake.
I opened my gym bag, pawed through my basketball shoes and gym shorts, and found the Manny Ramirez jersey. I draped it over the gravestone, squatted in the grass, and gave Rosie a hug.
“No, I don’t think I’m going to miss newspaper work, Rosie. The Dispatch isn’t worth working for anymore anyway. Besides, wasn’t twenty-two years as a reporter enough? It’s time for me to start a new chapter. The truth is, I’m not sure how much good I ever did there anyway… Yeah, I know. I exposed a lot of bad people over the years. But most of them were just errand boys. The real corrupters always got clean away.
“Well, look at how things worked out this time, Rosie. Two of the Alfanos ended up dead, but the people who hired them keep getting richer. Cheryl Grandison will do time for bugging Fiona’s office, but I never laid a hand on the deep-pocket organizations that tried to buy our state legislature. The state budget is still in the crapper, the best cop I ever knew is behind bars, and Citizens United is still the law of the land.
“America is being poisoned by big money, Rosie. Casino money. Oil money. Big Pharma money. Wall Street money. It makes a mockery of our elections. It corrupt our cops and politicians, even some of the ones who entered public service for the right reasons. And somehow, the fat cats and their acolytes have convinced half the population that the avaricious pursuit of wealth is a virtue.
“What’s that?… What am I going to do about it?
“I’m heading to Begley Arena, Rosie. The guys who failed the Vipers’ tryouts are gathering for a pickup game, and they need one more to play five-on-five.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Whatever is right about this book can be attributed largely to three remarkable women who were with me every step of the way. Susanna Einstein, my agent, is one of the best story doctors in creation. Claire Eddy, my editor at Forge, is both supportive and an exacting taskmaster. And Patricia Smith, one of the finest poets working in English, edited every line, adding musical notes to my sometimes toneless prose. Of the three, only Patricia sleeps with me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bruce DeSilva’s crime fiction has won the Edgar and Macavity Awards, has been listed as a finalist for the Shamus, Anthony, and Barry Awards, and has been published in ten foreign languages. His short stories have appeared in Akashic Press’s award-winning noir anthologies, and his book reviews have appeared in The New York Times Sunday Book Review, Publishers Weekly, and scores of other publications.
DeSilva was a journalist for forty years, most recently as worldwide writing coach for the Associated Press, editing stories that won nearly every major journalism prize, including the Pulitzer. He has worked as a consultant for fifty newspapers, taught at the University of Michigan and the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, and lectured at Harvard University’s Nieman Foundation. He and his wife, the poet Patricia Smith, live in New Jersey with two enormous dogs named Brady and Rondo. Find him online at www.brucedesilva.com, or sign up for email updates here.
