We did not speak. My erection was fairly evident to both of us. Without pretense or wasted motion, Kate dropped her coat where she stood, pulled back my covering sheet and sat facing me across my bare legs. The hospital gown fairly fell away. Neither one of us gave much thought to being caught by the police guard outside my door.
She came forward and ran her tongue along the underside of my penis, using her right thumb and forefinger to lightly circle and brush the tip. When enough saliva to prevent chaffing had collected, she encircled me, moving her hand slowly; tightly down, softly up. Barnum placed her O-shaped lips atop her right hand and let them go along for the ride. Her free left hand slid to her own waist, carefully undoing both belt and buttons. The hand disappeared from view. The reporter’s calf muscles tightened around my thighs, her breathing became labored and irregular.
My head was spinning from pain, lack of blood and air. The base of my diminished finger pulsated at the same rhythm as my heart. Something wet tugged down my bottom lip and slipped through my teeth. Kate had presented me a sample of herself and I took it, moving along her finger just as she moved along me. I rocketed into her mouth and lost consciousness for a time, a short time.
We did not kiss or caress and there were no shy, guilty glances. Sex between Kate and me was about many things, but never affection. It was ritual. It was barter. It was code. It was hollow as humping a ghost. Today it was a gift from a goddess, an apology, a farewell, a prepayment of sorts for services rendered and stories to be told.
I lay in bed looking like a half-peeled potato while Barnum pulled a chair up alongside. Her mini-recorder was next to me and running. She had a pad in her lap and chewed on a cheap pen that she wished was a Chesterfield. Kate Barnum had waited a long time for the story that would lift her from the ashes, but she’d have to be patient a bit longer while I decided how I wanted to do what I had to do. I decided to ask my questions first.
“Did O’Toole come to you or did you go to him?”
I could see her trying the costume of denial on for size. I guess she decided it didn’t fit.
“It was a combination of both,” she admitted, exhaling with relief. “Let’s just say we had a marriage of convenience.”
“Was he the one who introduced you to Dante Gandolfo?”
Now her face went cold. Kate Barnum didn’t expect anyone to know about Gandolfo being her source for that series on the Mafia. She began to shape her lips into a question, but I made a preemptive strike.
“Listen Kate, I’m gonna give you your story,” I shut her recorder off. “But you’re partially responsible for three, maybe four people’s deaths and for a lot of pain.” I held up my bandaged hand. “I wanna know how the fuck the chain reaction started.”
“You get to meet a lot of cops when you do what I do. Even if you don’t write crime stuff, cops are always around people who make the news.” Barnum picked up her coat and patted down the pockets for cigarettes that weren’t there. “You get to know some of them pretty well. You go for a drink with one and he introduces you to another one.”
“That’s how you met O’Toole.”
“Yeah, I’d been at the Times for a few months, and this cop I was going around with introduced me to O’Toole. No big thing,” she smirked. “Then, years later, I get a call from him. I didn’t even remember who he was. But he remembered me, all right. Whores are like that. He says the word on the street is that I’m looking for dirt on the Gandolfos and that he knows someone who might be willing to talk to me.”
“How much did it cost you?” I pulled the cover sheet back over me.
“Who said anything about money?”
“Whores are like that,” I fed her own words back. “Now come on. I know you. I met him. And the Times doesn’t pay for stories. What did it cost you?”
“About everything I had, but it was worth it.”
“To have the son of the most powerful crime boss in America as a source. Yeah, I bet it was worth it,” I coughed. “Ever wonder why Don Juan was willing to spill?”
“It’s the one thing he wouldn’t discuss, but most sons don’t rat out their fathers unless it’s got something to do with hate and revenge.” She went cigarette searching again. “Besides, I didn’t really care.”
“Not until much later.”
Barnum nodded in agreement. “Not until much later.”
“So Dante Gandolfo starts slowly, giving you bits and pieces. He can’t afford to give you too much too soon and risk being found out. You meet a union official here, a button man there and you’re startin’ to build a nice foundation for your series. Then your husband swallows half the medicine cabinet and that’s that. Good-bye sources. Good-bye stories. Good-bye career.”
She winced when I mentioned her husband, following that with distant eyes and a cautious smile. Kate Barnum hadn’t expected me to know some of the things I did. That made her wonder about what else I might know and who else might know it.
“Okay, that’s old news.” I didn’t want to spook her so much that she’d clam up. “Let’s time travel to the more recent past.”
“Ben Vandermeer’s more of a father to me than my own, but do you have any idea what working at the Whaler is like for me?”
“Sort of like being the bullpen catcher for Oneonta.”
“What?” the reporter asked angrily.
“Never mind.” I waved her off. “Ben would understand. Go ahead.”
“You know about Mike,” she said, referring to her late husband, “so I take it you also know about the Pulitzer fiasco.”
I shook my head that I did.
“Not a soul in the industry would touch me. I was a leper, a pariah. Oh sure, they were all sorry about Mike, but not one of those sacrosanct, self-righteous hypocrites was willing to let me clean their urinals. Bad for the image, ya know.”
“So Ben took you in and you’ve been hunting for a story you could sell to one of the majors.”
“Pretty funny, huh?” Barnum smiled broadly. “Hunting for a major story in Sound Hill’s kind of like hunting kangaroos in the Himalayas. Not that it stopped me from trying. I kept in touch with some of my old sources, particularly the ones that didn’t require a retainer or up-front money. But even when they came across with something, I either didn’t have the resources to do the story right or it wasn’t big enough to make it worth my while.”
“Until O’Toole called,” I suggested.
“Until O’Toole called,” she confirmed.
“I think I can guess the rest.” The doctor was right. My finger was beginning to burn with pain. “O’Toole says he’s come up with an idea that’ll make big money for him, create the story you’ve been looking for and give both of you a measure of revenge against Dante Gandolfo. How’m I doin’ so far?”
“I’ll stop you when you’re about to hit a bump,” she answered, patting down her coat pockets for the third time. “You got a cigarette?”
“Can’t smoke it in here anyway.” I continued, “I know that O’Toole had been a money mule for the Gandolfos and I assume Dante cut him loose just around the time you got pulled in by the cops. After all, Don Juan couldn’t afford any link to you, and O’Toole was a link. So there’s his motive for revenge. Your motive runs pretty much along the same lines. Only getting cut off cost you the Pulitzer and your career.
“So O’Toole calls and says he’s been looking back over some old copies of the Times. That he’s got a great-”
“You just hit a bump,” she jumped in. “Did O’Toole strike you as an avid Times reader? Of course not. Some buddy of his was spending his retirement driving around the country in a Winnebago. Down south somewhere this buddy goes into a grocery store and spots someone he thinks he remembers as a witness he guarded during a big trial once, but he’s not sure which trial. Cops never stop being cops. On one of his stops back in New York, he looks up O’Toole. You can figure out the rest.”