“And how can my editorial decisions contribute to the reversal of these trends?”
“If I may, Ike,” said Denomie. “In my position, I approve all the advertising expenditures for the casinos and other holdings in our hospitality and leisure portfolio. Chicago’s well within our visitor radius, and the Mirror’s always been an important partner of ours.”
“Very important,” said Richter, under her breath, almost reverently.
“Our own revenue declines, if any occur, will have to be met with corresponding cuts in our advertising budget. And I’m forced to determine where to apply those cuts. It’s best, as you can imagine, if it doesn’t even become an issue.”
“I see,” said Nables.
“Ike,” said Foley, “this is tough for all of us.”
“Less for some than others, I’ll bet,” said Nables.
“I’ll let that pass. I think we’re obscuring the point if we get involved in a discussion of principle. We want to survive to fight another day. Ted’s been frank with us, and we respect that.”
“Money’s always frank,” said Nables.
“Ike, I need to know you’re on board with this,” said Foley.
Nables was silent.
TODAY
Mulligan hid for a long time. He waited until fear had been completely overwhelmed by cowardice, and then waited some more until cowardice had been overwhelmed by self-disgust. After a while, there was nothing but the pale sound of branches stirring in the wind, and the distant cawing of a crow. He came out, cautiously, only when he heard the approaching sirens. He found Argenziano by the tree where he’d been shot. Mulligan didn’t look for very long but he could tell that they’d done something special to him, something extravagant.
The first cops arrived, in separate SUVs whose headlights flooded the scene and blinded Mulligan. There were two of them, and they approached with their weapons drawn.
“Freeze,” said one.
Mulligan put his hands in the air and one of the cops came over while the other held his gun on him.
“Put them on your head and spread your legs,” said the first cop.
The rear door of one of the SUVs swung open. Mulligan saw Kat leaning out of the backseat.
“It’s OK,” she said. “He’s the one who was with me.”
“Kat,” he said. She retreated into the vehicle and shut the door without another word.
“What happened here, sir?” said the first cop, frisking him anyway.
“Can you put those away?” Mulligan asked.
“Procedure, sir,” said the second.
They holstered the guns after they’d looked around.
“They really did a job on him,” said the second cop, crouching before Argenziano. “Did you see what happened?” He got to his feet, and brushed off his knee with one hand.
“I didn’t,” said Mulligan. “I mean, I saw them shoot him in the legs.”
“Them? How many?”
“Two guys,” said Mulligan.
“Can you describe them?”
“I didn’t really get that good of a look at them.”
The cop approached him gingerly, favoring the knee he’d gotten down on, and Mulligan could see now that he was the older of the two, maybe fifty. He wore a dark, sickle-shaped mustache and had ice-blue eyes.
“And you got away. Got lucky, I guess.”
“I guess,” said Mulligan.
“She was with you?” The cop gestured at the SUV and its passenger.
“I guess she was behind me,” said Mulligan.
The cop had stopped about a foot from Mulligan, who reflexively took a step backward.
“You guess.”
“I took off when I saw the chance.”
“You left her.”
“Everybody had guns.”
“She didn’t.”
“Everybody else did. People were getting shot, for Christ’s sake.” Mulligan’s voice broke. He felt like he was near tears. “I ran while I had a chance.”
“Just looking out for number one,” said the cop.
“It’s not like I’m her boyfriend or anything.”
“What are you?” The cop stared at Mulligan until he looked away.
“Cliff,” the other cop said, finally. He sounded as if he’d been waiting to speak. “What about this?” He was standing beside the open grave, panning his flashlight beam across its length.
“That,” Cliff said, turning from Mulligan, “I can’t fucking begin to guess. Let’s get the detectives out here.”
More vehicles, cars and vans, began showing up. A perimeter was established. Barricade tape, gloves, tools, cameras, receptacles, casting materials, measuring wheels, evidence placards. It wasn’t long before Mulligan spotted the helical masts of the news vans, sailing in to ensure that a story, fresh from the edit suite, received the moment of attention it deserved. Finally, a detective spoke to Cliff, who gestured at Mulligan. The detective looked him over.
“Does he need to go to the hospital?”
“He’s fine,” said Cliff. “You’re just fine, right?”
Mulligan could have done without Cliff’s sarcasm, but he was happy to agree: he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Already a man with a perfect head of hair wearing a khaki parka was picking his way over, accompanied by a guy with a camcorder balanced on his shoulder.
“Keep him away from me,” Mulligan said.
The detective nodded, but Cliff was way ahead of him: he was with Mulligan on that, at least.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, “sir.”
They put Mulligan in the back of an unmarked police car then, Cliff placing his hand on the top of his head to guide him in as if he were in handcuffs. He sat there a long time, watching the lights strobe over the scene outside. Finally, the detective got in the front seat and drove him back to the station, where he waited to tell his story in a small interview room. A window set in one wall looked directly into a matching room, like a mirror image on the other side of the glass. After a while, a uniformed sergeant led Kat into the matching room and left her there. She and Mulligan gazed at each other through the glass for a moment, and as Mulligan tried to think of some amusing pantomime to communicate with her, she came to the window, lowered the venetian blinds, and closed the slats.
SALTINO
BOBBY stood over an open hole, slumped in a posture you might naturally associate with mourning or grief. It was an old hole, one previously filled, and his sagging shoulders were actually the result of fatigue from having dug the hole — redug it, albeit using heavy equipment — his head bowed only so that he could look avidly into the hole: he was not mourning and he was experiencing no grief, although there was a body in there. The body was all that remained of what had filled it. The rest, all the dirt, was piled beside it. There was still a body in the hole. Bobby was happy because his expectations were fulfilled.
I knew Bobby for a long time and I can state this with confidence. Bobby was a man whose expectations were met in such simple ways — by his finding things where they belonged, or in the possession of the people with whom they belonged, or, conversely, by his finding them in the wrong place or with the wrong people and thereby confirming his suspicions; for suspicion always was a driving force in the mind of Bobby Argenziano. It was the suspicion of a greedy creature — one hesitates to say a primitive creature, although as you can see I have barely hesitated before going ahead and saying it; the suspicion of a primitive greedy creature who took no measure of his need before going ahead and doing what he deemed necessary to his survival, no matter how excessive it may have been in relation to that need.