by Brad Parks
“This woman seems to be saying you set this fire,” he said. “Do you have a response?”
I sighed and shook my head but kept my lips clamped.
“Aw, hell, he might as well have set it,” Tynesha proclaimed, walking over to the Smurf and snatching his microphone, then using it like it was hooked up to a loudspeaker system. She wanted to be heard. All the cameras instantly readjusted so their shot wasn’t screwed up.
“He didn’t strike the match but he put it in the hands of the guy who did,” Tynesha declared, emphasizing every couple of words like a Sunday-morning preacher who has gotten on a roll.
The Smurf just stood there. His journalistic wits were apparently at their end—plus, he was impotent without his microphone—but the guy from Channel 12, the one who couldn’t spell, was determined to apply his hard-nosed-reporter’s instincts to get to the bottom of this important story.
“Are you an accomplice?” he asked me, with all due drama. “Are you a coconspirator in some way?”
I slapped my hand to my forehead and finally just couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “No,” I said. “No, no, no—”
“That’s right!” Tynesha crowed. “That’s exactly what he is. He’s a Coke conspirator and a Pepsi conspirator and everything else!”
The hairdos stayed straight-faced, but I could see the cameramen smirking. Nothing like a little malapropism to make everyone’s day.
“Look, guys, I’m a reporter for the Eagle-Examiner,” I said. “I didn’t set any fires. I wrote a story, that’s all I did. You can turn your cameras off. There’s no news here.”
I thought it sounded like a reasonable request but, of course, I wasn’t thinking like a TV person. Of course there wasn’t any news. But there was controversy—which is far better than actual news.
“You keep those cameras rolling!” Tynesha commanded, still gripping the Smurf’s microphone. “He put my friend Wanda’s business out there. And now all my stuff’s burnt.”
“Tynesha, can we please have this conversation somewhere else?” I asked.
“No way. We’re having it right here. All my stuff’s burnt and you don’t want to talk about it with all the cameras? Why, because it don’t make you look good?”
“It has nothing to do with looking good,” I countered. “There are some things I need to tell you. In private.”
The hairdos had not yet put A (that Tynesha was talking about the story I had written in that day’s Eagle-Examiner) together with B (that the places I had written about were under attack), so I could only assume they thought they were watching some kind of bizarre lover’s quarrel. The cameras had started swiveling back and forth between me and Tynesha, as if they were covering a tennis match.
“No, I’m through with your crap,” Tynesha bellowed. “Why didn’t y’all just put a map in the damn newspaper, maybe some directions, too. I’m going to get me a lawyer and sue the damn hell out of you and your newspaper.”
I finally lost my patience.
“Tynesha, look, I’ve lost everything, too, okay?” I said. “Whoever did this threw a bundle of dynamite through my living room window this morning. He blew up my house. He blew up everything I own. He even blew up my cat.”
I hated to play the cat card, but I needed to invoke a little bit of sympathy—if not for me then at least for Deadline.
It didn’t work.
“Serves you right!” she snapped. “You just wait until I tell Miss B what happened. She ain’t gonna give you no pie. She ain’t gonna talk to you no more. She ain’t going to answer the door when you knock.”
“Tynesha,” I said as quietly as I could, turning my back to the cameras in the hopes they couldn’t hear me. “Miss B’s place got burned, too. She’s not . . . she’s not looking too good.”
Tynesha came at me with fresh rage, fists flying.
“You bastard!” she screamed, veins bulging. “You bastard! You killed her, you killed her!”
She was flailing at me more than she was punching me. I was able to hold her off easily enough—long arms are nice sometimes—though midway through the attack, the belt on her robe slipped loose. With her breasts flopping everywhere, I had to be a little more delicate about the manner in which I restrained her.
Tynesha either didn’t know or didn’t care that her goods were being aired for public consumption—perhaps mass public consumption. She just kept screaming obscenities at me until the big blond Russian grabbed her. Eventually, Tynesha allowed herself to be corralled away. She had been choking back sobs so she would still have breath to berate me, but she couldn’t hold them forever.
“You bastard!” she shrieked one more time, then collapsed into the Russian, who offered her a protective, motherly embrace and shot me a Siberia-cold glower.
The cameras had, naturally, caught the whole ugly thing and they stayed trained on Tynesha and her grief. That left me alone with my thoughts. If I had felt like rationalizing, I could have told myself I was only doing my job, that I hadn’t set anything on fire or blown anything up, that I was just as much of a victim as anyone else.
But knowing the ruin my article was causing—even if the ruin wasn’t my fault—I couldn’t help but think Tynesha right. I was a bastard.
With Tynesha having captured every bit of available attention, I slipped away unnoticed and began walking toward my car. About five blocks later, it occurred to me I should go back and offer the TV morons some kind of explanation for the bizarre thing they had just witnessed. After all, that’s the first rule of public relations: if you’ve got a side of the story to tell, get it out quickly and in an attractive manner.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized a psychopathic, pyromaniac drug kingpin was on the loose, and it was at least partly my fault. For as awful as the TV news was going to make me look, I should leave bad enough alone. After all, there’s also the second rule of public relations: if you’re in the wrong, shut the hell up, take your beating like a man, and hope everyone forgets about it by the next news cycle.
So I completed my walk down Springfield Avenue to my trusty Malibu, which soon delivered me to the relative safety (I hoped) of the Eagle-Examiner offices. By the time I arrived, the morning editor’s meeting was already under way, so I was able to settle into my desk without worrying about immediate ambush from Tina or Szanto.
Reassuringly, my e-mail in-box had the usual mix of worthless press releases and urgent reminders from Human Resources, one of which was about making sure the batteries in my home’s carbon monoxide detector were working properly. Oh, irony.
There were also some messages from colleagues who’d heard about the kindling box my house had become. And over the next half hour, as I called my insurance company and began filing my claim, a number of them stopped by and offered condolences and iftheresanythingicandos. Even Buster Hays dropped his usual persona and offered some kind words.
You wouldn’t necessarily think of newsrooms as dens of altruism, but in times of personal crises, the Eagle-Examiner staff was known for going above and beyond to help its own. I had a half-dozen offers for free lodging by the time Szanto and Tina appeared from the morning meeting.
Tina didn’t bother with words. She came straight for me and hugged me before I could even get out of my chair. It was a bit awkward, having my face mashed into her chest. And I’m sure it was noted by the newsroom gossips, who undoubtedly knew why I hadn’t been at home to be blown up along with the rest of my belongings. But it felt so nice I didn’t care.
“When you’re done molesting him, send him into my office,” Szanto said as he walked by.
Unembarrassed, Tina kept clinging to me. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, kissing the top of my head fiercely. “Now stop scaring the crap out of me.”
I offered my best winsome smile. “Don’t worry,” I said. “If what Billy Joel says is true and only the good die young, I got a long way to go before I check out.”
“You’re staying with me until this is o
ver,” she said. “No arguments. We’re locking the doors and putting on the security system.”
“Okay, but no eggs for breakfast.”
“Deal,” she said, releasing me and exhaling sharply. “Okay. I’m done.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went into Szanto’s office before anyone could get a full look at just how much I was blushing.
“I hope you don’t expect me to hug you like that,” he said. It was as close as Szanto came to a joke.
“Probably for the best,” I said. “I have a pet peeve about hairy backs anyway.”
He almost grinned, but I knew what was coming: the Sal Szanto I’m-a-gruff-bastard-but-I-care-about-my-people speech.
“Hell of a thing this morning,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“No, really. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, boss,” I said. “Honest. I had my happy-to-be-alive epiphany. I’ve talked with my insurance company. The only thing I can’t replace is my own wonderfully unique DNA sequence, and that managed to come out unscathed.”
Szanto bent forward for a moment to grab his coffee, then returned to a recline, sipping thoughtfully.
“Sometimes these things take a little bit of time to sink in, you know,” he said. “I want you to take some time off. Get away somewhere until this cools down. I talked to Brodie about it and he agreed the paper will handle the tab, so pick yourself a nice island and get lost for a couple of weeks. Drink some fruity drinks. Meet some local girls. Whatever works for you. Hays and Hernandez can pick up the story from here.”
“Like hell they will,” I said.
“Carter, I’m offering you a free vacation.”
“And I’m telling you thanks but no thanks. This is my story and I couldn’t live with myself if I quit on it. At least one woman—and who knows how many Booker T vagrants—may die because of something I put in the damn newspaper. You think a few banana daiquiris will make me feel better about that?”
Szanto moved forward in his chair and placed his coffee back on the desk.
“Yeah, I thought you were going to say that,” he said. “If you wake up tomorrow and change your mind, no one here will think less of you.”
“I’ll think less of me.”
That seemed to settle matters. Szanto asked about my morning and I gave him the full narrative. Then he caught me up on the latest from inside the nest of Mother Eagle. Apparently, the county prosecutor had called up and asked us to be a little more careful about what we put in the paper. Brodie, God bless him, had politely told the prosecutor to shove it up his ass.
Such bravado aside, we all knew that as long as we had a homicidal maniac receiving home delivery, the rules about what we did and did not print needed to change. We had to hold our cards closer to the chest.
“. . . and the Newark police want a statement from you,” Szanto finished.
“Can’t you just tell them to buy the newspaper like everyone else?”
“Don’t know if that’s going to work this time,” Szanto said. “We’ve had some success stalling them in the past when these sorts of things came up. But, ultimately, you’re going to have to cooperate. You might as well get it out of the way.”
That was how, in short order, I ended up taking a walk down the hill, across Broad Street, and onto Green Street for a visit with my good friends at the Newark Police Department. Tina had insisted on accompanying me, which gave me some small comfort: at least if the man in the white van suddenly appeared and decided my brain would look better decorating the sidewalk, there would be a witness.
Otherwise, I doubted Tina’s yoga classes, for as shapely as they made her arms, were going to do much to help in the event of an attack. Fact was, if the guy still wanted me dead, I was going to be dead one way or another.
“Whatchya thinking about, Mr. Stare Off in the Distance Man?” Tina asked.
I looked at her and thought about telling the truth: death, Tina. I’m thinking about death. I’m wondering whether I’ll be reunited with my harp-strumming grandparents atop cotton-candy clouds or whether I’ll have all the afterlife of a junked television. I’m wondering if this lunatic is done for the moment or if he’s merely having a Rooty Tooty Fresh N’ Fruity at a local IHOP and will be back to finish me after he’s done with the funnel cake he ordered for dessert. I’m wondering how my blood would look as it poured out of me and spread in a nice circle on the pavement, which is probably the last thing I’d ever see.
Which means I’m also wondering whether I should really just save my own ass and hop on a plane for St. Thomas, taking Tina with me so we can spend the next two weeks finding creative and entertaining ways to start a family.
Tina was still waiting for my answer.
“Oh, nothing,” I said instead. “I was just realizing that I’ve spent my entire career interviewing cops and never once had the tables turned on me. Funny, isn’t it?”
“You’re lying,” she said. “That wasn’t what you were thinking about at all.”
“I wasn’t?”
“I know when you’re lying. I hope you don’t play poker. Your tells are as obvious as turnpike billboards.”
The implication—that I couldn’t tell a lie to a woman I might end up sleeping with—was too immense for my head to process at a time like this. So we walked in silence the rest of the way to police headquarters. I went up to the desk sergeant on duty, announced myself, then was asked to take a seat in a lounge area that reminded me of a hospital waiting room except that it had Wanted posters for wall hangings.
A battered television was bolted into the ceiling in the corner, and we arrived just in time for the News at Noon update. The TV was muted—as all TV news should be—and I was going to keep it that way until I saw they were leading their broadcast with the Stop-In Go-Go fire. I walked over and pumped up the volume in time to catch the words “Let’s go live to Irvington.”
The scene cut directly to the Channel 7 Smurf, who no longer looked so small now that he was appearing alone on camera with nothing to set his diminutiveness in perspective. The word “LIVE” appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the screen, and the blackened remains of the Stop-In Go-Go were framed perfectly in the background.
“Thanks, Tom,” the Smurf said. “A bizarre story here, where police say an unknown arsonist has torched this and several other buildings, apparently in revenge for something written in a newspaper article.”
The next scene was a quick scan of the top of that day’s Eagle-Examiner, then footage of Miss B’s place, then of the heap of rubble that remained of Booker T. The Smurf was talking over it the entire time and I was mostly ignoring him until he said, “. . . and we have this footage of a dramatic confrontation between one of the dancers and the man who wrote the article, Eagle-Examiner reporter Carter Ross.”
I cringed. Other than Van Man, this was the last thing in the world I wanted to see: Tynesha raving at me, and me pleading in return.
Even having participated in the original event, it was hard to follow the clip they had chosen. They used a special effect to strategically blur her wardrobe malfunctions. They used a bleeping sound every time she swore. The net effect was that most of the clip was either blurred or bleeped.
“That was entertaining,” Tina said when it was over. “Did you really just try to engender sympathy with a source by telling her about your dead cat?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I played the cat card.”
“Interesting,” she said. “At least we don’t have to worry about losing you to network news.”
“Be honest,” I said. “How bad was it?”
“Remember that movie with Winona Ryder and Richard Gere?”
“Ouch.”
Just then, Hakeem Rogers, the Newark Police Department’s spokesman, appeared. Actually, calling Hakeem Rogers a spokesman was a bit of a stretch, since most of the time he was paid to say nothing. We had a relationship based on sar
casm and mutual irritation.
“Hi, Carter,” he said, pretending he was happy to see me.
“Hello, Officer Rogers,” I said.
“Gee, it really breaks my heart you wasted your time coming down here. We don’t need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not our case anymore.”
“So whose case is it?”
“We turned it over to the feds,” Rogers said, like I should have somehow known this already.
“Which feds?”
“The Newark Field Office of the National Drug Bureau,” he said. “They told us they had reason to believe the crime involved international drug smuggling and they claimed jurisdiction over it.”
“Huh,” was all I could say.
“Yeah, so you can go bother them now,” Rogers said. “I’m glad we’re rid of it. We got enough murders we can’t solve. If you ask me, they’re not going to do any better with it than we did.”
The Director wasted little time pondering his morning’s work. There was another job to do, and he knew it was going to take several hours: he had a lot of pictures to print out, and ink-jet printers were simply not built for speed. The Director didn’t like using his own printer—in addition to the printer being slow, it meant fussing with those annoying ink cartridges—but he had no choice in the matter. These were not the kind of pictures he could take to the local Fotomat.
They were the snapshots the Director had ordered Monty to take of Wanda Bass, Tyrone Scott, Shareef Thomas, and Devin Whitehead in the moments after their deaths. They were postmortem portraits. Faces of the gone.
And now that the news of the four dealers’ deaths was in every newspaper and on every television—and had no doubt captured his employees’ attention—the time was right to deliver the high-impact message the Director wanted to impart.
He made forty-two packets, one for each of his remaining dealers, to be delivered along with their weekly shipment. Each packet included a set of the photos and a memo:
