The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “I saw you come in ten minutes early,” he said. “Were you already in Bellevue?”

  “Your people do a lot of wondering and not enough talking,” I remarked. “I hope you’re more useful in that regard.”

  I kept looking at his shadow. The light cast from the lamp on my side of the room caught a partial section of him. As he moved, the outline changed and transformed. He seemed to be my height, maybe taller.

  “I have a little present for you,” he said, offering me a gloved hand around the fireplace with a paper in it.

  I took the paper and unfolded it. It had my father’s arrested details, albeit much of the information had been redacted.

  “Something I figured you’d appreciate,” he said. “And to show I have access to these things.”

  “What about my father?” I asked. “Is he getting transferred to that new facility?”

  “I do not know. Be patient.”

  I sighed and waited for him to continue.

  He chuckled. “I was anticipating a more, how shall I put it? A more outraged response from you. From what I understand, you have been waiting for a long time to speak to someone like me.”

  I folded my arms and leaned against the mahogany. “Not much good complaining will do.”

  “Most individuals do not think of it so dispassionately. Especially when it involves such delicate information as the kind you’re asking for.”

  “I can assume you’re doing everything you can, right?”

  “Quite.”

  “Anything I can do from my end?” I asked.

  “You are in a rather understanding mood,” he noted.

  “Is it too much for me to ask why you’re doing this?” I queried. “Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you? You must be desperate to be talking to me. Usually my contacts try to bargain first, haggle over the price for their cooperation.”

  “You don’t protest, do you?” he responded. “I’d think you’d find such arrangements refreshingly simple.”

  “I do. But it also makes me suspicious.”

  He took a long time answering, as if contemplating my statement.

  “Someone is also suspicious of you, aren’t they?” he asked. “Perhaps your own boss?”

  I sat back, privately marveling at his ability to deduce things from out of small comments. It was a violation of a firm rule never to speak frankly to sources, but with this man I felt an inexplicable trust.

  “My publisher is on to me,” I said. “He doesn’t want me pursuing this anymore. He wants me to stop talking to people like you. He thinks the stories I’ve written aren’t worth the trouble. Sent a guy to tail me after I left the newspaper. I had to have a friend come and swap modes of transport with me to lose him and get here.”

  More foot tapping. The man coughed and his shadow thickened as he leaned forward, his elbow on his knee as their shadows met and became one.

  “This is not a good sign,” he said. “McCullen will know you’re aware of his monitoring.”

  “How could you know?”

  “I’ve made a living off monitoring people. I know when a person is aware they are being spied on. Their behavior is unmistakable.”

  He got up and his shadow lengthened and narrowed and from the lighting, indicating a tall and lanky body as he walked to the door.

  “Suppose I came around and looked at you,” I said. “What would you do?”

  He laughed. “You’re too young to play that kind of game.”

  His footsteps were awkwardly timed as he exited the door.

  ***

  Afterwards, I jumped on the assignment Olan had given me. The story was on a rumored Seattle City Council plan to examine their city ordinance on newspaper reading. It was based on a federal law, but the ordinance authorized local police enforcement.

  It took hardly more than two hours to hear back from my sources. Some inside City Hall were discussing abolishing it purely as a symbolic gesture to the feds: enforce your own laws.

  However, my sources assured me nothing had been decided.

  I didn’t quite know what to expect when I returned to the newspaper. I entered the newsroom and headed to an empty desk. It had been formerly occupied by a writer who had yet to be replaced after overdosing on cocaine. I waited for McCullen to appear from somewhere and demand to see me, or a new face peeking around a corner or gaping at me from a not-so-hidden place.

  I typed up the story and thrust it into the bin. A young boy scooped it up and carried it away. Port was busy barking at his stringer on the phone. When he saw me, he cut short the feud and hung up on his partner and got up from his desk to shake my hand. He appeared much more alert than the morning, his eyes clearer and his speech as articulate as it could be. On his desk were a half-filled glass of water and a bottle of pills.

  “When are ya gonna come back here for good?” he asked.

  “Not for a while. Or ever. I like it out there.”

  “Ain’t the same.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Farrington!” someone screamed.

  Olan was in his office doorway, one hand leaning against the side. His eyes were trained on me, no emotion in his voice. He and I were not friendly. It seemed to be his way with everyone.

  I entered the office and Olan closed the door softly. He sat in his short desk and held up a handwritten note.

  “Lookin’ for somethin’ to do?” he asked.

  “Yeah, as always. I got a good story I just turned in. You’ll like it.”

  “Swell. Well, here’s somethin’. Just got off the phone with one of our boys up north. Apparently there’s a kid who wants to talk to us, says it’s big. Wouldn’t say what.”

  “Then why are we pursuing it?” I asked.

  “We ain’t. Ya are, if ya want it.”

  I took the paper and read the note. It was concise: Calvary Cemetery, 10 a.m. The caller had been a boy about eleven years old. He was just under five feet tall and would wear a Mariners baseball cap.

  Olan perceived the dissatisfaction on my face and shrugged.

  “I’d give ya somethin’ besides this, but there’s ain’t nobody else to take it. It’s a short notice. The kid also said other papers will want the scoop, too.”

  I looked at Olan. “Then why is he coming to us?”

  “Not sure. Maybe he trusts us. Or it’s just bullshit. Can’t tell. Ya find out when ya get there, right?”

  “I’d like some assurance he’s for real.”

  “Ya will when ya chat with ‘em tomorrow.”

  Olan answered his phone. His eyebrows elevated, and then without saying a word slammed the phone down and grinned at me.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” he said. “Ya got ya prayer answered. The kid must have thought nobody was comin’. He gave us a bone, said it’s about an ISA undercover agent.”

  “Undercover?”

  “Yeah. They’ve got a few in this area. Most of the time they’re as easy to spot as a Roman candle in the middle of the dark.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Olan settled in his chair, gesturing with his head towards the door. “I spoke with McCullen this mornin’. He told me he called ya off ya pet project.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ya agreed?”

  “Yes, of course. He calls the shots.”

  He gave me a long stare, broken only when an errand boy entered just to say a delivery had been made without interference.

  “Ya stay out of trouble,” he said to me as he waved the boy off. “I’m sure McCullen has told ya why it’s good to listen to him.”

  ***

  I pointed at my empty glass of brandy as the waiter came and took it away. The dimmed lights made everyone a silhouette, the band darkened figures on the stage. No Quartet tonight. The rock song had everyone banging their head up and down as they spilled beer on the floor and pushed each other around and stumbled drunkenly for the restroom.


  Tom had the newspaper in hand. “Nice story today. Olan seemed happy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How did that meeting with your source go?”

  “Alright.”

  I slid father’s arrest document across the table. Tom scooped it up and read it briefly.

  “I thought they didn’t write these up,” he said.

  “They’re not released officially. Just internal documentation.”

  “Too bad someone blacked out his location.”

  “Yeah.”

  He handed the document back to me. I folded it and pushed it into my front jacket pocket behind my handkerchief.

  “A word of advice about McCullen?” he offered.

  “Sure.”

  “You should watch out with him. He spots threats early on. It’s why he’s stayed in that room for so long. You don’t get tenure here, believe you me. You’re in charge as long as you keep your head on your shoulders and take care of threats before they take care of you.”

  “I’ll be careful. I’d be even more careful if I had more ammo.”

  Tom smiled and drank his brandy. He slid a box of revolver ammunition under the table and onto the seat next to me.

  “You got a lead tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Some tip about an ISA undercover agent.

  “Who’d of thought? The feds? Here? Nah.”

  ***

  The train car was dark when I got back, save for one light that came from Jean’s room. Jean was standing in the aisle with her arms crossed, dressed in a long blue skirt and white blouse I had never seen her wear before. My eyes went up and down before I nodded approvingly.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I like the new clothes you’re wearing.”

  She looked at them and deliberated before answering.

  “They are not new. I have had them for a month.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. I bought them at the clothing vendor. You were there with me. You told me to buy them. You said I looked nice in them.”

  I tried to pretend I remembered and I laughed it off.

  “Well, at least it shows I wasn’t lying or just trying to tell you what you wanted to hear me say,” I replied.

  She was now playing with her hands.

  “Why was that man following you this morning?” she asked.

  No need to upset her more than she’d do on her own.

  “McCullen’s got someone following me. He doesn’t want me chasing after the ISA. At least not on his dime.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked when I was done. “Are you going to stop?”

  “Only working on his dime. But

  “You want me to keep going.”

  She bobbed her head.

  “This is why you are here.”

  It comforted me to know at least one person understood.

  “We have a new assignment,” I said. “Tomorrow, ten o’ clock in Ravenna.” I then came up to her and turned my head curiously.

  “Why weren’t you at the library tonight?” I asked.

  Jean put her head down. “I was here...praying for my father.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Oh.”

  “Do you think I am wasting my time?” she asked.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “I started to pray a few weeks ago. I pray each night and every morning when I get up.”

  Before I could say something that had finally come to mind, she kept going.

  “I think about my father all the time. I did not know what to do about it. I do not know if he is alive or dead. I think he is dead. I do not feel he is dead. I feel he is alive. Does it make sense to act this way?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What if you thought he was dead?”

  “I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Where would you be, then? Back home?”

  “No. I burned that bridge the day I refused to betray my father.”

  “I do not know what to pray about, so I talk to God and tell him if my father is still alive I would like to see him again.” She looked at me, flustered.

  “Is this not normal?”

  “You shouldn’t care.”

  “Is it normal to you? Do you think it is strange?”

  “Again, you shouldn’t care.”

  “I hope my father can hear me so he knows I pray. I also hope he is not dead. I cannot have both at the same time, can I?”

  I put a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. She tried to look up at me several times but each time she turned away timidly.

  Eventually she whispered goodnight and went back into her room.

  The door didn’t fully close. As I went to shut it I saw her a glimpse of her standing in front of her cot with her nightgown lying on top of it. Something indescribable about her appearance kept me watching as she reached down and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. She brought her hands down and pulled it up over her head and placed it on the dresser behind her as she stood naked down to her waist. Her head was turned to the side. Her arm concealed her breasts as they hung down against her thin, frail body.

  The lamp sitting on the dresser shone on her pale, bluish skin, and as she touched her shoulder she looked down as I did at the thick white scars running up and down her back and across her side like lines of chalk. Some of them were short and thick, others long and tapered. As she pulled down her skirt more scars appeared, running down her waist and along her upper thighs. She stepped out from her skirt and placed it next to her blouse on the dresser and quickly dressed into her nightgown. She then went to turn off the lamp and as she touched it she put her hand to her face and began to sob. She dropped to her knees as one would in prayer and covered her mouth.

  I noiselessly closed the door.

  In my room, I took my coat off and sat on my bed, and my heart still beat furiously as the minutes passed. Feelings of shame and disgust flooded my mind as I hated myself for looking at her, though I had looked at her not in desire but with a sense of anger and guilt. I hastily prepared for bed and stared up into the darkness, praying to fall asleep before I could decide what was happening to me.

  Chapter Five

  Calvary Cemetery had had a reputation for being haunted since my father’s time.

  Whatever the reason, it deserved it.

  A bent, twisted black metal fence surrounding the property, broken in many sections. Wispy strands of fog seemed to rise from the lawn and hover over the grass like ethereal spirits. The few tombstones and gravestones I could see were muddied and overrun with moss, the inscriptions worn away. The faces of figures had eroded away and religious icons held themselves in extended poses, as though they had been human once and turned into stone by a dark magic.

  I studied the cemetery carefully from inside my car and then checked the time. Two minutes before ten. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. Beside me, Jean peered out the window, then settled back in her seat and brought up her Thompson, inserting a magazine. I had tried not to look at her the whole morning, unable to blot out of the image I had of her from the other night.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked. “Or do you want me to wait here?”

  A short pause. Her eyes remained fixed on me.

  “You can come if you want.”

  We both got out. I lit a cigarette and puffed on it rapidly and by the time I reached the fence I threw it away, hopped over, and took Jean’s gun as she climbed. I offered to help her but she ignored me and took the gun from my hands. We walked through the wet grass. I tried to check out the area ahead of us but the wretched mist hid everything more than twenty feet away.

  Staying close to the fence, I led Jean around the perimeter, hoping to catch sight of the boy from a safe position.

  “We were followed this morning,” Jean said.

  “I know. They stopped following us after we crossed the bridge.”


  “Then they did not lose us.”

  We came to the other side of the cemetery. As we entered the middle I took out my revolver and tucked it into the front of my waistcoat. We came across fallen headstones, and on their marble eyes and cheeks morning dew formed like tears, or sweat. One of them was a statue of the Madonna holding a crucified Christ in her arms. The Christ figure was missing an arm and the Madonna had no lower form. Jean paused in front of it and wiped the dew away from the faces before moving on.

  Crossing a paved walkway, I saw the faintest outline of a person standing ahead of us at a distance. I thought at first it was another statue, but the small arm dangling from the side stirred slightly. We moved closer.

  He had a baseball cap on his head.

  I called out to the person, fingers on my revolver.

  He turned around.

  I could barely make him out besides his vintage Mariners cap. I approached him with Jean watching our rear and when I got a better look at him he put his head down.

  I greeted the boy. He did not answer. I asked him what was wrong.

  He raised his chin up at me. Tears streaming down his face. His eyes moist. His lips quivered as he formed his words.

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  I lunged for Jean’s hand and dragged her behind me as I broke into a sprint.

  The gunfire appeared. The crackling of bullets erupted out from the fog, the muzzle flashing like headlights. We ducked down. I pushed Jean behind a headstone before firing back. Two stray shots dug deep into a gravestone on my right. I aimed for the muzzle flashes and returned fire. Using a headstone for cover, Jean rested her Thompson on top of it tried to pin them down.

  While this happened, the boy still stood in the middle of the grounds as though paralyzed by despair.

  “We need to get back to the car!” I yelled to Jean.

  I snapped off two shots and then turned to run. I was gaining speed when I heard a strange cry come from behind me amid a pause in the shooting. I turned around to find the boy down and seemingly dead on the grass. Jean pointed at the boy, hoping to save him.

  I shook my head and gestured towards the car. She glared and her lips pressed together tightly as she looked at the boy. I shook my head repeatedly. It didn’t faze her. She still ran toward him.