The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “I thought it would be fitting for you to die the same way Tom did,” I said.

  He kept struggling for life. Not much longer.

  “You were there at the café,” I said. “You were sent there by McCullen. You ratted us out to him. You knew what he was going to do.”

  Port spat out blood, crying out as he gripped his chest.

  “I always…liked you…”

  His last pitiful gesture did nothing to stop me as I fired again. The bullet ripped through his hand and spouted blood on my clothes as it sunk deep into his head.

  I called one of the guards to come and tie his body next to McCullen’s behind the car. I put my pistol away and stood in front of the room, wiping the blood off my hand with a handkerchief in a nonchalant manner. In their eyes, I sensed the outrage. I had blatantly violated a firm rule. No one was supposed to get bumped off in the newsroom except in self-defense.

  “Anyone else wish to join him?” I inquired.

  No answer.

  Olan ordered them to get back to work. The typewriters clacked again. I followed him into his office.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Since you’re not the same person I first took you to be, I thought I might as well ask.”

  “I could say the same about ya. Ya ain’t the spoiled brat I took ya for when I first set eye on ya.”

  “Is that intended to be a compliment?”

  “Take it for whatever ya want. Ya don’t need to know anythin’ about me. Nada, not a thing. All ya need to know is I didn’t like the way McCullen was runnin’ the joint so I got rid of his ass. I didn’t plan on bumbin’ him off, but whatever. At least I can say I didn’t do it.

  He took out two cigarillos and handed one to me. He gave me a sympathetic grin as he lit them.

  “I don’t mean to spoil ya hopes, kid, but I ain’t like ya. It’s all about what’s best for me. Havin’ the ISA order us around ain’t the best. Havin’ McCullen run this place ain’t, either. I’m here to turn things around.”

  “I don’t care. Now that this is over I’m going. I only got into this so I could get my father back.”

  Olan leaned back in his chair, holding his arms out as he smiled.

  “I want ya to stay,” he said. “I could use a guy like ya.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Yeah. I had my errand boy, as stupid as he was, follow you around.”

  I put my cigarillo on the desk. My back stiffened.

  “You sent that kid to follow me? Why?”

  “Because I was gonna make a move here and I needed to know where ya stood. McCullen wanted ya bumped off. Ya know that whole thing at the cemetery with the kid? McCullen arranged it with the ISA, and the Examiner. Figured one of ‘em would get the job done.”

  “They failed.”

  “Because ya a survivor, kid. Ya got guts. Ya willin’ to do what it takes. That’s why I need ya.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Plenty of reasons for why you want me here. But why I should trust you?”

  Olan propped his chair up as he folded his hands.

  “I don’t make no claims to be in this for anythin’ other than money. I intend to get mine. But I do gotta line. I know the rules to the business. Ya gotta have friends, and to get one ya gotta be one.”

  As I was thinking it over, Olan had the guards come into the room and began taking his possessions from McCullen’s office. We then went there and watched as they pushed aside furniture and added his chair and desk and cabinet. All the things were of practical use; pens and pencils and paper and a calculator and other battery-operated electronic equipment.

  McCullen’s belongings were swept off the desk and into a box and removed, despite their high value. Flashy jewels, precious stones, gold and silver. He had always placed a high value in impractical assets, adorned himself in them, shown them off as a sign of his power and prestige. They had given signified his affluence, impressed all who saw him walking around the city usually with some girl in tow.

  But in the end, they had done nothing to stop the bullet I had put into him. A symbol of power was no match for actual power.

  They left the office naked and bare. Olan asked me again if I would stay. I hesitated. My main concern was for my father. He didn’t wait, escorting me with a hand on my shoulder over to the door.

  “Think it over some more,” he said. “I ain’t gonna force ya to do it. That’s not my thing. I don’t know how ya gonna make it out there. I think ya should stay.”

  “I just wanted my father back.”

  He raised his eyebrow skeptically.

  “This isn’t the life for me,” I insisted. “I’m not fit for it.”

  “That ain’t how McCullen and Port would see it.”

  In the hallway, I walked to the wall and stood still. Olan disappointed me. He, like so many others, misinterpreted my intent. In that regard, he was no different than Casey. McCullen and Port weren’t dead because I sought their position or power.

  I did not want to be part of his world, nor theirs. I belonged in neither. I would not be defined by either, nor be forced to fit into their frame of thinking.

  Reaching the third floor, I left the elevator and was promptly greeted by a flood of people scurrying down the corridor as a row of guards marched forward with a man held between them. Had it not been for the fact they were taking up the full width of the corridor, I wouldn’t have given him a second glance, earnest to retrieve my father and get away as soon as possible.

  As I waited for them to move by, I abruptly ordered them to stop as I stared at the man in their midst.

  Griggs was barely recognizable. He wore a suit much like ours. He didn’t have a fedora or flat cap, but his crew-cut hair style made him look just like one of our stringers. The left side of his face was bruised, his left eye red from repeated blows.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He murmured a chuckle. “The dog had its day.”

  “We found him outside the building,” one of the guards explained. “He was armed, so we searched him. Nothing else besides the gun.”

  “He’s alright,” I said.

  Reluctantly, they released him, then picked him up as he fell, too weak to remain on his feet. He swallowed and labored to open his eyes as he looked at me, conveying a sense of impending disaster.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  His voice conveyed the severity behind the question. Ruminating, I failed to give him a response. Everyone stopped and turned to hear him speak like townspeople awaiting news from a messenger of a battle’s outcome.

  “Whatever it was, you better get ready,” he said. “They’re coming for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Griggs didn’t seem to be in much pain as someone bandaged his wounds in Olan’s office. Mostly cuts and bruises, one big gash across his arm. A crowd had formed outside the office door.

  Distracted by their presence, Olan threw open the door and told them to get lost. He then immediately ordered the guards to put the building on lockdown. No one was to enter or leave without his expressed approval. It wouldn’t stop the gossip, but it’d give us some time.

  I approached the window to clear the air.

  “Wouldn’t do that,” Griggs remarked. “Unless you like getting shot.”

  He took a long sip of whiskey and wiped his mouth. “You got a war on your hands, that’s what. They’re all coming for you.”

  “How the hell do ya know this?” Olan asked him.

  “My editor called us all in and told us that they were going to hit you guys, hard. He said things were gonna to get ugly as a pug dog.”

  “What made you want to come here?”

  “I don’t know what you tell each other,” Griggs said, eying me. “But I know this guy. I’ve saved his sorry ass, so don’t think I’m here to trick you or anything. I barely got out of there with my hid
e intact once word got around quick about McCullen and what not.”

  “I find it hard to believe they’re shedding a tear over it,” I said.

  Griggs cleared his throat and asked for a cigarette. He inhaled once, spat on the ground despite Olan’s disapproving eye.

  “I was eavesdropping on my editor while he was talking to one of the other newspaper editors. The short of it is they’re pulling all their muscle together to hit you now, when they think you’re weakest.”

  He paused, let smoke seep out his nostrils. Olan was peeling the cover off the whiskey bottle, an eyebrow raised.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “McCullen was an ISA rat, wasn’t he?”

  “Well, he ain’t the only one, let me put it that way. I don’t know what the lowdown is, but I ain’t no ISA rat. My editor has got more than three hundred men on his side. And the boys are all loyal to him. If it came down to loyalty, he’d pay them extra and they’d all side with him and offer me the chance to swim in the river with my shoes on, if you know what I mean. There was only one choice. Get the hell out of there. Not the nicest thing to have to do. Can’t go back home, neither.”

  Olan cackled. “But they figured it out right away, eh?”

  “I tried to sneak out without being noticed, but they were onto me as soon as got to the street. I had to shoot my way outta there, drive clear around the city and lose them in the slums before my car gave out. I had to walk the rest of the way, half-scared one of your boys would be so damn trigger happy they’d plug me before I got a chance to talk.”

  Olan kept peeling the cover off the whiskey bottle. He then set the bottle down and spoke to one of the guards outside the office, telling him to have sentinels posted around our territory.

  “Anythin’ else ya know?” he said to Griggs.

  “Anything else you need to know?”

  “Yeah. Everything. Where? When? How? Important things, ya know?”

  “The hell if I know. They didn’t tell me a thing. But I can tell you this; you’ve got another disaster on your hands. Even if you do last through the night.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Griggs gazed at me somberly. “They’re gonna pin the blame on you guys for the whole Pike Place thing.”

  Olan answered the phone and spoke, then set it down solemnly.

  “We’ve just received reports from some of our boys downtown,” he said. “The bastards are already getting ready.”

  “How much time?” I asked.

  “No way to tell. My guess is a few hours”

  “How many men do we have?” I asked Olan.

  Olan smiled wryly. “I thought ya were outta here at first chance.”

  “They’re not coming for the paper. They’re coming for people like you and me. Getting out right now isn’t an option.”

  “If you’re worried about this place, they won’t attack here,” Griggs said. “They’ll hit you when and where you’re most vulnerable.”

  “Where would that be?” I asked. “And where?”

  Olan answered right away. “Too easy. The printin’ press and distribution buildings.”

  “Where is that?” Griggs asked.

  “An old factory on 1st Avenue.”

  “How do you distribute the papers from there?”

  “Two ways,” Olan explained. “We use trucks to get them out to the local libraries, then the trains come by at ten o’ clock sharp. They stop and we load them up and they take them north and south to distributors in the region. We usually don’t have too many guards there. It’s well inside our territory and nobody has been stupid enough to try and hit us like that for years.”

  “Which is exactly why they’ll hit you there. How close is it to the water?”

  “It’s right across from the Harbor Island remains. We also have a ship take papers.”

  “They’ll hit you from the water. It’s the easiest way to get there.”

  “That should be easy,” I said. “Just post men along the waterline and don’t let them leave their boats.”

  “They won’t be that direct, kid,” Griggs said.

  “Ya sure they’re comin’ tonight?” Olan asked.

  “They weren’t talking game theory with us earlier. Yeah, they’ll be here.”

  Olan loosened his tie, then asked Griggs to step out of the office for a moment.

  “If they hit our distribution center, we’re dead,” he confided with me. “That’s it. There’s no makin’ up for it. The printin’ press is vital. Without it, we’re finished. Like hackin’ off our arms and expectin’ us to win a boxin’ match. We need money to keep coming in and that ain’t gonna happen if the presses ain’t pumping out papers.

  I nodded, but said nothing.

  “We gotta defend that buildin’,” he said pensively. “Alright; we set up defenses right away. I’ve already alerted the crew workin’ the press. We gotta keep ‘em safe. No one else knows how to run it. But it leaves this place weak.”

  He eyed me curiously.

  “So ya stayin’?”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

  I was amused he thought I had a choice. Even if I could make it out alive, it wouldn’t take long for my enemies to find out. I could only imagine their headlines branding me a coward for abandoning the newspaper when things got tough.

  I’d go, but on my own terms.

  “I’m in,” I said. “But I’ve got some ideas of my own.”

  “Like what?”

  “Get rid of the front page you have ready right now. Erase it.”

  Olan blinked twice, then laughed. “That’s just ya, ain’t it? We’re about to a war on our hands and ya worried about the editorial side!”

  “Hear me out. Leave the front-page blank, for now.”

  “Are ya shittin’ me? We don’t got time for this bullshit!”

  “Let’s dispense with the bullshit, huh? Let’s name names. We call out any paper that attacks us as a government stooge, a traitor. Who’s gonna buy their papers, then? They want to destroy our infrastructure, but we’ll do worse. We’ll destroy their reputation.”

  Another anonymous call. Olan sat at his desk and ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

  “Our man inside the police department,” he explained when he was done. “He said they’re playin’ it neutral, but if it gets outta control they’ll step in, and they won’t take no sides, either. They’ll shoot whoever causes trouble.”

  He brought Griggs back in, asking him if he would be willing to help us out.

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he said.

  “Good. You know the Shoreline boys. You’ll know what they have planned.”

  He exhaled softly. “They’re not the ones calling the shots.”

  Both of us were silent. It was unbearable to think the ISA, even in some indirect manner, had controlled our newspaper and others. How long had it gone on?

  And now if they destroyed ours, the remaining ones might cave in.

  If that happened, people would carry on as before, buying their newspapers at their libraries, gulled into thinking they were flouting the law and outwitting the police. Meanwhile, behind the façade the ISA would still be controlling the information, still censoring what they wanted kept from the public.

  It was a far more insidious form of deceit.

  ***

  I found Jean in one of the spare offices sitting upright on a thin cot. She was draped in a spare coat and sipping on coffee. Her shoulders were hunched forward as she took short drags on a cigarette.

  “Someone told me you killed McCullen,” she said. “They said you killed Port, too.”

  I nodded and sat beside her. Behind the shroud of cigarette smoke, she was wallowing in guilt.

  “It’s my fault Tom is dead,” I said. “I pushed him from the beginning to help me, and it almost got him killed the first time. He didn’t
let it stop him from helping me again.”

  Jean’s expressionless face made it difficult to know what was going on inside her head. I assumed she had been unconscious during my conversation with Tom in the car. Then again, I had told Tom nothing, but silence had been as much of an answer as an actual reply.

  She inhaled on her cigarette and then put it out in an ashtray.

  “The ISA officers shot him,” she said. “They are responsible. You are not responsible.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you going to leave now? Are you taking your father with you?”

  I explained the situation to her, why I couldn’t go just now. She frowned and placed her hands on her hips, tilting her head a little.

  “I saw your father,” she said. “He is still unconscious. The doctor said he will recover. He needs to rest.”

  “He is safe?” I asked.

  “There is a guard with him. I hand-picked the guard. Your father is safe.”

  The way she said it was deliberate: Your father is safe, as if to remind me that hers was not.

  “Do you not want to see your father?” she asked.

  “I will see him when this is settled.”

  I was making my way through the corridor when a guard caught me unprepared with a message from the Freemont Tribune for me.

  A spot of luck. Their editor was staying out of it completely. This meant he’d refuse access to the other newspapers looking to use the bridges running through their territory. The news was a godsend. By denying the use of the bridges, Freemont prevented an attack from the north. Montlake was still available, but they could easily get bogged down in the streets if we had proper barricades erected.

  In the lobby, a large crowd had congregated. Foot soldiers stacked sandbags against the walls and set up a machine gun nest around the corner. Outside, machine gun nests had been installed at the intersections, and in the windows overlooking the street sharpshooters and snipers took position. The sky had grown dark as black clouds rolled in from the ocean towards the mountains to the east. I stopped and looked up to see the sky and like birds fleeing a coming wildfire the drones that continuously swarmed above the skyscrapers broke away and swarmed eastward over Lake Washington. The people noticed too, and for once they walked openly without fear of being seen.