Parker 04 - The Fury (2 page)

I didn't know anybody other than Jack O'Donnell. Jack

was my boyhood idol, the man most aspiring reporters

dreamt of becoming. He and I had grown close over the

last few years, but recently he'd lost his battle with the

bottle and left the
Gazette
. I hadn't spoken to him in a

few months. I'd tried his home, his cell phone, even

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13

walked by his Clinton apartment a few times, but never

got a hold of the man. It was clear Jack needed some

time alone with his demons.

Ironically the first reporter I'd met was a woman

named Paulina Cole. We worked next to each other

when I first started at the
Gazette.
Soon she left for a

job at the rival
Dispatch,
where through a combination

of balls, brass and more balls she'd become one of the

most talked-about writers in the city. Paulina was cold,

calculating, ruthless and, worst of all, damn smart. She

knew what people wanted to read--namely, anything

where if you squeezed a page, dirt or juice came out--

and gave it to them. She was part of the reason Jack had

left the
Gazette.
She'd managed to pay off numerous

people in order to discover the extent of Jack's drinking

habits, and then ran a front-page article (with unflatter

ing pictures) depicting Jack as the second coming of

Tara Reid. Saying there was no love lost between us was

like saying there was no love lost between east and

west coast rappers.

Wallace was still too far away for us to make out just

who he was introducing around the office, but I got the

feeling he would prefer if he didn't have to do it en

masse.

"I'm going back to my desk," I said. "Jonas, if you

see good taste anywhere, I'll get the paddles and we'll

resuscitate the bastard."

"Thank you for the offer, Henry, but I do believe

it's too late."

I walked back to my desk, trying not to think about

what this could mean. Since Jack left, the
Gazette
had

been on a hiring freeze. We were in a war with the

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Jason Pinter

Dispatch
over circulation rates, advertising dollars and

stories, and our expenses were taking a toll. If Harvey

Hillerman, the president and owner of the
Gazette,
had

hired a new reporter, he or she had to be important

enough to cause a stir. Not to mention someone who

would be approved of by the other reporters whose pay

raises had been nixed last holiday season.

I sat down and continued working on a story I'd been

following up on for several weeks, about the homeless

population of New York. According to the New York

City Department of Homeless Services, there were over

thirty-five thousand homeless individuals living within

the city's borders. Including over nine thousand

families. That number had increased by fifteen percent

in the last five years.

I was about to pick up the phone, when I heard the

sound of footsteps approach and then stop by my desk.

I looked up to Wallace Langston. And his mystery hire.

"Henry Parker," Wallace said, hand outstretched,

"meet Tony Valentine."

Tony Valentine was six foot three, looked to be a

hundred and eighty svelte pounds and had the smile of

a cruise-ship director. His hair was bleached blond, and

his teeth glistened. His tan was clearly sprayed on, as I

noticed when he extended his hand to shake mine that

his palms were a much paler shade. He wore a designer

suit, and wore it well. A red pocket square was neatly

tucked into his suit jacket. The initials T.V. were em

broidered in white script on the cloth.

As he offered his hand, I noticed his sleeves were

held together by two gold cuff links. Also mono

grammed with T.V.

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15

Clearly this man did not want his name to be for

gotten.

"Henry Parker," Valentine said, gushing insincere

admiration. "It's just a pleasure to finally meet you. I've

been following your career ever since that nasty

business of your murder accusation. All those guns and

bullets, and now here I am, working with you. Sir, it is

an
honor.
"

While I pried the goop from my brain, I shook Valen

tine's hand, then looked at Wallace. The name Tony

Valentine did sound familiar, but I couldn't quite place

it...

"Tony is our new gossip reporter," Wallace said en

thusiastically. "We were able to pluck him from
Us

Weekly.
Today is his first day."

"And not a day too soon," Tony said, pressing the

back of his hand against his forehead, as though diag

nosing a strange malady. "As much as I admire your

paper--and Wallace, please don't think otherwise--it

was lacking a certain
pizzazz.
A certain
panache,
if you

will. A certain sexiness."

"Let me guess," I said. "You're here to bring sexy

back."

Tony pursed his lips and smiled. "You're a clever

one, Henry. I'm going to have to keep my eye on you.

So, guess what my new column is going to be called?"

"Do I have to?"

"You most certainly do." Tony waited a moment,

then blurted out, "'Valentine's Day.' Isn't that a riot?"

"Better than the ones in L.A."

"True, true. By the way, Wallace told me you covered

the Athena Paradis murder a while back. Is that so?"

"You heard right," I said. Athena Paradis was a pro

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Jason Pinter

fessional celebrity/diva who was gunned down outside

a nightclub where she was performing tracks off her

upcoming album. I investigated the murder, and nearly

lost my life in the process.

"Let me tell you, the day that girl died, it was like

the day I learned Diana had been killed. Athena was just

one more reason for me to get up in the morning. I

don't think I slept for a week after that. I can't imagine

how you must have felt."

"Sure," I said. "Lost tons of sleep."

"No doubt," Tony said. "Listen, Henry, it's been a

pretty pleasure. We'll
have
to go out for a dirty martini

one of these nights. I want to hear
all
about what you're

working on. Okay?"

"I'll be checking my calendar right away," I said.

"Terrific. Wallace, on with the show?"

As Tony and Wallace walked away, I saw Wallace

turn back to me. There was a remorseful look in his eye.

Immediately I knew Tony's hire was at the behest of

Harvey Hillerman. Gossip was a commodity in this

town. I knew it; I'd been the subject of it. For the most

part, the
Gazette
had kept its beak clean, relegating

society and gossip stories to the weekend Leisure

section. Now we would all be fighting tooth and nail to

compete for page-one space with Mr. Tony Valentine. I

wondered how much an embroidered pocket square

cost.

After a long day I left the
Gazette
thoroughly ex

hausted. I checked my cell phone, found one voice mail

waiting. It was from Amanda. We'd been seeing each

other steadily over the last few months, trying to start

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17

over on a relationship that broke from the gate too fast.

I didn't want to screw things up this time, so I was more

than happy to take it slow. Dinner and movies, walks

through Central Park. I sent flowers to her office, she

sent me meatball subs for lunch. It was harmony.

As I put the phone to my ear to listen to the message,

I heard a strange voice say, "Henry Parker?"

I turned to see a man approaching me. He was dirty

and disheveled, wearing rags that looked about to fall

off his deathly skinny frame. A black briefcase was

slung over his shoulder. He carried it like it either

weighed fifty pounds, or he was just barely strong

enough to hold it to begin with. His eyes were blood

shot, fingernails dirty. His eyes glowed wide from

sunken-in sockets--a skeleton with a pulse. Despite

his haggard appearance he looked to be young, in his

early thirties. I'd never seen the man before in my life,

yet for some reason he looked oddly familiar.

"The city's gonna burn," he rasped. "I need to talk

to you."

"You can send any press inquiries through the

switchboard," I said, picking up my pace.

"Are you," he said, the words coming out through

yellowed teeth, "Henry Parker?"

I started to walk faster. I had no idea how this man

knew my name, but from the looks of him I certainly

didn't want to find out. The image of Frank Rourke--

a pretty strong and belligerent man to begin with--

being beaten by a crazed reader with a homemade

weapon crossed my mind. In my few years at the

Gazette
I'd received plenty of mail from readers. Mostly

positive from people who enjoyed my stories, but still

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Jason Pinter

plenty from people who thought I was either a hack or

still remembered all the unwanted attention I'd received

a few years ago when I was thought to have killed a

police officer.

It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in

minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe

indefinitely.

"I am," I said, offering my card. He looked at it, just

stared at me with those sunken eyes. I turned to walk

away, speeding up as I headed through Rockefeller

Plaza. I turned back. The man began to walk faster, too.

The rubber on his sneakers was falling apart, and the

gray overcoat he wore was tattered and soiled.

"Please, Henry, I need to talk to you. Oh God, it's

important. You don't know what's going on. You don't

know what's going on. Never seen anything like it."

Suddenly he closed his eyes and retched, a cough

threading beads of phlegm through his gaunt fingers.

"Call the
Gazette
tomorrow," I said. I gave him the

switchboard number. He didn't seem to care. I walked

faster, a slow trot, but my heart began to race when I

saw that the man was matching my pace.

"Henry," he said, his eyes now terrified. "We need

to talk! I'm begging you, man!"

"Sorry, don't have time," I said. I picked up the pace,

broke into a run and crossed the street just as the light

was turning red. As I reached the other side I looked

back. The man was about to race through the oncoming

traffic, but then apparently thought better of it.

Our eyes met for one moment. His were pleading,

scared, and for a moment I debated crossing back over

to see what he wanted. Then I saw him reach into his

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19

pocket, put something to his nose and take a quick snort.

That was all I needed to see.

I turned around and headed toward the subway. If he

really needed to reach me, he could call. I'd been

through enough over the last few years to know there

were some things you needed to turn your back on.

2

I arrived home half an hour later. I left Amanda a

message. We had plans to have dinner and catch a movie

tomorrow night, and I wanted to order tickets in

advance. New York prices being what they were,

between service charges, snacks and tickets themselves,

you practically had to win the lottery to afford them. A

few months ago Amanda had received a nice year-end

bonus, and Wallace Langston had told me to expect a

promotion in the near future. Both of our salaries had

crept higher over the last few years, and we'd begun to

think more about where we wanted to be. This apart

ment had served its purpose, but I wanted more space.

We weren't living together, but she would spend

three or four nights a week here and then crash in her

friend Darcy Lapore's guest room the rest of the time.

The number of nights spent next to each other had

begun to creep up over the last few weeks. It was still

early and we were still healing from recent wounds. Re

gardless, our relationship had grown more serious and

I started to think about where
our
future was headed.

At some point we'd have to have one of those talks.

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21

Where you each share your hopes and dreams. The

"where do you see yourself in five years" part of the job

interview, only for a position you wanted the rest of

your life. Tonight, Amanda was crashing with Darcy. I

figured I'd eat dinner, pop in a movie and veg out.

Nights like that were sorely underrated.

I peeled off my clothes, stepped into a hot shower.

The day seemed to rinse right off me. I thought about

that man who'd confronted me, how there was a look

of genuine terror in his eyes. I began to regret turning

from him. And hoped he actually did call the next day.

When I got out of the shower, I threw on a pair of