“Sick of snow,” Vicky said.
“Me, too. Listen-remember that file from eighty-eight I wanted the other day? Did you ever find out who took it?” Dingus, I’d figured.
“Oh, God, I’ve got to get that back before my mother kills me,” she said. “Dave from Town Hall has it and he’s not returning my calls.”
“Dave?”
“Dave, you know, the bartender?” She meant Loob. He worked part-time for the tax assessor. But why in the world would Loob need those minutes? “If you see him, will you tell him to bring me my folder?”
“Sure.” I hung up the phone.
“Tell me,” Joanie said. “Why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Doing this. Being a reporter. Chasing this story. Why bother? Nobody here wants to know the truth anyway. They don’t care what we have to say unless it’s to tell them where’s the Rotary lunch or what’s showing at the movies or who caught the biggest fish. I mean, sorry, but this is it for you, isn’t it? You had your shot at the big time and you blew it. Now you’re in piddling little Starvation Lake, the denial capital of the world. Why do you keep going?”
It was a good question. My old coach was a pedophile. My receptionist was his beard. My closest friend and maybe others I knew were their victims. My mother knew things I didn’t. I had been blind to it all. For years I had been walking around in the middle of the truth and I could not see it. True, I was just a boy but, even now, I could see only the blurred contours of the truth. From within its darker core a thousand questions taunted. Joanie was right. Even if I answered every question, no brighter future awaited, not in what I’d chosen to do with my life thus far. There was just the knowing. Somehow, I had to hope, the knowing would make things better. I was no longer on a mission for clips or prizes or raises or the envy of my peers. There was just the knowing. And it wasn’t even the knowing of the who-what-where-when-why of Blackburn’s life and death. I wanted to know why I wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It pays the bills. But thanks for asking.” I meant it. “I’ve got to call Kerawhatshisfatass.”
I dialed at my desk. His secretary answered and put me on hold. As I waited, I doodled “Richard Ltd.” on my blotter. He picked up.
“Gus Carpenter, Jim,” I said.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m going to close the door.” He set the phone down, picked it up again. “Last night was not good, Gus.”
“This morning’s not so hot, either. We had a hell of a front-page scoop someone obviously killed.”
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Joanie put her magazine down.
“You bet we killed it,” Kerasopoulos said. “I thought we had a talk-two talks-about certain stories. I thought we had an understanding.”
“We did. I was going to let you know when we had something out of the ordinary. Last night we did, and I let you know.”
“On voice mail? Not good enough. Not even close. I don’t want to hear from your secretary about the most inflammatory story in the paper.”
“I’m going to fire her.”
Joanie rolled her chair over next to my desk. I pointed toward the front counter. She shook her head no, meaning Tillie wasn’t in yet.
“Let’s just calm down now,” Kerasopoulos said.
“Let’s not. My job is to put news in the paper. We had legitimate news that had a direct bearing on something very big going on around here. We checked it out and we decided to run it. That’s what reporters and editors do. Anybody can kill stories.”
I knew I was treading on thin ice, but I no longer cared. “Careful, Gus,” Kerasopoulos said. “It is simply not sufficient to quote one person who is thousands of miles away, whom we’ve never even seen, whose credibility we have not tested-”
“Others corroborated it.”
“Really? How about the police up there or, whatever, the Mounties? Did this guy ever think to tell them about his, his encounters, if in fact they happened? What use is there in dredging all this up now?”
“If Blackburn was a child molester, it could suggest a motive. The person charged with his murder played for Blackburn.”
“You played for him, too, didn’t you, Gus?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Exactly. So let me ask you, and you obviously don’t have to answer, but did your coach ever do anything to you to suggest he was, you know, a little off? Did he ever come on to you?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, excuse me, Gus, but you were there. If you didn’t see anything, why are you so all-fired sure it happened? What hard evidence links this guy in Canada-and, again, we don’t know what ax he might have to grind- to what tragedy may have befallen Blackburn? Anything?”
I’d had enough of this jerk. Maybe I was blowing the chance to be executive editor of the Pilot. I’d made worse career moves. “An ax to grind?” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding. Let me tell you, Jim-” As I spoke the words, I pressed the cradle down to end the call. Hanging up on yourself was an old newsroom trick. You used it to get rid of late-night weirdos claiming to have seen Elvis at Burger King.
“You hung up on him?” Joanie said, incredulous.
“Fuck it. Better get out of here before he calls back.” I grabbed a fresh notebook and a couple of pens. “I’m going to the jail.”
D’Alessio led Flapp and me into the windowless room where Soupy waited at a small steel table. “I’ll be out here if you need me,” the deputy said.
The first thing I noticed was Soupy’s head. It had been shaved down to tiny bristles. “What happened to your hair?” I said.
“Cops took it,” he said. “Thought I’d use it to hang myself or something.”
Flapp pulled a chair next to Soupy and sat. I sat facing them. The room smelled vaguely of paint. I recalled an item in the Pilot about the county setting aside money to repaint the jail. Then I remembered Tillie had written it. Pinpricks of heat tingled at the back of my neck.
“How are you?” I said.
“Flapp and Trap,” Soupy said. He grinned. “Head hurts, but other than that I’m fine.” He wore an orange jumpsuit, white sneakers, shackles on his wrists and ankles. Bandages covered both of his hands. He looked OK for someone who the night before had barely escaped from a burning building.
“You remember last night?” I said. “You were pretty wasted.”
“You know, I didn’t really mean to burn all those shacks. Just the one.”
“Excuse me,” Flapp interjected. “Can we discuss a few ground rules?”
“Relax, Flapjack,” Soupy said. “This ain’t business. It’s personal. I got a few things to say.”
“Splendid,” Flapp said, the muscles in his jaw pulsing as he ground his molars, “but do you want everyone in the county listening in on your personal conversation?”
“Gus and I’ll work it out.”
“Once it goes in the paper, it’s fair game-”
“Look,” I said, “we can do this off the record and if there’s something I really want to use, I’ll run it by you first, Terence.”
Flapp looked at Soupy. “Fine.”
“Great,” Soupy said. “See you in a bit, Flapjack.”
“You want me to leave?” Flapp said. He looked horrified. “Absolutely not. I cannot advise that.”
“OK, you didn’t,” Soupy said. “I want to talk with my man alone.”
Flapp picked up his satchel and left, shaking his head.
Soupy leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, where lightbulbs glowed in little cages. “Things are pretty fucked up, Trapezoid.”
