He'd even had a cover story on a recent adoption scam where a South Philly woman, owner of a shadow agency called Loving Hearts, was taking thousands of dollars for phantom children she never delivered. Although he would have preferred a higher body count in his stories, and grislier photos, he was nominated for an AAN award for 'Phantom Hearts,' as that adoption scam piece had been called.
Philadelphia Magazine had also run an expose on the woman-a full month after Simon's piece in The Report.
When his stories broke after the paper's weekly deadline, Simon filed to the paper's website, which was currently logging nearly ten thousand hits per day.
And so it was when the phone rang around noon, rousing him from a rather vivid dream that included Cate Blanchett, a pair of Velcro handcuffs, and a riding crop, he was suffused with dread at the notion that he might once again have to revisit his Catholic roots.
'Yeah,' Simon managed. His voice sounded like a mile of muddy culvert.
'Get the fuck out of bed.'
There were at least a dozen people he knew who might greet him thusly. It wasn't even worth firing back. Not this early. He knew who it was: Andrew Chase, his old friend and co-conspirator in journalistic expose. Although categorizing Andy Chase as a friend was a monumental stretch. The two men tolerated each other the way mold and bread might, a distasteful alliance that, for mutual profit, yielded the occasional benefit. Andy was a boor and a slob and an insufferable prig. And those were his selling points. 'It's the middle of the night,' Simon protested.
'In Bangladesh, maybe.'
Simon wiped the crud from his eyes, yawned, stretched. Close enough to wakefulness. He glanced next to him. Empty. Again. 'What's up?'
'A Catholic school girl was found dead.'
The game, Simon thought.
Again.
On this side of the night, Simon Edward Close was a reporter, and thus the words were a spike of adrenaline in his chest. He was awake now. His heart began that rattle he knew and loved, the noise that meant: story. He rummaged the nightstand, found two empty packs of cigarettes, poked around the ashtray until he hooked a two- inch butt. He straightened it out, fired it, coughed. He reached over, hit RECORD on his trusted Panasonic recorder with its in-line microphone. He had long since abandoned the notion of trying to take coherent notes before his first ristretto of the day. 'Talk to me.'
'They found her on Eighth.'
'Where on Eighth?'
'Fifteen hundreds.'
Beirut, Simon thought. This is good. 'Who found her?'
'Some wino.'
'On the street?' Simon asked.
'In one of the row houses. In the basement.'
'How old?'
'The house?'
'Jesus, Andy. It's too fucking early. Don't muck about. The girl. How old was the girl?'
'Teenager,' Andy said. Andy Chase had been an EMS tech for the Glenwood Ambulance Group for eight years. Glenwood did a lot of the ambulance contract work for the city and, over the years Andy's tips had led Simon to a number of scoops, as well as to a great deal of inside dope on the cops. Andy never let him forget that fact. This one would cost Simon a lunch at The Plough amp; The Stars. If the story became a cover story, he owed Andy a hundred extra.
'Black? White? Brown?' Simon asked.
'White.'
Not as good a story as a little white one, Simon thought. Dead little white girls were a guaranteed cover. But the Catholic school angle was great. A load of cheesy similes to cull from. 'They take the body yet?'
'Yeah. They just moved it.'
'What the hell was a white Catholic school girl doing on that part of Eighth?'
'Who am I, Oprah? How should I know?'
Simon computed the elements of the story. Drugs. And sex. Had to be. Bread and jam. 'How did she die?'
'Not sure.'
'Murder? Suicide? Overdose?'
'Well, the murder police were out there, so it wasn't an overdose.'
'Was she shot? Stabbed?'
'I think she was mutilated.'
Oh God,yes, Simon thought. 'Who's the primary detective?'
'Kevin Byrne.'
Simon's stomach flipped, did a brief pirouette, then settled. He had a history with Kevin Byrne. The notion that he might lock horns with him again both excited and scared the shit out of him. 'Who's with him, that Purity?'
'Purify. No. Jimmy Purify is in the hospital,' Andy said.
'Hospital? Gunshot?'
'Heart attack.'
Fuck, Simon thought. No drama there. 'He's working alone?'
'No. He's got a new partner. Jessica something.'
'A woman?' Simon asked.
'No. A guy named Jessica.You sure you're a reporter?'
'What does she look like?'
'Actually, she's hot as hell.'
Hot as hell, Simon thought, the excitement of the story heading south from his brain. No offense to female law enforcement officers, but some women on the force tended to look like Mickey Rourke in a pantsuit. 'Blonde? Brunette?'
'Brunette. Athletic. Big brown eyes and great legs. Major babe.'
This was shaping up. Two cops, beauty and the beast, dead white girls on crack alley. And he hadn't lifted cheek one out of bed yet.
'Give me an hour,' Simon said. 'Meet me at The Plough.'
Simon hung up, threw his legs over the side of the bed.
He surveyed the landscape of his three-room apartment. What an eyesore, he thought. But, he mused further, it was-like Nick Carraway's West Egg rental-a small eyesore. One of these days he would hit. He was sure of it. One of these days he would wake up and not be able to see every room of his house from the bed. He would have a downstairs and a yard and a car that didn't sound like a Ginger Baker drum solo every time he turned it off.
Maybe this was the story that would do it.
Before he could stumble to the kitchen, he was greeted by his cat, a scrappy, one-eared cinnamon tabby named Enid.
'How's my girl?' Simon tickled her behind her one good ear. Enid curled twice, rolled over on his lap.
'Daddy's got a hot lead, dolly-doll. No time for loving this morning.'
Enid purred her understanding, jumped to the floor and followed him to the kitchen.
The one spotless appliance in Simon's entire flat-besides his Apple PowerBook-was his prized Rancilio Silvia espresso machine. It was on a timer to turn on at 9:00 AM, even though its owner and chief operator never seemed to make it out of bed before noon. Still, as any coffee fanatic would aver, the key to a perfect espresso is a hot basket.
Simon filled the filter with freshly ground espresso roast, made his first ristretto of the day.
He glanced out his kitchen window into the square airshaft between the buildings. If he bent over, craned his neck to a forty-five-degree angle, pressed his face against the glass, he could see a sliver of sky.
