in a leather biker jacket came over and asked how much memory I had in my machine.
'Can't remember,' I said.
He laughed. The bartender laughed. With something of a beer glow from lack of food, I took it another step. I asked, more loudly this time,
'What, you some kind of computer nerd?'
There was a long moment of absolute silence as the biker processed this question. I caught Gerry out of the corner of my eye, put a couple of glasses down on top of the dishwasher and draw a little closer, in case there was trouble. At last, the biker burst out laughing and clubbed me on my back with his hand.
'Computer nerd-ha,' he said, quaking in delight. All the other customers were laughing. Gerry was laughing. I was laughing. My pager sounded, and I took a quick look at it. 'Great show. Peter,' it said, his signal that he was done editing. I thought for a second about how Peter would do in this bar, and that made me wonder whether the nice clientele here would start with sodomy or would gnaw his legs off first for kicks, pardon the pun. Didn't really matter, I concluded. Another trip, another success. This one seemed so easy.
But life tends to throw you little curve balls when you least expect them, and one came at me at that moment in the form of the pimply guard from Nathaniel's compound, walking through the tired wooden door of the Dew Drop Inn. He spotted me at about the same time I spotted him, which is to say, immediately. I saw him reach instinctively inside his coat to make sure he was still packing his gun. I also saw no obvious look of worry on his face, which meant he was.
He came walking right over and took the bar stool right next to mine without actually looking at me and ordered a rum and Coke. I didn't think people drank those anymore. I was packing my computer away in its case when I heard him say, without ever turning toward me, 'The little faggot's going to run right on out of here, huh? Scared?'
'Faggot's not exactly scared,' I explained to him as I zipped up the case and put my arms through my coat. 'Got a plane to catch.' I turned to him and smiled what I thought was a pretty winning smile.
He apparently didn't think so. As my arms were just going into the sleeves of my coat, his left hand shot out, grabbed the back of my head by my neck, and tried slamming it down into the bar. Luckily, I was able to shoot my own left arm across the bar so my face collided only with my coat and my forearm, rather than the particleboard. When I pulled my head up, in a something of a daze, he kneed me in the crotch, causing me to double over in pain toward the dusty floor.
I'd been a reporter all my life, and the most violent situation I'd been involved in up until recently was when a pen once broke in my jacket pocket on the way to cover the statewide finals of a national spelling bee. But in the last week, I'd had bullets come at me twice, and now fists and knees. Time for a raise, or at least a clause in my union contract that would provide for hazard pay.
As I gasped for air, I could see and hear all the other nice patrons push their bar stools out and surround us in a state of collective surprise. He was one of them, a homeboy. I was the guy who no more than an hour ago had bought everyone a round of beer. There's no doubt they were shocked that the two of us would have any reason to fight.
I calculated in those briefest of moments that this situation could unfold in a couple of different ways. One, the entire bar could fall in line behind their own and kick the living Christ out of me, if not outright kill me. Two, they could recall that I had bought them the aforementioned round and side with me over some punkish kid who no one had ever particularly liked. Or three, they could stay neutral, which is exactly what they appeared to be doing. The group encircled us, but no one stepped in. One guy even called out, 'Don't go too hard on him, Bo.' Gee, thanks for the good wishes.
Bo didn't actually adhere to what I thought was reasoned, and reasonable, counsel. As I remained crunched down, trying to collect myself and protect my sore ribs from his onslaught, he took a roundhouse swing at the side of my face. I flinched back, and his fist grazed my cheek and kept going. That's when he glared at me and said something I thought to be quite interesting, even in my current state.
He said, 'I should have kicked the crap out of the last fed who came here, too.'
Kicked the crap out of the last fed. We had someone who was confused, but potentially helpful, if I could just put him in a situation where he might find it in his best interest to provide that help. I didn't know what he meant, but I had a nagging, if unformed, suspicion. All the while, the crowd surrounding us continued to watch in confusion that now seemed to be transforming to glee. In retrospect, one more round of beers, and I think I would have had them on my side.
In an instant, I rose up out of my pain-induced crouch and faked a punch to Bo's greasy face. In a typical trait of youth, he overreacted, bringing both his arms up toward his head, exposing his entire midsection. I zeroed in with a ferocious punch to his stomach, so hard it virtually lifted him up off his feet and landed him on his ass, where he rolled into a ball.
Young Bo didn't seem to have a warrior's instinct. He stayed down, groaning. Pain shot through my ribs, but I had neither the time nor inclination to be burdened by it. No one in the circle of spectators made any move toward me, so I approached Bo, grabbing him by his stringy hair, pushing his face into the dirty floor, and asking, 'What fed, Bo? What fed?'
He was actually crying now. Crying. I forced his head around in the grit, and he barely resisted. I also reached into his coat, felt around for a moment, and grabbed his gun. I put it on the floor and slid it far away from the two of us. No one else bothered to pick it up, which was a good sign.
'What fed?'
He continued to whimper and took a flailing shot at my face with his right fist. He missed. I pulled my left arm back, then rabbit-punched him in the nose, breaking it, I think, because blood came spurting out.
The Columbia Journalism Review might not deem this the best way for a reporter to seek information, but fuck the Columbia Journalism Review.
All their writers sit in offices in Manhattan thinking their big fucking thoughts without a rat's ass of an idea what it's like out here in the real world of daily reporting.
Young Bo yelped. I pushed his face around on the dirty floor again.
'Tell me about the fucking fed before I break your fucking neck,' I said, surprising even myself with the primitive tone of voice.
I pulled my fist back again, prompting Bo to squeal, 'Stop. Stop.
I'll tell you.'
'Tell me.'
Bo tried collecting himself. It wasn't a pretty scene. He was on the floor, facedown. I was on top of him, holding him by the scruff of the neck. A crowd of about twenty gawkers stood around us at a respectable distance. I tightened my grip.
'He was here last week,' Bo said softly, through his whimpering. 'No, two weeks ago. Guy wouldn't tell us his name or who he was with, but he had an appointment and we were told to show him right in. Someone said he was an FBI guy, named Kent, I think. Met with the commander at headquarters for about two hours, then left. Never seen a fed at the compound before. First him, now's you. I'd like to know what's going on.'
'I'll tell you over tea sometime,' I said to him, loud enough for others to hear, mostly because I thought it was a pretty good line.
Then I whispered into his ear, 'Until then, don't move a fucking muscle or I'll kick your fucking brains out.' I got up, straightened out my clothes, pulled a $20 and a $10 out of my pocket and put them on the bar in front of Gerry, and said, 'Set Bo up with his next couple of drinks, and buy the rest of the boys a round.'
I gathered up my stuff and was off into the night with one immediate, crucial piece of business ahead of me. Hurtling down that two-lane road, I called Peter Martin's condominium in Arlington, Virginia. He answered on the first ring. Best I could tell, when he wasn't at the office, he was always home, though I'll be damned if I knew what he did there. Like everyone else in the newspaper business, he was divorced.
I always figured he was just watching TV, probably CNN or C-Span.
'Flynn here,' I said. 'Kill that story in the second edition.'
'What?'
'Something's going on with it, and I'm not sure what it is. But I think maybe we've been had. I just found out that Drinker might have been out here a couple of weeks ago, must have been before the assassination attempt. I
