'Here,' she said, putting down the soiled napkins and reaching into her purse, 'let me buy you a drink. Least I can do, right, since you're being such a gentleman? What kind of beer is that?'
I shook my head. 'No need. It happens.' I caught the ball game from the corner of my eye. The fans were on their feet. Looked like someone had hit a home run.
'Well, can I just buy you a drink to buy you a drink?'
I looked at her, a cautious smile. My beer was almost empty. And my wallet was running light.
'It's okay,' I said after a moment. 'Really, it's not necessary.' She put her purse away, eyed me with a combination of skepticism and curiosity.
'Are you here with friends?' she asked.
'Nope. Just watching the game.'
She glanced around the bar, watched the guys with gelled hair and long button-down shirts hanging over expensive jeans, high-fiving one another while a gaggle of girls cheered every dart throw.
'So you're just here to, what…hang out by yourself?'
'That's the idea,' I said. Her smile turned demure. I felt her move closer. Her arm brushed mine, and for a moment I felt that tingle of electricity. It had been so long. I didn't move my arm.
'That's kind of cool,' she said. 'Lot of guys try too hard to be all macho and stuff. It takes confidence to stay quiet.'
I had to stop myself from laughing, considering I was afraid of my own apartment and came here precisely so I could avoid the braying of testosterone-drenched i-bankers.
'Trust me, it's not confidence,' I said. 'Just comfort.'
'See, that's confident right there!' Then she extended her hand. 'I'm Emily.'
'Henry,' I said. For a moment I waited, then shook her hand. Didn't want to be rude.
'I'm here with some old college friends who are in town for the weekend,' Emily said, 'but we're probably going to ditch this place soon and go somewhere else more, like, alive. I know you're happy to be by yourself-' she used finger quotation marks to accent this statement
'-but it might be cool if you came with us.'
Right then I could see the night laid out before me. Two paths. I could accept Emily's invitation, and presuming I played my cards right, that electric sensation of skin on skin would later become a wildfire.
Or I could sit here, sip my beer, stare at my reflection in the mirror and think about all the other paths I'd simply passed right by.
'I appreciate the offer, Emily,' I said. 'But I think I'll stay here for the night.'
'You sure?' she said.
'Sure.'
'Suit yourself.' She grabbed a clean napkin from the bar, removed a tube of eyeliner from her purse and painstakingly drew something on the paper. When she was done, she smiled, handed me the napkin and walked away.
Jason Pinter
Her phone number was written in black, smudgy ink.
Emily offered one last wave as she went through the door, pausing for a moment to give me one last chance to reconsider. I raised the rest of my beer to her. She shrugged and left. Then I let the napkin fall to the floor.
I downed the last of my beer. Seamus took a pair of empty pitchers down off the bar and came over to me.
'Another?' he said.
I looked at my glass, felt the buzz swirling in my head and decided against it.
'That's it for me tonight.' He took my glass and went to serve a man shaking his glass for a refill. I stood up, steadying myself as the blood swam to my head. When my equilibrium settled, I left the bar.
I checked my phone. Four missed calls, beginning at
11:00 p.m. They were all from the same prefix, which I recognized as the Gazette. I checked my watch. Late jobrelated calls were no longer a nuisance; they were a part of my life. Perhaps that's why I turned down another beer.
Somehow I had a feeling I'd have to return someone's call while relatively sober.
I walked down to the corner and bought a pack of Certs, slipping one in my mouth to try to remove the beer aftertaste. Then I dialed the Gazette. Wallace Langston, editorin-chief, picked up his private line on the first ring.
'Henry, Christ, where the hell've you been?'
'It's a Friday night. You don't pay me enough to have a 24/7 retainer.'
'Okay, you don't want to answer your phone, I have half a newsroom of reporters who'd drop their off days faster than a hot iron for what I'm about to tell you, so let me know if this is an inconvenient time.'
'What if I said it was?'
'I'd say two things,' Wallace said. 'First, you're a liar.
It sounds like you're standing on the street, which means you can't be that busy. Second, I'd say I don't give a crap because if you turn down this assignment, I can find another reporter who'll grab it faster than you can hang up.'
'Sounds like a hot one,' I said. 'So maybe I'm interested.'
' Hot isn't the word,' Wallace said. 'Scorching. Actually no, forget that. The only appropriate word is exclu- sive. '
'Oh, yeah? What kind of exclusive?'
'You hear about this Daniel Linwood case up in
Hobbs County?'
Immediately my buzz wore off. 'Kid who was kidnapped five years ago and suddenly reappeared on his parents' doorstep, right?'
'So you follow the news. Glad to know we pay you for something. Daniel Linwood was five years old when he disappeared from his parents' home in Hobbs County,
New York. That was five years ago. One moment he's playing outside, then all of a sudden he's just gone. No witnesses, nobody saw or heard anything. His disappearance shakes the Hobbs County community to its roots. There's a media frenzy, politicians come out of the woodwork to show their support, but the cops come up empty. Then last night, Daniel shows up at his parents' house like he's been at the movies. Not a scratch on him. And get this-the kid has as much memory of the past five years as I have of my first marriage. He doesn't remember where he's been, who took him or how he even got home. Half the known world is waging war to talk to Daniel and his parents and get the story, but up until now it's been radio silence.'
'Until now?' I said.
'Until you,' Wallace said. 'I've been calling the Linwoods for twenty-four hours nonstop.'
'I bet they appreciate that,' I said snidely.
'Shut up, Parker, or I'll smack that booze right off your breath.'
'You don't know I've been drinking,' I said, regretfully slurring the last word.
'I've worked with Jack O'Donnell for more than twenty years. You can't fool a professional bullshit detector. Anyway, tonight I get a call from Shelly Linwood out of nowhere. She says she's ready to talk. And before I can say another word, she says she and Daniel will talk to you, and only you.'
'Me?' I said. 'Why?'
Wallace said, 'Shelly knows she can't keep silent forever, that at some point she and Daniel will need to speak to the press. So she said when he does speak to someone, she wants it to be to a reporter he won't be intimidated by. Someone who doesn't remind him of his parents. She wants Daniel to talk to someone he can trust, whom she can look in the eye and know he won't exploit her son. Between all of that, I offered you. And she accepted.'
'Holy crap, are you serious?' I said. 'This is a major story, Wallace. We're going to make a lot of reporters pretty jealous.'
'And I'm going to revel in it,' Wallace said. 'This is your story now, Parker. Daniel Linwood has probably been through a kind of hell you and I can't even imagine, and his parents have spent almost five years assuming their oldest son was dead. Be gentle. Daniel is ten years old, and we still don't know the full psychological damage he's
