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 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 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.
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 shorts and a T-shirt. I was six foot one depending on the shoes, a hundred and ninety pounds of lean, mean, vendor hot dog-eating machine. My brown hair was getting a little longer, and I made a mental note to stop by Quik
Cuts tomorrow during lunch. I warmed up a plate of leftover chicken masala Amanda had cooked over the weekend. In my place, leftovers were made to last.
I sat down and began to eat, washing the food down with a glass of iced tea. I splayed a few newspapers in front of me and read while I did. The Gazette 's pages looked naked without the familiar byline of Jack
O'Donnell. I hoped wherever he was, he was getting the treatment he needed.
Dinner was a long affair. I made the pasta last, and made the newspapers last. I gorged myself on every word, fascinated at just how many stories there were within this small teeming city.
When I finished, I was getting up to put my dishes in the sink when the phone rang. I picked it up. Didn't recognize the caller ID.
I clicked Send and said, 'This is Parker.' I'd strug gled with my greeting for a long time. Since this was my work phone as well as personal, saying hello felt too casual. As did 'Henry.' I considered, 'Parker, Henry
Parker,' but Amanda threw a dirty sock at me the first time I tried it. 'Parker' sounded nice, succinct.
'Is this Henry Parker?' the voice on the other end said.
'Yes, who is this?'
'Henry, I'm Detective Makhoulian with the NYPD.
Are you busy right now?'
I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. What the hell did the cops want with me at this hour? I wasn't working on any stories that had NYPD involvement, and I didn't speak to any cops on a regular basis with the exception of my friend Curt Sheffield.
'Detective, it's pretty late and I just got home from work. What's this about?'
'I apologize for the hour, but I was hoping you could answer a few questions.'
Not wanting to appear defensive, I said, 'Question away.'
'Does a man fitting this description sound familiar?
About six-two, thin as a bone. Brown hair, hazel eyes, the look of a serious drug problem, among other issues, much of which involve hygiene. That ring a bell?'
I felt my pulse quicken. 'Actually, a man fitting that description was waiting for me outside my office when
I left work tonight. I didn't really speak to him. A col league of mine was recently assaulted by a disgruntled reader, and from the look of this guy he wasn't much of a conversationalist.'
'Interesting,' Makhoulian said. And he genuinely sounded interested. 'Listen, Mr. Parker, I need you to come down to the county medical examiner's office tonight. You know where it is?'
'Thirtieth and first. I've been there before. I'm a reporter with the Gazette, I've spoken with the medical
