showed. The saw went crazily left and right. She pushed too hard and it wouldn't move against the lock. She pushed too easy and it went too fast, barely scratching the metal. An emery board did more damage.
Marta flopped the box over on its back and sawed the latch with vigor. The padlock wiggled back and forth but the saw's teeth barely etched the surface of the metal. She sawed again and almost amputated her index finger, which was frostbitten anyway. Not a good idea. She threw the saw back in the truck and searched the chest again. An old iron horseshoe! Marta hooked the shoe through the lock and tried to wrench it off. No go. There had to be something in the truck that would open this goddamn padlock! The truck was a hardware store on wheels!
Marta got out of the truck with the strongbox and slammed the door behind her. She stormed to the back of the truck and yanked the back door open. The forge, a tiny oven without a door, was on the left. She could melt the strongbox down!
Marta tried to shove the box into the forge, pressing with her shoulder. The box was too wide. She grabbed the box and slammed the lock against the back edge of the forge, but succeeded only in denting the forge. The padlock stayed fast. What a product! What a company! Marta wondered momentarily if it were publicly traded, then grabbed the box and drop-kicked it across the snow. It landed in a snowdrift and disappeared. Uh-oh.
Marta ran after it, growling, and dug it out. Fucking padlock. They weren't kidding in those commercials where they shot the shit out of the thing. She set the box down out of the snowdrift and jumped on it over and over, like a trampoline. She climbed off and looked down at her handiwork. The lock survived, as did the frame of the box. This wasn't funny anymore. Marta snarled and whirled around. Her gaze fell on the pickup truck. Of course.
She left the box in the center of the street and sprinted back to the truck. She climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door. The driver's clock said 7:01. She still had time. She could make this happen. Christopher would be working for her. Everything would be okay as soon as she cracked the box. She released the emergency brake and twisted on the ignition. The truck coughed twice and turned over.
Marta heard herself cackling softly as she gunned the engine. A padlock against a lawyer? No contest. She wrenched the steering wheel to the left and aimed straight for the box.
47
Bennie barreled in her wet parka down the marble corridor of City Hall, past the glass-etched sign that read ADMINISTRATION REPORTERS. The elegance of the sign belied what was beyond the next door. The City Hall press room was even filthier than a precinct house, which was why Bennie loved it.
She flung open the mahogany door and deftly avoided the newswire machine that obstructed an entrance hall choked with empty vending machines and a grimy shelf of mailboxes. The floor was a gritty brown tile strewn with crumpled memos, discarded gum wrappers, and curly faxes. A dusty dictionary with marbleized endpapers sat on a battered bookstand. An old wooden coatrack had fallen against the wall with the weight of reporters' coats. The air smelled vaguely electrical with a hint of body odor.
On either side of the entrance hall stood eye-level partitions covered with dirty burlap and wrinkled clippings. Beyond them were offices filled with cluttered wooden desks and dingy file cabinets. Bookshelves were packed with papers, plastic spiral notebooks, and superseded style manuals. Each newspaper had its own office in the press room and on the door of the
Bennie peeked over the left partition at the starchy back of an old friend, Emil Gorebian. Emil sat erect at his keyboard and tapped with an expert's skill. He had covered the City Hall beat for thirty-four years but had been demoted to the night shift when he declined to retire early. The city editor had told him the newspaper 'wasn't downsizing, it was right-sizing,' and Emil had politely allowed as how a human being wasn't a suit. But it didn't matter, the suits were in control. Which was why Bennie could never work for anybody else. 'Emil!' she called over the partition.
'Bennie!' Emil said, the alarm in his voice tinged with a courtly Middle Eastern accent. 'What am I hearing about you? Your office, murders. How terrible!'
'I know.' Bennie dripped into the office, slipped out of her snowy hat and parka, and popped them on the back of an empty chair. She looked around. The other desks were empty. The dirty gray computers were on, their screen savers ever-changing, but the scuffed chairs sat vacant. 'Where is everybody?'
'The young Turks? Most can't get in because of the snow, they are too tender. The others are hounding the innocent, like good reporters. Myself, I am waiting for my editor to call, to give me some very important instructions like I don't know what I'm doing. So tell me, what is going on?'
Bennie flopped into the ratty chair and shook the chill off. 'I'll sue the paper for you, I told you. We don't have to go to court, it's a union paper. We can grieve it. It's easy.'
'No.' Emil pursed his lips, which were full and vividly pink under a frosty gray mustache. His eyebrows were shaped like thick commas over round eyes. His nose was a parrot's beak set against exotic olive skin. 'They are not worth my anger, or yours.'
'You've given over thirty years to this newspaper. You've won awards and your experience—'
'Please. Times have changed. It's a spot news operation now. They care nothing for history. Experience has no value. It's what happened today, not yesterday. Now tell me what is happening. Can I help?'
'I need information about someone who used to work here in the sixties.'
'Who?' He cocked his head, his interest piqued. 'I know everyone who worked here then.'
'His name is Eb Darning.'
'I don't know him,' Emil said immediately.
'What? You sure?'
'Yes.'
'Think about it. You know everybody here?'
'I do. If I don't know him, he wasn't here.' Emil patted his tie, which he wore with a white oxford shirt, still pressed despite the lateness of the hour. Or the earliness.
'How can you be sure so fast?'
'I'm sure that fast. How slow do I have to be to make you feel confident of my answer? I told you, I don't know him, so he didn't work here.'
