Harry broke the cellophane on a fresh toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth as he paced. But would Murphy play fast and loose when his blood was up for the hunt?
Harry moved one of his easy chairs against his drawing table, directly under the picture of him and Randall all strapped up in warrior garb.
Then he dug an old scrapbook out of the closet and found four prints of the framed picture. He put the scrapbook on the lamp table next to the chair, the loose pictures strewn, peeking from under magazines.
Harry was hoping that the fastest Franky Murphy had ever had to think on his feet was playing golf.
The intercom sounded. Harry buzzed him in. A few minutes later the knock came. Harry grabbed the front section of the paper in his fist, opened the door, and brandished it in Franky Murphy’s face.
“What the fuck are you doing to me, Franky? Making me look like some kind of nut?”
Franky shrugged. “It’s news.”
Harry looked into the hall. He’d come alone. He glared at Franky.
“What happened up north is news. This other stuff is bullshit.”
Franky walked in, unbuttoned his overcoat, and regarded Harry with a look of pitying condescension; that someone who worked for a newspaper would commit the cardinal sin of being written about in its pages.
HUNTER’S MOON / 125
“I had a copper run you through NCIC. Didn’t know you had a police record in Detroit,” said Murphy for openers.
“So what.”
“A year in the Detroit House of Correction. Two separate counts of ag assault. Some beef with a guy in a bar.” Franky paused. “And, uh, apparently you roughed up your wife. Didn’t know you were married.”
Harry responded with a nervous tick, popping the tooth-brush in his mouth. Franky went on. “There’s a more serious prior charge, an armed assault conviction in Detroit in July sixty-seven. But you got a suspended sentence on that one.”
“I wipe my ass with my right hand. You wanna write about that, too?”
“Harry.” Franky spread his hands and pursed his lips. “What I’d like to do is a big feature follow. Three separate lives joined by a violent incident. The rich dropout, the veteran, and the punk rocker kid. But you’d have to agree to being interviewed to make that fly.
I mean, it’d look better if you’d comment on it, put it in perspective.”
Franky paused. “You, uh, willing to go on the record about any of this?”
“Where’d you get the thing about me and Randall?”
“It’s in the public record. You got a medal. I can get a copy of the citation from military records in St. Louis but that’ll take a couple of days. You wouldn’t have one handy?”
“Bullshit St. Louis. Who, Franky?”
“Sorry, Harry. That’s a source.”
“A source, huh? What do I think? I think you got creative with your sources. I think you were shooting the breeze with Bud Maston—who’s a bit of a mess right now—and he said something about hunting. That I hadn’t been around guns since the army. Then this happens…and you sail that quote in there out of context…I thought you guys had ethics.”
“But it’s accurate, isn’t it?” said Murphy. “That quote.”
“Jesus, this really sucks. The kid isn’t even all the way cold yet.”
“Why do you think the kid did it?”
126 / CHUCK LOGAN
“Fuck if I know. Kids used to get drunk and drive cars fast, now I guess they shoot people when they’re pissed off.”
“What’s it like to kill someone?”
Harry pulled the toothbrush from his mouth and Murphy’s eager eyes blinked nervously.
“Ah God, Harry. That’s blood—”
“Fuck you, Murphy.”
Franky grimaced and his eyes flitted around Harry, probing. Finally they settled on the picture hanging over Harry’s head. He leaned forward.
“That’s you and Randall…”
Harry stood up. “Screw it. I don’t care what you write.” Harry made a face at the bloody toothbrush. “I’m going to the bathroom.
When I come out, I don’t want to see you.”
Harry walked down the hall to the bathroom. He left the door ajar. He heard Murphy scurry by. Heard the apartment door close.
One of the smaller pictures was missing.
Now give it about half an hour. Time for Murphy to get back, run the picture through photo. Call Arnie Cummings at home just about the time the picture editor takes the picture to the news desk.
If it didn’t work, Harry could only hope that a bigger story would come along. Something juicier for the nearsighted papier-mâché shark to chew on. Like a big local plane crash. An earthquake. Some nut to take a shot at the president. He needed something bad to happen to somebody else.
Harry paced and brushed his teeth and spit a wad of bloody saliva into the kitchen sink. Then he called Arnie.
“Harry?” Arnie’s voice was concerned and awkward, distancing.
“I saw you on the tube. You all right?”
“Hell no, I’m not all right.” Harry laid it on him. How Murphy had sticky fingers and lifted a picture behind his back. Then he let Arnie be Arnie. Arnie was predictably furious. A picture was involved; Murphy was messing in his turf. If there was an ethics dispute about swiping a picture, people would see the picture and associate it with the photo staff.
HUNTER’S MOON / 127
He’d seen the early edition and sounded genuinely pissed that they’d dig into Harry’s background to jazz up a story.
Harry agreed. Said he’d prefer to let it slide if the personal stuff stayed out. He wondered aloud why they didn’t just stick to the basic story. Another thing. It might be awkward, coming back to work after everything that had happened. What if he took two weeks’
vacation until it blew over?
Arnie said he’d get back to him. He was smoking to stop that picture getting in the paper.
“Damn shame what happened, but they cleared you,” said Arnie.
“Fucking Yankee yuppies don’t know shit about guns, or hunting…or these kinds of matters.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Harry.
He hung up and paced in a caged circle, picking up velocity. Old feeling. Embattled.
