Desperate Measures

“No, ma’am.”

“Shit.”

3

It had been a mistake, Pittman realized. He hadn’t imagined the intense effort that it would take for him to go through the motions, to pretend to be committed to his job. Even the simplest gestures, picking up his phone, writing notes, required an exertion of will that left him as exhausted as the marathons he used to run before Jeremy became ill.

He took four more calls, each requiring a greater effort, each more draining. Death by car accident, drowning, hanging, and old age. Hanging had been a method Pittman had considered. When he’d been a reporter, research on one of his stories had taught him that in males, hanging was rumored to have erotic side effects, its victims producing erections. Hanging also had the advantage of being less messy than a death by gunshot. But the trouble was, it wasn’t instantaneous. It didn’t guarantee results. The rope might slip, or someone might find you in time to resuscitate you. Then you’d have to go through the pain all over again.

Someone coughed.

Glancing up, Pittman saw a stocky, craggy-faced man in his fifties with a brush cut and bushy eyebrows. The man had his navy blazer draped over his shoulder, his muscular upper arms bulging against his rolled-up shirt sleeves. His striped tie was loosened and the top shirt button was open, exposing his bull-like neck. He gave the impression that he was out of uniform, that he belonged in the military. But like Pittman, Burt Forsyth had never been in the military. Burt had worked for the Chronicle since he’d gotten out of college, eventually becoming its editor.

“Glad you could make it.” Burt’s voice was even more gravelly than it had sounded last night.

Pittman shrugged.

“You look beat.”

“So people keep telling me,” Pittman said.

“I’d have thought your day off would have made you look rested.”

“Well, I had a lot of things to do.”

“I bet.” Burt’s gaze was piercingly direct.

Does he suspect? Pittman wondered.

“Considering how busy you are, I appreciate your making time for the Chronicle.”

“For you,” Pittman said.

“The same thing.”

When Jeremy had gotten sick, when Jeremy had died, when Pittman had collapsed, Burt Forsyth had always been there to provide reinforcement. “Need to go to the hospital to see your boy? Take all the time you need. Need to stay with him in intensive care? As long as you want. Your job? Don’t worry about it. Your desk will be waiting for you.” Burt had visited Jeremy in the hospital. Burt had arranged for the most valuable National Football League player to phone Jeremy. Burt had escorted Pittman to and from the mortuary. Burt had gotten drunk with Pittman. Although Pittman had tried to convince himself that he had paid back every debt, the truth was that Burt could never be repaid. Of all those who might have called last night, Burt was the one person Pittman could not refuse.

Burt studied him. “Got a minute?”

“My time is yours.”

“In my office.”

What now? Pittman thought. Is this where I get the lecture?

4

The Chronicle had a no smoking policy. Pittman could never understand how Burt managed constantly to have the recent smell of cigarette smoke on him. His office reeked of it, but there weren’t any ashtrays, and there weren’t any cigarette butts in the wastebasket. Besides, Burt’s office had glass walls. If he was breaking the rule and smoking in here, the reporters at the desks outside would have seen him.

A big man, Burt eased himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. Wood creaked.

Pittman took a chair opposite the desk.

Burt studied him. “Been drinking too much?”

Pittman glanced away.

“I asked you a question,” Burt said.

“If you were anybody else…”

“You’d tell me it was none of my business. But since I’m the one asking… Have you been drinking too much?”

“Depends,” Pittman said.

“On?”

“What you call too much.”

Burt sighed. “I can tell this isn’t going to be a productive conversation.”

“Look, you asked for nine days. I’m giving them to you. But that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”

“What’s left of it. You keep drinking as much as I think you have and you’ll kill yourself.”

“Now that’s a thought,” Pittman said.

“Drinking won’t bring back Jeremy.”

“That’s another thought.”

“And killing yourself won’t bring him back, either.”

Pittman looked away again.

“Besides, I’m not trying to run your life,” Burt said. “It’s your job I’m trying to run. I’ve got something different I want you to do, a special kind of obituary, and I want to make sure you’re up to doing it. If you’re not, just say so. I’ll keep you on the desk, answering obit calls and filling out forms.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I came back to work because you asked. If there’s something you need, I can do it. What kind of special obituary?”

“The subject isn’t dead yet.”

5

Pittman changed positions in the chair. Of course, it wasn’t any surprise to him, although it generally was to what Pittman called “civilians,” that some obituaries were written before the subject’s death. Aging movie stars, for example. Celebrities of one sort or another who were mortally ailing or in extremely advanced years. Common sense dictated that since they were going to die soon and since they were famous, why not prepare the obituary sooner rather than later? On occasion, the subjects were remarkably resilient. Pittman knew of one case where a lengthy obituary had been written for an elderly comedian-twenty years earlier-and the comedian in his nineties was still going strong.

But Pittman judged from Burt’s somber expression that he hadn’t been summoned here just to write something as ephemeral as an obituary for a not-yet-dead movie star. Burt’s brows were so thick, they made his eyes seem hooded-dark, intense.