Rogue Island

the decision is out of my hands.”

“Jesus Christ!” I said, but it was out of His hands, too.

“We’re all going to be working for the kid someday, Mulligan,” Lomax said. “Show him some fucking respect.”

I returned to my cubicle to find Edward Anthony Mason IV perched on the corner of my desk, looking now like he’d just stepped off a page of The Great Gatsby—narrow cover-girl waist, long legs encased in expensive black slacks, a blue silk tie that cost more than my entire wardrobe. He removed the Clark Gable fedora, exposing a head full of light-brown curls.

He said, “Hi.”

And I said, “Get lost.”

“Bad time?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you go play polo and come back in thirty years?”

“Did I do something to offend you?”

“I’d be offended by anybody who hasn’t learned to write a lead yet and already thinks he’s going to be running the paper. Maybe you want to get in on the office pool. Pick the date that Daddy steps up to chairman of the board and makes his baby boy publisher. Me? I got fifty bucks on never.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Because?”

“Because newspapers are a dying business, kid. Readers are deserting us. Craigslist and eBay have stripped us of most of our classified advertising. And none of that is ever coming back.”

“We’re just in a transition period,” Mason said.

“Is that what they taught you at Columbia? Look around, for Chrissake. Papers everywhere are slashing expenses—closing Washington bureaus, cutting the number of pages they print, laying off journalists by the hundreds. And still they’re hemorrhaging money. The Knight Ridder chain has already thrown in the towel. The Tribune Company looks like it’s on its last legs. The Rocky Mountain News, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and the San Francisco Chronicle are teetering on the edge of collapse. If you think it’s not going to happen here too, you’re kidding yourself. The scuttlebutt around the newsroom says we lost two or three million last year.”

“More,” Mason said.

“Aw, shit. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How much more?”

“I’m not permitted to say.”

“So I guess layoffs are coming, huh?”

“Father and I will do everything in our power to prevent that.”

“Unless you can go back in time and get Al Gore to un-invent the Internet, there’s not much you can do about it,” I said. “Newspapers are circling the drain, kid. By the time you’re ready to take over, there won’t be anything left to run.”

Mason was about to respond when Pemberton strolled up.

“I see you two are getting acquainted,” he said, his light tone clashing with the worried look etched on his face. “Mulligan treating you right so far, Edward?”

“I was just inquiring how he got that great ‘Dumb and Dumber’ quote, Mr. Pemberton. And he chewed me out for even asking. Said a reporter never reveals his confidential sources. I’ve got a lot to learn, and Mr. Mulligan is the best mentor I could have. Next to him, the profs at Columbia are a bunch of posers. I want to thank you again for letting me work with him.”

“You’re very welcome, Edward. Any questions? Anything you need?”

“Not right now, Mr. Pemberton.”

“Well, if there is, my door is always open.”

Hasn’t always been open to me, I thought, and was about to say so when Pemberton clapped Mason on the back and scurried off with that concerned look still on his face.

“Okay, kid,” I said. “Let’s go play reporter.” A few nights cruising rat-infested streets, a meeting or two with sources in a hole like Good Time Charlie’s, a couple of early mornings standing knee-deep in slush, and he’d lose his taste for the real thing soon enough.

27

A light snow was falling as we stepped out onto Fountain Street.

“So where are we going?” Mason said.

“You’ll know when we get there.”

“Okay if I drive?”

“Sure.”

He led us a few yards down the street, pulled a remote from his pocket, and snicked open the lock to an opalescent silver-blue 1967 Jaguar E-Series coupe parked at a meter.

“Like this car?” I said.

“Sure do.”

“Then we better take mine.”

As we settled into the Bronco, he eyed the wires snaking from the slot where the CD player used to be.

“Leave the Jag in Newport,” I said. “Get yourself a used Chevy or Ford to drive on the job. And if you ever have to park the Jag in Providence again, put it in a parking garage, lock it, remove the wheels, and take them with you.”

“Got it, Mister Mulligan.”

“And drop the ‘Mister.’ ”

“I don’t know your first name. Just your byline, ‘L. S. A. Mulligan.’ ”

“Tell you what,” I said. “You call me Mulligan, and I’ll call you Thanks-Dad.”

“I prefer Edward.”

The drive to Zerilli’s Market took us past two burned-out buildings. Crews from Dio Construction were busy knocking them down and loading the debris into dump trucks. I backed into a parking space right in front of the market and told the kid to stay in the car.

“How come?” he said.

“Remember that ‘lesson’ about confidential sources? That’s why.”

*  *  *

“Back already?” Zerilli said. “Jesus! How many Cubans can one scribbler smoke?”

“Only burned four sticks from the last box, Whoosh. Just wanted to drop by, see how you’re doing.”

“The Colibri working okay?”

“Hotter than Ramirez on a hitting streak, reliable as Lowell’s glove at the hot corner. Which reminds me. What odds you giving on them going all the way again?”

“This week, nine to two. Gonna throw money away on ’em, oughta do it now. Word is Colon’s shoulder may be okay. I hear his fastball’s hitting ninety-five on the radar gun. If he’s healthy, the odds will fall to four to one. Sucker bet either way, cause no way they’re gonna repeat. Only two teams have done that in the last thirty years.”

He tapped the ash from his Lucky and scratched his balls through his white boxers.

“Put me down for a Franklin,” I said.

He threw me a disgusted look, pulled the nub of a pencil from behind his ear, and made a note, then rubbed a bruise on his right wrist.

“From the handcuffs?” I asked.

“Yeah. Put ’em on tight as a bastard, the fuckin’ pricks.”