Parker 05 - The Darkness (20 page)

Smiled at him as he gazed up and down her body.

"I guess we'll have to find out."

22

The glass sat in front of him. Empty. The last remnants

of the liquid sloshed in his mouth, and he finally swallowed it, his taste buds begging for more.

"Fill it up, Jack?"

Jack O'Donnell looked at the bartender, a big Irish

bloke named Mickey, and said, "One more. Then I'm cutting myself off."

Mickey laughed. "If I had a nickel for every time I've

heard you say that, Jacky boy."

"I mean it this time," Jack said, but something in his

voice made the barman laugh. Jack had to smile. "Hit me

once more."

"You got it."

Mickey took the nozzle from beneath the bar, brought

it up to Jack's glass and filled it to the brim with fizzy,

bubbly soda.

"Here," Mickey said. He reached into a small plastic

tray and removed a single maraschino cherry. Holding it

by the stem, Mickey delicately placed it on top of the soda

and said, "Voila. Figure since you're drinking girly drinks

these days, you might as well go the full nine and have

it look girly, too."

162

Jason Pinter

"You're a saint," Jack said. He raised the glass and

tipped it toward Mickey. "To never swilling a pint of that

godforsaken ale again."

"You can toast to that, my friend. 'Fraid if I do the

same I'll be out of a job."

"This world today you'll be out of a job in the next six

months anyhow."

"Did you come here just to ruin my day, Jack?"

"I'm the black cloud hanging over every man's driveway," Jack said with a grin. He sipped the soda.

"As long as you pay your tab," Mickey said, cleaning a glass.

Jack held up the soda glass, shook it gently, the ice

cubes clinking. "This stuff, what do you charge for it?

Two bucks a glass?"

"Four," Mickey said, slight embarrassment in his voice.

"Four dollars," Jack said. "What does it cost to manufacture? Three cents?"

"No idea," Mickey said. "I'll tell you one thing, it

costs a whole lot more than three cents to buy the syrup."

"See, this is exactly what's wrong with this country,"

Jack said.

"Christ, here we go."

"No, hear me out. My paper, you can buy it on the

street for fifty cents. And for that fifty cents, you get hundreds of articles written by some pretty smart people--

okay, some of them are dumber than my shoes--about

everything you need to know about the world. Now, for

this little glass of sugar piss, you could buy one of my

newspapers for eight straight days."

"I thought it was more expensive on the weekends."

"Don't be a smart-ass," Jack continued. "Anyway,

people don't value things like that anymore. When I

The Darkness

163

started out in this business, you couldn't walk down the

street without seeing everyone carrying a copy of the

morning's paper under their arm. Now, they're doing everything but reading. iPods, BlackBerries, video games,

text messages, bird calls, Pictionary. It's like people go

out of their way to be ignorant."

"Why are you here, Jack?" Mickey asked. Jack was

surprised to see that the look on Mickey's face wasn't

jovial, but serious enough to get Jack to forget about his

rant. "You say you're on the wagon. Haven't had a drink

in two months. I give you credit for that, my friend, and

it's always good to see you back around here. But it seems

kind of stupid to me for a man trying to stay off the sauce

to hang out at a bar. Not exactly the best atmosphere to

keep you focused, know what I mean?"

Jack nodded. He didn't have a reply for that. It just felt

natural, coming back here, like a memory that haunted

you but kept tugging at the edges of your subconscious.

It was only in the last few years that the drinking had

really become a problem. Back in the day, a lunch without

three martinis was a lunch wasted. An after-work cocktail

wasn't an occasion; it was part of the job. You went home

sauced, you woke up hungover, and everything in between was done to even it out. Now, drinks at lunch were

almost passe. Expense accounts had been slashed like a

murder victim, and if you ordered a second drink you

might get a look.

Now, everything was moderated. People judged you. It

was a few years ago when Wallace Langston pointed out

that Jack's face was looking red, puffy. Wallace recommended a good dermatologist who helped cure his wife's

rosacea. Jack, perplexed, took the number but never called.

He lied to Wallace and told him he'd seen the doctor,

164

Jason Pinter

though in retrospect that might not have been the wisest

course of action since it made the editor in chief even

more suspicious when the symptoms began to worsen.

He'd never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of putting

down the pen until he was either good and ready, or dead

and buried. And last year, he was neither. It was Paulina

Cole who forced his hand, by printing a newspaper article

that swung an ax at his reputation, left him alone and

crying on his bedroom floor.

Jack O'Donnell refused to go out like that. Refused to

go out a laughingstock.

In order to restore his reputation, he needed one last

home run, one last story to remind the public just why

they'd trusted him for the better part of half a century.

First, though, he needed to clean up. Funny thing, he

was never in denial about his alcoholism. With every

drink, Jack knew he was feeding the beast. It was easy to

justify, easy to rationalize. Jack was one of the city's

most respected newsmen. He'd earned that reputation.

He'd sold nearly a million books, written God knows

how many bylines.

Jack used to have an agent. Good guy named Al Zuckerberg. Tall, wispy Jew who had a company down in

Union Square. For two decades, like clockwork, Al would

negotiate his contracts every two or three years. And if

Jack was ever late with a manuscript or running short on

ideas, Al would be over with a bottle of Johnnie Walker

Blue within the hour.

Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Al.

Jack hadn't written a book in nearly ten years. At some

point, Al must have given up. No squeezing blood from

a stone. Jack had wrung himself out.

Good businessman, Al was. He realized that once Jack

The Darkness

165

was tapped out, his energies would be better spent on

other authors who would bring in new money. Jack still

received royalty payments, but they were dwindling.

They'd afford him a few nice meals a year, maybe pay

off some of his mortgage. But that's all.

This story, this lead he was chasing with Henry, Jack

knew this was his last chance. A big hit, and his reputation was restored. Jack still had some fight left in him,

but what really stoked the coals was watching Henry

work. Watching his career take off like Jack's had long

ago. He was a pit bull, that young man, clutching a lead

with his teeth and shaking it until the truth came loose.

Jack felt strong coming back. Felt like he had enough

strength and desire to do his best work in a long, long time.

But when that was over, Jack wasn't sure how much

he'd have left. At least, he thought, the paper would be

in good hands with Henry. If Jack had died, if the alcohol

had overcome him, he would have died a joke. His reputation would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering

ashes. Now, he could change that. Going out with a bang

wasn't such a bad thing.

The glass began to grow warm in his hand. The ice

cubes had begun to melt. Jack watched the soda turn

from black to muddy brown as it mixed with the melting

ice. He pictured, just for a moment, Mickey reaching

behind the bar, picking the bottle of Jim Beam up, tilting

that long neck and pouring a healthy swallow of bourbon

in. He could taste it on his tongue, smiled briefly. Then

he looked at the glass and set it on the table.

"Getting the urge, huh," Mickey said. He took the

glass of soda away from Jack, gently, poured it out and

placed the glass behind the bar. "Maybe you should go

home, Jack."

166

Jason Pinter

The old man laughed. He reached into his briefcase

and pulled out an orange prescription tube. Mickey

looked at it, confused.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Antabuse," Jack said. "My little blue pill."

"I don't get it," Mickey said. "What's that, for depression or something?"

"No, think of it as insurance. You're supposed to take

one of these babies once a day. The chemicals in this tiny

pill, when mixed with alcohol, make you feel like Keith

Richards after a six-month bender. Kind of the negative

reinforcement equivalent for alcoholics of sticking your

finger in an electrical socket."

"So, what, you drink and you get sick?"

"So sick you'll never want to drink again."

"Does it work?"

Jack shrugged. "Damned if I know."

"I thought you said you took a pill once a day."

"You're supposed to," Jack said, "but I haven't taken

a single pill."

"Well, why the hell not?"

Jack stood up. He tugged a crumpled twenty from his

wallet, flattened it out and put it on the table. He then took

the pill bottle and placed it on top of the money.

"Because when I decide to do something, whether it's

track down a story, get a source to open up, or quit drinking," Jack said, "I don't need a damn pill to motivate me.

See you around, Mickey."

Jack walked outside. He stood outside the bar for a

moment, looked up and down the street. Some days he

could barely recognize this city. Since his return he'd

become more sensitive to what it used to be. Keenly aware

of what it was not anymore and never would be again.

The Darkness

167

Even his old habits like drinking could not be enjoyed,

replaced by something artificial that was meant to fill the

void. If not for Henry, if not for the injection of new blood

into his old, tired veins, Jack O'Donnell knew there was

a good chance his disease would have been the end of him.

Tomorrow was a new day, and would hopefully bring

new leads. He was proud of Henry for finding out information on Brett Kaiser's possible killer. That the doorman

had seen this blond man coming and going at odd hours,

while Kaiser's wife left the apartment, left him no doubt

that this man held the key to many, many questions.

Tomorrow they would hopefully answer those, but he

also could be certain that new questions would be asked.

The key to reporting was answering the questions faster

than new ones could be asked, catching up with the trail

of lies while it was still warm. Give any suspect enough

lead time, they would cover their tracks sufficiently, prolonging the investigating or snuffing it out altogether.

Tomorrow they'd be back on the trail. Jack felt invigorated, for the first time in years knowing he was working

on something important, that his job and reputation were

no longer being held hostage by the bottle.

At some point they would unravel the whole spool of

thread. At some point, Jack would restore his damaged

reputation.

And at some point, Jack would need to know why

Henry Parker was lying to him.

23

Thursday

"So tell me about this Mr. Joshua."

Curt Sheffield held a pad of paper in his hands and a

small pen. The pen hovered above the pad as he waited

for me to speak.

We were sitting on a bench next to each other in Madison Square Park. It was early morning, just after seven

o'clock. The day was crisp and cool, and the park was

crowded with couples walking their dogs and sipping

coffee. I wasn't surprised to see a line already beginning

to form outside the world-famous Shake Shack. Possibly

the best burgers in the city, but the kind of meal your intestines could only handle once or twice a year.

Before Curt had taken out his writing utensils, there

had been a breakfast burrito that disappeared down his

throat in about 1.2 seconds. His breath smelled like fried

grease, but that's not the kind of thing you tell someone

you're approaching for help. Especially when they're

armed.

"Mr. Joshua?" I said.

"Mr. Joshua? You know, from
Lethal Weapon?
Played

The Darkness

169

by crazy-ass Gary Busey, who got his blond ass handed

to him by the man from down under at the end?"

"Oh right," I said. "I kind of stopped watching Mel

Gibson movies after the whole sugartits thing."

"You know it's weird. Who would have thought that

between Gary Busey and Mel Gibson that Busey would

turn out to be the less crazy dude."

"So what's with the Joshua reference?"

"Well, you said this dude you're looking for is blond,

Mr. Joshua was blond, thought I'd give him a nickname