Desperate Measures (2 page)

“I still don’t…”

“I want you to come back to work, Matt. We were understaffed to begin with. Now… Look, I’ve spent thirty years of my life
on the
Chronicle
. I don’t want it to go out like it’s garbage. Please, come back and give me a hand. It’s just nine days, Matt. The obit department’s
as important as any department we’ve got. Next to the comics and the sports, that’s what most readers turn to first. I don’t
have time to break in a new guy, and I couldn’t find one anyhow, not when we’re going to be out of business a week from Friday
and some bastards are taking off work, looking for other jobs. Be a buddy, Matt. If not for me, for the paper. Hell, you worked
here fourteen years. You must have
some
feeling for this place.”

Pittman stared at the floor.

“Matt?”

Pittman’s muscles cramped from emotional pain.

“Matt? Are you there?”

Pittman studied his gun. “Your timing’s lousy, Burt.”

“But will you do it?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Sure I do. For you to be my friend.”

“Damn you, Burt.”

Pittman set down the phone. In anguish, he waited for it to ring again, but it stayed silent. He set down the pistol, went
over to the bourbon bottle next to the refrigerator, and poured himself a drink. No ice, no water. He quickly drank it and
poured himself another.

Under the circumstances, it struck Pittman as ironic that he worked in the obituary department of a dying newspaper. His desk,
one of many, separated by waist-high partitions, was on the fourth floor, across from and midway between the elevator and
the men’s room. Although the
Chronicle
was understaffed, movement and noise surrounded Pittman, people walking, phones ringing, reporters answering, computer keyboards
being tapped. Arts and Entertainment was behind him, Home Tips on his left, the Community Service Calendar on his right. He
felt a gray haze distance him from everything.

“You look awful, Matt.”

Pittman shrugged.

“You been sick?”

“A little.”

“What’s happening to the
Chronicle
will make you even sicker.”

“Yeah, so I heard.”

The tubby man from Business placed both hands on the front of Pittman’s desk and loomed down. “Maybe you also heard the damned
pension might be in trouble. And… But how
could
you have heard? I forgot you quit two days ago. Saw it coming, huh? Gotta give you credit. Hope you made a deal, a few weeks’
extra pay or…”

“No.” Pittman cleared his throat. “Actually I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Then why…?”

“I just got tired.”

The man looked blank. “Tired. What are you doing back here?”

Pittman was having grave difficulty concentrating. “Came back to help. Only a week from tomorrow. Everything will be over
then.” Already the time felt as if it would be an eternity.

“Well, if I were you and I had money in the bank—which I assume you must have or you wouldn’t have quit—I wouldn’t be wasting
my time here. I’d be looking for another job.”

Pittman didn’t know what to say to that.

The tubby man leaned so close to Pittman’s desk that his open sport coat covered the phone, which suddenly rang. In surprise,
the man peered down toward the hidden source of the ringing. He straightened.

Pittman picked up the phone.

The call, from what sounded like a middle-aged woman, her voice strained with emotion, was about a seventy-five-year-old man
(Pittman guessed it was the woman’s father) who had died at his home.

Pittman reached for a form and wrote down the deceased’s full name. “Did you wish to specify the cause of death?”

“Excuse me?” The woman sounded breathy, as if she’d been crying. “This has been such a strain. What do you mean ‘specify’?”

“Did you wish to be exact and say why he died, ma’am? Perhaps you wish to say ‘after a lengthy illness.’ Or perhaps you don’t
wish to give any cause of death at all.”

“He had cancer.”

The statement struck Pittman as if an icy blade had knocked him off balance. Unprepared, he suddenly had mental images of
Jeremy. Robust, with thick, long, windblown red hair, playing football. Frail, hairless, dead in an equipment-crammed room
in a hospital intensive-care unit.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Pittman’s throat constricted. “I lost a son to cancer. I’m sorry.”

An awkward pause made the line seem to hum.

“A lengthy illness.” the woman said. “Don’t say he had cancer.”

Other details: surviving relatives, former occupation, time and place for the funeral.

“Donations?” Pittman asked.

“For what? I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes close relatives of the deceased prefer that, instead of flowers, a donation be sent to a favorite charity. In this
case, perhaps the Cancer Society.”

“But wouldn’t that be the same as saying he had cancer?”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“A lengthy illness. My father died from a lengthy illness. I don’t want to get involved in the rest of it. If I mention the
Cancer Society, every charity in town will be calling me. Is that all you need? Don’t forget to mention he belonged to the
East Side senior citizens bowling team.”

“I’ve got it,” Pittman said.

“In that case…”

“I’ll need your address.”

“But I already told you where my father lived.”

“No, I need
your
address, so the
Chronicle
can send you a statement for printing the obituary.”

“Statement?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You mean a bill?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The newspaper doesn’t print obituaries as a community service?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Shit.”

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?

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.”

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.

“All right.” Pittman gestured. “The subject isn’t dead yet.”

Burt nodded.

“But evidently you’re convinced that he or she
will
be dead within nine days.”

Burt’s expression didn’t change.

“Otherwise, the obituary won’t be any good,” Pittman said, “because the
Chronicle
will be dead a week from tomorrow, and I never heard of other newspapers buying freelance obituaries.”

“It’s my gift to you.”

“Gosh. I don’t know what to say. How generous.”

“You’re not fooling anybody,” Burt said. “You think I haven’t figured out what you’re planning to do?”

Pittman showed no reaction.

“Ellen phoned yesterday,” Burt said.

Pittman felt sudden heat in his stomach, but he didn’t allow himself to show any reaction to that either, to the mention of
his ex-wife.

“She says you’ve been acting strangely,” Burt said. “Not that I need her to tell me. I’ve got eyes. In fact, anybody who thinks
of you as a friend has noticed. You’ve been going around making a point of paying back favors, money you borrowed, whatever.
You’ve been apologizing for any harm you caused, and I know it’s not because you’re cleaning house as part of joining AA,
not the way you’ve been drinking. That car accident three weeks ago. Three
A.M.
A deserted road in Jersey. A bridge abutment. What the hell were you doing out driving at that hour? And even as drunk as
you were, I don’t see how you couldn’t have avoided that big an obstacle. You
meant
to hit it, and the only reason you didn’t die is that your body was so loose from the booze, you bounced like a rag doll
when you were thrown from the car.”

Pittman touched a still-healing gash on the back of his hand but didn’t say anything.

“Don’t you want to know what Ellen wanted?” Burt asked.

Pittman stared at the floor.

“Come on,” Burt demanded. “Quit acting like you’re already dead.”

“I made a mistake.”

“What?”

“Coming back to work. I made a mistake.” Pittman stood.

“Don’t,” Burt said. “Let me finish.”

A reporter appeared in the doorway.

“In a minute,” Burt said.

The reporter assessed the two men, nodded somberly, and went away. Other reporters, seated at their desks, were glancing toward
the glass walls of Burt’s office. Phones rang.