Read Parker 04 - The Fury Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
I didn't know anybody other than Jack O'Donnell. Jack
was my boyhood idol, the man most aspiring reporters
dreamt of becoming. He and I had grown close over the
last few years, but recently he'd lost his battle with the
bottle and left the
Gazette
. I hadn't spoken to him in a
few months. I'd tried his home, his cell phone, even
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walked by his Clinton apartment a few times, but never
got a hold of the man. It was clear Jack needed some
time alone with his demons.
Ironically the first reporter I'd met was a woman
named Paulina Cole. We worked next to each other
when I first started at the
Gazette.
Soon she left for a
job at the rival
Dispatch,
where through a combination
of balls, brass and more balls she'd become one of the
most talked-about writers in the city. Paulina was cold,
calculating, ruthless and, worst of all, damn smart. She
knew what people wanted to read--namely, anything
where if you squeezed a page, dirt or juice came out--
and gave it to them. She was part of the reason Jack had
left the
Gazette.
She'd managed to pay off numerous
people in order to discover the extent of Jack's drinking
habits, and then ran a front-page article (with unflatter
ing pictures) depicting Jack as the second coming of
Tara Reid. Saying there was no love lost between us was
like saying there was no love lost between east and
west coast rappers.
Wallace was still too far away for us to make out just
who he was introducing around the office, but I got the
feeling he would prefer if he didn't have to do it en
masse.
"I'm going back to my desk," I said. "Jonas, if you
see good taste anywhere, I'll get the paddles and we'll
resuscitate the bastard."
"Thank you for the offer, Henry, but I do believe
it's too late."
I walked back to my desk, trying not to think about
what this could mean. Since Jack left, the
Gazette
had
been on a hiring freeze. We were in a war with the
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Dispatch
over circulation rates, advertising dollars and
stories, and our expenses were taking a toll. If Harvey
Hillerman, the president and owner of the
Gazette,
had
hired a new reporter, he or she had to be important
enough to cause a stir. Not to mention someone who
would be approved of by the other reporters whose pay
raises had been nixed last holiday season.
I sat down and continued working on a story I'd been
following up on for several weeks, about the homeless
population of New York. According to the New York
City Department of Homeless Services, there were over
thirty-five thousand homeless individuals living within
the city's borders. Including over nine thousand
families. That number had increased by fifteen percent
in the last five years.
I was about to pick up the phone, when I heard the
sound of footsteps approach and then stop by my desk.
I looked up to Wallace Langston. And his mystery hire.
"Henry Parker," Wallace said, hand outstretched,
"meet Tony Valentine."
Tony Valentine was six foot three, looked to be a
hundred and eighty svelte pounds and had the smile of
a cruise-ship director. His hair was bleached blond, and
his teeth glistened. His tan was clearly sprayed on, as I
noticed when he extended his hand to shake mine that
his palms were a much paler shade. He wore a designer
suit, and wore it well. A red pocket square was neatly
tucked into his suit jacket. The initials T.V. were em
broidered in white script on the cloth.
As he offered his hand, I noticed his sleeves were
held together by two gold cuff links. Also mono
grammed with T.V.
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Clearly this man did not want his name to be for
gotten.
"Henry Parker," Valentine said, gushing insincere
admiration. "It's just a pleasure to finally meet you. I've
been following your career ever since that nasty
business of your murder accusation. All those guns and
bullets, and now here I am, working with you. Sir, it is
an
honor.
"
While I pried the goop from my brain, I shook Valen
tine's hand, then looked at Wallace. The name Tony
Valentine did sound familiar, but I couldn't quite place
it...
"Tony is our new gossip reporter," Wallace said en
thusiastically. "We were able to pluck him from
Us
Weekly.
Today is his first day."
"And not a day too soon," Tony said, pressing the
back of his hand against his forehead, as though diag
nosing a strange malady. "As much as I admire your
paper--and Wallace, please don't think otherwise--it
was lacking a certain
pizzazz.
A certain
panache,
if you
will. A certain sexiness."
"Let me guess," I said. "You're here to bring sexy
back."
Tony pursed his lips and smiled. "You're a clever
one, Henry. I'm going to have to keep my eye on you.
So, guess what my new column is going to be called?"
"Do I have to?"
"You most certainly do." Tony waited a moment,
then blurted out, "'Valentine's Day.' Isn't that a riot?"
"Better than the ones in L.A."
"True, true. By the way, Wallace told me you covered
the Athena Paradis murder a while back. Is that so?"
"You heard right," I said. Athena Paradis was a pro
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fessional celebrity/diva who was gunned down outside
a nightclub where she was performing tracks off her
upcoming album. I investigated the murder, and nearly
lost my life in the process.
"Let me tell you, the day that girl died, it was like
the day I learned Diana had been killed. Athena was just
one more reason for me to get up in the morning. I
don't think I slept for a week after that. I can't imagine
how you must have felt."
"Sure," I said. "Lost tons of sleep."
"No doubt," Tony said. "Listen, Henry, it's been a
pretty pleasure. We'll
have
to go out for a dirty martini
one of these nights. I want to hear
all
about what you're
working on. Okay?"
"I'll be checking my calendar right away," I said.
"Terrific. Wallace, on with the show?"
As Tony and Wallace walked away, I saw Wallace
turn back to me. There was a remorseful look in his eye.
Immediately I knew Tony's hire was at the behest of
Harvey Hillerman. Gossip was a commodity in this
town. I knew it; I'd been the subject of it. For the most
part, the
Gazette
had kept its beak clean, relegating
society and gossip stories to the weekend Leisure
section. Now we would all be fighting tooth and nail to
compete for page-one space with Mr. Tony Valentine. I
wondered how much an embroidered pocket square
cost.
After a long day I left the
Gazette
thoroughly ex
hausted. I checked my cell phone, found one voice mail
waiting. It was from Amanda. We'd been seeing each
other steadily over the last few months, trying to start
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over on a relationship that broke from the gate too fast.
I didn't want to screw things up this time, so I was more
than happy to take it slow. Dinner and movies, walks
through Central Park. I sent flowers to her office, she
sent me meatball subs for lunch. It was harmony.
As I put the phone to my ear to listen to the message,
I heard a strange voice say, "Henry Parker?"
I turned to see a man approaching me. He was dirty
and disheveled, wearing rags that looked about to fall
off his deathly skinny frame. A black briefcase was
slung over his shoulder. He carried it like it either
weighed fifty pounds, or he was just barely strong
enough to hold it to begin with. His eyes were blood
shot, fingernails dirty. His eyes glowed wide from
sunken-in sockets--a skeleton with a pulse. Despite
his haggard appearance he looked to be young, in his
early thirties. I'd never seen the man before in my life,
yet for some reason he looked oddly familiar.
"The city's gonna burn," he rasped. "I need to talk
to you."
"You can send any press inquiries through the
switchboard," I said, picking up my pace.
"Are you," he said, the words coming out through
yellowed teeth, "Henry Parker?"
I started to walk faster. I had no idea how this man
knew my name, but from the looks of him I certainly
didn't want to find out. The image of Frank Rourke--
a pretty strong and belligerent man to begin with--
being beaten by a crazed reader with a homemade
weapon crossed my mind. In my few years at the
Gazette
I'd received plenty of mail from readers. Mostly
positive from people who enjoyed my stories, but still
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plenty from people who thought I was either a hack or
still remembered all the unwanted attention I'd received
a few years ago when I was thought to have killed a
police officer.
It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in
minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe
indefinitely.
"I am," I said, offering my card. He looked at it, just
stared at me with those sunken eyes. I turned to walk
away, speeding up as I headed through Rockefeller
Plaza. I turned back. The man began to walk faster, too.
The rubber on his sneakers was falling apart, and the
gray overcoat he wore was tattered and soiled.
"Please, Henry, I need to talk to you. Oh God, it's
important. You don't know what's going on. You don't
know what's going on. Never seen anything like it."
Suddenly he closed his eyes and retched, a cough
threading beads of phlegm through his gaunt fingers.
"Call the
Gazette
tomorrow," I said. I gave him the
switchboard number. He didn't seem to care. I walked
faster, a slow trot, but my heart began to race when I
saw that the man was matching my pace.
"Henry," he said, his eyes now terrified. "We need
to talk! I'm begging you, man!"
"Sorry, don't have time," I said. I picked up the pace,
broke into a run and crossed the street just as the light
was turning red. As I reached the other side I looked
back. The man was about to race through the oncoming
traffic, but then apparently thought better of it.
Our eyes met for one moment. His were pleading,
scared, and for a moment I debated crossing back over
to see what he wanted. Then I saw him reach into his
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pocket, put something to his nose and take a quick snort.
That was all I needed to see.
I turned around and headed toward the subway. If he
really needed to reach me, he could call. I'd been
through enough over the last few years to know there
were some things you needed to turn your back on.
2
I arrived home half an hour later. I left Amanda a
message. We had plans to have dinner and catch a movie
tomorrow night, and I wanted to order tickets in
advance. New York prices being what they were,
between service charges, snacks and tickets themselves,
you practically had to win the lottery to afford them. A
few months ago Amanda had received a nice year-end
bonus, and Wallace Langston had told me to expect a
promotion in the near future. Both of our salaries had
crept higher over the last few years, and we'd begun to
think more about where we wanted to be. This apart
ment had served its purpose, but I wanted more space.
We weren't living together, but she would spend
three or four nights a week here and then crash in her
friend Darcy Lapore's guest room the rest of the time.
The number of nights spent next to each other had
begun to creep up over the last few weeks. It was still
early and we were still healing from recent wounds. Re
gardless, our relationship had grown more serious and
I started to think about where
our
future was headed.
At some point we'd have to have one of those talks.
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21
Where you each share your hopes and dreams. The
"where do you see yourself in five years" part of the job
interview, only for a position you wanted the rest of
your life. Tonight, Amanda was crashing with Darcy. I
figured I'd eat dinner, pop in a movie and veg out.
Nights like that were sorely underrated.
I peeled off my clothes, stepped into a hot shower.
The day seemed to rinse right off me. I thought about
that man who'd confronted me, how there was a look
of genuine terror in his eyes. I began to regret turning
from him. And hoped he actually did call the next day.
When I got out of the shower, I threw on a pair of