“Why was he crying?” Durant said.
“That’s what I asked him. I sorta patted him on the arm and gave him my handkerchief, and he went and blew his nose in it and then started apologizing all over the place. And then, in between sniffs, he tells me how he’s been a reporter on the Times-Bulletin for twenty-five years; in fact, it’s the only job he’s ever had, although if it hadn’t been for his mother-in-law, who lives with him and his wife and who won’t leave California, he could’ve been working for The New York Times or The Washington Post, or UPI anyway. Well, I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that story. All these fucking reporters claim that the only reason they’re not all dressed up in trench coats and reporting from Paris or some place on the six-thirty news is because they’ve always refused to kiss ass. Anyway, I buy him another drink, which he sure as shit don’t need, and he starts telling me that he don’t need me to tell him about what’s going on in his town.” Overby thought about what he had just said. “You follow me?”
“Sure,” Wu said.
“So I say what do you mean, and he says he knows all I’ve told him about the police chief and the city manager and more besides. And that if I don’t understand why I’m not reading it in the paper, then maybe I’d better do a little more checking and see who really owns the fucking paper. Well, by now he’s mad. You know how drunks get. He’s mad at me, and he’s mad at himself for not living in Georgetown and having Kissinger over for dinner every week, and he’s mad at his mother-in-law and his wife and God knows who-all. Himself mostly, I guess. Well, I figure if I get another drink or two in him he’ll really turn confidential, you understand what I mean?”
Overby seemed to be expecting some sort of comment, so Durant nodded and said, “Perfectly.”
“So I order us both a couple of double shots of the best fucking cognac they’ve got, which set me back twelve bucks, and he tosses his down like it’s diet cola or something. Well, the cognac hits him pretty good and in a few minutes he leans forward and asks me if I know when Reginald Simms really showed up in Pelican Bay. So, I tell him sure, it was right after the election, when they brought him in as a consultant. He shakes his head and goes on shaking it, and I’m starting to worry that maybe it’ll fall off when he says, no, it was before that. Then he tells me that Simms was the guy who brokered the sale of the Times-Bulletin four months before the election that they had last November. The paper’d been in the same family for years and a lot of chains had tried to buy it, but the family always said no. But Simms arrives in town, makes ’em an offer, and a week later it’s sold. And no sooner’s it sold than it starts coming out against the city council and the Congressman and everybody else who’s in office. Well, like I already told you, the city council got rolled. But the Congressman got back in because Pelican Bay is only about half of his district. But he didn’t last long — the Congressman, I mean — because his wife shot him a couple of months ago, but you probably heard about that.”
Wu nodded. “We heard. So who bought the paper, Otherguy?”
“That’s what I asked him. But by now he’s drunk himself about half sober and he’s mad again, so he shakes his finger under my nose and tells me that since I’m so fucking smart I can find out for myself. Then he gets up, stumbles, grabs to keep from falling, gets hold of the tablecloth, and goes down flat on his ass — drinks, dishes, glasses, and everything all over the floor.” Overby shook his head. “It was a mess. The goddamn bill for the two of us — guess how much?”
Durant sighed. “How much?”
“Eighty-three fucking dollars plus a twenty-five-percent tip, which I had to give ’em on account of the mess he made. Can you imagine, eighty three dollars for two people — for dinner?”
“Who owns it, Otherguy?” Wu said.
“What?”
This time Wu sighed. “The Times-Bulletin?”
“Oh, yeah, that. You know, sometimes I think if I’d gone to college, I’d’ve made just one hell of a good librarian. They got men librarians, don’t they?”
“Lots of them,” Wu said.
“Well, there’s nothing I like better than to get back some place where they keep old records. You get back there with maybe just one fact to go on and that leads you to another one, and before you know it it’s turned into kind of a chase and you really get all excited, you know what I mean?”
“Sure,” Wu said.
“Anyway, I started checking out this outfit called Oceanic Publishing, Inc., which bought the Times-Bulletin. Well, it seems Oceanic Publishing is owned by something called the Glassman Products Company, which is a do-nothing corporation that’s owned by the Golden Bear Manufacturing Company, which is owned by Nightshade Records. Well, hell, everybody’s heard of Nightshade Records on account of all that publicity it got when it was set up back in the late ’60s by that scientist guy who made a billion dollars or whatever it was out of that electronic doodad he invented. You remember him; he even married what’s-her-name, the one who used to be a singer, Lace Armitage. His name starts with a P. Uh—”
“Piers,” Durant said.
“Yeah, Randall Piers. Well, he sold Nightshade Records about five years ago for a ton of money. And everybody knows who put up the cash for that deal, although his name sure don’t show up on the records anywhere.”
“Otherguy,” Wu said.
“What?”
“Durant and I, we don’t know his name.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You guys’ve been out of the country.”
“So have you,” Wu said.
“But I keep in touch.” Overby managed to make it a mild accusation.
“Well, we all have our failings,” Wu said, “but even so, maybe you’ll the us the name.”
The cunning expression that appeared on Overby’s face was that of a man who knew he was about to serve up his choicest morsel. He savored the moment and then said, “Vince Imperlino.”
If Overby expected his announcement to produce a reaction, he was disappointed. Wu and Durant stared at him impassively, their expressions polite and interested as if they were quite willing, but not terribly anxious, for him to go on with his story.
Overby’s expression became one of exasperation. “Christ, you guys at least know who Vince Imperlino is, don’t you?”
Durant nodded. “Something to do with organized crime, I think.”
“Or perhaps better yet, ‘prominent mob figure,’ ” Wu said, giving his voice a quoting tone.
Overby started nodding his head up and down quickly, as a man might when he suspects that he may be the butt of a joke. “Okay, you guys, go ahead. Have fun. You know all about Vince Imperlino. For all I know, you’re asshole buddies.”
Durant rose and moved over to Overby and looked down at him. He stared at the seated man for several moments and then said softly, “What’s he going to do with it, Otherguy?”
“What?”
“He bought himself a newspaper and now he almost owns himself a town. So what’s he going to do with it?”
Overby stared up at Durant. “What the fuck you think he’s going to do with it? He’s going to make himself some money.”
“How?”
Overby shrugged. “I could think of a million ways.”
“And not one of them legitimate,” Wu said.
Overby smiled — a wise, tight, cruel smile. “Funny thing about Vince — and I’m gonna call him Vince, although if I ever met him, I’d sure as shit call him Mr. Imperlino. But like I was saying, it’s a funny thing about him. He runs things west of Denver, except for Vegas. I mean, none of ’em makes a move unless they check with Vince first. But Vince don’t get his name in the paper hardly at all. And the L.A. cops, they don’t even seem to know he’s alive. Even the Feds leave him alone. You’d almost think old Vince had the fix in all the way to Washington.”