Tank touched his bandage gingerly. “You can say that again.”
“Say, buddy, do me a favor. Hand me my glass of water, would you? I’m thirsty.”
Tank looked to his right, where a glass of water sat on the desk’s corner. The glass was full to the brim. He looked back at Soletano, leaning against the wall, not making the slightest effort. Tank clenched a fist, then picked up the glass. Water spilled onto Soletano’s desk. He set the glass down.
“I’m waiting.”
Tank stared at his hand, willing it to stop shaking. Standing, he picked up the glass and walked over to his editor. Halfway there, a spasm shook his hand and water sloshed onto the floor.
“And that’s after the snort in the parking lot,” said Soletano. “By the way, where’d you get hit? I didn’t see any dents-or any new ones, at least.”
Tank said nothing.
Soletano approached him and ripped the bandage off his forehead. “I hear you met one of my friends last night. Lance Burroughs. Young guy. Detective.” He circled his desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Your arrest report,” he said, by way of explanation. “You blew a point thirty-four. That’s four times the legal limit. I have to be honest, Tank. God knows I love to tie one on as much as the next guy, but point thirty-four…that’s enough booze to knock out Godzilla.”
“It’s been a stressful few days.”
“And nights. A federal agent murdered in our backyard and I’m buying the story from a stringer out of Dallas. It’s embarrassing.”
“At least you’ll have practice for when the suits finish the deal,” said Tank.
The suits were the private equity guys from Wall Street who’d been running around the place for the past month figuring ways to cut costs.
Soletano didn’t take the bait. He stood, arms crossed, shaking his head. “You used to be a decent journalist.”
The tone hit Tank hard. He’d been a damned sight better than that.
“There’s another conference later this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll be there. Did you read the release? Bennett is stonewalling us. Once we find out the informant’s identity, we’ll have a beeline to what the feds were looking into. I mean, Dripping Springs, for Chrissakes. That tell you something?”
“Maybe the CI’s from Dripping Springs?”
“It tells me that it’s a pretty big case if they’re meeting their CIs twenty-five miles away to make sure they’re not seen.” Despite the air conditioning, he was beginning to sweat. “You know how many FBI agents have been killed in the line of duty in the past twenty years?”
“Four.”
“Yeah, four. Not many. This one’s got legs. I can feel that there’s something here. Let me run with it.” He smiled sheepishly. “Everyone gets a DUI. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re a day late and a dollar short, pal. I told you to read that letter.”
“One DUI. Come on. It’s a misdemeanor.”
Soletano snapped a finger at the arrest report. “You forgot to mention that it’s your second offense. Two DUIs in ten years. That makes it a Class A misdemeanor. Mandatory suspension of license for one year. Fine of up to ten grand. What you did is more than enough for rightful termination.”
“You’re firing me?”
“You fired yourself. You saw those suits in here. They get a chance to knock a hundred grand off their liabilities, they’re going to jump on it.”
Tank threw up his arms. His severance package gave him one month’s salary for every year he’d worked at the paper. The total came out to a little over $100,000.
“Let me have this story, Al. I’ll prove to you I’m the reporter I used to be.”
“What story?” said Soletano. “Just because the Bureau isn’t divulging the name of the informant doesn’t mean there’s a story. They’re probably waiting a day or two to get their ducks in a row, inform the guy’s family, and then they’ll release it. This isn’t Waco or Ruby Ridge. There’s no Pulitzer at the end of the rainbow. It’s just a case of an agent making a dumb mistake.”
“I’m not so sure…”
“I am,” said Soletano. “There is no story. You’re done. You blew a point thirty-four. You’re not some cute first-time drunk. You’re a monster. Don’t you get that? A point thirty-four. I’m surprised you didn’t spontaneously combust. I can’t have a reporter driving drunk all over town. The word liability mean anything to you?” Soletano opened the door and motioned for Tank to leave. “Get out of here. Go away. Get some help. You’re a sick man.”
–
Tank walked back to his car, hands in his pockets, arms stiff as ramrods to make sure he stood straight in case Soletano was watching. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. All spirit went out of him and he laid his head against the steering wheel.
His hand dropped to his backstop and he took a healthy slug. Screw Soletano. He could watch all he wanted.
He dropped the bottle and grabbed the copy of the day’s paper off the passenger seat. The headline read: “FBI Agent Dies in Dripping Springs Shoot-out.” The story carried an AP byline, no name attached. The future of print journalism, he thought ruefully.
The lead paraphrased the Bureau’s press release, and the body offered nothing that indicated any actual reporting. No suggestions about what case the agent was working or any background on him besides the boilerplate info, no quotes from the widow, and, most important to Tank’s mind, not a whisper about the informant’s identity. He could have filed it from the holding cell.
Tank banged his fist against the glove compartment and took out the envelope with his name on it. An hour ago the letter had held the promise of a new life. A hundred thousand dollars went a long way. After expenses, he’d figured he’d have enough to hit Pedro’s five nights a week, go hunting in Nacogdoches in the fall, head down to South Padre Island at Christmas, maybe even get a haircut once in a while. It was a recipe for high living.
He started the car and gave it a little gas.
A decent journalist.
Soletano’s words scratched at something buried deep. He wasn’t sure if it was pique or pride. Whatever, they dug at something he’d suppressed for a long time. He suspected it was ambition, which he’d once possessed in abundance.
He kissed the envelope, then tore it in half and threw the pieces out the window. The future he’d dreamed of was gone. It was up to him to make another.
He unscrewed the cap of the bottle of tequila and brought the bottle to his lips.
Hell, he’d been a crackerjack journalist.
Tank took the bottle from his lips. For some unknown reason, he chucked it out the window, too. Al Soletano could clean up his mess.
Tank put the Jeep into gear and punched the accelerator. By the time he pulled out of the lot, he had his phone to his ear. Don Bennett was stonewalling about something, and that something was the informant. Tank still had one contact who might be of help.
“Austin Medical Examiner’s Office.”
“Give me Carlos Cantu,” said Tank. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
18
Mary stood inside the foyer of her home, the blast of air conditioning doing nothing to cool her temper. Forty minutes after leaving Don Bennett, she remained incensed by his behavior. One moment he was ripping the phone out of her hand, the next he didn’t want to glance at it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something or someone had changed his mind.
Mary shook her head, vowing action, and walked into the kitchen. She dumped her purse on the counter and took a bottle of water from the fridge. Her eye stopped on the colorful cans of energy drinks neatly arranged in the back corner. Joe’s drinks. She thought about throwing them out, then changed her mind. She needed him with her for a while longer.