I have an offer for you!”
“I already have life insurance,” I said.
Valentine laughed. “That’s a good one. Seriously now, have you heard of Belinda Burke?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Sounds familiar,” I said, “but I’m not sure why.”
“Belinda was a contestant on Marry My Mother-in- law. She won a million bucks by setting her mother-inlaw up with the dentist who walked from Dallas to
Newark stark naked.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Match made in heaven.”
“Well, Belinda has quite a story to tell. So naturally she’s decided to write a memoir.”
“That’s nice. Literature was getting a bit stale.”
“I totally agree! Anyway, she was going to use this ghostwriter named Flak. Just one word, like Madonna. He ghostwrote Joe the Plumber’s autobiography, did a wonderful job. Anyway, Flak came down with syphilis and I thought you might want to give it a crack. I know Belinda’s agent and could get you two a meeting, no problem.”
“Um…why would I want to ghostwrite the memoir of a D-list celebrity nobody’s going to remember in twelve months?”
“Because there’s fifty grand in it for you if you can deliver a manuscript in a month.”
“Somebody thinks she’s worth fifty grand?”
“Oh, heck no. She got a million bucks for the book.
You get fifty k just to write it.”
“She can’t write it herself?”
Valentine laughed, deep and hearty. “Henry, I don’t think the woman can read. But that’s not the point. Her publisher is a little worried Belinda might have a short shelf life, and they want to get the book out before the next season of American Idol takes attention away from her.”
“The money sounds great, but I’m just not really into that kind of thing. I never saw myself as that kind of writer.” I looked at Tony. “Just out of curiosity, why come to me? What’s in this for you?”
Tony grew a sly smirk. His eyes narrowed. I could tell
Tony Valentine was far more calculating than he let on.
“See, I knew you were a smart one. Here’s the deal,
Henry. If you take this job, you get the money. That’s how you win. If Belinda publishes the book, she adds a few ticks on to her fifteen minutes. She wins. And because I got you the job and we work at the same paper, you feed me exclusive info from the book that I can run in my column. I win. We all win, Parker.”
“Wow,” I said. “It’s like a whole big circle of ethics violations.”
“Say what you will, but who loses here?”
“Sorry, Tony. I have to say no.”
“No apologies necessary,” Tony said, taking a hair pick from his suit jacket and running it through his glistening hair. That was a first. “But I hope you understand why I put it on the table.”
“I do. I appreciate you looking out for me. And
Belinda. And you,” I said. “If you know anyone who wants me to test canned food for botulism, my Friday night is free.”
“See, that rapier wit. One more thing I love about you,
Henry. See you around. And it was nice to meet you, Mr.
O’Donnell.” Tony walked away, whistling a tune I couldn’t identify but was definitely Sondheim.
“Have a good one,” Jack said as Valentine rounded the corner.
“Have a good one?” I said to Jack. “It took you a month just to give me the time of day.”
“You should be nicer to him,” Jack said.
“You can’t be serious,” I replied. “Jack, he’s a gossip hound. A bottom feeder. He makes a living shoveling garbage.”
“And he’s necessary for the survival of this newspaper,” Jack said abrasively. “You can ride your high horse until it dies of thirst, but this is not a business that’s growing, in case you haven’t noticed. We didn’t have a real gossip columnist for years. Now, people are talking about Tony. Besides, what do you think a newspaper is?
Every day, we print a hundred pages, give or take, and reach over a million readers. You think every one of them wants to read about crime and corruption? Some of them need cheddar-flavored potato chips in their daily routine.
Something you know is crap but you enjoy it anyway. You like steak, Henry?”
“Yeah, why?”
“How do you like your cut-lean and tough, or a little more flavorful?”
“More flavor, I guess. Why?”
“You know what puts the flavor in steak? Fat. Too much fat, in case you don’t keep up on healthy trends, is bad for you. But it makes the steak taste like a slice of heaven. That’s what gossip is. It’s fat. Without it, the paper is leaner, tougher, but doesn’t have as much flavor.
Maybe it’s the kind of flavor that increases your cholesterol or hardens your arteries, but most people live in the moment. You get what I’m saying, sport?”
“I get it,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“You like your job, don’t you?” I nodded. “Then live with it. You do your job the best you can, don’t worry about everyone else.”
“But don’t you think, you know, that the Gazette should have a higher standard? You’ve been here, what, thirty years?”
“What do you think the Gazette is?” Jack said with a laugh. “Our job is to report the news for the paper. It’s not the news’s job to get to us. This company is the sum of what we make of it. Now, if you want to work for a company that only reports what you want, go start a blog.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Like it, hate it. It ain’t changing,” Jack said. “Now here’s the deal. I want you to call Brett Kaiser.”
“Why me?”
“I’ve heard of his firm before. They handle civil litigation, among other things, including libel. Which means they know a lot about newspapers, which means, no offense, kiddo, he’ll be a little less threatened by a-how should I put this?-wet-behind-the-ears guy like you.”
“I’m not that wet behind the ears,” I replied.
“Come on, Henry. What was it, a year ago that you could finally rent a car without paying extra fees?”
Rather than argue (and lose), I just nodded. We went to my desk, Jack perching on the corner while I picked up the phone. I dialed the number for Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman from the paper Talcott gave us. A woman picked up on the first ring.
“Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, I’d like to speak with Brett Kaiser.”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
I looked at Jack, knowing where this was about to go.
“My name is Henry Parker. I’m with the New York
Gazette. ”
“Hold on,” she said, wariness in her voice. “I’ll put you through.”
The next thing I heard was a dial tone. I placed the receiver down.
“You got hung up on,” Jack correctly surmised. I nodded. “Go home.”
“What?”
“It’s been a long day. Get some rest. We’re going to be working like dogs over the next few days, and I don’t need you conking out on me.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got almost fifty years on you.”
“True, but while you were smoking from atomic bongs and doing keg stands in college, I was chasing leads. Get some rest, Parker. I’ll see you here tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll see you at eight,” I said.
A smell greeted me in the apartment that I did not immediately recognize. It resembled some sort of meat, maybe chicken or fish, something sweet and citrusy-all mixed with the tangy smell of something burning.
Making my way through the pungent stench to the kitchen, I found the oven on and some sort of concoction roiling and baking inside that, from the look of the sauce coating the insides of the appliance, didn’t seem to be enjoying it. As I got closer, a small bit of smoke escaped the oven, so I quickly shut the device off.
“Amanda?” I yelled. “Are you here?”
There was no answer, so I tried again.
“Amanda?”
I heard a squeak as the bathroom door opened. The shower was still running, and I could see Amanda’s wet head poking from behind the curtain. Her hair was filled with shampoo and her eyes looked at me through a haze of steam.