Other than the occasional chewed-to-death pen we left on his desk as a friendly reminder.
Wallace looked up when he saw me come in. His lips were tight beneath the closely shaved beard. His eyes were bloodshot, as usual. He was hardly a peppy man, unless he was excited about a story. And bad news seemed to take him over like a death shroud. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and unfortunately I'd had far too many experiences piercing that heart.
I hoped it was strong enough for one more.
"I need some time off," I said.
Wallace nodded. I was right. He knew this was coming.
"I'm sorry about your father. But I don't think that's the right decision."
"He's innocent," I said. "I need to help prove it."
Wallace nodded again. Not at the information, but because he respected my feelings. "I imagine it might be tough to work under those circumstances."
"Probably right," I said.
"Might also help keep you focused," Wallace said.
"I don't pretend to know everything about you, Henry.
But I know what you live for. You take that away, even for a little while, you forget who you are."
"The past few days have shown me that I don't even know who I am."
"If you want time," Wallace said, "I can give you a leave of absence. Or, you can stay on the job. Do what you need to, but keep your nose to the grindstone anyway.
Some of the best work reporters do is during times of crisis. If that's too much to ask, I understand. But it might also be good for you. Give you another outlet."
"I don't know," I said, considering what Wallace was saying. "I need to do what feels right here. And right now I don't know what that is."
"What's right to one man is wrong to another. You over anyone should know that by now. Every villain is the hero of their own story, Henry. If your father is innocent, somebody killed Stephen Gaines for a reason that they felt was justified. If you can aid his defense, that's a noble deed. I don't want to sway you. But I've seen too many young reporters get lost in the chaos. You have a great career ahead of you. You end up in the middle of trouble more than anyone I've ever known.
And you can either use that, work with it, or you can let it consume you. You do what you want, Henry."
I nodded. Wallace was right. And in the past, he'd always stood by me. I'd like to think I'd earned his trust through hard work, and that even if I did get myself into the occasional-okay, regular-scrape, it would be because I was doing the right thing.
"With Jack and I both gone," I said, "that's a big hit."
"Don't I know it. Hey, I never said I didn't have the paper's interests in mind, too."
The way Wallace said it, he wanted me to know he had more on his mind than a simple lack of writers. The
Gazette had been engaged in a bloodbath with the
Dispatch over the last few years, each doing whatever it could to lure new readers into the fold. Our industry wasn't quite dying, but it was being forced to deal with innumerable obstacles.
Each reader was valuable. Each demographic worth its weight in gold. Jack had amassed a large and pas sionate readership over the years through his columns, his books and his numerous awards. Though I hated to think of myself as a quantity, I got enough letters from readers to know that there were quite a few people tuning in to our pages to see what stories Henry Parker had unearthed that day.
If I took a leave, I'd be pulling away one more tent pole that was keeping the Gazette upright. I owed
Wallace. And Jack. I loved the Gazette, and if years from now I was still cranking away on my keyboard racking up bylines while my fake teeth were chattering around in my mouth, I'd be a happy old codger.
And yes, blood is thicker than ink. As little as I owed
James Parker and Stephen Gaines, I owed them my best efforts. I had to help find Stephen's killer, to get my father out of prison. It didn't look like the cops were going to bend over backward to dig up new leads. They had their man, and likely enough evidence to send him away for a long time.
And perhaps send him somewhere a lot deeper than a prison cell.
"I'll stay in the game, Coach," I said. Of course, I couldn't be sure how effective I would be. I had no idea where the truth about Stephen Gaines lay, or where exactly to begin my search.
Wallace smiled.
"I'm glad to hear that. For both of us. You have my number, Henry," he said. "Keep in touch. Go fight the good fight."
"Thanks, sir," I said.
"I mean it, Henry. Keep in touch. It's not too much to ask for a good story, is it?"
"No, sir," I said. "Not at all. Thanks, Wallace."
Wallace nodded. "You're going through something not many do. Stay safe, Henry. And stay smart."
I said I would. But I wasn't sure if I meant it.
12
Leaving the Gazette, I endured a brief man hug-back slap from Tony Valentine. I ran my hand over my face and checked my clothes to make sure none of his spray tan had rubbed off on me. Some kind of sweet cologne did seem to have made my acquaintance, smelling like a mixture of citrus and the floor of a movie theater. A shower was my first order of business.
I called Amanda at work. She picked up on the second ring.
"Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"
"I just told the boss who'd supported me at the job of my dreams that I wanted to take some time off to look into the death of my half brother who was allegedly murdered by my father. Out of all the times I've had that conversation, I'd say this one went pretty well."
"You're funny when you're pissed off."
"Maybe I'm pissed off when I'm funny."
"No," she said. "Because you're pissed off fairly often, but you're really not that funny."
"Thanks for the pep talk," I said.
"Seriously, Henry. How'd it go?"
I rubbed my forehead. "Felt like crap," I said.
"Wallace convinced me to stay on the job, but I can't help but feel he's disappointed in me. With Jack gone, they can't spare to lose a lot of writers. But he also knows how important this is. I can't let him down."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"Now?" I said. "Start at the beginning."
Gaines was found murdered in Alphabet City, near
Tompkins Square Park, according to the papers. The park itself was bordered by Tenth street on the north and Seventh street on the south, and lay between
Avenues A and B. It had a tumultuous history, dating back to the 1980s when it was a petri dish for drugs and homeless people.
An infamous riot occurred in 1988 when the police attempted to clear the park of its homeless population, and forty-four people were injured in the ensuing chaos.
Since then the park had been closed several times for refurbishment, and between that and the increasing gen trification of the neighborhood, it was now a pleasant place to hang out, play basketball and just enjoy a nice summer day.
I took the 6 train down to Union Square, then trans ferred to the El, which I rode to First Avenue. First bordered Peter Cooper Village, or Stuyvescent Town, a woodsy enclave largely populated by recent college grads who liked the cheap rent, younger families who enjoyed the well-tended parks, and older residents whose rents were stabilized and who hadn't paid an extra dime since New York was the capital of the Union.
As I approached the park, it was hard to believe a murder could occur in such a pleasant area. Parks seemed to be the one place where all the stress and hos tility emptied out of the city. Where families became instant friends, children ran around while their parents watched approvingly, and young men and women played sports and chatted without playing the stupid mating games that choked you to death at any bar.