One of the two men I recognized immediately as
Wallace Langston, editor in chief. Wallace was in his midfifties, lean with a neatly trimmed beard. His brown hair was flecked with gray, and he had the slightly bent posture of a man who'd spent the majority of his years hunched over a keyboard. Wallace had been a staunch supporter of mine in the years I'd been employed by the paper, and even though now more than ever he was feeling the crunch of his corporate masters insisting on higher profit margins, he knew what it took to print good news. If not my idol, he was a good, loyal mentor.
"Is he," I said, "introducing someone around the office?"
"That is precisely what it looks like," Jonas replied.
Evelyn walked up and said, "I never met a damn person until my first staff meeting. I got as much of an introduction as my stove has to a cooking pot."
"Me, neither," I said. When I started at the Gazette,
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 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 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.
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 professional 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 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.