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godforsaken ale again."

"You can toast to that, my friend. 'Fraid if I do the

same I'll be out of a job."

"This world today you'll be out of a job in the next six

months anyhow."

"Did you come here just to ruin my day, Jack?"

"I'm the black cloud hanging over every man's driveway," Jack said with a grin. He sipped the soda.

"As long as you pay your tab," Mickey said, cleaning a glass.

Jack held up the soda glass, shook it gently, the ice

cubes clinking. "This stuff, what do you charge for it?

Two bucks a glass?"

"Four," Mickey said, slight embarrassment in his voice.

"Four dollars," Jack said. "What does it cost to manufacture? Three cents?"

"No idea," Mickey said. "I'll tell you one thing, it

costs a whole lot more than three cents to buy the syrup."

"See, this is exactly what's wrong with this country,"

Jack said.

"Christ, here we go."

"No, hear me out. My paper, you can buy it on the

street for fifty cents. And for that fifty cents, you get hundreds of articles written by some pretty smart people--

okay, some of them are dumber than my shoes--about

everything you need to know about the world. Now, for

this little glass of sugar piss, you could buy one of my

newspapers for eight straight days."

"I thought it was more expensive on the weekends."

"Don't be a smart-ass," Jack continued. "Anyway,

people don't value things like that anymore. When I

The Darkness

163

started out in this business, you couldn't walk down the

street without seeing everyone carrying a copy of the

morning's paper under their arm. Now, they're doing everything but reading. iPods, BlackBerries, video games,

text messages, bird calls, Pictionary. It's like people go

out of their way to be ignorant."

"Why are you here, Jack?" Mickey asked. Jack was

surprised to see that the look on Mickey's face wasn't

jovial, but serious enough to get Jack to forget about his

rant. "You say you're on the wagon. Haven't had a drink

in two months. I give you credit for that, my friend, and

it's always good to see you back around here. But it seems

kind of stupid to me for a man trying to stay off the sauce

to hang out at a bar. Not exactly the best atmosphere to

keep you focused, know what I mean?"

Jack nodded. He didn't have a reply for that. It just felt

natural, coming back here, like a memory that haunted

you but kept tugging at the edges of your subconscious.

It was only in the last few years that the drinking had

really become a problem. Back in the day, a lunch without

three martinis was a lunch wasted. An after-work cocktail

wasn't an occasion; it was part of the job. You went home

sauced, you woke up hungover, and everything in between was done to even it out. Now, drinks at lunch were

almost passe. Expense accounts had been slashed like a

murder victim, and if you ordered a second drink you

might get a look.

Now, everything was moderated. People judged you. It

was a few years ago when Wallace Langston pointed out

that Jack's face was looking red, puffy. Wallace recommended a good dermatologist who helped cure his wife's

rosacea. Jack, perplexed, took the number but never called.

He lied to Wallace and told him he'd seen the doctor,

164

Jason Pinter

though in retrospect that might not have been the wisest

course of action since it made the editor in chief even

more suspicious when the symptoms began to worsen.

He'd never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of putting

down the pen until he was either good and ready, or dead

and buried. And last year, he was neither. It was Paulina

Cole who forced his hand, by printing a newspaper article

that swung an ax at his reputation, left him alone and

crying on his bedroom floor.

Jack O'Donnell refused to go out like that. Refused to

go out a laughingstock.

In order to restore his reputation, he needed one last

home run, one last story to remind the public just why

they'd trusted him for the better part of half a century.

First, though, he needed to clean up. Funny thing, he

was never in denial