The Darkness - Jason Pinter [58]
drink, Jack knew he was feeding the beast. It was easy to
justify, easy to rationalize. Jack was one of the city's
most respected newsmen. He'd earned that reputation.
He'd sold nearly a million books, written God knows
how many bylines.
Jack used to have an agent. Good guy named Al Zuckerberg. Tall, wispy Jew who had a company down in
Union Square. For two decades, like clockwork, Al would
negotiate his contracts every two or three years. And if
Jack was ever late with a manuscript or running short on
ideas, Al would be over with a bottle of Johnnie Walker
Blue within the hour.
Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Al.
Jack hadn't written a book in nearly ten years. At some
point, Al must have given up. No squeezing blood from
a stone. Jack had wrung himself out.
Good businessman, Al was. He realized that once Jack
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165
was tapped out, his energies would be better spent on
other authors who would bring in new money. Jack still
received royalty payments, but they were dwindling.
They'd afford him a few nice meals a year, maybe pay
off some of his mortgage. But that's all.
This story, this lead he was chasing with Henry, Jack
knew this was his last chance. A big hit, and his reputation was restored. Jack still had some fight left in him,
but what really stoked the coals was watching Henry
work. Watching his career take off like Jack's had long
ago. He was a pit bull, that young man, clutching a lead
with his teeth and shaking it until the truth came loose.
Jack felt strong coming back. Felt like he had enough
strength and desire to do his best work in a long, long time.
But when that was over, Jack wasn't sure how much
he'd have left. At least, he thought, the paper would be
in good hands with Henry. If Jack had died, if the alcohol
had overcome him, he would have died a joke. His reputation would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering
ashes. Now, he could change that. Going out with a bang
wasn't such a bad thing.
The glass began to grow warm in his hand. The ice
cubes had begun to melt. Jack watched the soda turn
from black to muddy brown as it mixed with the melting
ice. He pictured, just for a moment, Mickey reaching
behind the bar, picking the bottle of Jim Beam up, tilting
that long neck and pouring a healthy swallow of bourbon
in. He could taste it on his tongue, smiled briefly. Then
he looked at the glass and set it on the table.
"Getting the urge, huh," Mickey said. He took the
glass of soda away from Jack, gently, poured it out and
placed the glass behind the bar. "Maybe you should go
home, Jack."
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Jason Pinter
The old man laughed. He reached into his briefcase
and pulled out an orange prescription tube. Mickey
looked at it, confused.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Antabuse," Jack said. "My little blue pill."
"I don't get it," Mickey said. "What's that, for depression or something?"
"No, think of it as insurance. You're supposed to take
one of these babies once a day. The chemicals in this tiny
pill, when mixed with alcohol, make you feel like Keith
Richards after a six-month bender. Kind of the negative
reinforcement equivalent for alcoholics of sticking your
finger in an electrical socket."
"So, what, you drink and you get sick?"
"So sick you'll never want to drink again."
"Does it work?"
Jack shrugged. "Damned if I know."
"I thought you said you took a pill once a day."
"You're supposed to," Jack said, "but I haven't taken
a single pill."
"Well, why the hell not?"
Jack stood up. He tugged a crumpled twenty from his
wallet, flattened it out and put it on the table. He then took
the pill bottle and placed it on top of the money.
"Because when I decide to do something, whether it's
track down a story, get a source to open up, or quit drinking," Jack said, "I don't need a damn pill to motivate me.
See you around, Mickey."
Jack walked outside. He stood outside the bar for a
moment, looked up and down the street. Some days he
could barely recognize this city. Since his return he'd