The Fury - Jason Pinter [1]
I'd also been wanted for murder and targeted by a
deranged serial killer. Hey, who doesn't complain about
their job sometimes?
Externally, you might think I looked the same. Inter
nally, though, I was a different man. A man learns who
he is when his life, innocence and freedom are chal
lenged. I was stronger than I ever knew I could be, but
deep down I wished I hadn't needed to find that out.
When I navigated the maze of empty desks to arrive
at mine, I put my coffee and muffin on the desk, sat
down and debated whether to ignore the silence or see
what was causing the sound vacuum. I reached for the
plastic tab on my coffee, but immediately thought twice.
To ignore the strange stillness of the office would have
gone against every bone in my body, and probably trig
gered some sort of spontaneous combustion. Curiosity
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9
not only killed the cat, but made my breakfast grow
cold. So I stood back up and took a lap around the news
floor to see what the hell was going on.
I didn't have to go far.
A group of half a dozen reporters were huddled
around the desk of Evelyn Waterstone, the Gazette's
Metro editor. They were talking under their breaths,
worried looks in their eyes. I wondered if there were
going to be layoffs. If some of my colleagues--perhaps
even myself--would be out of a job. That Evelyn's desk
had seemingly replaced the watercooler as center of
office scoop was itself noteworthy. Evelyn stayed as far
away from gossip as those who gossiped stayed away
from her. Whatever happened had to be big enough to
pique her interest. I walked up casually, inserting myself
into the conversation through proximity alone.
Evelyn Waterstone was a short, squat woman whose
haircut resembled a well-manicured putting green--
only this particular green was gray with age--and
whose broad shoulders would have been a welcome
addition to most offensive lines. She was a discipli
narian in the gentlest sense of the word. It took several
years for her to warm up to me, but when my work ethic
and the quality of my reporting became clear, Evelyn
began to grudgingly show me a modicum of respect.
Still, I don't think you'd ever see the two of us tossing
back a couple of longnecks after hours. I made an effort
never to stop by her desk unless I had a specific
question, and Evelyn never stormed by mine unless I'd
made some terrible grammatical mistake that, to
Evelyn, was only slightly worse of an offense than
treason.
10
Jason Pinter
"Morning, Parker," Evelyn said. She held a black
thermos between her fleshy hands, and took a long,
drawn-out sip. "Another beautiful day at your friendly
local newspaper." She sniffed the air. "Glad to see
you've begun showering regularly again."
"Morning, Evelyn," I said, nodded to the other re
porters, who offered the same.
"You hear about Rourke?" she said. I hadn't, and
told her so. She raised her arms dramatically as if re
counting some heroic tale. "This paper's most contro
versial sportswriter--who incidentally once told a
linebacker he would 'whup his ass like a donkey'--got
mugged yesterday on his way home from the office.
Well, I shouldn't say mugged, because the guy didn't
take any money, but Frank ended up getting the donkey
side of the whupping."
"Really?" I said, incredulous. "Rourke?" I had no
love lost for Frank Rourke, considering the man had
once left a bag of excrement on my desk--but the man's
swagger seemed to come from years of always being the
one guy who was able to leave the fight on his own two
feet.
"Seems some hothead took umbrage to Frank's
calling the Yankees 'the most poorly run organization
since FEMA.' Some disgruntled asshat from the Bronx.
Anyway, this guy waits outside of the office until Frank
leaves. Then he yells, 'Yo, Rourke!' Frank turns his
head, and gets a sockful of quarters up against the side
of his temple."
"That's terrible, is he okay?"
"Concussion, he'll be fine. Police arrested the fan,
I'm just hoping he might have damaged the area of
The Fury