The Fury - Jason Pinter [2]
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Frank's brain that makes him such an asshole. Maybe
he'll have one of those Regarding Henry kind of
epiphanies and come back a better man."
"That's probably too much to expect."
"We can dream, Parker. We can dream."
As we chatted, I noticed another group of reporters
huddled together in the hallway looking like they'd just
been told management had decided to restructure by
throwing them out the twelfth floor windows. The group
shifted nervously, whispering amongst themselves.
Never wanting to be the last one in the know, I ap
proached, said, "I thought Frank was going to be fine,
what gives?"
Jonas Levinson, the Gazette's science editor, said,
"Frank is the least of our concerns. Though, as a matter
of fact, something has died this morning. Something to
be mourned as long as we're employed by this godfor
saken newspaper. As of today, good taste, my friend, has
kicked the bucket."
I stared at Jonas, waiting for some kind of an expla
nation. Levinson was a tall man, balding, who wore a
different bow tie to the office every day. He very seldom
exaggerated his feelings, so at Jonas's remark a flock
of butterflies began to flutter around in my stomach.
"I'm not following you," I said to Jonas. "Good
taste? Jonas, care to explain?"
"Just follow the eyes, Parker," Jonas said. "Follow
the eyes."
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but then
I realized what he was saying. The eyes of every
member of our group were focused on two individuals
making their way across the Gazette's floor. They were
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Jason Pinter
stopping at every desk, popping into each office for a
few moments. It looks like some sort of introduction
ritual was taking place.
Immediately this struck me as odd. I'd never met
another employee during a walkaround, and had not
received one myself. The fact that this one person was
being given the grand tour made it clear he was
someone the brass wanted to coddle.
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
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13
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