The Fury - Jason Pinter [4]
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
The Fury
17
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.
"The city's gonna burn," he rasped. "I need to talk
to you."
"You can send any press inquiries through the
switchboard," I said, picking up my pace.
"Are you," he said, the words coming out through
yellowed teeth, "Henry Parker?"
I started to walk faster. I had no idea how this man
knew my name, but from the looks of him I certainly
didn't want to find out. The image of Frank Rourke--
a pretty strong and belligerent man to begin with--
being beaten by a crazed reader with a homemade
weapon crossed my mind. In my few years at the
Gazette I'd received plenty of mail from readers. Mostly
positive from people who enjoyed my stories, but still
18
Jason Pinter
plenty from people who thought I was either a hack or
still remembered all the unwanted attention I'd received
a few years ago when I was thought to have killed a
police officer.
It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in
minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe
indefinitely.
"I am," I said, offering my card. He looked at it, just
stared at me with those sunken eyes. I turned to walk
away, speeding up as I headed through Rockefeller
Plaza. I turned back. The man began to walk faster, too.
The rubber on his sneakers was falling apart, and the
gray overcoat he wore was tattered and soiled.
"Please, Henry, I need to talk to you. Oh God, it's
important. You don't know what's going on. You don't
know what's going on. Never seen anything like it."
Suddenly he closed his eyes and retched, a cough
threading beads of phlegm through his gaunt fingers.
"Call the Gazette tomorrow," I said. I gave him the
switchboard number. He didn't seem to care. I walked
faster, a slow trot, but my heart began to race when I
saw that the man was matching my pace.
"Henry," he said, his eyes now terrified.