The Guilty - Jason Pinter [108]
been a long time, we need to do this more often."
"We need to do this once and only once," I said. She
cocked her head like I was speaking ancient Sumerian.
"That's not how I feel," she said. A waiter came by and
handed her a menu. He began to walk away, but she snapped
her fingers and he turned around. "I'll have a bagel and cream
cheese, with the bagel scooped out and light cream cheese. I
also want capers, but not too many. And a glass of pineapple
juice." The waiter nodded and left.
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Jason Pinter
"So how's the Dispatch treating you?" I asked, taking a
swig of coffee.
"Oh, you know. Always busy, always hustling." She made
a running motion with her hands to denote that she did, literally, hustle. "Listen, Henry," she said, leaning forward
slightly. She was wearing a tight black sweater with a V-neck
that exposed the top of her remarkably perky breasts. I
wondered if she had them done. Then I decided I'd done
enough thinking about her breasts for the rest of my life. "I
know things haven't been great between us. But I'd like to
make amends."
"I'm sure you lose tons of sleep over it," I replied, "but everything I say today is off the record."
"You can't be serious." I pulled a tape recorder out of my
bag, held it up for her to see. "Let me guess. You got that 'off
the record' bit on tape."
"Just making sure my off the record is on the record."
Paulina laughed. The waiter arrived with a glass of pineapple juice, pulpy and thick. Paulina took a small sip, then
pointed a long fingernail at me.
"You know, I always thought Wallace was smart to bring
you onboard at the Gazette. That place is an old man's club.
And old men don't get younger--they die. And if nobody is
there to take over when they finally kick the bucket, the paper
will die, too. It was smart of him to inject some new blood."
"You've spilled enough ink calling for my blood this year,
I didn't think you cared so much."
She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "This is business,
honey. You sell newspapers. Cute, young guy like you.
Remember that actor from The Sopranos, supposedly killed
a cop? Every day his mug was on the front page we couldn't
print enough papers. Half the people that buy our rags don't
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read them, sweetie, they look at the headlines and the pictures
and move on to pictures of Paris Hilton in a bikini. The least
we can do is give them something to hold their interest."
"Like Mya and David Loverne."
Paulina shrank back. I could tell I'd struck a nerve. It felt
good, but I couldn't dig too deep. I was here for a reason.
"You know I never wanted to see either of them hurt." She
meant it. "Mya is a lost soul. People like reading about lost
souls, and they like to have someone to blame for it. You and
Get-Around-Town Loverne were easy marks. But you're not
so innocent yourself. I checked the hospital records. She was
admitted with those facial wounds. You really did hang up on
her when she called you. Your own girlfriend, lying beaten
on the street, and you turn the ringer off. Brave man."
"Keep punching, if it makes you feel better. I've lived with
it for a year and a half and I'll never forgive myself. But I
wasn't the one who hit her. And I've learned to live with the
rest of it."
"You say potato, I say poh-tahto. So here's the deal,"
Paulina said, ignoring the waiter as he brought over her bagel.
"You don't like me. That's fine. I have a man who makes me
come twice a night so I don't need more friends. But you
called me, Mr. Parker. So why am I here?"
"Because I've got a story for you," I said.
Paulina eyed me while she smeared cream cheese into the
crater where the bagel had been dug out. "You've got a story
for me? I hope it doesn't end with you squeezing sour grapes,
because that's a boring story and you're the only schmuck
who wants to read it."
"It's not sour grapes," I said. "Those are there, don't get
me wrong, but that's not why I called you. I have another story.
A better story. A story that will help you