The Guilty - Jason Pinter [114]
I checked it; it was from Largo Vance.
"Hey, Henry, I don't know how she got it or why, but I have
a feeling I have you to thank for Paulina's story, you little
devil you. With any luck those pussies in D.C. will have no
choice but to exhume the proper body this time. If they screw
this one up they'll have more important people than yours
truly to answer to. Anyway, the wool's been pulled down
long enough. Now catch that Roberts prick and then give me
a call. I have an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue with
your name on it."
Before I could hang up the phone I saw a shadow hovering
over my desk.
"Hey, Jack," I said.
"Hey yourself. So, read any good stories today?"
"I just got in a minute ago. Why, is something breaking?"
"Something already broke," Jack said. He opened up a leather
valise and pulled out a copy of today's Dispatch. I'd passed it
on the way to work but didn't bother to buy a copy. I knew what
would be on the front page, and ignoring some basic sentence
structure I was pretty sure I knew exactly how the article would
read. Jack opened it, spread the paper across my desk.
Looking back at me in a salacious full two-page spread
were the glistening veneers of Mark Rheingold, a faded
family portrait of John Henry and Meryl Roberts with their
two young children, and a photo of Ollie P. "Brushy Bill"
Roberts at the deathbed of the man claiming to be Jesse
James.
The headline read: Sex, Murder, And The Gun That Won
The West.
Not Paulina's finest hour as far as headlines went, but
she more than made up for it with the story. I scanned it
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quickly while Jack stood there. She covered all the important bases: Mark Rheingold's affair with Meryl Roberts, the
fact that John Henry likely knew about it and approved.
And their son William's disgust at the shaming of Billy the
Kid's legacy.
"You have any idea where Paulina got these leads?" Jack
asked. "Seemed to me you were on top of this story a week
ago, and all of a sudden Jackie Collins is scooping you."
I held up my hand, still sutured together. "In case you forgot,
I had a bit of an altercation a few days ago. Oh yeah, my ex is
in intensive care. Oh yeah, and I broke it off with Amanda. So
pardon me if I've been off my game for a few days."
"Come on, kid, I don't buy that for a second. Don't get me
wrong, I'm not saying you haven't had, you know, stuff on your
mind, but the day you get scooped on your own story is the
day I start drinking wine coolers and dating British women."
"What do you want me to say?"
Jack looked me in the eyes. I held his gaze, unsure how to
respond. Then he stepped back.
"You don't need to say anything. I know what you did."
"Really? What's that?"
"Doesn't matter. I understand why you did it. But if you
ever fucking do it again, I don't care if you're Bob Woodward
the second or spawn of Jimmy Breslin and Ann Coulter, I'll
stuff your body down the trash compactor and make sure you
never work at this newspaper again. Understand me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course not. Glad to see you understand. If Wallace
asks--which he will--tell him exactly what you told me."
"I will."
"And Henry," Jack said, his eyes growing soft. I'd never
seen the man show a tender side, and it unnerved me. "I want
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you to know I'm sorry about Amanda and Mya. I know I said
some things a while back, I don't know how much you
actually listened to and how much you passed off as the loony
ramblings of an old idiot, but everyone lives their life differently. I never found the same kind of happiness a lot of others
have, but that doesn't mean what I did is the right way to live."
"Right or wrong, you made a career to be proud of."
A small choking sound came from Jack's chest.
He said, "You know what I consider the best story I ever
wrote, Henry?"
"It wasn't Michael DiForio?"
Jack laughed. "No offense to the guy who tried to rub you
out, but not even close. No, it was February third, 1987. Not
just because that's the day Liberace died--not