The Guilty - Jason Pinter [14]
he would lick between the subway railings if Paulina asked
him to was implicit in their relationship.
Bynes was wearing suit pants with cuffs an inch too long,
and a blue work shirt that looked like it had been fermented
with starch. His eyeglasses were too big, not to mention
unnecessary, considering Paulina knew his last eye exam
produced 20/19 vision. And she'd be willing to bet there was
a rolled sock (or two) down his trousers as well.
"I assume you read the Gazette this morning," Bynes said.
"Fucking online edition," Paulina said, taking another sip,
feeling that delicious warm tingle. "Read only by cheapos and
kids without the attention span to click the 'Next Page' button.
Their print edition didn't have anything we didn't, that's all
we should be concerned about."
"Tell that to Ted Allen," Bynes continued. "The man is pissed.
He thinks we got scooped, and he's looking to point the finger."
"We did get scooped," Paulina said. "But that's like saying
The Guilty
49
we got stabbed by a toothpick at the start of a knife fight. What
Henry Parker wrote this morning won't be a blip on the radar
tomorrow after Perez's press conference. So tell him if that
finger goes anywhere near me I'm cutting it off."
Bynes smirked. "Why don't you tell him that?"
"Well, it's your job, but I'd be happy to. I'll e-mail him
right now." She pulled out her keyboard and began typing.
Bynes placed his hand over the keys.
"That was a hypothetical question," he said.
She stopped typing. "Don't ever ask me a hypothetical
question again, or I'll hypothetically strangle you with your
shoelace. I call every bluff I see. Remember that."
Bynes swallowed, flicked his eyes down to his wingtips.
"So what do I tell Ted Allen? He's pissed this Parker kid got
to the cops before we could."
Paulina leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes. This
Parker kid. This Parker kid.
Her eyelids flew open.
"This Parker kid is a good reporter. Give me pages four
through seven tomorrow for coverage of the murder."
"That's a lot of copy. Are you sure you'll have enough to
fill that space?"
"Don't ask me that again. I could give a rat's ass what you
do with pages eight, nine and sixty-nine. Oh, and get Tamara
Finnerman to do a write-up of David Loverne's speech at the
Alzheimer's event last night. When my story runs, I don't
want people thinking we've had it in for him. Tell her to use
prose so syrupy and purple I'll be able to see the Crayola logo.
Tell Allen that between these two stories, the Gazette will be
limping within weeks."
Bynes laughed, then wiped a loose dribble of saliva from
his mouth.
50
Jason Pinter
"I'm not going to tell him that. What, you think covering
a story we've already been scooped on will suddenly have
Wallace Langston quaking in his Doc Martens?"
Paulina smiled at him, crossed her legs.
"Every war begins with an opening volley. Parker's scoop
this morning was the Gazette' s opening volley. I'm not simply
returning fire, I'm coming back with a Howitzer up their ass.
You know my ex-husband was a state prosecutor. One thing
I learned from him, other than that men are as useful as dirty
bathwater, is that nobody remembers how you won, they
remember if you won. We simply take what Parker has, know
what he's going to know, and make it our own. Henry's a great
reporter, but after last year he's nervous, twitchy, and doesn't
want to rattle the cage any more than he already has. I have
someone who'll shadow him closer than his beard stubble,
and I'll be waiting to lay down the copy."
Bynes smiled. "I thought you said Finnerman was the one
who wrote purple prose."
"Trust me," Paulina said. "It'll look better on paper."
7
I was walking toward city hall alongside Jack O'Donnell,
nearly having to sprint to keep up. And his legs had an extra
thirty years of mileage. I dialed Amanda, figured I'd say hi
before radio silence. She picked up on the second ring. "Hey,
hon, can't talk for long, just wanted to say hi. I'm heading to