The Guilty - Jason Pinter [5]
O'Donnell--my colleague and professional idol--was prone
to doing it just for kicks. Like Mya, sometimes late at night
I could smell the Seagrams on his breath through the phone.
Jack worked late. He was unmarried, had no children. He just
needed to hear a friendly voice, I supposed, because there
weren't many in his life. So I didn't mind. And thankfully
Amanda slept like wood.
"Wallace, what's up?"
"I need you at Thirteenth and Eleventh. Right away."
"I'm guessing this isn't so we can spend nine bucks on a
beer at one of those clubs in the meatpacking district."
He ignored me. "Just get in a cab. There's been a homicide
at some swanky shindig called the Pussy Club, I need you to
cover it. I'd send Jack but he hasn't set foot in anything but
an Irish pub since the seventies."
"Pussy Club...you mean the Kitten Club?"
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"I mean it's 2:33 a.m. and if you're not here in ten minutes,
we're going to get scooped by the Dispatch, the Observer and
those crummy papers they give away for free on the subway
platforms."
"Why me? Who's on night shift?"
"You're the only guy who's even remotely young enough
to even understand this stuff. Now get dressed."
"What stuff? I don't follow."
"Athena Paradis was shot to death this morning. Looks like
it might have been some sort of execution. Single shot, from
a distance. I'm going out on a limb and saying you're more
familiar with her, er, resume than Jack is."
I was stunned. Athena Paradis. The world's most famous
socialite. Famous for, well, something. She averaged three
page ones a month at the Dispatch. Wallace refused to give
her that kind of coverage unless she cured AIDS or something. But murder changed all that, I guess.
"On my way," I said.
"I was never a fan of hers," Wallace said, offering more information than he needed to. "But the way it looks down
there...she didn't deserve what this monster did."
3
The New York night was muggy. Even at two-thirty in the
morning, when the sun, like most of the city, is hibernating
and waiting for the start of a new day, something kept the air
thick. It was early May, and humidity already choked the
streets. Late night revelers all wore shirts soaked through
with sweat, foreheads shiny, content for the sun to never show
its face again.
My cab slowed down and then stopped as we approached
a tangled mess. I could see flashing lights nearly three blocks
away. Kids lining the streets with worried looks. It took a lot
to ruin a good night. I could only imagine what had happened
here.
I walked the last few blocks to Thirteenth, wading through
honking cars and loaded partiers screaming on cell phones. I
couldn't help but hear the panicked voices.
"Man, there was blood everywhere. I was right near her,
man!"
"She...they think she's dead. Oh God, does that mean her
album won't come out on time?"
I saw Wallace Langston talking to a cop and jotting down
some notes on a spiral pad. Wallace didn't get out of bed for
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many stories. He left that to his city desk. But this wasn't just
New York front-page news, this was a national headline. The
kind of tawdry story that Paulina Cole and the Dispatch would
be sopping up with a biscuit and squeezing dry.
I hadn't seen Paulina Cole in months, and I prayed she
wasn't here tonight. I didn't need any distractions. Paulina
Cole had once been a top reporter at the Gazette but left after
penning a series of controversial yet shockingly popular
articles where she insinuated that my murder accusation was
merely the next story in a succession of young journalists
whose names always ended up in brighter lights than their
stories. Didn't matter that my murder rap was bogus. The
articles enabled Paulina to jump to the New York Dispatch,
the Gazette' s biggest rival. She got more money, more perks,
and of course the chance to hoist her name among brighter
lights.
Covering Athena Paradis's murder would be tricky. If we
played catch-up to Paulina and the Dispatch's muckraking,
they would dig a grave and bury us in a pile