The Stolen - Jason Pinter [21]
can't stop technology, but I can keep it from plowing me
over like a Thoroughbred. I swear, this industry was more
efficient before stupid Al Gore invented the Internet."
"Hey, once the Atlantic swallows the city up, the
Internet will be the least of your concerns. So what's up?"
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"You talked to the Linwoods?"
"I did," I said, holding the tape recorder out for him.
"Fantastic." He looked at his watch. "How'd it go?"
"I got as much as you can expect from a ten-year-old
who fell into a black hole and can't remember the last five
years of his life. You get as much from looking at Shelly
Linwood's face as you do hearing the story. Just heartbreaking. Strange, though. The kid disappears for almost
five years, yet talks and acts like your typical ten-year-old.
Nobody has any idea where Danny Linwood went, but
somehow his body and mind developed like a normal adolescent boy's."
Wallace looked a minimum of disturbed by this, more
distracted if anything. I had to remember that Wallace had
been in this industry for longer than I'd been alive. He'd
seen atrocities like this day after day, year after year. My
conscience hadn't calloused over the years. Stories like
this still angered me.
"That's good work, Henry. I need thirty inches for
tomorrow's page one. I swear, Ted Allen over at the
Dispatch is probably trying to bug this building as we
speak to get what's on that tape."
"Shelly Linwood told me Paulina Cole all but offered
her body and soul in exchange for this interview."
"Just what the world needs, another forty-year-old
woman sleeping with a toddler. For the sake of Daniel's
future and his sanity, he's lucky his mother picked us."
"For Danny's sake, sir."
"Danny?"
"That's what Daniel Linwood prefers to be called
now. Danny."
"I'm taking it this is a new development."
"Shelly doesn't seem too keen on it."
64
Jason Pinter
"Makes you wonder just what happened to Daniel--
Danny--during the past few years," Wallace said. "Speaking
of memory lapses, have you spoken to Jack today?"
"Not in person, but he left me a message about grabbing
a drink after work."
Wallace's faced showed a mixture of anger and concern. "You're going to politely decline that offer," he said.
I was about to ask why, but didn't need to. Over the past
year I'd noticed a change in Jack's drinking habits. Onemartini lunches had turned into three shots of Jim Beam.
Drinks after work turned into drinks during work. Veins
began popping up where I hadn't seen them before, the old
newsman's equilibrium always seeming a little off. It was
clear Jack was developing a problem. Either that, or the
problem was already here and we'd just been enabling
him, turning a blind eye for months.
"Anytime Jack requests your company for a drink,"
Wallace continued, "make it clear you don't approve and
you're more than aware. A little humiliation goes a long
way for a proud man. That's all we can do short of sending
him to rehab."
"Would that be such a terrible thing?" I asked.
"Actually, yes. Our circulation has been flat since your
reporting on William Henry Roberts last year. Paulina Cole
has the Dispatch breathing down our necks, and Ted Allen
is using every dirty trick in the book to up their numbers.
Giving out more free newspapers than high schools give
out condoms, dropping thousands of copies in Dumpsters
and recording them as part of their circulation."
"But if the numbers are inflated," I said, "who cares?"
"Advertisers," Wallace said. "Not to mention subjects
who, unlike Shelly Linwood, truly care about maximizing
their publicity. If our top writer goes into the detox, it's one
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65
less leg for us to stand on, one more piece of ammo for
Paulina's slime cannon."
"I'll ease off with Jack," I said. "I need to cut back on
my own extracurriculars as it is."
"Glad to hear you say that, Henry. Don't think I'm
unaware that you seemed to have mistakenly thought your
desk came from 1-800-MATTRESS. Speaking of social
lives, how's that girlfriend of yours?