The Stolen - Jason Pinter [73]
cigar lounge burning through a Macanudo, we both knew
that wasn't likely.
"I'll call as soon as I find him."
After grabbing my bag and cell phone, I hopped a cab
to Jack's apartment. It was one of those brand-spankingnew NYC cabs with the video monitor in the divider. Some
hairsprayed goon was gushing over a musical comedy set
to open that week. I put it on Mute, then when I got tired
of seeing the primped-and-coiffed anchor I turned the
screen off.
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Jason Pinter
I'd never been to Jack's place. He'd invited me over
once or twice for a drink, but I always had to decline for
one reason or another. He'd stopped by mine a few times,
though not in a while. Though I'd considered the man an
icon and a mentor, someone without whom I wouldn't
have a career, my refusal to spend time with him outside
of work seemed like an artificial boundary I'd recently had
to create. I couldn't think of spending a night in better
company, hearing Jack's thousands of stories about his
career, what the news used to be like. I had to deprive
myself of that, though, for his own sake.
A few months ago, Jack had told me that to become a
legend in any line of work, you had to rid yourself of
outside distractions. Focus on the ball, put in your time,
and greatness would come. He frowned on taking long
vacations, having friends and even giving yourself up to
a lover. Jack was thrice divorced and had admitted to me
that though he enjoyed the companionship, at least the
physical aspect, he'd never allowed himself to become a
real husband. He never offered the emotional companionship his lovers needed, and never desired to. To Jack, the
perfect relationship was one where he could come home
to a delicious meal, talk about his day, make love and fall
asleep. He knew he wasn't able to give to someone else
the same things he required, and that never bothered him.
Most of his wives were aware of it before they met him.
Yet they married him either in spite of this or with the misguided belief they could change him.
But Jack would never change. Not for anyone or
anything. He was often wrong, but never in doubt. And
that's what alarmed me.
Jack lived in a condominium in the Clinton area of
New York at Forty-Eighth and Ninth. Floor-to-ceiling
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windows, he'd told me, and an unobstructed view that
looked over the West Side Highway, where you could see
past the Hudson River. A killer view. And since he'd
bought it as a new construction, he regaled me about his
brand-new appliances as though they were grandchildren.
As far as I knew, Jack's brand-new Viking stove had been
untouched in two years, to the glee of the numerous takeout restaurants in the neighborhood who would have a hard
time paying the rent each month if Jack ever decided to
take a cooking class.
A colleague once looked up Jack's purchase on
streeteasy.com, and learned that he'd bought the apartment for a cool $1.5 million, while also putting down a
higher-than-usual twenty percent for the place. It gave me
hope that at some point in the future, continuing in this line
of work might enable me to afford such luxury. For now,
my crummy rental with the friendly rodent staff and unfriendly super would have to do.
We pulled up to his building and I paid the driver. I
walked up to the lobby, slightly embarrassed that I was
even doing this. Who the hell was I to have any doubts
about Jack? The man had built a career any newsperson
would die for, and here I was like the parent who thought
his kid was playing hooky. That this child was in his sixties
with a monthly mortgage payment likely larger than my
college tuition was beside the point.
The doorman was an elderly gent with a wisp of gray
hair and teeth slightly yellow and askew. He opened the
door for me and smiled pleasantly.
"I'm here to see Jack O'Donnell," I said.
"Just a second." He picked up a black phone that looked
to be connected to some amazingly fancy and complicated
intercom system. He fiddled with the buttons for a minute,
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