Lies, Promises, and Incidental Deaths

Editor and Publisher. He stared at the title on his open door, then swiveled around to catch the view from his third story window. He focused on the tree-lined park laid out below, the river not far away, and the skyline of the city. Not the city or state he’d fantasized about for years, but not bad either.

He ruminated about the path that had led him here. A hum-drum reporter’s job, a chance re-acquaintance with an old friend, and then some serious shit—serious enough to make him dead. His mouth set in a grim line before slowly moving to a smile that gradually turned into a smirk.

Ah, but then I got lucky. I was in the perfect place to write the news stories that launched me. Everything he had now was tied to that success, the sweet success of a great story—a dream story—and every reporter’s goal when first starting out, only to have it pounded out of the idealists after year in and year out of reporting on car accidents, political maneuvering, social events, the ever-present “cat up a tree” and such.

He’d been one of those too, but Lady Luck had come along just in time and rescued him. Now he was comfortable, respected, and even a little fat. He swiveled back to the door as his secretary Jeannette tapped on the jam.

“Boss, Fred wants to know if you’re up for a drink tonight. He thinks he’s got something on the overruns on the new Courthouse.”

He brightened. Anything a bit spicy would go a long way to recharge his juices. “Yeah, Jeannette, tell him to meet me in the lobby at 5:30 and we’ll go over to that new place, Ciao whatever, for a couple. If his story has any meat, maybe I’ll buy him dinner.”

Jeannette laughed. “Ciao Bella, I think.” She chuckled and turned away.

He swiveled back to the window, willing to bask in the good feeling the job gave him. He heard another tap on the doorframe and turned, expecting Jeanette with some addition to her comments, but found a man standing in the doorway instead. He was tall with dark, dark hair, and his carriage—just framed in the doorway—showed strength, power, and a clear military background. “Shit,” the Editor uttered softly.

“Nice way to greet an old friend.” The man smiled. It was obvious that didn’t cross his face often, but it was an honest smile, and the Editor relaxed—just a bit.

The man entered the office and closed the door. He didn’t ask for an invite; he acted like he was the Editor’s boss—or more. He sat heavily in the chair and let out a sigh that bordered on exasperation. “Look, I don’t want to intrude into your great new life, and I don’t want you or your newspaper buddies in mine, so this will be short and sweet.”

He straightened and flipped a manila envelope on to the Editor’s desk. There were no markings on it, but it had the look of government issue and bulged as if stuffed with something. The two men stared at it for a moment. The dark haired man spoke first. “You’ve been a good boy. You kept your mouth shut and concentrated on the story we agreed to. You didn’t drift, you didn’t whine, and you didn’t wheedle. Frankly, I’m impressed.”

“We made a deal,” the Editor said. “And in this business protecting ‘sources’ and story leads is paramount.” He straightened proudly in his chair. “I may be a twerp to you, but I am a pro.”

“So it seems.” The dark haired man nodded appreciatively. “That’s why I brought you this.” He gestured at the envelope. “It’s some of our research material—news clippings and other stuff that let us put the pieces together—and some materials from . . . well, you know.” He waved again. “You once told someone who works for me that someday you wanted to write a book about it. It’s three years old now, and I figure by the time you’ve done it, it will be old news. Maybe I’ll even be retired and won’t give a shit any more.”

“You’ll never retire—and you’ll never stop giving a shit.” The Editor was adamant.

“You never know.” The other seemed circumspect. “Anyway, be smart, be discreet, protect the right people, but use this and get your old Smith-Corona clacking.”

The Editor chuckled, knowing that a typewriter wouldn’t be used, but the message was clear: not on the newspaper’s computers. “I get what you’re saying, plus I’ve learned a few lessons along the way.”

“Good. Then have at it. There are some things in there that I’d burn afterwards—you’ll be able to figure out what. And there is nothing—fingerprints or otherwise—that can come back to me and my pals, but some of it . . .”

“Shouldn’t see the light of day. I got it.”

“A suggestion.” The dark haired man raised his voice. “Make it a novel.”

“Not an exposé?” The Editor watched the other man’s eyebrows shoot up, but then Editor chuckled. “I already figured that one out. Trust me, that’s what it will be, but given my involvement in the real deal, and even though I say that it’s fiction and do all the disclaimers, there will be some who–”

“–will either guess or know,” the other finished. “But you know what?”

“That’s exactly what you want,” the Editor answered.

The other man smiled and rose from his chair with a fluid grace that told the Editor even more about him. He winked at the Editor and was gone.

The Editor turned back to the window, holding the envelope in his hand. He heard another tap and whirled quickly, expecting his visitor to have reappeared, but it was only Jeannette.

“Was someone in here?” Her face was troubled and confused. “Your door . . .”

“No, Jeanette, there was no one. I was just dealing with some ghosts from the past, but they’re gone now.”

She looked at him quizzically, shrugged, and turned away.

He shrugged as well, took the envelope, and shoved it roughly into his briefcase before ready for his drinks with Fred. He'd probably have more than his original estimate–but no dinner. Tonight would be a late one, but not at Ciao Whatever. No, tonight would be time to break out the Smith-Corona.

* * * * * * * *

Wind whipped through the cold, dank salty air and tore at the man’s raincoat. The dark, damp walls of the old building did not shield him from the icy breeze. He started when he heard the thump of an old sign banging against the side of the structure. Shattered windows caused an occasional moan that emulated a woman crying softly in pain. The sign thumped again, but this time he did not move. His training had taught him to extract the normal sounds of the night and to listen for what was not common. He squinted at the sign and could only make out “Pan” from its peeling visage.

He glanced about, but saw no one. “Damn.” He uttered softly; it was hard to tell if he was cursing the weather or something else. His eyes swept the mist-shrouded pier as another cold gust slashed through the night and almost tore off his hat. He shoved it down on his head and stared to the landward side of wharf.

A figure appeared in the mist and moved toward him. The other man also wore a raincoat and a fedora, but he had pulled the hat way down, making his face indistinguishable. As the man neared, the waiting party slid his hand inside his jacket and touched the reassuring cold steel of his 9mm K&H. His thumb undid the safety.

The new man walked up to him and pushed his hat up just enough to display his face. Only when he recognized the other’s visage did his hand leave the weapon and his coat. That same hand quickly grasped the other’s half-outstretched hand in greeting. It seemed as cold as the handle on his pistol. “You’re late.”

“Sorry.” One word, delivered with no emotion, matching his deadpan look. “He’s not easy to break away from, especially when he’s on one of his little boy gigs.” For just an instant, disgust ranged across that face, and then the stoic look returned.