Brian Mcgrory - Dead Line

Just one more reason why I love the woman.

Elizabeth and I went our separate ways, she heading to our waterfront apartment, me toward, well, I’d soon find out. Blind tips and unknown sources, by the way, aren’t anything particularly novel in my business. In fact, this is how we get much of our best information — from people who care enough, or are angry enough, or hell, even vengeful enough — to reach out to reporters and push dark facts into the glare of publicity. The flip side is, most of these leakers and sources don’t have much of a clue as to what comprises a great or important story. Their idea of a bombshell is often my idea of a New England News Brief, relegated to the middle of the second section if it deserves to be in the paper at all. But you never arrive at the occasional gold mine without slogging your way through so many veins of pyrite.

Which explains my thoughts as I arrived in front of the closed garage door of the Boston Cab Company, exactly thirty-five minutes after the game ended, meaning I was five minutes late. I didn’t think it would be a problem, mostly because I had it in my mind that this wouldn’t be a particularly useful excursion.

I walked past the garage, to an unmarked steel door with a simple knob, and pushed against it. The door, to my surprise, opened up into a dark room, which I assumed to be some sort of office or dispatch area. I stared around, looking for desks or computers or anything that might tell me where I was and why I was there, until my eyes slowly adjusted and I realized I was staring into the black expanse of the garage, completely still and seemingly empty. There wasn’t a light on in the place, the only wan illumination coming from the open door just behind me.

The sound was that of utter silence. The odor was a dull potpourri of transmission fluid, motor oil, windshield wash, and engine coolant.

“Hello,” I hollered. My voice echoed back off the walls and cement floors, then dissolved into the dark like sugar into black coffee. There was no response.

“This is Jack Flynn,” I yelled. Normally I’d expect, or at least appreciate, cheering and hooting at such a dramatic proclamation. But again, only an echo, followed by silence.

Now mind you, the most dangerous thing most Record reporters encounter on any given day is lunch in the company cafeteria, especially on, say, Mexican theme day, what with Tony and Val at the grill making their version of a burrito or a plate of nachos. Even this didn’t seem dangerous as much as foolish. Frustrated, I turned around and headed for the door, looking forward to waking Elizabeth, at her request, from her slumber.

Just as I did, a light flicked on in a distant corner of the sprawling garage, and I whirled toward it. Actually, it was two lights — headlights, of the soft, blue halogen variety, heading directly toward me, though not fast, and perhaps even slow. I leaned against the doorway and waited for what was to come, which in this case was the car and whomever and whatever was in it.

The vehicle pulled to within a few feet of me and stopped, its engine revving, then calming. I still couldn’t tell the make, the color, who was driving, or how many people were inside. I didn’t know if it was a taxicab. All I could see were the headlights, the high beams striking me square in my eyes. I continued to lean in the doorway, trying to look casual, though admittedly curious as to what the hell was going on.

The rear passenger’s side door opened up, but nobody got out. The door just hung out there, beckoning, I suppose, but not really. I’ve always wanted my own driver, but the expectation if I ever get one is that I’d at least insist on knowing where he was taking me.

I heard the subtle sound of a purring motor, a power window descending, followed by the words, “Mr. Flynn, get in.” The voice seemed to be coming from the passenger side of the car. I recalled a scene like this from Lost in Space, but I think it involved an alien craft, not a four-door sedan.

Still leaning, I asked, “Who are you?”

“We’ll explain all of that. Please, Mr. Flynn. Please.”

The voice was neither pleasant nor overbearing, neither tentative nor demanding, more earnest than I might have expected to hear in an otherwise barren garage under circumstances as undefined as these.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“We’re going to get you a story. A big story.”

Good answer. Right answer. How does someone in my shoes, an admitted news junkie, say no to that?

“Why don’t I meet you there?” I said this still staring into the teeth of the high beams, still seeing nothing at all.

Admittedly, that didn’t make a lot of sense, considering I didn’t know where “there” even was, but I was buying time, hoping they’d offer something more in terms of clues or agendas as I tried to delay the inevitable, which involved me getting into the rear seat of this mysterious car.

He replied with the magic words, “If you don’t want to get in, that’s your choice. We’ll give the Traveler a call.”

Well, he certainly knew what buttons to press. I mean, I’ve been shot at by assassins, kicked in the head by white supremacists, threatened by governors, lied to by none other than the president of the United States. If you think I have a good sense of danger, then you’re right, and I was starting to sense it here. But all you have to do is tell me that The Boston Traveler, the city’s feisty little tabloid paper, might beat us to the proverbial punch and all appropriate caution is thrown to the side of a potholed road. It’s about how you want to live your life, and I like to live mine by getting to the story first.

So I walked around the headlights to the open rear passenger door. Outside of the glare, I saw that the car was some sort of dark-colored luxury model, perhaps a Lexus. I saw two men sitting in the front — the driver and the passenger who had goaded me into this act of stupidity — I mean, pursuit of a story. As I slid into the backseat, I couldn’t help but notice another man sitting there beside me, mostly because he had many of the same physical characteristics as a gorilla.

I settled into the leather seat, looked around at the three silent men, and said, “Anybody want a stick of Juicy Fruit?” Nobody laughed, I guess for good reason, though they might have seen their way to being polite. All three, by the way, were somewhere in their fifties, dressed in black windbreakers and dark pants. None of them looked like they knew the way to the executive washroom, if you know what I mean. The guy beside me was one of those barrel-chested types with Popeye forearms who’s either gone soft from age or forever retains his superhuman strength, though I wasn’t in any real rush to find out which was the case.

The guy in the front passenger seat, wearing a dark baseball cap — a Red Sox hat, no less — slung low over his forehead jumped out and shut my door behind me. I heard the power locks go down in unison. The wide garage door ascended with a jolting roar. No one in the car spoke — no one but me, who asked, “You mind telling me where we’re headed?”

Still, silence. I looked at the Cro-Magnon beside me. His face was wide and puffy, his nose broad and hooked, as if it had been broken in prior excursions. He had wisps of grayish-black hair, and his eyes, which stared back at me, were tiny and vacant. I could hear him breathe through his mouth.

I said, with a faint smile, “Lots of legroom back here.” As I said it, I looked down at his legs, which were short and stubby, mere afterthoughts to his huge torso. He didn’t reply.

Through the heavily tinted windows, I could see that the car was heading down Boylston Street, heading for downtown Boston. The car drove around the Public Garden, up and over Beacon Hill, and into the financial district, largely barren of people at this time on a Monday night, but for the occasional law firm associate trying to bill more hours than there are in a day.