Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

“So since you don’t have a theory, Hays’s story still could be right,” Szanto said.

“I guess,” I admitted.

“I’ve got to be straight with you, I think everyone around here would be a lot happier if you just wrote about that bar,” Szanto said. “If the cops are wrong, that’s on them. Put the damn bar story in the newspaper and let’s move on.”

In other words: don’t rock the boat.

“Uh-huh,” I said, purposely agreeing in as tepid a way as possible.

“Great. Look, I’m not going to tell Brodie about this Hays thing. It’s not smart to upset him when he’s aroused.”

“You’re the boss,” I said as I left his office.

“So you’re doing the bar story,” he shouted after me. I pretended not to hear him.

I went back to my desk and finished reading my e-mail, which allowed me to learn I could get a discount if I signed up for Weight Watchers at Work. I lingered over the rest of the newspaper, then stalled rather than face the inevitable moral crisis: follow my conscience or follow the boss?

Maybe I could just do the bar story. It would be easy enough. I could turn it around in two days. The police would like it. Brodie would be happy. Szanto would be thrilled.

The only problem was, I would have to remove all the mirrors from my house because I wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of myself. I mentally shelved the idea of the bar story and returned to fleshing out my theory-whatever my theory was.

I clearly needed to learn more about Shareef Thomas before I even had a theory, so I started doing some public-record searching. I soon identified at least three Shareef Thomases running around Newark-at seven different addresses. It was time to start knocking on doors.

Better yet, make the intern do it.

“Hey, Tommy,” I said as he slinked into the office. “You look like you could use an errand or seven.”

While Tommy was out knocking on doors, I had a date-with a hooker and a Bloomin’ Onion.

I threaded my way through the ghetto, which seemed especially empty on this frigid morning. The wind had been fierce overnight, strong enough to knock over garbage cans. Trash was blowing everywhere-Jersey tumbleweed.

I pulled up in front of the Stop-In Go-Go at 11:58-habitual punctuality is a WASP curse-and waited for fifteen minutes. I was beginning to wonder if I had been stood up when Tynesha came out the front door, dressed in off-duty clothes: a pair of unflattering jeans, a puffy black jacket, and low-heeled boots. I beeped lightly and waved for her to hop in, but she stormed up to the driver’s side and gave me an icy amber glare. I lowered the window.

“I ain’t going to lunch with you. I just came to give you a piece of my mind,” she spat.

“About what?”

“About that crap in your newspaper today. I thought you said you wanted to write about what kind of person she was. Instead you write that she robbed a bar? Are you kidding me? Wanda didn’t rob no bar! She didn’t know no Shareef, or whoever he was. You know how much that upset her mother to read that? I thought-”

“Hang on, hang on,” I said, holding my hands out like a traffic cop. “I know the story was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

She inhaled like she was going to keep on yelling, then stopped.

“You know it’s wrong?”

“Yes.”

“So why did you write it?”

“I didn’t. Another reporter at our paper wrote it. He took the story straight from the cops. I told him he was making a mistake. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“So y’all just write a story that’s not true?”

“It sort of works that way sometimes,” I said. “We write what we think is correct at the time, relying on sources we believe to be credible. Sometimes those sources turn out to be wrong. It’s not perfect. All I can tell you is I’ll try to set the record straight later.”

She was still having a tough time believing me. I took advantage of her indecision.

“Look, why don’t you hop in and we can talk about it on the way. I’d still like to buy you lunch. You can stay pissed off at me, but at least get a good steak out of it.”

She nodded-few things are as persuasive as free meat-and walked around to the other side of the car. I opened the door for her from the inside.

“The nearest Outback is over on Route 22. It’ll probably take about twenty minutes to get there.”

“That’s fine,” she said, still sounding a little surly but coming out of it. “My shift don’t start until five.”

“Great,” I said as I got us under way, running over at least three plastic bags in the first two blocks.

“So, how many days a week do you dance?” I asked.

“Six.”

“And how many days a week do you. . uhh,” I began, immediately regretting the question.

“Turn tricks?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“As many as I can. I can’t do this forever, you know. I’m thirty-six. I figure I got six, maybe eight, years until I’m all saggy and nasty. I want to have enough saved up by then to open one of them fancy clothing stores.”

“You mean like a boutique?”

“Yeah, a boutique.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘What does a ho know about starting a business?’ ”

“No, actually, I’m thinking it’s great to have a dream,” I said. “Everyone ought to have one.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Yeah, what’s your dream?”

The question caught me off guard. What was my dream? Maybe it used to be working for The New York Times, but the Old Gray Lady had long ago stopped hiring, just like every other newspaper. Or maybe it was winning a Pulitzer Prize. That’d be nice. But, really, that wasn’t something I thought about a lot.

“Maybe this sounds corny,” I said after a pause. “But this is my dream already. I get to make my living telling people’s stories. I think of that as a privilege. I can’t really imagine doing anything else. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to.”

She thought about this for a moment.

“I like you, Mr. Carter Ross. You seem like you got a good heart. And I got this little voice in my head-maybe it’s Wanda, I don’t know-telling me I ought to trust you. Just don’t make me regret it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, merging onto the five lanes of road-raging good times that is the Garden State Parkway.

We drove in comfortable silence for a while and I felt pleased with my progress. In order to tell any story successfully, you have to cross the threshold where your source stops looking at you like a reporter and starts seeing a fellow human being. I thought-I hoped-I had just reached that point with Tynesha.

“So what made you and Wanda hit it off?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t get along well with the other girls. But me and Wanda just clicked-sisters from a different mother or something. All her kids called me ‘Aunt T.’ ”

“You have any kids yourself?”

“Can’t. A guy messed me up real bad one time. Couldn’t get his own equipment working so he knocked me around for a while then did me with a broom handle.”

I flinched and reflexively moved my legs together.

“Yeah. Doctor said he busted my insides,” she continued. “Probably just as well. I would have messed up raising my kids just like my mama messed up raising me.”

I let the comment pass. She didn’t need me playing amateur psychologist.

“So who’s taking care of Wanda’s kids?”

“The grandma for now, but I think the state is gonna take them eventually. Wanda’s mama don’t got no money and she has that diabetes. She ain’t in good shape. They’ll split those kids up in a thousand different directions. The baby will probably get adopted because everyone wants babies. I don’t know about the older ones.”