Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

I returned to find Tina removing a bagel from the toaster.

“Well, if you won’t eat eggs, you will most certainly take a bagel. You can’t start a day on an empty stomach.”

She stopped herself and looked surprised. “Wow, I really sounded like a mother, didn’t I?”

“Right down to the shrill inflection. Are you sure I didn’t get you knocked up last night?”

“I’m hoping you’ll be a little more memorable than that,” she said.

The use of the future tense was a little worrisome. Alas, it was probably accurate. On the Easy Lay Scale-where 1 is a nymphomaniac crack whore and 10 is a fair maiden whose chastity belt key is guarded by a fierce army of eunuchs-my performance the night before rated about a 1.3.

I sat down with the bagel and was soon joined by Tina and her omelet.

“So, not to overtax your tender mind,” she asked. “But what do you think your plan of attack is with Ludlow Street this morning?”

“I was thinking of eating this bagel, bumming a ride back to my car, then sleeping off this yucky feeling until mid-afternoon while Tommy does all my work for me.”

“What’s your backup plan? Your first plan sucks.”

I bit off a large chunk of bagel, chewed and swallowed-not an easy task, being as my mouth was still a little low on saliva. But it gave me the necessary moment to regroup my thoughts.

“First order of business is to chat up Wanda Bass’s family,” I said. “I’ve gotten in good with her former best friend.”

“Is that the, uh, prostitute you visited the other night?”

“One and the same.”

“By the way, you didn’t, uh. .”

“Jesus, Tina, no!” I said, and tried my best to appear injured by her impudence.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I just had to check. Can never be too careful.”

This was getting uncomfortable, having my city editor taking a personal interest in whether I was dipping my pen in dirty inkwells. I made a mental note to never start another flirtatious, potentially sexual relationship with a city editor for as long as I lived. Then again, since most city editors were rumpled, balding, middle-aged men, that probably wasn’t going to be a real tough covenant to keep.

“As I was saying,” I said, shooting her one last wounded glance, “I think I can manage to get a little closer with Wanda Bass’s mother. Maybe she’ll know something.”

“Great. Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, for one, stop asking me if I’m banging hookers,” I said, and she actually blushed. “Two, if you can keep Szanto off my ass, I’d sure appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Tina said. “I’ll just mention at the morning story meeting that I spoke with you and that you’re making excellent progress. I just won’t say on what.”

Tina showered then spent the next twenty minutes walking around her apartment in a towel as she got ready, seemingly going out of her way to let me see that, yes, her collarbones were every bit as wonderful as I thought. And her legs were even better. The evil temptress was back on the job, getting me primed for when her wristwatch told her the moment was right.

If there’s one good thing about having a hangover in Hoboken, New Jersey, it’s that you’re not alone. Hoboken’s typical resident is a recent college graduate who’s living like he’s still the pledge captain at Alpha Beta Chi. So as we walked to Tina’s parking garage, I was at least comforted in knowing Brother Flounder was out there somewhere, grimacing his way through the morning with me. The only difference between us was I should have been old enough to know better.

Tina drove us to the office as gently as she could, though I felt like I was about to redecorate her Volvo with the contents of my stomach every time we hit a pothole. Good thing the ten-mile trip between Hoboken and Newark only has about three million of them.

As we approached the building, I became aware of another potential danger. If anyone saw me hopping out of Tina’s Volvo wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothing, they wouldn’t exactly have a tough time deducing where I spent the evening. They would fill in their own conclusions from there.

And once that rumor got started, there would be no stopping it. Journalists are essentially trained gossips, which makes newsrooms absolute cesspools for loose talk. Before long, even the delivery boys would believe Tina and I were knocking boots.

The key was for no one to witness me getting out of Tina’s car. But that hope was killed-make that: hung, drawn, and quartered-when Tommy Hernandez pulled up next to us in the parking garage. Tommy was perhaps the worst gossip at the paper: not only a journalist, but a gay one.

“Well,” I said as I unbuckled my seat belt. “This is going to be awkward.”

“What is?” Tina asked.

“Did you see who just pulled in?”

“Who?”

“Tommy.”

“So?”

“So by lunchtime half of Newark is going to think we’re shagging.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said as she got out. “He probably won’t even notice.”

But Tommy noticed. His eyes had already tripled in size and he had clapped his hand over his mouth in sheer delight.

“Oh. . my. . God!” he said, gleefully pointing at us. “You two are doing it!”

“Would you believe me if I denied it?” I asked.

Tommy thought for a moment, head tilted. “No,” he said.

“Well, we’re not.”

Another moment’s reflection, this time with the hand on the chin. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”

“No, honestly, I got drunk. She let me crash at her place. That’s it.”

“Oh, come on, ” Tommy said. “You have to do a little better than that. Couldn’t you at least say you had car trouble and she was giving you a ride? Or that you were coming from the same breakfast meeting? Or that you’re wearing the exact same ugly pleated pants from yesterday by accident?”

I could only shake my head.

“Even better,” Tommy continued. “You could tell me you were doing it and throw in all kinds of salacious details and brag you’re the world’s greatest lovemaking superhero-which would lead me to believe you weren’t doing it.”

“Listen to me,” I said. “There’s nothing going on. Can you please just pretend you didn’t see this?”

“The golden-boy investigative reporter and the hotshot city editor arrive for work in the same car and you expect me to say nothing? Nothing?? It’s just not possible.”

“Look,” I said, growing desperate. “If you gossip about this-which would be slander, since it isn’t true-Tina is going to assign you to the Hunterdon County livestock beat.”

“Hey, leave me out of it,” Tina said. “And since when is it slanderous to say you slept with me?”

“But I didn’t!” I said, exasperated.

“Yeah, but so what if people think you did?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “Would that be so awful?”

“Wait a second, he didn’t sleep with you?” Tommy said.

“No,” Tina replied.

“Oh, that sucks,” Tommy said, pouting.

“Wait, you believe her and not me?” I asked.

“Think about it,” Tommy said. “Tina tells everyone everything about her sex life anyway. You’re the only one who’s a priss about it. So if Tina says you didn’t do it, you must not have done it.”

I didn’t know whether to be exasperated or relieved. Tina was still pissed, albeit more in a theoretical way than a real way. Then again, when applying female logic, I doubted the distinction mattered much.

“No, seriously, what would be wrong with people thinking we slept together?” she demanded. “You find that embarrassing or something?”