Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

With Tynesha having captured every bit of available attention, I slipped away unnoticed and began walking toward my car. About five blocks later, it occurred to me I should go back and offer the TV morons some kind of explanation for the bizarre thing they had just witnessed. After all, that’s the first rule of public relations: if you’ve got a side of the story to tell, get it out quickly and in an attractive manner.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized a psychopathic, pyromaniac drug kingpin was on the loose, and it was at least partly my fault. For as awful as the TV news was going to make me look, I should leave bad enough alone. After all, there’s also the second rule of public relations: if you’re in the wrong, shut the hell up, take your beating like a man, and hope everyone forgets about it by the next news cycle.

So I completed my walk down Springfield Avenue to my trusty Malibu, which soon delivered me to the relative safety (I hoped) of the Eagle-Examiner offices. By the time I arrived, the morning editor’s meeting was already under way, so I was able to settle into my desk without worrying about immediate ambush from Tina or Szanto.

Reassuringly, my e-mail in-box had the usual mix of worthless press releases and urgent reminders from Human Resources, one of which was about making sure the batteries in my home’s carbon monoxide detector were working properly. Oh, irony.

There were also some messages from colleagues who’d heard about the kindling box my house had become. And over the next half hour, as I called my insurance company and began filing my claim, a number of them stopped by and offered condolences and iftheresanythingicandos. Even Buster Hays dropped his usual persona and offered some kind words.

You wouldn’t necessarily think of newsrooms as dens of altruism, but in times of personal crises, the Eagle-Examiner staff was known for going above and beyond to help its own. I had a half-dozen offers for free lodging by the time Szanto and Tina appeared from the morning meeting.

Tina didn’t bother with words. She came straight for me and hugged me before I could even get out of my chair. It was a bit awkward, having my face mashed into her chest. And I’m sure it was noted by the newsroom gossips, who undoubtedly knew why I hadn’t been at home to be blown up along with the rest of my belongings. But it felt so nice I didn’t care.

“When you’re done molesting him, send him into my office,” Szanto said as he walked by.

Unembarrassed, Tina kept clinging to me. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, kissing the top of my head fiercely. “Now stop scaring the crap out of me.”

I offered my best winsome smile. “Don’t worry,” I said. “If what Billy Joel says is true and only the good die young, I got a long way to go before I check out.”

“You’re staying with me until this is over,” she said. “No arguments. We’re locking the doors and putting on the security system.”

“Okay, but no eggs for breakfast.”

“Deal,” she said, releasing me and exhaling sharply. “Okay. I’m done.”

“Thanks,” I said, and went into Szanto’s office before anyone could get a full look at just how much I was blushing.

“I hope you don’t expect me to hug you like that,” he said. It was as close as Szanto came to a joke.

“Probably for the best,” I said. “I have a pet peeve about hairy backs anyway.”

He almost grinned, but I knew what was coming: the Sal Szanto I’m-a-gruff-bastard-but-I-care-about-my-people speech.

“Hell of a thing this morning,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“No, really. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, boss,” I said. “Honest. I had my happy-to-be-alive epiphany. I’ve talked with my insurance company. The only thing I can’t replace is my own wonderfully unique DNA sequence, and that managed to come out unscathed.”

Szanto bent forward for a moment to grab his coffee, then returned to a recline, sipping thoughtfully.

“Sometimes these things take a little bit of time to sink in, you know,” he said. “I want you to take some time off. Get away somewhere until this cools down. I talked to Brodie about it and he agreed the paper will handle the tab, so pick yourself a nice island and get lost for a couple of weeks. Drink some fruity drinks. Meet some local girls. Whatever works for you. Hays and Hernandez can pick up the story from here.”

“Like hell they will,” I said.

“Carter, I’m offering you a free vacation.”

“And I’m telling you thanks but no thanks. This is my story and I couldn’t live with myself if I quit on it. At least one woman-and who knows how many Booker T vagrants-may die because of something I put in the damn newspaper. You think a few banana daiquiris will make me feel better about that?”

Szanto moved forward in his chair and placed his coffee back on the desk.

“Yeah, I thought you were going to say that,” he said. “If you wake up tomorrow and change your mind, no one here will think less of you.”

“ I’ll think less of me.”

That seemed to settle matters. Szanto asked about my morning and I gave him the full narrative. Then he caught me up on the latest from inside the nest of Mother Eagle. Apparently, the county prosecutor had called up and asked us to be a little more careful about what we put in the paper. Brodie, God bless him, had politely told the prosecutor to shove it up his ass.

Such bravado aside, we all knew that as long as we had a homicidal maniac receiving home delivery, the rules about what we did and did not print needed to change. We had to hold our cards closer to the chest.

“. . and the Newark police want a statement from you,” Szanto finished.

“Can’t you just tell them to buy the newspaper like everyone else?”

“Don’t know if that’s going to work this time,” Szanto said. “We’ve had some success stalling them in the past when these sorts of things came up. But, ultimately, you’re going to have to cooperate. You might as well get it out of the way.”

That was how, in short order, I ended up taking a walk down the hill, across Broad Street, and onto Green Street for a visit with my good friends at the Newark Police Department. Tina had insisted on accompanying me, which gave me some small comfort: at least if the man in the white van suddenly appeared and decided my brain would look better decorating the sidewalk, there would be a witness.

Otherwise, I doubted Tina’s yoga classes, for as shapely as they made her arms, were going to do much to help in the event of an attack. Fact was, if the guy still wanted me dead, I was going to be dead one way or another.

“Whatchya thinking about, Mr. Stare Off in the Distance Man?” Tina asked.

I looked at her and thought about telling the truth: death, Tina. I’m thinking about death. I’m wondering whether I’ll be reunited with my harp-strumming grandparents atop cotton-candy clouds or whether I’ll have all the afterlife of a junked television. I’m wondering if this lunatic is done for the moment or if he’s merely having a Rooty Tooty Fresh N’ Fruity at a local IHOP and will be back to finish me after he’s done with the funnel cake he ordered for dessert. I’m wondering how my blood would look as it poured out of me and spread in a nice circle on the pavement, which is probably the last thing I’d ever see.

Which means I’m also wondering whether I should really just save my own ass and hop on a plane for St. Thomas, taking Tina with me so we can spend the next two weeks finding creative and entertaining ways to start a family.

Tina was still waiting for my answer.