Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

They settled on an LS 430 and the conversation ended.

The Director had the “lease” ready by the time he picked up Reeves. It was really just a sample lease Monty had downloaded off a car dealer’s Web site and then hastily altered. The Director insisted Reeves read the entire thing before signing it. The young man anxiously pored over the document, skimming maybe a quarter of the paragraphs and understanding even less. Then he signed it, scarcely able to believe how his dung pile of a life had suddenly turned into a hill of diamonds.

The Director told Reeves they were going to pick up the car at the dealership, with a quick stop at Ludlow Street on the way. The Director spun a tale about wanting to clean up the four dealers’ shrine just a bit, and asked if the young man might help. The Director could only chuckle later: Rashan Reeves didn’t have the slightest inkling what was happening, not until nanoseconds before the first bullet entered his skull.

It had all been so easy. Then again, the Director reminded Monty as they drove off, the situation was only partly contained. There was still the matter of the reporter. Carter Ross was clearly a more sophisticated enemy.

But killing him would be just as easy. Because the Director had a plan, one that involved exploiting Ross’s greatest weakness.

His curiosity.

She came to me in the middle of the night, waking me without a sound. At first, I couldn’t even be sure what was happening. I was on Tina’s couch, but it was almost as if the couch were somewhere else. The living room of my boyhood home in Millburn? The mess hall at the summer camp I went to as a kid? I was still groggy, confused.

But it was definitely Tina’s couch. It had to be, because it was Tina on top of me. She had changed into the black cocktail dress, the one with the keyhole neckline she wore the other night. I could feel her entire body pressing against mine with an urgency that didn’t seem real.

I tried to get my bearings but there was no time. Tina was demanding every last ounce of my attention. Her eyes were huge and sparkling. It was like nothing else existed but her face, her hips, her hair, her breasts. It was all perfect, all mine to explore, admire, and enjoy.

How had it happened? There had been no seduction that I remembered, no soft music, low lighting, or sloppy drinking. But I guess I knew it was never going to happen the conventional way with Tina. It was going to be her show, done in her way, fitting her schedule.

So, yes, it was happening in the small hours of morning, with her more or less attacking me while I slept. I had no memory of waking up nor of any conversation. Tina never gave me the chance to deny her. Not that I would have. I was just the innocent bystander in her not-so-innocent scheme, allowing her to dictate the action. I almost felt detached from it, watching it all happen from somewhere high above.

But then suddenly I was back in my body and it was time to take control. My mouth began exploring the soft spot where her neck and shoulders met. My hand caressed the curve from her hip to her breast. The keyhole dress slipped away and we were soon one.

It was incredible, the kind of incredible you almost never got the first time with a new partner. There was no awkwardness, no fumbling, no slowing down to make sure everyone was okay. It was just two bodies fitting perfectly into each other and nothing to interfere with the pleasure.

And then I went to finish and. . couldn’t. I kept at it, thinking I would feel the release any second. But it didn’t happen. I increased my pace, then slowed it, then increased it again. Still nothing. And then I started smelling. . bacon? And pancakes?

And then I woke up.

It was Saturday morning. Tina was nowhere near me and apparently never had been.

I tried to sit up but then immediately lay back down. I needed time to get my bearings and give the throbbing in my pants time to subside. I tried to recap how my Friday night ended: after deciding there was nothing more to be learned at Ludlow Street, I returned to the office and picked up a key from Tina, then went back to her place and fell asleep so quickly I’m not sure I was even aware of closing my eyes. The next thing I knew, it was morning.

So why did I feel so crappy? Let’s see: I’d slept in the clothes I had been wearing for two days; I could carry everything I currently owned in my back pocket; my last three meals had consisted of a bagel, Pop-Tarts, and two slices of pizza; and my sources kept getting bombed, burned, and killed.

Yeah, that would do it. I looked at the clock on Tina’s cable box. It was 9:18. I might have gone right back to sleep except for what had woken me up in the first place-a smell that had wafted in from the kitchen and worked its way up my nose, making my olfactory system convince the rest of me life was worthwhile after all.

Pancakes.

And bacon.

I suddenly found the strength to stand and wobble into the kitchen, where Tina was building a stack of pancakes that could have sated three hungry truckers.

“I think I’m in love with you,” I said.

“Since you’re the first man to say that to me this morning, I’ll let you eat some of this with me.”

Tina had her hair up in a ponytail. She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and not a hint of makeup. And she looked absolutely slammin’. (“Slammin’ ” is a word I heard from one of the kids answering the phones at work-apparently it’s a good thing.) Most women could summon the right mix of hair spray, makeup, and clingy clothing to look good in a club on a Friday night. It was the true beauty who looked just as good over pancakes the next morning. Tina was one of those.

“Thanks for putting that extra blanket on me last night,” I said.

“No problem. You were drooling a little bit. It was pretty cute.”

She had that morning’s paper sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. We had splashed the ongoing Ludlow Street story all over A1, and the layout people had done a nice job tiling together three photos: the Stop-In Go-Go dancers (all appropriately clad, of course) outside their scorched home; the remains of Booker T Building Five, shot from the top of one of the other buildings so you had a cool bird’s-eye feel; and the sheet-draped body of Rashan Reeves with his sneakers sticking out.

Underneath were two articles: the nonbylined story of all the blitzed buildings that Tommy and Hays had done; and the late-breaking account of Rashan’s murder, with my byline on it.

I was proud of the whole thing. Sometimes we pussed out and pulled our punches on stories like this. It was part of the endless battle that rages in newsrooms across the country, pitting those who worried we would offend readers if our words and images were too graphic against those who felt we were obligated to show the world as it really existed. I was naturally part of the latter camp: a newspaper existed to tell the news, not sugarcoat it.

Our camp was often outvoted. But not this time.

“This looks great, ” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Your doing?”

“Once the murder happened, I took the night editor’s prerogative to rip up the front page and start from scratch,” Tina said. “I’m sure I’ll take some flack for it on Monday, but I think it looks great, too.”

“Thanks for using my byline.”

“Peterson told me what you said. I wasn’t going to do it, but Peterson fought for you. He pointed out it wasn’t going to do more harm-this creep knows who you are already. And it might even do some good, if people in the community realize you’re the guy on this story and they call you with more information.”