Jason Pinter - The Darkness

Morgan felt his stomach lurch, felt his hands go cold.

Chester crumpled the scrap up and threw it back into the trash, then he kept walking. Morgan was unable to move for a moment, before snapping out of it and jogging to catch up.

This couldn’t be right. Nobody started at the bottom of any company and made that much money.

Chester was walking faster. Morgan’s short legs couldn’t keep up, so he found himself half walking, half jogging to keep alongside the man.

“If you’re interested,” Chester said, “you’ll be downstairs outside of your apartment tomorrow at 1:00 p.m.

You’ll be dressed just like you are now. Let me make this clear. You do not have the job. Not yet. If you tell anybody about the offer, or if you’re one second late, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’ll be there,” Morgan gasped.

“Good,” Chester said. The man stopped walking. Out of nowhere, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside them. Chester walked over, opened the door and climbed in.

“Wait!” Morgan said. “Don’t you need to know where my apartment is?”

Morgan’s words faded into the roar of the exhaust as

Chester’s car sped away, leaving the young man confused, excited and ready.

When we arrived back at the Gazette, I followed Jack to his desk. Yet as we rounded the corner, I saw Tony Valentine approaching. When Tony saw me his face lit up.

Actually I couldn’t tell if his face lit up, considering there was enough self-tanner on there to make George Hamilton look pale, and his face was pumped with enough Botox to iron out a shar-pei. But he did have a big smile on his face, and his gait picked up when he saw me coming.

“Henry!” Tony exclaimed, jogging up and placing his arm around me. “I’ve been looking for you. Where’ve you been all morning?”

“Chasing a story,” I said. “Tony, have you met Jack

O’Donnell?”

Tony shook his head, but took Jack’s hand and did a neat little bow. “Not yet, but your reputation precedes you, Mr. O’Donnell. It’s a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Valentine,” Jack replied. His tone surprised me. As a hard news man, I didn’t think Jack would have much use for Tony Valentine. Tony had recently been brought on board at the Gazette to kickstart the paper’s flailing gossip pages, which had grown stale with coverage that revolved mainly around celebrities who stopped being famous before I was born. Tony was one of the top names in the gossip field-if you could call it that-and already his columns were among the most e-mailed on the Gazette Web site. He dressed like he was auditioning to be James Bond on a daily basis, and smiled like he was being paid to. We had nothing in common other than our employer, and I preferred to keep it that way.

“Henry,” Tony said. “Glad we ran into each other. Do

I have an offer for you!”

“I already have life insurance,” I said.

Valentine laughed. “That’s a good one. Seriously now, have you heard of Belinda Burke?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Sounds familiar,” I said, “but I’m not sure why.”

“Belinda was a contestant on Marry My Mother-in- law. She won a million bucks by setting her mother-inlaw up with the dentist who walked from Dallas to

Newark stark naked.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Match made in heaven.”

“Well, Belinda has quite a story to tell. So naturally she’s decided to write a memoir.”

“That’s nice. Literature was getting a bit stale.”

“I totally agree! Anyway, she was going to use this ghostwriter named Flak. Just one word, like Madonna. He ghostwrote Joe the Plumber’s autobiography, did a wonderful job. Anyway, Flak came down with syphilis and I thought you might want to give it a crack. I know Belinda’s agent and could get you two a meeting, no problem.”

“Um…why would I want to ghostwrite the memoir of a D-list celebrity nobody’s going to remember in twelve months?”

“Because there’s fifty grand in it for you if you can deliver a manuscript in a month.”

“Somebody thinks she’s worth fifty grand?”

“Oh, heck no. She got a million bucks for the book.

You get fifty k just to write it.”

“She can’t write it herself?”

Valentine laughed, deep and hearty. “Henry, I don’t think the woman can read. But that’s not the point. Her publisher is a little worried Belinda might have a short shelf life, and they want to get the book out before the next season of American Idol takes attention away from her.”

“The money sounds great, but I’m just not really into that kind of thing. I never saw myself as that kind of writer.” I looked at Tony. “Just out of curiosity, why come to me? What’s in this for you?”

Tony grew a sly smirk. His eyes narrowed. I could tell

Tony Valentine was far more calculating than he let on.

“See, I knew you were a smart one. Here’s the deal,

Henry. If you take this job, you get the money. That’s how you win. If Belinda publishes the book, she adds a few ticks on to her fifteen minutes. She wins. And because I got you the job and we work at the same paper, you feed me exclusive info from the book that I can run in my column. I win. We all win, Parker.”

“Wow,” I said. “It’s like a whole big circle of ethics violations.”

“Say what you will, but who loses here?”

“Sorry, Tony. I have to say no.”

“No apologies necessary,” Tony said, taking a hair pick from his suit jacket and running it through his glistening hair. That was a first. “But I hope you understand why I put it on the table.”

“I do. I appreciate you looking out for me. And

Belinda. And you,” I said. “If you know anyone who wants me to test canned food for botulism, my Friday night is free.”

“See, that rapier wit. One more thing I love about you,

Henry. See you around. And it was nice to meet you, Mr.

O’Donnell.” Tony walked away, whistling a tune I couldn’t identify but was definitely Sondheim.

“Have a good one,” Jack said as Valentine rounded the corner.

“Have a good one?” I said to Jack. “It took you a month just to give me the time of day.”

“You should be nicer to him,” Jack said.

“You can’t be serious,” I replied. “Jack, he’s a gossip hound. A bottom feeder. He makes a living shoveling garbage.”

“And he’s necessary for the survival of this newspaper,” Jack said abrasively. “You can ride your high horse until it dies of thirst, but this is not a business that’s growing, in case you haven’t noticed. We didn’t have a real gossip columnist for years. Now, people are talking about Tony. Besides, what do you think a newspaper is?

Every day, we print a hundred pages, give or take, and reach over a million readers. You think every one of them wants to read about crime and corruption? Some of them need cheddar-flavored potato chips in their daily routine.

Something you know is crap but you enjoy it anyway. You like steak, Henry?”

“Yeah, why?”

“How do you like your cut-lean and tough, or a little more flavorful?”

“More flavor, I guess. Why?”

“You know what puts the flavor in steak? Fat. Too much fat, in case you don’t keep up on healthy trends, is bad for you. But it makes the steak taste like a slice of heaven. That’s what gossip is. It’s fat. Without it, the paper is leaner, tougher, but doesn’t have as much flavor.

Maybe it’s the kind of flavor that increases your cholesterol or hardens your arteries, but most people live in the moment. You get what I’m saying, sport?”

“I get it,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”