S Rozan - Absent Friends

“And the Mayor, the Fire Commissioner-”

“Since when does Harry Randall give a damn?”

“You have it backwards.” He inspected his gin as though for something missing. “Harry Randall used to give a damn, but he wised up.”

Laura looked at Harry as he had at his gin. The skin around his eyes was loose and lined, old and dry, but the pale gray eyes were clear.

“You've been working on this for two weeks,” she reminded him. “Night and day. You don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't screw.”

“Wait-what was that just now?” Harry said, with mild surprise.

“You're lucky I recognized it, it's been so long.” She squiggled around, settling with her cheek on his shoulder, the hand holding his copy draped across him. “If you weren't going to run it, then why write it?”

He shrugged. “I thought,” he said, stopping as though surprised to hear his own voice, then going on, “I thought it might be important to find the truth.”

“Of course it is.” Impatience crept into her tone, and she could have kicked herself for it.

She said nothing else, just moved closer, held Harry tighter. His glass was empty; as he groped for the bottle, he said, “Maybe people need their illusions.” He was talking to her, she thought, about the story; and to himself, about something else, too.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “People need the truth.”

He had hold of the bottle by the neck. “Why?”

“‘Wherever you're lost, land or sea, you can navigate by the north star. It's real; the sounds in the night around you aren't.'”

His eyebrows lifted. He poured gin, chortled, drank. “You're quoting that old charlatan Harry Randall.”

“When Harry Randall said that at my graduation, it was-Jesus, Harry, it was inspiring. ”

“Stop. You're about to tell me I've been your hero since you were a child.” He sighed. “On the other hand, that was only the day before yesterday.”

“This story,” Laura offered gently, “this is a real Harry Randall story. The kind you-the kind everyone expects from you.”

“Expected.” Harry nuzzled his chin into her tumbled hair.

“Expects. Harry? Tell me the truth: it was fun, wasn't it?”

“Fun?” Harry pulled back, putting on a tone of shocked disapproval. “It most certainly was not fun. Exposing the perfidy of trusted members of society, following the trail of duplicity and deception as it leads ever higher and deeper-”

“At the same time?”

“Of course! That's the thing about duplicity, it can do two things at once. Sshh. Where was I?”

“Following the trail.”

“Right. Following, et cetera. This is a sacred trust, to be shouldered only with the most grave respect for its importance, to be undertaken with only the most solemn purpose and dedication. It is-”

“More fun than sex.”

His eyebrows went up. She kissed him. “Go ahead, tell me it doesn't turn you on.”

“That-”

“Not that! This!” She bopped him on the head with his copy.

He smiled and said nothing, and that said everything.

“And this? The way you wrote it?” she went on. “It's Harry Randall. It'll make them move, it'll smoke them out. You can't wait, can you? To see what happens next?”

Harry sighed, as though forced to acknowledge an inarguable, though unpalatable, truth.

“Harry?” Laura's heart was singing. She tried to stay calm, to not let on that she'd seen him struggle to the top of the dry, rocky mountain, and now she knew he could see the ocean, could find his way again. But she had one more thing to offer, a welcome-home gift. “This story will put you back on top, Harry. It'll show the Unbelievers.” Unbelievers was their name for the powers at the paper, Leo and the inner circle.

“Hell with the Unbelievers.”

“People-”

“Hell with people.”

But there must have been someone Harry was not willing to dismiss, because he kissed her, slipped on his robe, and e-mailed his copy to Leo at home. Leo kept the fact-checkers working through the night, and the next morning, the story ran.

September 11, 1978: The Boys (Markie)

He's a mechanic, Markie, same as ever, the ragtop's his, and it's still cherry. He's the first to marry, Jimmy his best man, of course. Markie's nervous: He'll drop the ring. He'll forget his words. He'll stumble walking out of St. Ann's down those stupid steps, trip, knock Sally down and fall on top of her, look like the biggest idiot ever, ever, man.

Jimmy grins. Markie, man, you're the only asshole I know with no troubles, so you got to make 'em up. Jimmy calms Markie down, Jimmy looks after him. Like always.

Nine years old: scrawny and small, but Markie can pitch, and he's even a lefty, in Little League that's hard to find. The game is big: not regular schedule, just midseason exhibition, but the other team's from Manhattan, the Empires. They have fancy uniforms, they have paid coaches at first and third, not dads doing it by the seats of their pants. Late innings, and the Pleasant Hills Panthers are up, but only by one run, and the Empires have two men on. Coach Roberts takes out Eddie Spano, Eddie's been throwing hard but wild, like always, ignoring the calls from Jimmy behind the plate, throwing whatever he wants. It's only the Panthers' fielding, the other kids stepping up, that's kept Eddie out of a hole. Coach watches Jack Molloy crash the right-field fence to steal one from an Empire batter, and that's enough. Coach brings in Markie, says, Shut 'em down. Eddie glares at Markie as they pass, Markie on his way in, Eddie going off.

Markie stands on the mound, looks around: when did this park get so big, how did it get to be so far to the plate? His mouth is dry. His arm hurts, he can't remember why. He fingers the ball, can't get it right, even to throw his warm-ups. The Manhattan kids grin at him, the coaches, too, and he can see they know it: no pitcher.

Jimmy straightens up from behind the plate, where he's been waiting for Markie's warm-up throws. Walks out to the mound, not fast, just like this is what he always does when they bring a relief pitcher in, goes out to talk to the guy before his first windup.

Jimmy, says Markie. He swallows, looks at Jimmy.

Throw me some bullshit, Jimmy says.

What? says Markie. Jimmy's using bad words, so Markie pays attention, but he doesn't get it.

Crap, Jimmy says. Soft, low, inside. 'Bout a dozen. They want to bunt this guy home. Jimmy's eyes move to the Empire kid on third, but he doesn't point, doesn't let the other team know what he's talking about with Markie. He says, Let them think that's all you have. Then when the batter steps up, throw the sizzler. If he connects with a bunt, it'll come right back to you. You and me and Tom, we'll run this guy down.

Markie looks over to third, where Tom seems to know what they're saying, seems ready. Then he looks at the second baseman, then at first, so looking at third won't seem like it was anything special. He looks back at Jimmy, nods. Jimmy jogs back to the plate. When he passes the batter waiting on deck, he flashes him a man-you're-in-trouble-now grin from behind his catcher's mask. Markie throws eight marshmallow warm-ups, he can hear the Empires talking, jeering. Then he nods, he's ready.

The batter steps in. Markie winds up, and he throws the fastball, what he's been working on all season, every day: getting it a little faster, a little more exact. He puts it just where he wants it, the batter shortens up and bunts before he realizes this isn't the pitch he expected, and the ball does just what Jimmy said: goes much too fast, too far, ends up right at Markie's feet. Markie scoops it up, flips it to Jimmy, Jimmy to Tom, and Jimmy and Tom close in on the runner, Markie covering the plate and the second baseman covering third, just in case, but Jimmy and Tom don't need that, they run the guy down like it was a training film.