Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

— I’ll read the obit at my desk.

— Sure. By the way, Sam. You’re in it. Among the various boyfriends.

— Not in this edition, Helen.

— Sam, it’ll be in the News, the Post, and the Times. You can’t leave it out.

Briscoe sighs.

— But I buried it with the names of other boyfriends, Helen says. The ones that made the gossip columns. And by the way, the Fonseca kid just dictated a scene sidebar. Very good — tight, great details. It ends with the cops carrying off two computers. I figure one for each vic.

He thinks: One of them contains the last e-mail I ever sent her.

— Thanks, Helen. For everything, but especially for showing up.

He hurries to his office, dumps his clothes in a chair, turns on the lights, opens the computer. Still standing, he checks the Times website. Nothing yet. Same with the Post. He doesn’t bother with the News website because he can never figure it out. Then he sits down, looks for the phone number. Richard Elwood. He dials. Busy signal. Christ, the news is spreading.

He looks at the paper. The wrap will take a while. Fonseca’s story about the murdered kid from Stuyvesant. The Doom Page. All old news now. He dials Elwood again. This time the young man answers.

— Yes? he says, his voice distracted.

— Briscoe here. I’m at the paper, Richard. You might have heard about what happened on Patchin Place.

— Yes, he says, his voice lowering. I was just on with some cop. It’s a horror, Sam. She seemed like a nice woman.

Briscoe thinks: You mean Cynthia, of course, not Mary Lou.

— Do you want to give some sense of the dinner party to a reporter? Just atmosphere. What they talked about. No direct quotes, or I.D.

— I don’t know. Let me think about it.

— We’re on deadline, Richard.

— Deadline? I thought the deadline had passed.

— We’re doing a wraparound. Four pages.

— A wraparound? How much will that cost?

— You can sell a hundred thousand more. We have stuff nobody else has. They’ll blow it out on the morning news shows. If we can get it to them around nine.

— A hundred thousand more copies? That’s a lot of paper.

— It’s a lot of news.

Elwood exhales, pauses.

— All right, give me a few minutes to gather my thoughts. And Sam? We’re still on for eight-thirty. It’s very important.

Elwood hangs up. Briscoe writes his name and number on an index card, walks out to the city room, and hands it to Helen Loomis. She is lighting a fresh Marlboro Light.

— Call him in about five minutes, Briscoe says. As much detail as possible. Who was there, what was said, what was served for dinner, what they talked about. Everything.

She nods, focused by nicotine and urgency. Briscoe walks over to Logan.

— Tell Billygoat to print a hundred thousand more, with the wrap, he says. And be ready for a replate, if they make an arrest.

— Yes, Logan says, smiling and making a fist.

Neither mentions the tabloid joy of murder at a good address. But Briscoe feels the rush, the adrenaline pumping. And then walks to his office consumed by shame.

2:37 a.m. Malik Shahid. The Lots, Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

There was no time to wash the body. No washing table there in the mud. No time to braid her hair either. No need to squash out the shit or piss or other filth; there was nothing inside her at the end, not even the baby. Malik knows he should have washed her three times, or five, or seven, always an odd number. But he is sure that the rain has washed her pure. He is sure of that. She was pure enough for Allah. Cleansed by rain sent by Allah.

Standing above the grave, he spoke scraps from the takbars too. O Allah: let the one thou causeth to die from among us die as a believer…

Malik wants to believe that Glorious died as a believer. When he covered her with the wet dirt, he whispered, Minha khalaqnakum . And added, And into it we deposit you… He wants Allah, in all of his mercy, to forgive Glorious Burress. For her puppy’s doubt, for her scorn. She was a child herself.

But nothing has been easy, on this night of death. He dug the trench with a shovel from the hallway, grunting, moaning. Losing feeling in his hands. He brought down the bloody sheets and wrapped her in them, making a shroud. The boy’s flesh was already cold, still tied to her by the cord. He placed the boy facedown on her rain-washed body, both of them like ice, moved her arms so that she was holding the baby, hugging the boy into eternity. Then he moved the sheet over her head, covering her face, and tied the ends beneath her neck. Praying all the while. Ending with Allah is most great, four times.

Then he climbed the stairs one final time, gathered what he needed into a backpack, scattered what was there as if it had been a crack house. He thought about spreading alcohol and setting it all on fire. And decided, No, that would attract police and firemen. Then he came down through the dark hallways, paused for a final prayer. Now he sets off into the night without end. Night of godly avenging horror. Night of red rain.

2:42 a.m. Myles Compton. New York State Thruway.

There is almost no traffic on the thruway. The driver is following orders: driving just above the speed limit, because his passenger doesn’t want a delay caused by a state trooper. No ticket either. No record. Myles doesn’t explain any of this to the driver and the two men don’t chat. The digital clock on the dashboard changes by the second. Myles keeps repeating his new name, silently, like beads in a rosary. Martin Canfield, Martin Canfield, Martin Canfield … And in a silent echo of long ago, adds an ironical coda: Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of thy death…

For a while in the past two months, he even thought of going back to his real name, his birth name, his baptismal name. Michael Cooney. The one he changed when he arrived on Wall Street. The name that was too Irish. Who the hell would invest money with a mick? At least in those years before the Celtic Tiger roared in Ireland. Now that’s gone too. And if he became Mike Cooney again, then some smart little prick from the FBI could trace it, and trace me. Martin Canfield, Martin Canfield…

— How much longer, driver? he says.

The driver pauses, taps a finger on the GPS, says: Maybe ten minutes, sir.

— Okay, Myles says. They’ll wait. Just don’t speed.

— Yes, sir.

Myles slouches lower as the interior of the limo suddenly brightens. He feels a moment of fear. The Bulgarian’s eyes. But a pickup truck passes on the left. No passenger. The driver in his thick plaid shirt doesn’t look. Within seconds, the truck becomes two red eyes far ahead of them.

Martin Canfield .

He looks at tree branches whizzing above him, a stretch of emptiness, more trees, conical, dark and full, pine without Christmas ornaments. He thinks: My guys will be pissed at me today. All charged as co-conspirators. They’ll probably think I was turned. All except the fucking Bulgarian. Sorry, guys. Blame me, okay? Just don’t come looking for me. Don’t find me.

He knows that Sandra won’t even try. Too proud. She would no more pursue a man than she’d stick up a blind news dealer. Maybe that’s why… Does he love her? Maybe. Probably. Whatever the hell love means. For sure, she didn’t want a dime from him. Never asked for stock tips. Never asked about his business. A lot of women he knew were creatures of appetite and opportunity. Sandra, no. Maybe later, a year from now, the man formerly known as Myles Compton can call from somewhere. He could ask her to meet him in another place, and they could drive to Martin Canfield’s house, and… Nah. She’d hang up.