Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“It’s not your business,” said Argenziano.

Hanshaw looked at Argenziano’s Glock. It was small in the palm of his hand. He put it away in his pocket. “Not my business, no. I just do what I’m paid for. But Wendell got a little job of work from your friends in New York, Bobby. What was he going to do, say go fuck yourself? You paid him off with their money. Maybe he didn’t want to be held responsible. And besides: bridge jumper like you? You make him nervous, ennit? You’re going to win big one day, you’re going to lose big one day and get angry, who knows? This is a safe option.”

Argenziano was quiet. He was thinking hard.

“What about these guys?” he said, finally.

“What about them?” said Hanshaw.

“They’re reporters, you Indian moron. That’s the whole reason they’re here. They print all this and everything goes to shit for everybody.”

“That is a problem,” said Hanshaw.

“Let me take care of them like I was going to.”

“Like down in Nebising.”

“I had to do it, Hanshaw. Let me do them, and then we’re even. I’ll disappear today. Right now. No one’ll ever hear from me again.” He turned slowly, his arms spread, and then began backing away. “OK? Honor is served.”

“Honor,” said Hanshaw. He pulled out Argenziano’s gun and fired twice at Argenziano’s legs, striking him in the thighs. The pop of the pistol echoed through the rows of trees and faded. Argenziano went white, sagged to the ground, and vomited. Hanshaw turned to face the others. “Reporters,” he said. He nodded.

“I don’t know anything about any of this,” Mulligan said. “She’s the reporter.” He pointed at Kat.

“All on her, huh?” Hanshaw kept nodding. He tested the barrel of the gun with his fingertip and then returned it to his pocket. He looked down at Kat. “You picked a real winner, little sister.” He said it kindly. “What are you doing with this non?”

“And who’m I supposed to be with?” she asked.

Hanshaw studied her for a moment. “Play it that way, if you want, little sister.” The giant shrugged.

“Stop calling me that. Anyway, he’s right. I’m the reporter. Let him go. Let him run away again.”

They all stood without saying anything, except for Argenziano, who moaned and cursed.

“Fuck, Hanshaw, yo,” said Jeramy, finally.

“I only get paid for Bobby,” said Hanshaw. “I didn’t hear word one about collateral damage.”

“Hanshaw, you be straight trippin.”

“Will you please shut up with that bullshit,” said Hanshaw. He took Argenziano’s gun out again and pointed it at Mulligan. “There’s this story,” he said. “Do you want to hear a story?”

Mulligan nodded.

“The Lone Ranger and Tonto are ambushed by hostile Indians. Comanches or something. They fight, they’re outnumbered, they’re crouching behind the fallen bodies of Silver and Scout, and finally they’re surrounded. The Comanches move in, and the Lone Ranger says to Tonto, ‘Looks like this is it, Kemosabe. We’re in real trouble now.’ And Tonto looks at him and says, ‘What you mean, “we”?’ ” He nodded again. “That’s real funny,” he said. “I love that story.” He put the gun up and looked at it.

“Your lucky day,” he said to Mulligan. “Both of you take the fuck off. Don’t even give me a second to think about all the reasons why I should just drop you in this hole and forget you ever existed.” He raised the gun over his head and fired a shot into the air, as if to provoke a stampede. “Run.”

Mulligan ran, heading back toward the corn. He heard the gun go off again and again, and couldn’t keep himself from turning to see what had happened: it was Hanshaw, but his huge arm was no longer pointing the gun at the sky. Kat was running too; she was headed in the opposite way, and even as Mulligan considered calling out or trying to signal her he realized that she knew perfectly well the direction in which he was heading; that she was deliberately trying to get as far away from him as she could.

EARLIER TODAY

Nables was disappointed. He’d been summoned to the executive editor’s office via e-mail, and reflexively recalled a time when such a summons would have come via telephone, a call that would have been answered by his secretary. But he’d never had a secretary. The title had been declared obsolete, perhaps even offensive, at some point when he’d been in his mid-thirties. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with being a secretary. His mother had been a secretary. It was considered a step up. Half his friends’ mothers had worked as domestics for Skokie Jews and Gold Coast Irish. His mother had been proud to be a secretary. Nables shook his head. No more. Now he had assistants and interns, young people who usually expected to be given something interesting to do. He spent time hiding from them.

He put on his jacket and left his file cabinet enclosure to ride the elevator to the eighth floor. The reception area there had been redone recently, walls knocked down, and now there was a chilly space to traverse, sparsely decorated with low-slung furniture, before he found himself standing before Melody, the receptionist, if that’s still what you were allowed to call her. She didn’t even greet him, simply picked up her phone when he appeared, spoke a few words into it, and shooed him with one hand toward Pat Foley’s office.

Foley rose when he entered. Two other people were seated in the room. “Ike,” he said.

“Hello, Patrick,” said Nables.

“Ike, you know Susan Richter, our vice president of advertising sales. And this is Ted Denomie. Ted, this is Isaac Nables, one of our paper’s crown jewels.”

“Fan of your work,” said Denomie.

“Thank you,” said Nables. They shook hands.

“Ike, take a seat. Ted represents the Northwest Michigan Band of Chippewa Indians. He’s on the board.”

“It’s actually the corporate commission. The business side of things,” chuckled Denomie.

“Of course, of course,” said Foley. “Ted’s come to us with some concerns that Sue and I thought it would be worthwhile to bring you in on.”

“What sort of concerns?” said Nables, carefully seating himself in a chair.

“Ted tells us that one of your people is looking into a loss that may have taken place at one of the casinos his group operates.”

“Manitou Sands,” said Denomie.

“That’s correct,” said Nables. “She’s in the field gathering information. I intend to evaluate it when she returns. I’m not sure yet if there’s a story there.”

“Who’s on it?” asked Richter. Nables stared at her for two full seconds before answering.

“Kat Danhoff.”

“She’s young, isn’t she?” said Foley.

“She’s experienced enough. Been with us for a few years now. Was with the Free Press before that.”

“Young and enthusiastic,” Foley continued undeterred.

“What are Mr. Denomie’s concerns?” asked Nables.

“Primarily,” said Richter, “that there really isn’t much there that’s newsworthy.”

“That’s what we’ll be determining,” said Nables.

“It’s a story about a possible theft, Ike, am I right?”

“That’s part of the story, yes.”

“What’s the other part?” said Richter.

“I was getting to that. The discovery of the theft may also have uncovered systematic illegal activity at the casino, possibly related to organized crime. Black money.”

“Phew,” said Denomie. “That sounds serious, Mr. Nables. I thank you for bringing it to our attention.”

“You’re welcome,” said Nables.

“How committed are you?” asked Denomie.

“We have to evaluate Kat’s information. Beyond that, our editorial process is confidential.” Nables looked at Foley.