Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“I’m going to ask you to share your thoughts with Ted,” said Foley.

“That’s unusual,” said Nables.

“Still,” said Richter.

“Please, Ike,” said Foley.

“If Kat’s information pans out, we’ll run a story. If the story appears to be bigger, we’ll investigate further and run follow-ups as warranted.”

“Would it be possible,” said Denomie, “to put your story on hold? Just until we can find out if anything’s going on, put a stop to it.”

“I would encourage you to do just that. But that can’t have any bearing on whether and when we run a story.”

“Why not?” asked Richter.

“I would hope to maintain a definite separation between Mr. Denomie’s agenda and our mission,” said Nables.

“ Agenda ’s a pretty strong word, Ike,” said Foley.

“ Agenda derives from the Latin, agere, meaning ‘do.’ It is the plural form of the gerund, agendum . Its current meaning, containing no pejorative connotation whatsoever, originates in the 1600s.”

“Thank you for the vocabulary lesson,” said Richter.

“You’re welcome,” said Nables.

“Ike has a master’s in English,” said Foley to Denomie. “What is it, UIC?”

“Northwestern,” said Nables.

“Be that as it may,” said Richter, “Ted’s interests and ours aren’t all that far apart.”

“Ours?” said Nables.

“The Mirror ’s.”

“In what sense?”

“Let me field that, Susan,” said Denomie. “If I may. This kind of attention really shakes public confidence in the legitimacy of casino gambling.”

Nables’s face remained completely blank.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Denomie continued. “But we’ve worked hard to ensure that our reputation is spotless.”

“Maybe not hard enough,” said Nables.

“Maybe not, Ike. But is it fair to throw mud on us before we’ve had a chance to take action? I don’t need to tell you these are tough times. People are thinking carefully about where they want to spend their vacation dollars. And, to be blunt, a story like this could cost us dearly.”

“That’s no concern of mine,” said Nables.

Richter exhaled audibly, turning down the corners of her mouth.

“I knew you’d feel that way,” said Foley. “It’s one of the reasons why everyone around here looks up to you with respect.” He gestured at Richter. “Sue, would you mind?”

“By all means.” She reached into a briefcase that had sat on the floor beside her like a well-trained dog. “Here’s our BPA numbers from last quarter. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. The important numbers are here, here, and here. They establish our rate base for the standalone sections. Including yours, Ike. You can see that the numbers have declined, which means that even if we could continue to maintain ad sales at our current volume, revenue is down. But of course lineage drops along with circulation, a trend dramatically illustrated in this graph.” She reached to retrieve another document from the briefcase, and to Nables it looked as if she were reaching down to pet that obedient dog.

“I see,” said Nables.

“This newspaper can’t sustain itself if these trends continue.”

“And how can my editorial decisions contribute to the reversal of these trends?”

“If I may, Ike,” said Denomie. “In my position, I approve all the advertising expenditures for the casinos and other holdings in our hospitality and leisure portfolio. Chicago’s well within our visitor radius, and the Mirror ’s always been an important partner of ours.”

“Very important,” said Richter, under her breath, almost reverently.

“Our own revenue declines, if any occur, will have to be met with corresponding cuts in our advertising budget. And I’m forced to determine where to apply those cuts. It’s best, as you can imagine, if it doesn’t even become an issue.”

“I see,” said Nables.

“Ike,” said Foley, “this is tough for all of us.”

“Less for some than others, I’ll bet,” said Nables.

“I’ll let that pass. I think we’re obscuring the point if we get involved in a discussion of principle. We want to survive to fight another day. Ted’s been frank with us, and we respect that.”

“Money’s always frank,” said Nables.

“Ike, I need to know you’re on board with this,” said Foley.

Nables was silent.

TODAY

Mulligan hid for a long time. He waited until fear had been completely overwhelmed by cowardice, and then waited some more until cowardice had been overwhelmed by self-disgust. After a while, there was nothing but the pale sound of branches stirring in the wind, and the distant cawing of a crow. He came out, cautiously, only when he heard the approaching sirens. He found Argenziano by the tree where he’d been shot. Mulligan didn’t look for very long but he could tell that they’d done something special to him, something extravagant.

The first cops arrived, in separate SUVs whose headlights flooded the scene and blinded Mulligan. There were two of them, and they approached with their weapons drawn.

“Freeze,” said one.

Mulligan put his hands in the air and one of the cops came over while the other held his gun on him.

“Put them on your head and spread your legs,” said the first cop.

The rear door of one of the SUVs swung open. Mulligan saw Kat leaning out of the backseat.

“It’s OK,” she said. “He’s the one who was with me.”

“Kat,” he said. She retreated into the vehicle and shut the door without another word.

“What happened here, sir?” said the first cop, frisking him anyway.

“Can you put those away?” Mulligan asked.

“Procedure, sir,” said the second.

They holstered the guns after they’d looked around.

“They really did a job on him,” said the second cop, crouching before Argenziano. “Did you see what happened?” He got to his feet, and brushed off his knee with one hand.

“I didn’t,” said Mulligan. “I mean, I saw them shoot him in the legs.”

“Them? How many?”

“Two guys,” said Mulligan.

“Can you describe them?”

“I didn’t really get that good of a look at them.”

The cop approached him gingerly, favoring the knee he’d gotten down on, and Mulligan could see now that he was the older of the two, maybe fifty. He wore a dark, sickle-shaped mustache and had ice-blue eyes.

“And you got away. Got lucky, I guess.”

“I guess,” said Mulligan.

“She was with you?” The cop gestured at the SUV and its passenger.

“I guess she was behind me,” said Mulligan.

The cop had stopped about a foot from Mulligan, who reflexively took a step backward.

“You guess.”

“I took off when I saw the chance.”

“You left her.”

“Everybody had guns.”

“She didn’t.”

“Everybody else did. People were getting shot, for Christ’s sake.” Mulligan’s voice broke. He felt like he was near tears. “I ran while I had a chance.”

“Just looking out for number one,” said the cop.

“It’s not like I’m her boyfriend or anything.”

“What are you?” The cop stared at Mulligan until he looked away.

“Cliff,” the other cop said, finally. He sounded as if he’d been waiting to speak. “What about this?” He was standing beside the open grave, panning his flashlight beam across its length.

“That,” Cliff said, turning from Mulligan, “I can’t fucking begin to guess. Let’s get the detectives out here.”

More vehicles, cars and vans, began showing up. A perimeter was established. Barricade tape, gloves, tools, cameras, receptacles, casting materials, measuring wheels, evidence placards. It wasn’t long before Mulligan spotted the helical masts of the news vans, sailing in to ensure that a story, fresh from the edit suite, received the moment of attention it deserved. Finally, a detective spoke to Cliff, who gestured at Mulligan. The detective looked him over.