The gla.s.s sat in front of him. Empty. The last remnants of the liquid sloshed in his mouth, and he finally swallowed it, his taste buds begging for more.

"Fill it up, Jack?"

Jack O'Donnell looked at the bartender, a big Irish bloke named Mickey, and said, "One more. Then I'm cutting myself off."

Mickey laughed. "If I had a nickel for every time I've heard you say that, Jacky boy."

"I mean it this time," Jack said, but something in his voice made the barman laugh. Jack had to smile. "Hit me once more."

"You got it."

Mickey took the nozzle from beneath the bar, brought it up to Jack's gla.s.s and filled it to the brim with fizzy, bubbly soda.

"Here," Mickey said. He reached into a small plastic tray and removed a single maraschino cherry. Holding it by the stem, Mickey delicately placed it on top of the soda and said, "Voila. Figure since you're drinking girly drinks these days, you might as well go the full nine and have it look girly, too."

162.

"You're a saint," Jack said. He raised the gla.s.s and tipped it toward Mickey. "To never swilling a pint of that G.o.dforsaken ale again."

"You can toast to that, my friend. 'Fraid if I do the same I'll be out of a job."

"This world today you'll be out of a job in the next six months anyhow."

"Did you come here just to ruin my day, Jack?"

"I'm the black cloud hanging over every man's driveway," Jack said with a grin. He sipped the soda.

"As long as you pay your tab," Mickey said, cleaning a gla.s.s.

Jack held up the soda gla.s.s, shook it gently, the ice cubes clinking. "This stuff, what do you charge for it?

Two bucks a gla.s.s?"

"Four," Mickey said, slight embarra.s.sment in his voice.

"Four dollars," Jack said. "What does it cost to manufacture? Three cents?"

"No idea," Mickey said. "I'll tell you one thing, it costs a whole lot more than three cents to buy the syrup."

"See, this is exactly what's wrong with this country,"

Jack said.

"Christ, here we go."

"No, hear me out. My paper, you can buy it on the street for fifty cents. And for that fifty cents, you get hundreds of articles written by some pretty smart people-- okay, some of them are dumber than my shoes--about everything you need to know about the world. Now, for this little gla.s.s of sugar p.i.s.s, you could buy one of my newspapers for eight straight days."

"I thought it was more expensive on the weekends."

"Don't be a smart-a.s.s," Jack continued. "Anyway, people don't value things like that anymore. When I 163.

started out in this business, you couldn't walk down the street without seeing everyone carrying a copy of the morning's paper under their arm. Now, they're doing everything but reading. iPods, BlackBerries, video games, text messages, bird calls, Pictionary. It's like people go out of their way to be ignorant."

"Why are you here, Jack?" Mickey asked. Jack was surprised to see that the look on Mickey's face wasn't jovial, but serious enough to get Jack to forget about his rant. "You say you're on the wagon. Haven't had a drink in two months. I give you credit for that, my friend, and it's always good to see you back around here. But it seems kind of stupid to me for a man trying to stay off the sauce to hang out at a bar. Not exactly the best atmosphere to keep you focused, know what I mean?"

Jack nodded. He didn't have a reply for that. It just felt natural, coming back here, like a memory that haunted you but kept tugging at the edges of your subconscious.

It was only in the last few years that the drinking had really become a problem. Back in the day, a lunch without three martinis was a lunch wasted. An after-work c.o.c.ktail wasn't an occasion; it was part of the job. You went home sauced, you woke up hungover, and everything in between was done to even it out. Now, drinks at lunch were almost pa.s.se. Expense accounts had been slashed like a murder victim, and if you ordered a second drink you might get a look.

Now, everything was moderated. People judged you. It was a few years ago when Wallace Langston pointed out that Jack's face was looking red, puffy. Wallace recommended a good dermatologist who helped cure his wife's rosacea. Jack, perplexed, took the number but never called.

He lied to Wallace and told him he'd seen the doctor, 164.

though in retrospect that might not have been the wisest course of action since it made the editor in chief even more suspicious when the symptoms began to worsen.

He'd never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of putting down the pen until he was either good and ready, or dead and buried. And last year, he was neither. It was Paulina Cole who forced his hand, by printing a newspaper article that swung an ax at his reputation, left him alone and crying on his bedroom floor.

Jack O'Donnell refused to go out like that. Refused to go out a laughingstock.

In order to restore his reputation, he needed one last home run, one last story to remind the public just why they'd trusted him for the better part of half a century.

First, though, he needed to clean up. Funny thing, he was never in denial about his alcoholism. With every drink, Jack knew he was feeding the beast. It was easy to justify, easy to rationalize. Jack was one of the city's most respected newsmen. He'd earned that reputation.

He'd sold nearly a million books, written G.o.d knows how many bylines.

Jack used to have an agent. Good guy named Al Zuckerberg. Tall, wispy Jew who had a company down in Union Square. For two decades, like clockwork, Al would negotiate his contracts every two or three years. And if Jack was ever late with a ma.n.u.script or running short on ideas, Al would be over with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue within the hour.

Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Al.

Jack hadn't written a book in nearly ten years. At some point, Al must have given up. No squeezing blood from a stone. Jack had wrung himself out.

Good businessman, Al was. He realized that once Jack 165.

was tapped out, his energies would be better spent on other authors who would bring in new money. Jack still received royalty payments, but they were dwindling.

They'd afford him a few nice meals a year, maybe pay off some of his mortgage. But that's all.

This story, this lead he was chasing with Henry, Jack knew this was his last chance. A big hit, and his reputation was restored. Jack still had some fight left in him, but what really stoked the coals was watching Henry work. Watching his career take off like Jack's had long ago. He was a pit bull, that young man, clutching a lead with his teeth and shaking it until the truth came loose.

Jack felt strong coming back. Felt like he had enough strength and desire to do his best work in a long, long time.

But when that was over, Jack wasn't sure how much he'd have left. At least, he thought, the paper would be in good hands with Henry. If Jack had died, if the alcohol had overcome him, he would have died a joke. His reputation would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. Now, he could change that. Going out with a bang wasn't such a bad thing.

The gla.s.s began to grow warm in his hand. The ice cubes had begun to melt. Jack watched the soda turn from black to muddy brown as it mixed with the melting ice. He pictured, just for a moment, Mickey reaching behind the bar, picking the bottle of Jim Beam up, tilting that long neck and pouring a healthy swallow of bourbon in. He could taste it on his tongue, smiled briefly. Then he looked at the gla.s.s and set it on the table.

"Getting the urge, huh," Mickey said. He took the gla.s.s of soda away from Jack, gently, poured it out and placed the gla.s.s behind the bar. "Maybe you should go home, Jack."

166.

The old man laughed. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out an orange prescription tube. Mickey looked at it, confused.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Antabuse," Jack said. "My little blue pill."

"I don't get it," Mickey said. "What's that, for depression or something?"

"No, think of it as insurance. You're supposed to take one of these babies once a day. The chemicals in this tiny pill, when mixed with alcohol, make you feel like Keith Richards after a six-month bender. Kind of the negative reinforcement equivalent for alcoholics of sticking your finger in an electrical socket."

"So, what, you drink and you get sick?"

"So sick you'll never want to drink again."

"Does it work?"

Jack shrugged. "d.a.m.ned if I know."

"I thought you said you took a pill once a day."

"You're supposed to," Jack said, "but I haven't taken a single pill."

"Well, why the h.e.l.l not?"

Jack stood up. He tugged a crumpled twenty from his wallet, flattened it out and put it on the table. He then took the pill bottle and placed it on top of the money.

"Because when I decide to do something, whether it's track down a story, get a source to open up, or quit drinking," Jack said, "I don't need a d.a.m.n pill to motivate me.

See you around, Mickey."

Jack walked outside. He stood outside the bar for a moment, looked up and down the street. Some days he could barely recognize this city. Since his return he'd become more sensitive to what it used to be. Keenly aware of what it was not anymore and never would be again.

167.

Even his old habits like drinking could not be enjoyed, replaced by something artificial that was meant to fill the void. If not for Henry, if not for the injection of new blood into his old, tired veins, Jack O'Donnell knew there was a good chance his disease would have been the end of him.

Tomorrow was a new day, and would hopefully bring new leads. He was proud of Henry for finding out information on Brett Kaiser's possible killer. That the doorman had seen this blond man coming and going at odd hours, while Kaiser's wife left the apartment, left him no doubt that this man held the key to many, many questions.

Tomorrow they would hopefully answer those, but he also could be certain that new questions would be asked.

The key to reporting was answering the questions faster than new ones could be asked, catching up with the trail of lies while it was still warm. Give any suspect enough lead time, they would cover their tracks sufficiently, prolonging the investigating or snuffing it out altogether.

Tomorrow they'd be back on the trail. Jack felt invigorated, for the first time in years knowing he was working on something important, that his job and reputation were no longer being held hostage by the bottle.

At some point they would unravel the whole spool of thread. At some point, Jack would restore his damaged reputation.

And at some point, Jack would need to know why Henry Parker was lying to him.

23.Thursday

"So tell me about this Mr. Joshua."

Curt Sheffield held a pad of paper in his hands and a small pen. The pen hovered above the pad as he waited for me to speak.

We were sitting on a bench next to each other in Madison Square Park. It was early morning, just after seven o'clock. The day was crisp and cool, and the park was crowded with couples walking their dogs and sipping coffee. I wasn't surprised to see a line already beginning to form outside the world-famous Shake Shack. Possibly the best burgers in the city, but the kind of meal your intestines could only handle once or twice a year.

Before Curt had taken out his writing utensils, there had been a breakfast burrito that disappeared down his throat in about 1.2 seconds. His breath smelled like fried grease, but that's not the kind of thing you tell someone you're approaching for help. Especially when they're armed.

"Mr. Joshua?" I said.

"Mr. Joshua? You know, from Lethal Weapon? Lethal Weapon? Played Played 169.

by crazy-a.s.s Gary Busey, who got his blond a.s.s handed to him by the man from down under at the end?"

"Oh right," I said. "I kind of stopped watching Mel Gibson movies after the whole sugart.i.ts thing."

"You know it's weird. Who would have thought that between Gary Busey and Mel Gibson that Busey would turn out to be the less crazy dude."

"So what's with the Joshua reference?"

"Well, you said this dude you're looking for is blond, Mr. Joshua was blond, thought I'd give him a nickname since you don't know who the h.e.l.l he is."

"That's why I'm coming to you. So we can eventually call him by his real name."

"Gotcha. One more anonymous baddie, coming up.

Like we don't have enough to worry about right now."

Curt spoke these words with a little more bite than I was used to. He wasn't above b.i.t.c.hing about his job, but there was a current underneath this that caught my attention.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked.

"Yeah, just, you know."

"No, I don't know. What do you mean?"

Curt shifted, blew into his hands and rubbed them together. "Department has been hit hard lately. The city's budget's been slashed beyond belief so the mayor could make his budget targets, and we're taking it in the a.s.s just like everyone else."

"In what way?"

"Well, frankly, the city has no money."