The Stringers, page 20
“Useful? How so?”
McCullen chuckled, sweeping his hand over his hair as he called for one of his men to bring him something. The man approached with a folded paper object, and when he unfolded it like a flag he examined it briefly and then tossed it over to me. I caught it in mid-air but when I saw the front of it and realized what it was I let it slip from my fingers and fall onto the ground.
My natural instinct was to look away, but I couldn’t help gaze at the massive headline roaring at me, along with the bold-faced masthead at the very top that read McCullen Press.
I looked up at McCullen as he smiled proudly and bobbed his head slightly, pointing his thumb at his chest.
“That’s me, kid. That’s my newspaper.”
I looked at the other men, at Danny and Marko, and their smiles ceased to seem friendly to me.
“You’re…you’re all gangsters?”
“Not really,” Marko said. “We try to think of ourselves as…businessmen.”
“What’s your business? Killing and murdering and theft?”
The remark should have enraged them, but they appeared more amused than furious.
“So that’s how you think of us?” McCullen replied. “Apparently you aren’t as informed as I thought. I figured you for one of us. Your run-in with the ISA didn’t convert you?”
“Just because the ISA has wronged me and my father doesn’t mean I love you, either.”
“You can think whatever you want, kid. But the truth is a hard drink to swallow no matter how you serve it, and you don’t look like much of a drinker in any sense of the term. So I’ll lay it out clear and nice for you. What you did with that column and everything, that’s what we do every day. That’s our job.”
“I want to become a journalist, not a criminal.”
“So you want to write press releases for the feds? Fantastic. But you know where that route ends.”
“I appreciate you for your help and everything, but I must tell you that I’m not going to get involved with you. I didn’t ask for your assistance or your help, with all due respect.”
The men stopped smoking and let their cigarettes dangle from their fingertips as they looked at McCullen curiously. He had a stern expression as he walked closer to me, a strong tobacco smell emanating from his clothes and his breath. He smiled broadly, exposing yellowed teeth as he slowly jabbed at my chest with his finger.
“I don’t think you get the picture, kid,” he said. “You’re in no position to be telling me what you are or aren’t going to do. What I just did wasn’t a rescue operation for humanitarian purposes. I sprung you because I thought you had some talent; raw talent, sure, but talent I could use. I decided you were worth the investment. So I invested some of my men and equipment and resources to get you out of there. I put my inside man within the ISA at risk at the same time, and believe me I spent a lot of dough getting him in there and I couldn’t afford to replace him if something happened to him all of a sudden. All you are to me is an investment. That’s it. I don’t have any sentiment or sympathy for you and your plight with your old man. That’s your business.”
“You’re not being very persuasive.”
“No? Well, how’s this? You’re a wanted man. You’re a fugitive. You’re on the run from the law. Where are you going to go, kid? Home? They’ve already taken possession of your house and everything in it. It’ll all be confiscated and booked into evidence, where it will never be seen again, and the house will be auctioned off next week and the money will find its way into some ISA officer’s hip pocket.”
He then tapped the side of my head, rubbing the bare spot on my temple where my Prizm would normally be.
“Welcome to the brave new world, kid. The government has shut down your profile account. Know what that means? It means you don’t have a thing. Not a penny to your name. You couldn’t go to the store and buy a stick of gum. Everything you had, your medical records, health benefits, savings in your bank account, vehicle registration, Social Security—all of that got shut down. And when you walk down the street and don’t have a Prizm on, the cops will inquire why you don’t have it and demand some identification. When you can’t show it they have the power to detain you until your identity is confirmed.”
He then poked at the tattoo on my neck. “And if that doesn’t get you, this lovely thing will. It’s impossible to hide. You’ll be like Roman candle in the night. You don’t get rid of that without someone who knows how, and they don’t come cheap. And last I checked, you still don’t have that penny to your name. Oh, and that also means your journalism permit has been revoked. You’re not going to get it back anytime soon.”
McCullen waved his bony arm at the ramp going back up to the street.
“So go, kid. Leave. Adios, amigo. Have fun. You’ll last five minutes, if that. We’ll make bets like at a horse race.”
Frowning, I walked away from them slowly. I stopped and looked at the ramp, knowing where it led. Despite loathing everything about McCullen already, he was right. Once I got up to the street level, I had nowhere to go other than back to the ISA office to be taken into custody again and delivered to their holding facility. I already knew where that road led. As for the one offered to me, there was still a glimmer of hope. Not much. But it was better than none.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Marko.
“Don’t do it, kid,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.”
I didn’t say anything. Marko looked down at the newspaper I had dropped. He bent down and retrieved it before he handed it back to me.
“You don’t like McCullen, fine. You aren’t alone there, kid. But this is where you belong.”
I looked at the newspaper. There were no pictures, save for a few black and white. Some of the articles, like the one concerning the Bellevue City Council’s recent meeting, were plain and easy to read, but others such as a column containing a series of briefs were written in an apparent code. I then spotted at the bottom right-hand corner a list of names, and as I examined it more closely, I realized it was one of those who had been recently taken into custody by the ISA.
“How did you find this out?” I asked.
Marko peered at the list and smiled. “That’s nothing, kid. We publish that list once a week on Sunday. The Sunday edition sells more copies than Monday and Tuesday combined.”
I read the names again, thinking of Yvonne and Elaine on her hip while her son wept and tugged at her leg and all the other people in line waiting to find out what had happened to their relatives and loved ones and the unlikely prospect of ever discovering the truth.
I turned around and walked back to the group, nodding my head.
“All right. I’ll do this.”
McCullen clapped his hands together, while some of the men laughed or grumbled as they exchanged objects in their hands. When I looked at them in confusion Marko whispered in my ear that they had taken a bet and the odds that I would walk out had been 40:60. He and McCullen had bet I would stay.
“You have chosen wisely,” McCullen said as he clapped me on the shoulder. “Glad to have you join us. Just remember something and remember it good. You’re here to make me a profit. You’re here because I think you’re good for business. You prove me wrong, and you’ll find yourself on the street faster than a stuffed garbage bag. Get me?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
He motioned at his men and we returned to our vehicles, only this time I went with McCullen in his car, a two-door sedan. We sat in the back as his driver hopped in and we were in the middle of a long line of cars exiting the garage. I sat with my side pressed against the inside of the passenger door, so nervous I rubbed my hands until they burned. I gazed out the window as we turned onto the street and drove farther north along Fourth Avenue.
McCullen took out a cigarette case and opened it, plucking out a cigarette. He offered me one, which I refused.
“Don’t smoke?”
“Who does? It’s not good for you.”
“Neither is publishing a column that will get you thrown in a solitary cell for the rest of your natural life. God. Did you have any idea what would happen when you did it? I’m truly curious. Was it stupidity or anger?”
“I have to pick between just those two?” I asked.
He laughed and slapped his hand on his thigh, striking his Zippo against his knee as he lit his cigarette. He inhaled sharply, telling the driver to roll down our windows. McCullen let his arm drift out over the side as he leaned back and admired the ramshackle buildings around us.
“All this is mine, kid,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “SoDo and the International District: I own this territory, all the way east to the old interstate highway road and north until St. James Cathedral. I don’t bother with Rainier Valley. I leave it to the trash. Besides, there’s no good business there to be had.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
McCullen paused, and his driver slowed down and stared at me through the rearview mirror. He puffed on his cigarette and blew it out the window before he loosened his tie, all while gazing at me.
“I’ll tell you something, kid,” McCullen said, his tone suddenly staid. “Either you’re brave, stupid, or ignorant. Maybe all three.”
“How so?”
“There are maybe half a dozen men this side of the Cascades who would dare talk to me like you did just now. Sure, they talk trash like all suckers do behind my back. I get that. But when they shake my hand and look me in the eye they give me my due respect. You don’t, and I figure it must be because you aren’t afraid of me or don’t care, and if you aren’t afraid of me it’s probably due to the fact that you haven’t a damn clue who the hell I am.”
“I do now, but as of earlier today I did not.”
“They don’t talk about me on your news sites, do they? Nobody says a word?”
“Not a word. We run stories about the gangs and the shootings, but we are not allowed to name names. They say it will only encourage people who want attention to emulate.”
He smoked until his cigarette became a stub, and then he placed it in an ashtray installed in the side of the door.
“That doesn’t surprise me. It figures. They would write about me if they could, make me sound like the scum of the earth. The problem is they know if they said anything about me people would love me for what I do.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
McCullen laughed and cleared his throat. “Just wait, kid. You’ll see. I’ll tell you this: you may never come to like me. That’s great. I don’t like a whole lot of people, either. Can’t trust anybody in this world. That’s what we get for playing the game. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that people only do business with those they like. People want something and they’re willing to pay through the nose for it.”
“What’s that?”
“The facts, kid.”
“What about the truth?”
“The truth? Ha! That’s for religious fanatics and Bible thumpers and such! But yeah, we provide for them, too.”
“I fail to see how.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll see. You’ll see.”
He then looked at me with a somber glint in his eyes as he lifted back his jacket. A pistol hanging in a holster dangled below his shoulder. His voice lowered and his tone was cruel.
“Today, I’m giving you a bit of grace. Tomorrow, though, if you talk like this, I’ll shoot you dead and drop your carcass on the steps to the ISA office for them to mop up. No regrets. We clear?”
I looked at the gun and then up at McCullen and nodded.
“Good.”
***
We stopped outside of an old Chinese restaurant. The door and windows were boarded up. The sign hanging above it was cracked and the indecipherable letters almost completely faded. The façade to the restaurant had an air of hostility that matched the rest of the street block.
The car ahead of us emptied and the men watched the sidewalk as I was escorted out along with McCullen. One of the men walked up to the door and knocked in a sequence. He then placed his mouth close to the keyhole and spoke softly. The door opened and a shotgun muzzle protruded out, aimed at the man’s chest. Another man with a baseball hat, a flannel shirt and overalls appeared. He lowered his shotgun when he saw McCullen standing next to me.
“The hell is going on, boss?” he asked.
“Did you get the message?” McCullen asked.
“No. The lines got cut again.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“There was another sweep by the cops. The ones we couldn’t pay off. We had to do it, boss. Got no choice. We couldn’t afford it. Tom said so.”
“Get them repaired tomorrow morning,” McCullen said.
“Sure thing, boss. We got one of our errand boys to fix it at daybreak.”
The man gestured with the stock of his shotgun at me. “He a new errand boy?”
“No. He writes.”
“About what?” the man asked.
“Whatever I tell him to write.”
The man sized me up and chuckled as he welcomed McCullen and myself in. The interior of the restaurant remained faithful to its previous owners—Far East décor, with cherry blossom wallpaper and a persistent smell of exotic spices. But over the wallpaper were thick electrical cords wrapped in bundles like reeds, and the wooden dragon statue situated in the center of the room was chipped and riddled with small holes. As we stepped in further a musky smell seeped out of the floor and blended with the spice aroma. The wooden panels in the floor creaked as we walked over them, while voices echoed in the distance.
In a back room, a round mahogany table with a large circular red stain in the center held a stack of newspapers, half of which fallen over and cascaded onto the floor.
“You need to clean this up, Jonsey,” McCullen said. “I don’t like extra copies lying around. Find one of our delivery boys and get them to sell these. I’m sure they can think of a few creative methods to convince some people to become loyal subscribers to our paper.”
“Sure thing, boss. We just didn’t know you were coming by.”
We passed through a narrow hallway and came into a room with a low ceiling and a square table with a radio on top of it, playing an old Chuck Berry song. A tall black man sat next to the table with his lengthy legs reclining on top of it and his chair leaned backward. His brown fedora was tipped over the front of his head, covering his face, and he appeared asleep but as soon as we approached him he slipped out of his chair and took off his fedora and greeted McCullen without any additional pleasantry in his voice.
“Boss.”
McCullen gestured at me.
“Roy, this is Tom Hayes. Tom, this is Roy Farrington.”
Tom looked at me with narrow eyes that became friendlier after he got a reproachful glance from McCullen. He walked up to me with a seemingly casual indifference and grabbed my hand and shook it, and I tried not to appear too reserved, afraid he would mistake it for fear.
Ironically, I didn’t find him intimidating, yet his weathered facial features and the way he held himself in his tall frame looking down at me gave him an aggressive demeanor.
Tom regarded the tattoo on my neck and the clothes I wore, which had ISA on the back and my number printed on the front. He turned to McCullen as if to ask a question, but they exchanged looks, and something wordlessly exchanged between the two of them left Tom irritated, though he left it out of his voice as he spoke to me.
“So what do you want?” Tom asked McCullen.
“Mr. Farrington has decided to join with us,” McCullen said.
“Sure thing, boss.”
“I want you to train him.”
Tom slowly looked over at me, but only for a moment before he shook his head at McCullen.
“I’ve got a beat to cover,” he remarked. “I’m working a good angle here with this story. My source is meeting with me tomorrow.”
“You can do both at the same time,” McCullen said. “Hell, for the first twenty-four hours all you’ll have to do is make sure he lives.”
“That ain’t my job,” he said.
There was a harsh tone in Tom’s voice, hinting of a mutually shared animosity between the two. He avoided looking at me, but I wondered if it was more out of disgust for McCullen than anything about me that perhaps annoyed him.
“You don’t think he got what it takes?”
“Don’t care,” Tom said as he picked up the remains of a cigarette from the table. He got two puffs out of it before only a tiny stub remained. He smothered it on the tabletop and pushed his fedora back over his head with a long sigh, finally turning his gaze toward me as if to acknowledge my presence. His expression did not change, but as he raised an eyebrow and shrugged I realized something had caused a change of heart.
“Fine,” he said. “Just for the record, this wasn’t my idea.”
“You’re right, Tommy boy,” McCullen smirked. “It’s not. It’s mine. So do what you’re told and get to work. I want him ready to work by next week.”
Tom chuckled humorlessly. “Next week? I’m a writer, not a magician. Get someone else who’s more gung-ho about this than I am. I don’t want to see what you do to this kid.”
McCullen laughed and put an arm around Tom’s shoulders and paced with him around the room. He spoke quietly and with their backs turned to me all I picked up were fragments of sentences that were insignificant by themselves. McCullen poked his finger into Tom’s chest and looked him hard in the eye.
“Don’t be stupid, Tom,” he said, tapping his hand against Tom’s arm. “I came to you and not those other stringers for a reason. You’re the best.”
“If that’s the case, I need to work harder at being mediocre at my job.”
McCullen tipped his fedora to me and his cryptic smile left me apprehensive about my choice to work for him, albeit my options were few and the alternatives offered less hope.
“Bring him over to newsroom next week on Thursday,” he said. “That should be plenty of time to break him in like a new house pet. I’ll be seeing you both.”
