The Stringers, page 27
Observing my consternation, Tom nudged me on my arm and smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll look out after you. I hope you don’t have to use it. But I ain’t going to regret not giving you one in case you do.”
I looked at Tom and behind the stress in his tone and the angst in his features I detected a palpable sign of regret. At first I figured he was indirectly referring to his own experience at my age, if he had been working for the newspaper when he had been as young as I. But having spent the better part of a week around him, it had become evident to me that he was more or less upright in his personal conduct. He had his vices, one of which was a preference for cheap bottled beer he consumed every afternoon when he returned, along with his customary pack of cigarettes, as well as his proclivity to use profanity. But I failed to perceive any significant moral failings in his character. Something else had to be bothering him.
“Did they issue you a gun when you started?” I asked him.
Tom’s eyes moved away from me. He reached down and loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He pulled down the collar, where a small whitish scar was located on his chest.
“No…but I wished they had.”
“How did you survive?”
“They missed my heart by a few inches.” Tom then gestured at the revolver on the stand. “And that.”
“What?”
“It belonged to a friend of mine. He was armed, and he put that son of a bitch down right before he fired off the next shot.”
“Who was trying to kill you?”
“Another rival stringer. Their newspaper ain’t around anymore. All their stringers got put down like mad dogs.”
“How often does that kind of thing happen?”
“We’re not the only ones trying to sell newspapers, kid. You know that. And they got creative methods of making sure we don’t get the same story, know what I mean?”
“Oh.”
Tom covered up the scar and hit me on the arm again. “Don’t sweat it, kid. I survived all right. Lost a pint of blood, but it was worth it. We got the story in, my friend and I. He took me to get help first and then drove off to the nearest secure telephone to call in our notes. We made deadline by twenty minutes. Our editor went ape-shit! But he couldn’t do nothing about it, seeing I was half dead and unconscious…”
He suddenly stopped and looked at me worriedly and cleared his throat, buttoning up his shirt.
“Anyways, I’ll come in here tomorrow to get you and take you to the newsroom. No fret about all the other stuff you ain’t learned yet. They’ll do what they can. Just a word of advice: don’t talk, don’t ask questions, and don’t draw attention to yourself. Just listen and keep your ears alert. You’ll learn half what you need to know just by listening. They don’t like nosy people, know what I mean? And yeah, we’re supposed to be the people who are fond of questions, but not everyone who works there are that type. You’ll find out. Now go to sleep and get some rest.”
“All right,” I said. As Tom was leaving I called out to him and pointed at the stack of books on the table and asked if I could take them with me. Tom nodded and said he had no use for them himself.
“Why did you have them?” I asked.
“They were my friend’s.”
“The same one who saved you?”
“Yep. Same fella.”
“What happened to him?”
I could have sworn I saw a tear forming in his eye, but he blinked and it disappeared.
“Anyways,” he said. “You got your clothes. You got your gun. You’re all set. Now get some sleep and stop reading those books. You’ll drive everyone nuts, and they’re already off their rockers, if you know what I mean.”
“I have an idea.”
“I’ll come in at seven to get you. Be dressed and ready to impress. That’s the phrase, right?”
“Sure.”
Tom walked to the door, but this time I followed him and closed it for him. I then turned around and leaned back against the door, both my hands pressed against it as I gazed down at my cot and the set of clothes sitting on it and the holstered revolver lying on the stand. I looked up at the window and peered at the silvery clouds that drifted away in the sky like debris on an ocean tide.
Whatever the day had in store for me, I knew the weather would be unpleasant, as always.
I approached the table and picked up the books, stacking them on top of each other and then laid them over by my cot. I would have to get a pack or bag to carry them with, as I wouldn’t leave without them. Having read only a few, they had had a profound impact on my way of thinking no other literature had done. As I had read page after page, I had been left sitting in my chair unable to defend my own preconceptions, even the ones which I had begun to question but still clung to out of a sense of loyalty or devotion to the principles that I had been educated to hold dear since childhood.
I sat on the cot and picked up one of the books titled No Treason. Unlike the others, this one was recent, printed on an old printing press. For whatever reason, the author had opted to remain anonymous. I opened it up and found the pages riddled with pencil marks or red ink highlighting a passage or providing the reader’s own commentary, evidence they had had as much to say on the subject as the author had, mostly adding to his assertions with further support.
I flipped through the pages, scanned several paragraphs, and then set the book down among the others. Preparing for bed, I brushed my teeth with a kit Tom had given me over by the rusted sink located in the corner by the toilet. I then settled onto the cot and closed my eyes, unable to get the ideas I had recently learned of out of my head.
For the longest time, I had thought something had been wrong with me for seeing things differently than everyone else did, wrong for sensing that there was in fact something wrong with the way we interacted and conducted ourselves and treated one another, wrong for my confusion regarding the institutions we had in place designed to keep us safe and secure from harm, and wrong for suspecting that somehow they’re something better than that.
No. I hadn’t been wrong. I had been alone.
Not anymore.
Chapter Ten
I was adjusting my tie around my neck when Tom banged on the door hurriedly.
“Come in.”
Tom came in to see me in the midst of a struggle with my tie. I held up a small mirror as an aid while I swished the tie back and forth, attempting to find an even position around my neck.
I wanted to yell at him about the clothes, but knew it was futile to protest. I couldn’t see how anyone would want to wear them. My arms were suffocating in the white shirt, as were my legs inside the dark black trousers an inch too long, which forced me to fold them up. The same went for the black waistcoat that constricted my abdomen.
Tom, meanwhile, appeared well-fitted in his suit and comfortable as he walked into the room. He had his fedora in his hand, his black static hair trimmed and his face shaved. I took a breath in and caught a faint scent of aftershave emanating from his glistening countenance.
“Nice work with the tie, kid,” he said. “How was shaving?”
I frowned as I gently touched my freshly cut skin. With no electrical outlet in the room, he had given me an old razor to use. I was certain he had an electric razor somewhere around and it was just a small way of getting on my nerves. Unused to handling one, I had nicked myself repeatedly, leaving tiny bloody spots along my chin.
“I’ll survive.”
“Good. Now let’s get moving. We don’t have a lot of time left.”
I went over to my cot and collected my meager belongings. Tom retrieved a small sack for my books and after I threw them in and slung it over my shoulder we walked out of the room and into the corridor. I carried the holstered revolver at my side, divided as to where to put it. I saw it had a belt loop on it and assumed it would attach to my belt, but when I went to do so I realized it would be visible to all. At this point, I wasn’t keen on having everyone around me know I was armed or, at the very least, be blatant about it.
In the main room Tom had breakfast ready for me of diced potatoes with peppers, scrambled eggs, and the blackest coffee I had ever tasted, leaving me to squirm as I forced it down with my food. Eager to leave, I ate fast and grimaced as I swallowed the remainder of the coffee in a one gulp, reeling from the intense bitterness.
“Follow me closely,” Tom said as we approached the front door to the old restaurant. The lights were off and the windows covered with boards. Tom had a flashlight in his hand to guide us, but was careful never to point it anywhere but at the floor. We reached the front door and Tom put away the flashlight before he handed me an overcoat and a wool cap and told me to put them on. After I had done so he unlocked the door with a key, but kept it closed.
“When I open the door, there’s going to be a car coming out of the garage next to us,” he said. “Get into it. Don’t look around. Just get into it. And don’t take off your cap, no matter what. Clear?”
“All right…do I need my revolver?”
“No. It’s not that kind of trouble. And now is not the time for questions.”
“Okay.”
Tom lifted the handle and with some effort shoved the door open. I stepped through the open space and instantly found myself immersed in a thick mist that permeated the entire area, the sidewalk vanishing after ten feet or so.
Somewhere I heard the soft rumbling of an engine. Twin beams of light appeared in front of me, filtering through the mist like lighthouses on a stormy night. Using them as my guide, I walked up to the street and found the car sitting along the curb, the driver’s head sticking out as he waved at me and Tom.
“Hurry! Hurry!” he said.
I opened the passenger door and hopped in, making room for Tom as he joined me. He closed the door and tapped the driver on the back as he drove away. The driver instantly gave off a taciturn demeanor, as he offered no morning salutations. I didn’t give any either, nor did Tom. Manners and formalities were not among their priorities, though, oddly enough, being properly dressed was.
We drove through the heavy mist without pausing in any way for several streets, the driver exhibiting remarkable knowledge of the roads. When we reached one intersection, he waited while the light was green, glanced at the opposing street, and then turned the corner, only to make a U-turn after three blocks and go back to the same intersection. As we made one turn I glanced down at the driver’s feet and saw a shotgun clinging underneath the dashboard; it had a short barrel and the stock missing. Whenever we paused at a street, his hand would slowly reach down and grasp the grip until he appeared satisfied, and then his fingers gradually let go.
Tom tapped the driver on the arm and spoke to him softly. He didn’t want me to hear, but there was nothing to do about it.
“So how bad was it?” he asked.
“Between shitty and really shitty,” the driver replied with a clipped Mexican accent, a cigarette bouncing up and down on his lip as he spoke.
“How many?”
“Dos, one of ’em last night. And they haven’t heard from one of ’em since yesterday afternoon.”
“Who do you think done it?”
“The same, the damn Tongs.”
“Damn it! Who’s missing?”
“Not sure. Nobody told me. But we’re being cautious today.”
“Sure, sure.” Tom clapped me on the shoulder. “And I’ve got a fresh one right here with me that I want delivered in one piece.”
The driver took a quick glance at me sitting silently and huffed. “Hope you’re praying back there, amigo. You’re gonna need all the favors you can get.”
“He’s a good kid,” Tom said. “I vouch for him.”
“You vouch?” the driver said. “That’s dandy, but that ain’t gonna do him no good if he runs into one of the Tongs.”
“Who are the Tongs?” I asked Tom.
Tom remained aloof, gestured at me as if to say I didn’t want to know. At least not right away. I was satisfied with that answer. Had there been concern for us being attacked, he would have told me to have my revolver ready, albeit I still wasn’t convinced I was prepared to use it if need be.
As we drove down the street, the ramshackle buildings and structures that made up that part of Seattle appeared and vanished in the thick, whitish, vaporous sea. I caught glimpses of activity on the street, but whenever our car approached the person in question, a man standing by the curb or walking along the sidewalk with his head cast downward would shoot a look at us and then head to the nearest cover to hide until we had passed.
I rolled down my window and breathed the faint, salty mist of sea water in the air, hearing nothing besides the engine’s quiet humming. Suddenly, there was a series of cars honking and in the distance it sounded like a crash of some kind, a terse, sharp clatter.
Tom jerked his head over to my side of the car, pulled out his pistol and cocked it in his lap. His eyes narrowed like a hawk’s as he looked out my window and then at me, flashing a quick smile before he whispered in the driver’s ear, after which we took an abrupt left turn.
“How far away is the newspaper building?” I asked.
“Not far,” Tom said.
“It seems like it is.”
“That’s because we’re not taking the fastest route. We’re taking the safest route.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You take the latter, you end up goin’ home alive in one piece, comprendes?” the driver said in a cracked voice. “You choose the former, you end up goin’ home, muerto. Tommy boy here, he ain’t aimin’ to get you killed quite yet. From what he says, you ain’t corrupt. But we’ll work on that.”
“Good luck,” Tom said.
“We’ll get to him!”
We passed a collapsed building on the left, victim of the massive earthquake that had left the city devastated and from which it had never recovered. A large pile of shattered red bricks lay atop one another covering the foundation. The structural supports were still intact and standing above the heap. From there the morning fog dissipated somewhat. Just ahead of it there was a building with four men standing outside of it. The building was around ten stories high, all of its windows closed, the glass a black tint. The plaster covering one of the walls had been ripped off like skin, revealing the blood-red brick underneath it. It had a flat roof and a keystone arch rising over the front entrance, where the four men huddled together, smoke rising from among them like out of a teepee.
“This is it,” Tom said. “McCullen’s Press newspaper building. The most heavily fortified structure in the entire city of Seattle.”
“Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be sayin’ much,” the driver said. “But in a lousy town like this, it’s sayin’ a shitload.”
Tom reached over and rolled down his window as we approached, and our driver eased on the pedal when the four men glared at us behind their overcoats, the collars concealing most of their faces. They confronted us as we parked along the curb, and Tom whispered in my ear.
“Don’t move, talk, speak, gesture, motion, or do anything that might alarm them.”
One of the men bent his head down and peered at the driver, seemingly recognizing him.
“What’s up, Hernández?” the man said.
“Nothing, amigo,” the driver replied. “Just driving this rookie.”
“Sí, sí, we got the message.”
The man blew out a thin line of cigarette smoke and stared at me.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“He’s new,” the driver replied.
“Yeah? Got a nombre?”
“Roy Farrington,” Tom said to the man.
“Farrington? Sounds familiar.”
“He’s from Bellevue.” the driver said.
“Another deserter?”
“Apparently.”
The man regarded me like I was luggage or a delivery package to be transported. He tapped the top of the car and ordered me out like I was a nuisance to him. I opened the door and stepped out, looking behind me when I realized Tom wasn’t moving.
“You’re coming, right?” I asked.
Tom’s complexion reddened, his expression stoic. I could tell right away I would hate whatever it was he had to say.
“I wanted to tell you before, kid, but things ain’t going to be the way we talked about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t have time to say. You’ll figure it out. All you need to know is that it was me and I did it for your own good. You might hate me for it now, but you’ll thank me later. Or not. I don’t know. At least I can go to bed tonight and not worry about whether I got you killed.”
His comment left me bewildered. Uncertain of what to do, and with the man next to me barking for me to get going and hurry inside the building, I took out my revolver and offered it to Tom.
“Then I guess I won’t need this, then, will I?”
Tom looked at the revolver and then pushed it back over to me. “This don’t change a thing, kid. You may still need it. You just may have to use it on another type of fella. You’ll know what I’m talking about when the time comes.”
I held the gun against my chest, trying to find the right words to say to Tom. Luckily, he somehow read my mind and chuckled as he closed the car door, hanging his arm on the sill as he stuck his head out.
