The closest I’d ever come to having a true scoop was in New York, during my internship.
It was my day off, a Monday, I think. It was warm, much like today. I was strolling around South Street Seaport. My buddy, Glen, had veered off after breakfast to get back to writing his Great American Novel, which, to my understanding, has yet to see the light of day, but I digress. Alone with my thoughts, I had to make a critical decision.
Chocolate or Pistachio?
Two scoops (one of each, of course) went down the gullet quicker than a race car, faster than a … well, you get it.
Then I had to decide: Where to drink.
I moseyed along, minding my business, seeking a barstool with a cold pour.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a fireball … up from the water’s edge.
A man in his early 50s had pulled his boat into the dock, poured gasoline all around the vessel, and struck a match. Kaboom. A public suicide.
I ran for the nearest payphone and dialed the newsdesk to report it. Lacking pen and paper, I paid $50 for the day planner of a housewife entertaining a gaggle of children at a picnic table. (With that many kids, I’m guessing it kept her in chardonnay for the next few weeks, but again, I digress.)
I remember the slip management company like it was yesterday: Sam’s Slips. Of course, I expected the owner to be male, but it turned out to be a leggy blonde whose days of dancing in the bars were long behind her. (It took me a minute, but I finally got the pun.)
And, of course, I got the only on-site coverage of Robert-Elliott-Pryor-the-Third’s untimely death, the result of an insider trading charge and entirely too much vodka.
That felt like a win. This … this does not.
When Sheriff Paul called this morning, I was still in the shower. There were tears in his voicemail – snorts, if you will. He kept repeating the same phrase over and over: “I need to talk to you. I need to get right with God. Please come over.”
He said the exact same thing when I called him back. “I need to talk to you. I need to get right with God. Please come over.”
Certainly walking next door was not a problem, but my hunch was that whatever I found once I was there would become one.
His doorbell played Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, by Wham. He must have changed it. Two weeks ago, it was Maneater by Hall and Oates worming its way into my brain.
The face that met me at the door can only be described as amorphous. It had no shape. His cheeks sagged. His eyes were dark. His robe hung open to reveal boxers and and a hole-ridden t-shirt beneath.
I nodded. “Paul.”
He nodded, then closed his robe. “Bernie. Sorry.”
I waved him off and stepped into his home. Based on his appearance, I had expected a Cheeto-laden den of greese and garbage. Instead, what I found was extreme tidiness – tables dusted, carpets vacuumed, remote control in place and sweating drinks placed nicely on coasters.
Paul motioned for me to have a seat, and I did. He took to the lounger directly opposite. “Get you a drink?”
His bloody mary looked tempting, and a little on-the-nose in retrospect, but I waved him off.
“What’s wrong?” I asked with distinct trepedation.
“Everything.”
Paul put his head in his hands and started to cry. I’ve seen many men cry. This, dear reader, was what Oprah would call “the ugly cry.” Moisture seeped between his fingers. Finally, he caught his breath and looked up.
“I killed Mick.”
Mick who? I thought. I searched my brain, then I remembered. “Oh Mick” was all I could say.
Cassie’s Mick.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “I did it.”
I started to recover my sensibility. “Why on God’s green Earth would you … ?”
“I know, I know.” Paul stood and began to pace. “I … it was emotional, that’s all I can tell you?”
“Why?”
Paul paced, his hand holding the tears in his mouth as he braced himself.
He shook his head.
“What he did … what he did, Bernie, you have no idea … what he did to that nice girl … to Cassie. All she wanted to do was do well for herself, get beyond him, and he kept pulling her back in. The reports, Bernie, read the reports.”
“What reports?”
“Police reports. Fines. Desperation phone calls … every other weekend. … My buddy’s in the 66th in New York … Brooklyn. All the bon vivants down there these days … you know, driving up the rents. Mickey took up with some pretty sour folks and dragged her along for a bit before the divorce. When my buddy, Joel, came to pay me a visit here, he knew her right away at the bar, at the Riverside. Sent me the reports. He sent them. To me. I have them.”
“Can I see them?” I asked. (What else would I ask?)
“No. Not now, not yet.”
I took a deep breath, an attempt to process but also to buy some time. “So … you’re the one.”
Paul nodded deeply and profusely. “Yes, I am the one.”
“Who else knows?”
Paul stopped pacing and looked directly into my eyes. “The kid.”
John.
This, dear reader, is what I was afraid of.
It never occurred to me that my true problem – that damn TV reporter, Susan – was hunched in the bushes, recording the entire thing.
Better move.
Gunnar Olafsson