hungover.
—
“Potter!”
Al Soletano stood outside his glassed-in office in the center of the newsroom, hands on hips, his face flushed a shade past fire-engine red. Tank raised a hand in greeting as he made his way down the main aisle. The newsroom was a sea of vacant cubicles. A plague zone, he thought as he entered Soletano’s office.
“Sit.”
“I’m okay.”
“I said sit.”
Tank sat down in the visitor’s chair.
“How you feeling?” Soletano was short, with a gut, a tonsure of black hair, and a voice that could be heard in all six neighboring counties.
“Not bad, all things considered.”
“Your head?”
“It hurts, but I’ll be all right.” Tank had spoken to Soletano as soon as he was freed from the holding cell. He had a story ready. He’d been in a fender bender, banged his head, and spent the night in the emergency room.
“You don’t have to be going fast to do some damage.”
Tank touched his bandage gingerly. “You can say that again.”
“Say, buddy, do me a favor. Hand me my glass of water, would you? I’m thirsty.”
Tank looked to his right, where a glass of water sat on the desk’s corner. The glass was full to the brim. He looked back at Soletano, leaning against the wall, not making the slightest effort. Tank clenched a fist, then picked up the glass. Water spilled onto Soletano’s desk. He set the glass down.
“I’m waiting.”
Tank stared at his hand, willing it to stop shaking. Standing, he picked up the glass and walked over to his editor. Halfway there, a spasm shook his hand and water sloshed onto the floor.
“And that’s after the snort in the parking lot,” said Soletano. “By the way, where’d you get hit? I didn’t see any dents—or any new ones, at least.”
Tank said nothing.
Soletano approached him and ripped the bandage off his forehead. “I hear you met one of my friends last night. Lance Burroughs. Young guy. Detective.” He circled his desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Your arrest report,” he said, by way of explanation. “You blew a point thirty-four. That’s four times the legal limit. I have to be honest, Tank. God knows I love to tie one on as much as the next guy, but point thirty-four…that’s enough booze to knock out Godzilla.”
“It’s been a stressful few days.”
“And nights. A federal agent murdered in our backyard and I’m buying the story from a stringer out of Dallas. It’s embarrassing.”
“At least you’ll have practice for when the suits finish the deal,” said Tank.
The suits were the private equity guys from Wall Street who’d been running around the place for the past month figuring ways to cut costs.
Soletano didn’t take the bait. He stood, arms crossed, shaking his head. “You used to be a decent journalist.”
The tone hit Tank hard. He’d been a damned sight better than that.
“There’s another conference later this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll be there. Did you read the release? Bennett is stonewalling us. Once we find out the informant’s identity, we’ll have a beeline to what the feds were looking into. I mean, Dripping Springs, for Chrissakes. That tell you something?”
“Maybe the CI’s from Dripping Springs?”
“It tells me that it’s a pretty big case if they’re meeting their CIs twenty-five miles away to make sure they’re not seen.” Despite the air conditioning, he was beginning to sweat. “You know how many FBI agents have been killed in the line of duty in the past twenty years?”
“Four.”
“Yeah, four. Not many. This one’s got legs. I can feel that there’s something here. Let me run with it.” He smiled sheepishly. “Everyone gets a DUI. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re a day late and a dollar short, pal. I told you to read that letter.”
“One DUI. Come on. It’s a misdemeanor.”
Soletano snapped a finger at the arrest report. “You forgot to mention that it’s your second offense. Two DUIs in ten years. That makes
—
“Potter!”
Al Soletano stood outside his glassed-in office in the center of the newsroom, hands on hips, his face flushed a shade past fire-engine red. Tank raised a hand in greeting as he made his way down the main aisle. The newsroom was a sea of vacant cubicles. A plague zone, he thought as he entered Soletano’s office.
“Sit.”
“I’m okay.”
“I said sit.”
Tank sat down in the visitor’s chair.
“How you feeling?” Soletano was short, with a gut, a tonsure of black hair, and a voice that could be heard in all six neighboring counties.
“Not bad, all things considered.”
“Your head?”
“It hurts, but I’ll be all right.” Tank had spoken to Soletano as soon as he was freed from the holding cell. He had a story ready. He’d been in a fender bender, banged his head, and spent the night in the emergency room.
“You don’t have to be going fast to do some damage.”
Tank touched his bandage gingerly. “You can say that again.”
“Say, buddy, do me a favor. Hand me my glass of water, would you? I’m thirsty.”
Tank looked to his right, where a glass of water sat on the desk’s corner. The glass was full to the brim. He looked back at Soletano, leaning against the wall, not making the slightest effort. Tank clenched a fist, then picked up the glass. Water spilled onto Soletano’s desk. He set the glass down.
“I’m waiting.”
Tank stared at his hand, willing it to stop shaking. Standing, he picked up the glass and walked over to his editor. Halfway there, a spasm shook his hand and water sloshed onto the floor.
“And that’s after the snort in the parking lot,” said Soletano. “By the way, where’d you get hit? I didn’t see any dents—or any new ones, at least.”
Tank said nothing.
Soletano approached him and ripped the bandage off his forehead. “I hear you met one of my friends last night. Lance Burroughs. Young guy. Detective.” He circled his desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Your arrest report,” he said, by way of explanation. “You blew a point thirty-four. That’s four times the legal limit. I have to be honest, Tank. God knows I love to tie one on as much as the next guy, but point thirty-four…that’s enough booze to knock out Godzilla.”
“It’s been a stressful few days.”
“And nights. A federal agent murdered in our backyard and I’m buying the story from a stringer out of Dallas. It’s embarrassing.”
“At least you’ll have practice for when the suits finish the deal,” said Tank.
The suits were the private equity guys from Wall Street who’d been running around the place for the past month figuring ways to cut costs.
Soletano didn’t take the bait. He stood, arms crossed, shaking his head. “You used to be a decent journalist.”
The tone hit Tank hard. He’d been a damned sight better than that.
“There’s another conference later this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll be there. Did you read the release? Bennett is stonewalling us. Once we find out the informant’s identity, we’ll have a beeline to what the feds were looking into. I mean, Dripping Springs, for Chrissakes. That tell you something?”
“Maybe the CI’s from Dripping Springs?”
“It tells me that it’s a pretty big case if they’re meeting their CIs twenty-five miles away to make sure they’re not seen.” Despite the air conditioning, he was beginning to sweat. “You know how many FBI agents have been killed in the line of duty in the past twenty years?”
“Four.”
“Yeah, four. Not many. This one’s got legs. I can feel that there’s something here. Let me run with it.” He smiled sheepishly. “Everyone gets a DUI. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re a day late and a dollar short, pal. I told you to read that letter.”
“One DUI. Come on. It’s a misdemeanor.”
Soletano snapped a finger at the arrest report. “You forgot to mention that it’s your second offense. Two DUIs in ten years. That makes
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