it a Class A misdemeanor. Mandatory suspension of license for one year. Fine of up to ten grand. What you did is more than enough for rightful termination.”
“You’re firing me?”
“You fired yourself. You saw those suits in here. They get a chance to knock a hundred grand off their liabilities, they’re going to jump on it.”
Tank threw up his arms. His severance package gave him one month’s salary for every year he’d worked at the paper. The total came out to a little over $100,000.
“Let me have this story, Al. I’ll prove to you I’m the reporter I used to be.”
“What story?” said Soletano. “Just because the Bureau isn’t divulgingthe name of the informant doesn’t mean there’s a story. They’re probably waiting a day or two to get their ducks in a row, inform the guy’s family, and then they’ll release it. This isn’t Waco or Ruby Ridge. There’s no Pulitzer at the end of the rainbow. It’s just a case of an agent making a dumb mistake.”
“I’m not so sure…”
“I am,” said Soletano. “There is no story. You’re done. You blew a point thirty-four. You’re not some cute first-time drunk. You’re a monster. Don’t you get that?
A point thirty-four
. I’m surprised you didn’t spontaneously combust. I can’t have a reporter driving drunk all over town. The word
liability
mean anything to you?” Soletano opened the door and motioned for Tank to leave. “Get out of here. Go away. Get some help. You’re a sick man.”
—
Tank walked back to his car, hands in his pockets, arms stiff as ramrods to make sure he stood straight in case Soletano was watching. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. All spirit went out of him and he laid his head against the steering wheel.
His hand dropped to his backstop and he took a healthy slug. Screw Soletano. He could watch all he wanted.
He dropped the bottle and grabbed the copy of the day’s paper off the passenger seat. The headline read: “FBI Agent Dies in Dripping Springs Shoot-out.” The story carried an AP byline, no name attached. The future of print journalism, he thought ruefully.
The lead paraphrased the Bureau’s press release, and the body offered nothing that indicated any actual reporting. No suggestions about what case the agent was working or any background on him besides the boilerplate info, no quotes from the widow, and, most important to Tank’s mind, not a whisper about the informant’s identity. He could have filed it from the holding cell.
Tank banged his fist against the glove compartment and took out the envelope with his name on it. An hour ago the letter had held the promise of a new life. A hundred thousand dollars went a long way. After expenses, he’d figured he’d have enough to hit Pedro’s five nights a week, go hunting in Nacogdoches in the fall, head down to South Padre Island at Christmas, maybe even get a haircut once in a while. It was a recipe for high living.
He started the car and gave it a little gas.
A decent journalist
.
Soletano’s words scratched at something buried deep. He wasn’t sure if it was pique or pride. Whatever, they dug at something he’d suppressed for a long time. He suspected it was ambition, which he’d once possessed in abundance.
He kissed the envelope, then tore it in half and threw the pieces out the window. The future he’d dreamed of was gone. It was up to him to make another.
He unscrewed the cap of the bottle of tequila and brought the bottle to his lips.
Hell, he’d been a crackerjack journalist.
Tank took the bottle from his lips. For some unknown reason, he chucked it out the window, too. Al Soletano could clean up his mess.
Tank put the Jeep into gear and punched the accelerator. By the time he pulled out of the lot, he had his phone to his ear. Don Bennett was stonewalling about something, and that something was the informant. Tank still had one contact who might be of help.
“Austin Medical Examiner’s
“You’re firing me?”
“You fired yourself. You saw those suits in here. They get a chance to knock a hundred grand off their liabilities, they’re going to jump on it.”
Tank threw up his arms. His severance package gave him one month’s salary for every year he’d worked at the paper. The total came out to a little over $100,000.
“Let me have this story, Al. I’ll prove to you I’m the reporter I used to be.”
“What story?” said Soletano. “Just because the Bureau isn’t divulgingthe name of the informant doesn’t mean there’s a story. They’re probably waiting a day or two to get their ducks in a row, inform the guy’s family, and then they’ll release it. This isn’t Waco or Ruby Ridge. There’s no Pulitzer at the end of the rainbow. It’s just a case of an agent making a dumb mistake.”
“I’m not so sure…”
“I am,” said Soletano. “There is no story. You’re done. You blew a point thirty-four. You’re not some cute first-time drunk. You’re a monster. Don’t you get that?
A point thirty-four
. I’m surprised you didn’t spontaneously combust. I can’t have a reporter driving drunk all over town. The word
liability
mean anything to you?” Soletano opened the door and motioned for Tank to leave. “Get out of here. Go away. Get some help. You’re a sick man.”
—
Tank walked back to his car, hands in his pockets, arms stiff as ramrods to make sure he stood straight in case Soletano was watching. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. All spirit went out of him and he laid his head against the steering wheel.
His hand dropped to his backstop and he took a healthy slug. Screw Soletano. He could watch all he wanted.
He dropped the bottle and grabbed the copy of the day’s paper off the passenger seat. The headline read: “FBI Agent Dies in Dripping Springs Shoot-out.” The story carried an AP byline, no name attached. The future of print journalism, he thought ruefully.
The lead paraphrased the Bureau’s press release, and the body offered nothing that indicated any actual reporting. No suggestions about what case the agent was working or any background on him besides the boilerplate info, no quotes from the widow, and, most important to Tank’s mind, not a whisper about the informant’s identity. He could have filed it from the holding cell.
Tank banged his fist against the glove compartment and took out the envelope with his name on it. An hour ago the letter had held the promise of a new life. A hundred thousand dollars went a long way. After expenses, he’d figured he’d have enough to hit Pedro’s five nights a week, go hunting in Nacogdoches in the fall, head down to South Padre Island at Christmas, maybe even get a haircut once in a while. It was a recipe for high living.
He started the car and gave it a little gas.
A decent journalist
.
Soletano’s words scratched at something buried deep. He wasn’t sure if it was pique or pride. Whatever, they dug at something he’d suppressed for a long time. He suspected it was ambition, which he’d once possessed in abundance.
He kissed the envelope, then tore it in half and threw the pieces out the window. The future he’d dreamed of was gone. It was up to him to make another.
He unscrewed the cap of the bottle of tequila and brought the bottle to his lips.
Hell, he’d been a crackerjack journalist.
Tank took the bottle from his lips. For some unknown reason, he chucked it out the window, too. Al Soletano could clean up his mess.
Tank put the Jeep into gear and punched the accelerator. By the time he pulled out of the lot, he had his phone to his ear. Don Bennett was stonewalling about something, and that something was the informant. Tank still had one contact who might be of help.
“Austin Medical Examiner’s
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