Estate.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Brownie. You know damn well what I’m talking about, not that it’ll make any difference at this point. I’m referring to the media notice I attracted recently when my business relationship with Colin Elliot came to an end—when I got my fifteen minutes of fame that made me identifiable to those having nothing better to do than—”
“Hey! I wouldn’t be callin’ the kettle black if I were you, and I wouldn’t be kidding myself, either. You’ve always been identifiable to those of us makin’ it our business to know who you are and what angles you might be playin’. That nasty period after your boy was put outta commission back in ’eighty-four saw to that. You couldn’t go after somebody like Gibby Lester the way you did without callin’ a certain amount of attention to yourself and—”
“I’m not here to reminisce,” Nate says, “and I’m not here just to be tipped off to some unwitting notoriety on my part. You left word at my office that you had something significant for me, cash has exchanged hands, so let’s have it.”
Nate frowns at the reporter with whom he’s avoided eye contact until now. It’s hard to believe they’re contemporaries, were once considered equals in parallel fields of study at Penn. Brownell Yates III appears to have aged a decade in the two or so years since they last had a face to face; very little remains of the gleam that set him apart in their college days.
“I hear ya, I hear ya,” Brownie says while fishing something from an inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket. “Fact is, I was on this strictly for my own reasons before it started lookin’ as though you might likewise think there could be a link between the Lester and Kaplan killings. And why wouldn’t you, what with the historical connection to Lester and the fresh tie-in to the moron of a photographer that was gonna take a shot at sucking your boy dry for loss of livelihood and permanent facial disfigurement?”
“How do you know what Kaplan was planning to do?”
“I had better luck than you. I’m not sayin’ I was able to break into Kaplan’s place, but I did have a productive sit-down with a girlfriend of his that I latched onto at a neighborhood watering hole he used to frequent. Didn’t take that many fuzzy navels to get her to say that Kaplan was plannin’ to hold Colin Elliot up for a bundle in damages.”
“And your reasons for pursuing any of this?”
“The usual. For bucks, and maybe the one big story that’ll get me the cover and a byline on one of the weeklies—legit weeklies, if you know what I mean.”
When pigs fly, Nate rates Brownie’s chances of going legit without help.
“So, you’ve just sold me the electrifying news that the photographer assaulted by my so-called boy planned to sue for whatever astronomical figure the courts would allow. You’d better have more than that or we’ll be talking about a full refund.”
“I’m gettin’ to it, I’m gettin’ to it.” The hard-luck reporter unfolds an item retrieved from an inner pocket and hands it over.
Nate gasps at sight of an intact photograph he’s only ever seen in part. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus ,” he says, his detachment shattered. “Where . . . where did you get this?”
“The girlfriend. She had presence of mind to remove the questionable items from Kaplan’s place before the cops ransacked it. She sold this to me for ten bucks and says she’s got more if I have a market for ’em. By the look on your face I’ll say I do.”
“I’d prefer to negotiate with her directly. What’s her name and number?”
“No way. My way or no way. And I’m not namin’ the source that says the powdery residue found in Gibby Lester’s floor safe—the only thing found in Lester’s floor safe, by the way—is an exact match for the bulk product shoved down Sid Kaplan’s slit throat.”
To buy absorption time, Nate signals for the waitress and orders coffee and a
“Don’t give me that shit, Brownie. You know damn well what I’m talking about, not that it’ll make any difference at this point. I’m referring to the media notice I attracted recently when my business relationship with Colin Elliot came to an end—when I got my fifteen minutes of fame that made me identifiable to those having nothing better to do than—”
“Hey! I wouldn’t be callin’ the kettle black if I were you, and I wouldn’t be kidding myself, either. You’ve always been identifiable to those of us makin’ it our business to know who you are and what angles you might be playin’. That nasty period after your boy was put outta commission back in ’eighty-four saw to that. You couldn’t go after somebody like Gibby Lester the way you did without callin’ a certain amount of attention to yourself and—”
“I’m not here to reminisce,” Nate says, “and I’m not here just to be tipped off to some unwitting notoriety on my part. You left word at my office that you had something significant for me, cash has exchanged hands, so let’s have it.”
Nate frowns at the reporter with whom he’s avoided eye contact until now. It’s hard to believe they’re contemporaries, were once considered equals in parallel fields of study at Penn. Brownell Yates III appears to have aged a decade in the two or so years since they last had a face to face; very little remains of the gleam that set him apart in their college days.
“I hear ya, I hear ya,” Brownie says while fishing something from an inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket. “Fact is, I was on this strictly for my own reasons before it started lookin’ as though you might likewise think there could be a link between the Lester and Kaplan killings. And why wouldn’t you, what with the historical connection to Lester and the fresh tie-in to the moron of a photographer that was gonna take a shot at sucking your boy dry for loss of livelihood and permanent facial disfigurement?”
“How do you know what Kaplan was planning to do?”
“I had better luck than you. I’m not sayin’ I was able to break into Kaplan’s place, but I did have a productive sit-down with a girlfriend of his that I latched onto at a neighborhood watering hole he used to frequent. Didn’t take that many fuzzy navels to get her to say that Kaplan was plannin’ to hold Colin Elliot up for a bundle in damages.”
“And your reasons for pursuing any of this?”
“The usual. For bucks, and maybe the one big story that’ll get me the cover and a byline on one of the weeklies—legit weeklies, if you know what I mean.”
When pigs fly, Nate rates Brownie’s chances of going legit without help.
“So, you’ve just sold me the electrifying news that the photographer assaulted by my so-called boy planned to sue for whatever astronomical figure the courts would allow. You’d better have more than that or we’ll be talking about a full refund.”
“I’m gettin’ to it, I’m gettin’ to it.” The hard-luck reporter unfolds an item retrieved from an inner pocket and hands it over.
Nate gasps at sight of an intact photograph he’s only ever seen in part. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus ,” he says, his detachment shattered. “Where . . . where did you get this?”
“The girlfriend. She had presence of mind to remove the questionable items from Kaplan’s place before the cops ransacked it. She sold this to me for ten bucks and says she’s got more if I have a market for ’em. By the look on your face I’ll say I do.”
“I’d prefer to negotiate with her directly. What’s her name and number?”
“No way. My way or no way. And I’m not namin’ the source that says the powdery residue found in Gibby Lester’s floor safe—the only thing found in Lester’s floor safe, by the way—is an exact match for the bulk product shoved down Sid Kaplan’s slit throat.”
To buy absorption time, Nate signals for the waitress and orders coffee and a
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