Southside (9781608090563) by Michael Krikorian Page A

strolled down the seventy-yard-long corridor that led to the newsroom, the hallway where I would sometimes sprint to catch a breaking story, I was glad no one was in sight. I reached the end of the corridor and took a deep breath as I stood near the entrance to the newsroom. I hate to admit it, but I was nervous, a feeling rare to me. I could confront five stranger Bounty Hunter Bloods in a midnight parking lot so tough it was called the Folsom Lot and be calmer than I was right then. I took a step back and thought it wasn’t too late to back off. No one had seen me.
    But damn, the two people in the whole building I least wanted to see were now heading toward me, face-to-face like a game of car chicken in a James Dean movie, like medieval lancers on horseback heading toward each other in slow motion. Tinder and Doot.
    There were several doors along the long corridor, two leading to what they call Baja Metro, one to the photo lab, one to the test kitchen. I took the photo lab door more than any other reporter at the paper. Two of my best friends at the paper were photojournalists, Carolyn Cole and Clarence Williams, both Pulitzer Prize winners.
    Forty yards away now. But, damn if I was gonna meek out and take the photo door now. And damn if I was gonna speak first when I came upon these two dimwits and say something pleasant like, “How you doing, Harriet, Ted.”
    Fuck that.
    Thirty yards to go. Our eyes were locked on each other. At twenty yards, Tinder turned to Doot and started some conversation, hopefully meant to avoid contact with me.
    At ten, they were back to looking at me. At five yards and closing fast, Doot voiced a robotic, “Hey, there.” And Tinder grunted something barely audible. No idea what the sound was intended to be.
    I looked right in their eyes but didn’t say a word and walked right on by. That’s not easy to do for me.
    As I neared the entrance to Metro, I got down on one knee to retie my shoe when I heard an, “Oh, my God.”
    I looked up to see Carly Engstrom, my pretty Korean/Swedish former pod mate. “Michael!” She hugged me hard. I pulled away in slight pain. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s so good to see you here. I missed you.”
    â€œDamn, Carly, you’re looking fine. Hey, I’m going to the Redwood. Get a crew and meet me there. I wanna get out of here. Can you meet me?”
    â€œYou know it, honey.”
    After seeing Carly, knowing she’d alert the people I wanted to see, I decided I didn’t need to go into Metro. I left the building and walked toward the Redwood, passing the 2nd Street sidewalk where just a few weeks earlier I lay leaking onto the grimy concrete. I looked down on that spot I was pretty sure was it, but didn’t even break stride.
    My cell phone rang. It was Morty Goldstein.
    â€œMike, there’s some kind of break in your case.”
    â€œWhat kind of break? They found who shot me?”
    â€œI don’t know. They are being super tight-lipped about it. I called everybody, and they are not giving up anything.”
    â€œThat’s strange. I wonder why Sal or Johnny haven’t called.”
    â€œAll they are saying is the
Times
and Lyons are going to look like shit.”
    â€œThe
Times
and me are gonna look like shit?”
    â€œThat’s what the chief told me, and he added—and this is a quote—‘Your boy Lyons is through.’”
    â€œWhat? What the hell does that mean?”
    â€œI don’t know, but that’s what he said. There’s a news conference coming up. I’m heading there now.”
    â€œAll right. Thanks, Morty.”
    As I entered the warming darkness of the Redwood, I heard the greeting. “Hit ’n’ Run!”
    In all the years I’ve been coming to the Redwood, I had never seen Danny come from behind the shelter of his bar unless it was time for him to leave. Never, until today. Danny saw me, yelled out