him on a streetcar, or walking by the lake, or browsing in some suburban shopping mall. One day, Amankwah was at the overcrowded and run-down courthouse in a strip mall in Scarborough, covering a preliminary inquiry into a shooting that had killed two innocent people at a street party, one of them a child. When he went to the washroom, there was Church, washing his hands in the dirty sink. An old camera was slung over his shoulder.
“Oh, hello,” he said, as if they were fast friends.
“Hi,” Amankwah said, stunned. “You out here to watch this shooting case?”
“Of course not,” Church said. “Everyone else is fucking doing that. I’m taking pictures. I started out in the business as a photog. This place is a disaster. Imagine putting a courthouse in a strip mall in the middle of nowhere? Who in the world thought this is a good idea? Well, must be off. Ta-ra.”
When Church came back from his two weeks of “walking around,” he called everyone together again. “The only fucking promise I’m going to make,” he said, to the group of now very intrigued reporters, “is that no meetings like this will last more than five minutes. Every ass-sitting, scumbag-sucking media pundit out there says newspapers are dying. Probably bloody right. Look, we’ve got the fifth-biggest city in North America here. There’s got to be much more sex, drugs, and rock and roll going on, with a lovely dose of crime and corruption thrown in for some fun. If we’re sinking anyways, let’s at least kick in some windows.”
Over the next few weeks, reporters talked about their “chats” with Church. He’d read each of their articles for the last few years, and wanted to know how to help them have more “fun.” Even the most cynical, veteran reporters found themselves inspired.
Amankwah’s turn was tomorrow afternoon. He’d been fretting about it for days. Worried that he hadn’t landed a good story all summer. What new and exciting things could he offer up to fit Church’s idea of fun?
Now he had the after-date story, with hockey players and call girls, and the hint of cops being involved. Add to this the Raglan motel murder. He’d have to come up with a good headline for that and call it in to the desk to impress Church.
Maybe CASE CLOSED ON PROSECUTOR. Or MOTEL MURDER MYSTERY. How about HEAD CROWN CAUGHT IN STRANGLEHOLD ?
That’s the ticket.
He couldn’t wait until tomorrow when he could reboot his career. It had turned out to be a great Monday after all.
18
“DAD,” GREENE SAID, LEANING ON THE RAKE HE WAS USING ON HIS FATHER’S LAWN, “SHE’S twenty-five years younger than you.”
Greene’s father was staring at the backside of his latest girlfriend, a larger-than-life Russian bombshell named Klavdiya, as she strutted up the concrete steps to his little bungalow. He snapped his head toward Ari. “Twenty-three and a half,” he said. “And you won’t let me drive at night. She drives at night.”
It was a beautiful evening and all Greene could think was, Jennifer’s dead. She’s missing this gorgeous sunset. And everything else.
He bent down, grabbed a pile of weeds, grass clippings, and a few early falling leaves, and dumped them in the paper yard-waste bag by his side. “I bet she does,” he said.
His mother had died two years earlier, after an extended descent into Alzheimer’s, and since then Greene’s father had been making up for lost time. First came a parade of women near his age, and almost his height. Armed with casseroles, they arrived at his front door, blush freshly applied to their cheeks, lips tight with determination. Then there were taller women, ten, maybe fifteen years younger. They showered him with tickets to the ballet, the symphony, and the theatre. And one, to Greene’s utter amazement, even got his father to go to the opera.
Somehow, a few months ago, he’d discovered Russian woman. Were they really Jewish? Or just Jewish enough to get out of the old Soviet Union
“Oh, hello,” he said, as if they were fast friends.
“Hi,” Amankwah said, stunned. “You out here to watch this shooting case?”
“Of course not,” Church said. “Everyone else is fucking doing that. I’m taking pictures. I started out in the business as a photog. This place is a disaster. Imagine putting a courthouse in a strip mall in the middle of nowhere? Who in the world thought this is a good idea? Well, must be off. Ta-ra.”
When Church came back from his two weeks of “walking around,” he called everyone together again. “The only fucking promise I’m going to make,” he said, to the group of now very intrigued reporters, “is that no meetings like this will last more than five minutes. Every ass-sitting, scumbag-sucking media pundit out there says newspapers are dying. Probably bloody right. Look, we’ve got the fifth-biggest city in North America here. There’s got to be much more sex, drugs, and rock and roll going on, with a lovely dose of crime and corruption thrown in for some fun. If we’re sinking anyways, let’s at least kick in some windows.”
Over the next few weeks, reporters talked about their “chats” with Church. He’d read each of their articles for the last few years, and wanted to know how to help them have more “fun.” Even the most cynical, veteran reporters found themselves inspired.
Amankwah’s turn was tomorrow afternoon. He’d been fretting about it for days. Worried that he hadn’t landed a good story all summer. What new and exciting things could he offer up to fit Church’s idea of fun?
Now he had the after-date story, with hockey players and call girls, and the hint of cops being involved. Add to this the Raglan motel murder. He’d have to come up with a good headline for that and call it in to the desk to impress Church.
Maybe CASE CLOSED ON PROSECUTOR. Or MOTEL MURDER MYSTERY. How about HEAD CROWN CAUGHT IN STRANGLEHOLD ?
That’s the ticket.
He couldn’t wait until tomorrow when he could reboot his career. It had turned out to be a great Monday after all.
18
“DAD,” GREENE SAID, LEANING ON THE RAKE HE WAS USING ON HIS FATHER’S LAWN, “SHE’S twenty-five years younger than you.”
Greene’s father was staring at the backside of his latest girlfriend, a larger-than-life Russian bombshell named Klavdiya, as she strutted up the concrete steps to his little bungalow. He snapped his head toward Ari. “Twenty-three and a half,” he said. “And you won’t let me drive at night. She drives at night.”
It was a beautiful evening and all Greene could think was, Jennifer’s dead. She’s missing this gorgeous sunset. And everything else.
He bent down, grabbed a pile of weeds, grass clippings, and a few early falling leaves, and dumped them in the paper yard-waste bag by his side. “I bet she does,” he said.
His mother had died two years earlier, after an extended descent into Alzheimer’s, and since then Greene’s father had been making up for lost time. First came a parade of women near his age, and almost his height. Armed with casseroles, they arrived at his front door, blush freshly applied to their cheeks, lips tight with determination. Then there were taller women, ten, maybe fifteen years younger. They showered him with tickets to the ballet, the symphony, and the theatre. And one, to Greene’s utter amazement, even got his father to go to the opera.
Somehow, a few months ago, he’d discovered Russian woman. Were they really Jewish? Or just Jewish enough to get out of the old Soviet Union
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