call me anything you want,” I said.
He was quiet for a moment.
“You’re in witness protection. Interesting,” he said. “We must’ve met, but I can’t place you, I admit it. Nicely done. You don’t have to confirm anything. I know the drill.”
“How’s the book coming?” I asked.
“Slowly. Who told you about that?”
“It’s on your web site. You should check it once in a while. Anyway, it’s understandable. You’ve been on a big story over a period of years. You’re eager to track down a key player. Getting by as a freelance journalist isn’t easy, now that they’ve broomed you out of the Post . Why wouldn’t you be writing a book?”
“Hey, not broomed. I was empowered to seek fresh opportunities.”
Henry wasn’t a young man. The grey hair, paunch, baby boomer affectations, sun damage on his pale skin figured him to be about sixty, maybe a little more or less. His eyes were widely spaced, and close to bulging. But brimming with a stirred-up mix of defiance and self-deprecation.
I knew the type. I’d always cultivated relationships with reporters at newspapers and trade magazines, print and online. They were my favorite starting points when venturing into a new realm of inquiry, and my favorite sources at the wrap-up phase.
I liked their inquisitiveness, since it was a lot like mine. And their intelligence and eagerness to cross rhetorical swords. I didn’t like their arrogance and first amendment-entitled insufferability, but nobody’s perfect.
“I have a proposition,” I said. “I doubt you’re going to like it. But I’m proposing it anyway.”
“O-kay,” said Henry, stretching out each syllable, unsure.
“I don’t know where Sebbie is. But if you give me a few key pieces of information, I’ll find him.”
Henry had been sitting sideways on the bench. Now he swiveled around and faced the Sound. He slapped the tops of his thighs and huffed a few times.
“You’re right. I don’t like that at all. What kind of a putz do you think I am? Who’re you working for? Sebbie’s not my favorite person, character-wise, but I’m not helping you kill him.”
“I’m not going to kill him. I just want to talk to him. And I’m not working for anyone but myself. Like you.”
“I suppose you can’t prove any of that.”
“No. If you decide to help me, it’ll be blind trust,” I said. “You won’t know immediately if that trust was justified. But if things go as hoped, your agenda will be advanced in ways that might prove the salvation of your book project.” I turned and faced him. “If you help me,” I said, “your knowledge of the world will expand exponentially. If you decide not to, I’ll just go to the next name on my list and he or she will have that privilege.”
I stood up and started to walk away. He called to me to come back, but I kept walking. A careful study of the behavior of anti-hero archetypes, which I’d made when I was about twelve years old, taught me that indifference to the supplications of the recently put-down amplified their desire to restore the relationship.
“Okay, okay,” Henry yelled. “Come on back. We can talk.”
I took a few more paces, but at a slower pace, then turned slowly, reluctantly, as I’d seen Steve McQueen do. I walked back to the bench, and after taking a moment for my injured brain to locate exactly where it was, I sat down.
“What is your deal, man? I don’t get it,” he said.
“My deal is my deal. Your deal is your book. Where we converge is a wish to talk to Sebbie. All you have to do is tell me the name of his closest confidant. Based on your articles, I’m guessing it’s Wayne Frankenfelder, owner of the Miss Kitty Lounge. Sebbie seems to think of him as a surrogate son. Or so you implied in your reporting.”
“Who cares who his friends are?”
“Human connections are irresistible. Whether you’re a journalist or a street thug, you risk everything to keep the ones you value intact. Especially a
He was quiet for a moment.
“You’re in witness protection. Interesting,” he said. “We must’ve met, but I can’t place you, I admit it. Nicely done. You don’t have to confirm anything. I know the drill.”
“How’s the book coming?” I asked.
“Slowly. Who told you about that?”
“It’s on your web site. You should check it once in a while. Anyway, it’s understandable. You’ve been on a big story over a period of years. You’re eager to track down a key player. Getting by as a freelance journalist isn’t easy, now that they’ve broomed you out of the Post . Why wouldn’t you be writing a book?”
“Hey, not broomed. I was empowered to seek fresh opportunities.”
Henry wasn’t a young man. The grey hair, paunch, baby boomer affectations, sun damage on his pale skin figured him to be about sixty, maybe a little more or less. His eyes were widely spaced, and close to bulging. But brimming with a stirred-up mix of defiance and self-deprecation.
I knew the type. I’d always cultivated relationships with reporters at newspapers and trade magazines, print and online. They were my favorite starting points when venturing into a new realm of inquiry, and my favorite sources at the wrap-up phase.
I liked their inquisitiveness, since it was a lot like mine. And their intelligence and eagerness to cross rhetorical swords. I didn’t like their arrogance and first amendment-entitled insufferability, but nobody’s perfect.
“I have a proposition,” I said. “I doubt you’re going to like it. But I’m proposing it anyway.”
“O-kay,” said Henry, stretching out each syllable, unsure.
“I don’t know where Sebbie is. But if you give me a few key pieces of information, I’ll find him.”
Henry had been sitting sideways on the bench. Now he swiveled around and faced the Sound. He slapped the tops of his thighs and huffed a few times.
“You’re right. I don’t like that at all. What kind of a putz do you think I am? Who’re you working for? Sebbie’s not my favorite person, character-wise, but I’m not helping you kill him.”
“I’m not going to kill him. I just want to talk to him. And I’m not working for anyone but myself. Like you.”
“I suppose you can’t prove any of that.”
“No. If you decide to help me, it’ll be blind trust,” I said. “You won’t know immediately if that trust was justified. But if things go as hoped, your agenda will be advanced in ways that might prove the salvation of your book project.” I turned and faced him. “If you help me,” I said, “your knowledge of the world will expand exponentially. If you decide not to, I’ll just go to the next name on my list and he or she will have that privilege.”
I stood up and started to walk away. He called to me to come back, but I kept walking. A careful study of the behavior of anti-hero archetypes, which I’d made when I was about twelve years old, taught me that indifference to the supplications of the recently put-down amplified their desire to restore the relationship.
“Okay, okay,” Henry yelled. “Come on back. We can talk.”
I took a few more paces, but at a slower pace, then turned slowly, reluctantly, as I’d seen Steve McQueen do. I walked back to the bench, and after taking a moment for my injured brain to locate exactly where it was, I sat down.
“What is your deal, man? I don’t get it,” he said.
“My deal is my deal. Your deal is your book. Where we converge is a wish to talk to Sebbie. All you have to do is tell me the name of his closest confidant. Based on your articles, I’m guessing it’s Wayne Frankenfelder, owner of the Miss Kitty Lounge. Sebbie seems to think of him as a surrogate son. Or so you implied in your reporting.”
“Who cares who his friends are?”
“Human connections are irresistible. Whether you’re a journalist or a street thug, you risk everything to keep the ones you value intact. Especially a
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