this morning. I took a part-time job. I’ll have the column for you soon.”
“What the bark are you talking about? Screw the column. I want you on this story.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, Mel, but I’m doing something else that might be a good story. Besides, this has been done to death. It’s over now.”
“Over? Are you fopping kidding? This is just the lucking beginning. The cops and the DA are downstairs with subpoenas. The faking FBI just called. Everybody but the Department of Agriculture.”
“You mean you didn’t give the cops the names of the hookers? You made the cops look bad?”
“Hey, if I give cops the names, they’ll give it to the
Mail
and end our exclusive. No farting way. Orlando is trying to shanghai the wenches now, get them out of town. The lawyers are on the way over here to deal with the canting cops and the feds. By the way, don’t come here. You probably should also stay away from home for a few days, too—on us, of course. You earned it.”
“Why?”
“I think those grass-holes may have a grand jury subpoena or an arrest warrant or something for you. Don’t worry about it—we’ll take care of it.”
“Good to know. Thanks for your help, Mel.”
I hung up. He tried calling right back but I let it go to voice mail. I dialed Sparky and told him I wasn’t happy to be on the story. He apologized. I asked him for the names, ages and addresses of the pastel playmates. I had noticed his photo credit on the clothed pictures of the hookers that went with Orlando’s piece. Sparky looked it up on his phone. I wrote it down. He apologized again.
“I thought you deserved credit, man. They were going to cut you out, so I went to the boss. That asshole Orlando told Mel he spotted the girls, not you!”
“That’s okay with me,” I said.
“Seriously? I don’t get you, man. This is a fucking giant story. Why wouldn’t you want in—especially after you were the one who nailed it? You might get a book out of this, or a movie.”
“I don’t like gossip,” I explained. “Talking about other people’s sex lives is more boring than golf on TV. I know I’ve been away a long time but whenever they put me on gossip, I have no clue who these assholes are.”
“Shit, it’s all gossip now, buddy. What else is there?”
“Murder. Somebody’s got to catch the bad guy, so the family can sleep at night.”
“What? Shepherd, were you in the army or the Boy Scouts?”
“Both, actually.”
14
I dialed Major Case Squad Detective Lieutenant Izzy Negron on his cell. I thought my favorite Jewish-Puerto Rican investigator would be happy to hear from his pet columnist pal.
“Oh, no,” Izzy groaned as he answered.
“Nice to speak to you, too, Izzy.”
“I just saw the fucking paper. I do not want a bite of that,” Izzy said.
“How do you know I’m calling about Hardstein?”
“You’re not?”
“No, I am, sort of.”
“Shit. I am
not
on that case.”
“That’s what I keep telling my boss.”
“I feel bad for Hardstein’s family,” Izzy said. “Talk about a shonda for the goyim. As my father used to say, ‘
Lo agarro con las pendejo en la chocha
.’ What do you mean you’re not on the story? Your name is on the front page, Shepherd.”
I didn’t speak Yiddish or Spanish and couldn’t compete, unless we started speaking Urdu or Pashto.
“As my father used to say, ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Don’t your bosses give you credit for things you didn’t do?”
“Never,” Izzy said. “I can’t get credit for the shit I
actually
do.”
“Look, off the record, I have the names of the hookers who were with the senator.”
“The shameless shiksas? Off the record, so what? The guy had a heart attack, went out with a smile.
A bi gezunt
. This is Major Case, not major hard-on. Call 911, amigo.”
“My current paper is going to the mats, protecting the ladies’ names, but it’s bullshit,” I told him. “They’re just
“What the bark are you talking about? Screw the column. I want you on this story.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, Mel, but I’m doing something else that might be a good story. Besides, this has been done to death. It’s over now.”
“Over? Are you fopping kidding? This is just the lucking beginning. The cops and the DA are downstairs with subpoenas. The faking FBI just called. Everybody but the Department of Agriculture.”
“You mean you didn’t give the cops the names of the hookers? You made the cops look bad?”
“Hey, if I give cops the names, they’ll give it to the
and end our exclusive. No farting way. Orlando is trying to shanghai the wenches now, get them out of town. The lawyers are on the way over here to deal with the canting cops and the feds. By the way, don’t come here. You probably should also stay away from home for a few days, too—on us, of course. You earned it.”
“Why?”
“I think those grass-holes may have a grand jury subpoena or an arrest warrant or something for you. Don’t worry about it—we’ll take care of it.”
“Good to know. Thanks for your help, Mel.”
I hung up. He tried calling right back but I let it go to voice mail. I dialed Sparky and told him I wasn’t happy to be on the story. He apologized. I asked him for the names, ages and addresses of the pastel playmates. I had noticed his photo credit on the clothed pictures of the hookers that went with Orlando’s piece. Sparky looked it up on his phone. I wrote it down. He apologized again.
“I thought you deserved credit, man. They were going to cut you out, so I went to the boss. That asshole Orlando told Mel he spotted the girls, not you!”
“That’s okay with me,” I said.
“Seriously? I don’t get you, man. This is a fucking giant story. Why wouldn’t you want in—especially after you were the one who nailed it? You might get a book out of this, or a movie.”
“I don’t like gossip,” I explained. “Talking about other people’s sex lives is more boring than golf on TV. I know I’ve been away a long time but whenever they put me on gossip, I have no clue who these assholes are.”
“Shit, it’s all gossip now, buddy. What else is there?”
“Murder. Somebody’s got to catch the bad guy, so the family can sleep at night.”
“What? Shepherd, were you in the army or the Boy Scouts?”
“Both, actually.”
14
I dialed Major Case Squad Detective Lieutenant Izzy Negron on his cell. I thought my favorite Jewish-Puerto Rican investigator would be happy to hear from his pet columnist pal.
“Oh, no,” Izzy groaned as he answered.
“Nice to speak to you, too, Izzy.”
“I just saw the fucking paper. I do not want a bite of that,” Izzy said.
“How do you know I’m calling about Hardstein?”
“You’re not?”
“No, I am, sort of.”
“Shit. I am
not
on that case.”
“That’s what I keep telling my boss.”
“I feel bad for Hardstein’s family,” Izzy said. “Talk about a shonda for the goyim. As my father used to say, ‘
Lo agarro con las pendejo en la chocha
.’ What do you mean you’re not on the story? Your name is on the front page, Shepherd.”
I didn’t speak Yiddish or Spanish and couldn’t compete, unless we started speaking Urdu or Pashto.
“As my father used to say, ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Don’t your bosses give you credit for things you didn’t do?”
“Never,” Izzy said. “I can’t get credit for the shit I
actually
do.”
“Look, off the record, I have the names of the hookers who were with the senator.”
“The shameless shiksas? Off the record, so what? The guy had a heart attack, went out with a smile.
A bi gezunt
. This is Major Case, not major hard-on. Call 911, amigo.”
“My current paper is going to the mats, protecting the ladies’ names, but it’s bullshit,” I told him. “They’re just
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