Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 8

Interstate 80 connects New York to San Francisco, waving hello and then goodbye to several Midwestern cities along the way. But this particular westbound stretch between Toledo, Ohio, and the Indiana-Illinois border offered little of interest.

Alex Chapa watched the speedometer climb past seventy, then thought better of it, remembering that he was transporting precious cargo, and eased off the accelerator. He was about to sneak another glance at the backseat when his cell phone began playing “Daydream Believer.” Until recently its ringtone had been set to “Guantanamera,” the classic Cuban tune that his aunt Caridad once claimed was her signature song back when she performed at the Tropicana—before “The Beard” ruined paradise.

Chapa checked to see who it was, and saw Chicago Record on the caller I.D. He had taken two weeks off from the paper, which meant he wasn’t required to give a damn about the call. It was the first time he’d been away from his job for that length of time since the birth of his daughter, more than ten years earlier.

He chose to ignore it, wondering what could be so important that someone would bother him with it during a rare off-time. There were other writers at the paper. Few with more experience, perhaps none as accomplished, but so what? He was off the clock.

Chapa let it go, and turned his attention back to the countryside racing past in dying shades of red and brown. His thoughts melting into the lonesome notes that were cascading out of a long lost saxophone and pouring in through his car speakers, Chapa focused on the road ahead, and the unique opportunities the next few days would offer.

Again, the speedometer in his late 90s Corolla slipped into the red, a fact that Chapa was alerted to by the rattling of his driver’s side door handle. He eased off the gas, again. The car ran just fine at speeds beyond the legal limit, something Chapa tested on a regular basis. Despite its age, the Corolla didn’t have any rust on its aqua-green exterior, the air conditioning worked most of the time, and the heater always blew hot, especially in July when the car sometimes confused the two.

But on this trip, Chapa had far more important concerns than the condition of his vehicle. For that matter, Chapa didn’t much care whether he pulled into his driveway an hour early or two hours late. His priorities had shifted in a different and welcome direction.

Stan Getz was cruising through “Misty” when the phone interrupted again. Apparently, someone at the assignment desk hadn’t gotten the message that Alex Chapa was not available. But it was strange that they would call twice. One call could have been an oversight, but two suggested intent. He decided to check his messages, something he hadn’t done since stopping for breakfast that morning just outside of Erie, Pennsylvania.

Chapa immediately recognized a harried voice belonging to Matt Sullivan, the news editor at the Record.

Alex, I know you’re taking some vacation time, but I could really use you back at the paper. Something terrible happened last night to Jim Chakowski, and with everything that’s going on right now, I need you to step in for him as soon as you can.

Chapa listened to the message twice. Matt Sullivan wasn’t prone to wild exaggeration or quick to panic. Chakowski had been the paper’s chief political reporter since before Chapa started there fifteen years earlier. The veteran newsman had taken Chapa under his wing and guided him through some difficult times.

What could’ve happened? Chapa wondered. Something terrible? If it had been a heart attack or car accident Sullivan would’ve said so. Concerned for his friend, he tried to think of a way to find out without calling the paper. When he came up dry, Chapa let out a long breath, and phoned his editor.

“It’s awful, Alex. They’re blaming it on a gas leak, maybe some bad electrical wiring, or a combination of the two.”

“How did it happen?”

“Damned if I know. But it was an old house, and it had old wiring and probably even older pipes.” It sounded like Sullivan was making no effort to hide the tension in his voice. “You’re heading back, right? On your way home?”

“That’s right. What was Jim working on?”

Chapa felt himself slipping back into investigative reporter mode. His instincts muscling out everything else.

“The usual, local business news, some politics. I’m sure there was a pet story or two that he was tracking. But Chakowski is like you.”

Chapa noticed Sullivan’s use of present tense—Chakowski is like you. It would take a while for a lot of folks to get used to the idea that someone as vital as Jim Chakowski was gone, just like that.

“I take that as a compliment, Matt. But like me, how?”

“You both have a habit of telling me what you’re up to on a need-to-know basis. As a result, your editor sometimes doesn’t know much.”

Chapa liked Sullivan. The guy didn’t always hold his own against the brass, but he was one of the good guys and very good at his job.

“Look, Matt, I’d love to help out, I think you know how I feel about Jim, but I don’t know squat about his beat,” Sullivan was trying to sneak in a word or two, but Chapa didn’t let him. “And even if I did, I’ve got other plans for the next several days.”

“I know you do, and I respect that, but it wouldn’t take much time, not really. Jim already had a couple of stories in the pipeline, and I could scale back the number of column inches you’d have to fill.”

Chapa wanted to think about this situation, and told Sullivan that, then signed off before his editor could pitch it to him again. Part of him felt he owed it to Chakowski. Who else could take over? No one. Then there was the issue of job security, or rather the lack of it. Sullivan had been decent enough to avoid bringing that up. But Chapa, like most other newspaper reporters in the twenty-first century, had no guarantee of still having a job next month, or even next week.

Those were the simple realities of working in an outdated industry, and several years of falling revenues and budget cuts had left him vulnerable to the next wave of layoffs. He was well paid and a columnist, both of which made him expendable. Taking over an existing beat could buy Chapa an extra week on the job, and maybe that could lead to an extra month, perhaps longer.

He took his eyes off the road long enough to sneak a glance in the direction of the backseat, and reasoned that doing what his editor was asking would only take him away for three or four hours a day, tops. When Sullivan called back a short while later, Chapa didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll do it, Matt, but I get overtime for the next two weeks.”

“I can do that.”

“And none of this counts as vacation time.”

“A little tougher to pull off, but consider it done.”

“Give me the address.”

“806 Dwight Street, it’s over by—”

“I know where it is, I’ve lived in Oakton for a long time. I’ll be there in less than two hours.”

As Chapa put the phone back into a cup holder that was still sticky from a minor coffee spill a week earlier, he heard his traveling companion stirring in the backseat. He took a look in his rearview and saw her eyes open.

“Hi Daddy,” Nikki said in a voice that was still more asleep than awake. “Did I hear my favorite song playing on your cell phone?”