Meter Maids Eat Their Young by E. J. Knapp Read Free Book Online Page A

years. Often, if he had a perplexing problem or a difficult decision to make, he would come to me and we would talk. Off the record, of course. He called me around 8:00p.m. the night he was murdered, wanted to meet the following day. He said he had something important to talk to me about.”
    I thought about what the Mangler had said, implying there was a connection between Harrison’s death and the destruction of the parking meters. Add to that the opposition HL was confronting and the SUV that had shown up twice yesterday, and a third time when it tried to run me down later in the evening – an SUV that matched the description Skeeter had given for the one cruising the monorail parking lot about the time Harrison’s body was dumped – and the connection became obvious. We were all three targeting the DPE.  Were HL and I in their crosshairs now as well?  Seemed a safe bet we were.
    â€œYou think there’s a connection,” I said.
    â€œDo you believe there might not be?”
    I considered telling him about the Mangler’s message and my encounters the previous day, but decided against it.
    â€œAnd if there is a connection,” he said. “You may well be in the line of fire.”

Hock It To Me
    By the time I got back to my office, my stomach was churning like one of those smoothie machines. My skin felt clammy, cold. My heart was racing, the sound of it a hollow drumbeat in my ears, like a distant call to action. It took me a moment to realize I was enjoying the feeling, like a lost memory lovingly recalled. It had been a long time since I’d done anything that made me feel threatened and that was exactly what I was feeling.
    Were Harrison’s investigation of the DPE and his death related? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Had to be but how and why? And was last night an attempt on my life or an effort to scare me off the story? It sure seemed like that and though it scared me, they’d have to kill me to make me back off a story.
    And what the hell did the Mangler have to do with all of this?
    I glanced at the clock and saw it was just past 8.00 a.m. I’d skipped breakfast so I decided a cigarette and couple of dogs were in order. I walked out my office and, as I hurried across the newsroom floor, someone called my name.
    â€œMr. Teller.”
    I stopped, doing the Three Stooges’ ‘slowly I turn’ routine in my head, my body following the thought.  I hated being called mister.  A young kid stood behind a battered desk. Pink cheeks, eyes bright, an eager expression on his face.
    â€œI just wanted to say your Sunday editorial was … well, an inspiration, sir,” he said.
    My first response was to ask him why he was sucking up to me. I tempered that and walked back to him, noting the freshly printed piece of paper in his hand.
    â€œWe used to type those,” I said, feeling like an old fool. “Underwoods on every desk.”
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “So, uh …” I peered at the name tag pinned to his shirt, “Wesley, what are you working on?”
    He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand.
    â€œOh,” he said. “Nothing. Nothing as important as the Mangler, sir. Just some homeless guy who was mugged.”
    â€œ Just some homeless guy … mugged?” I said. “All the stories you’re sent out to cover are important, kid. Don’t ever forget that. What you see that means nothing today might mean something important tomorrow.”
    â€œYes, sir. Thank you, sir. I didn’t mean to imply—”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, kid. Just follow the story through.”
    â€œYes, sir, I’ll do that, sir.”
    â€œOh, and one last thing, Wesley.”
    â€œWhat’s that, sir?”
    â€œStop calling me ‘sir’.”
    I looked around the newsroom, noticing for the first time that all activity had stopped during this brief