The Anonymous Source by A.C. Fuller Read Free Book Online

be doing segments on CNN before you know it. But pray for something dramatic at the trial—sexual abuse, some dirt about the professor. Maybe it’ll turn out the kid’s innocent. If the trial goes national you could ride it . . . hell, who knows where?” He turned to the bartender. “Ma’am, another for me and get this young man one, too. He needs to learn how to drink the good stuff.”
    Lance emptied his glass and turned to Alex. “Why do you want to leave for local TV anyway? This merger goes through and we might be a TV station.”
    “I’ve heard they’re gonna keep the paper if the deal goes final,” Alex said.
    The bartender set down a curved glass and poured the liquor.
    “When the guys from Nation Corp. move in, The Standard will be a one-page flyer,” Lance said. “And you’ll be doing two-minute segments on Court TV.”
    Alex ran his finger around the rim of the cognac glass. He turned to Lance. “You think Santiago did it?”
    “Doesn’t matter if he did it, matters how big the story gets. Not that it could get much bigger.”
    “But do you think he did it?”
    “You’re askin’ the wrong question.”
    Alex picked up the glass and smelled. “I don’t drink brown liquor.”
    Lance shook his head. “You got a lot to learn, son.”
    “So school me.”
    “First of all, journalists don’t drink vodka.”
    “Why not?”
    “Who knows, but I heard Edward R. Murrow say it when he gave a talk at Syracuse in 1963, so it must be true.” Lance was slurring his words now. “Second, you’re screwed unless you go for it when you get your chance, which is now. I started at The Standard ten years before ESPN was born, when the sports section was all people had. I knew athletes were gonna run the world soon. That job was my shot and by the time I was thirty we had the best sports section in the city. I did coke with half the pro-athletes in New York in the eighties. We were kings back then. Now? For a kid like you there’s nowhere to go in this business but down. Or, if you’re lucky, sideways.”
    “So what are you saying?”
    “Don’t screw up this story. Do what the Colonel says, get your pretty face on CNN, and use that to get a TV job, if that’s what you want.”
    Alex emptied the glass and grimaced. Lance shook his head. “You just shot a twenty dollar glass of champagne cognac.”
    “Was I not supposed to?”
    Lance smacked him on the back of his head. At the same time, someone touched Alex’s shoulder. He turned.
    Greta Mori stood before him at about five foot six, with long, black braids hanging in front of her shoulders. Alex was surprised but stood up and gave her a brief hug. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’m always late.”
    “Greta,” he said. “Oh, uh, late? Um, this is Lance. We work together. Lance, this is Greta. She’s a . . . yoga teacher.”
    Lance smiled into his drink.
    “I’m a body worker,” she said, holding one hand out to Lance while smacking Alex on the shoulder with the other. “Wait, you don’t even remember that you invited me to meet you here tonight.” She smoothed her white linen dress under her as she sat on a barstool next to Alex.
    Alex flushed. “What had happened was . . . I had been planning to meet you here . . . and then Lance called and I . . . and then what happened was . . . Never mind. I’m an asshole. But enough about me. What do you think of me?”
    Greta turned to Lance. “Asshole pretty much sums it up.”
    Lance laughed. “But at least he knows he’s an asshole. That’s a start.”
    Alex leaned forward between them. “You guys know I’m still sitting here, right?”
    * * *
    An hour later, Alex and Greta walked out of the bar, arm in arm. “My apartment is ten blocks north,” Alex said.
    “Then let’s hurry.”
    The streets were mostly deserted and they walked in silence. At 88th street, Alex glanced back and saw a tall, rail-thin man walking about half a block behind them. Alex stopped and the