The Spoiler by Domenic Stansberry Read Free Book Online

didn’t she just keep quiet and let Brunner go about his business? He thought back to the interview with Jack Brunner and Tony Liuzza that he’d witnessed in the press box. There had definitely been some tension between the two men. If what the boys in the press box said was true, Liuzza’s jump from one side of the Democratic party to the other was not pure principle. Meanwhile, Jack Brunner had his business interests to look after. If the state was balking on providing funds for his Holyoke buildings, then maybe Brunner was recouping his losses in other ways. Burning the buildings, collecting the insurance—that would be one way out of a bad investment. Maybe Amanti was right.
    â€œHow do you know all this?” he asked.
    She didn’t answer right away, and when she did answer, it wasn’t to the point, or didn’t seem to be. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” she said. Still, he could understand her being afraid of Brunner. The man reminded him of a bulldog. And if Brunner was capable of hiring arsonists, he was probably capable of hiring other characters as well.
    â€œNo, I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” she said again. He suddenly realized, by the way she turned and looked at him, by the tone of her voice, that she was about to give him somebody’s name, that of the person who would be hurt. He remembered a woman he had interviewed once, a burglary victim, who had suddenly spat out her nephew’s name.
    â€œYou have to promise to keep me out of it. I can get you in touch with someone who knows more than I do, but you’ll have to be careful. You’ll have to approach him right. He’s frightened.”
    â€œI’m a reporter, not a psychiatrist,” Lofton said. The edge in his voice grew sharper. “I can’t worry about your friend’s feelings. I really don’t know if there’s anything I can do anyway. What’s your idea, for me to write a story that puts Brunner away? That’s not the way things happen. And why me? There are a hundred other reporters in this town.”
    â€œYou’re new. Brunner, well, he controls a lot of people.”
    Amanti went to the window. He was angry. He liked this less and less. Most journalists stayed away from anything that looked dangerous. A lot of stuff went on that the law termed crime, but it was the way the world worked, legal or not. To try to make your reputation by nailing someone to the wall, that was foolish business. If you wanted to write something like that, you’d be best off changing the names and calling it fiction. That way readers could draw their own conclusions, and there would be no lawsuits, no angry politicians, no angry men in organized crime. At least not usually.
    He got up from the table. Amanti followed him to the front room, where he hesitated in front of the colorful, cheerless paintings. She touched him gently on the arm. He liked the contact but mistrusted her at the same time. Yet he had to admit she might be leading him into a good story: the Redwings struggling while the team’s owner burned the city around them.
    â€œRandy Gutierrez …” she said. That was the name, the person she did not want to see hurt.
    â€œGutierrez? The Nicaraguan?”
    Amanti looked at the painting. She pressed her fingers against his arm in the same stiff way she had pressed them against the counter. He looked at the scar on her cheek and wanted to touch it.
    â€œGutierrez. Well …” Lofton sighed. He had been thinking of interviewing Randy Gutierrez, the Redwings’ shortstop. He might as well go ahead.
    â€œI’ll feel him out and let you know.” Lofton suddenly saw himself dead, lying on the garage floor in Colorado, blood dried on his mouth.
    Amanti withdrew her hand. “Good, but please don’t come up to me in front of Brunner, not at the field. Call me here.”
    Lofton followed her to the door. He watched the