Eyes of the Innocent: A Mystery by Brad Parks Page B

A1?”
    “Something like that, yeah.” Szanto said.
    “Just about to file,” I assured him.
    “Good. You got a quote from the mortgage company, right?”
    I looked down at my shoes and tried desperately not to look sheepish.
    “We, uh, had a little problem there,” I began.
    Szanto didn’t wait to hear the rest. He burst out with a long string of language that would have made my grandmother cover her ears, finishing it with, “… and I told you to write it hard. We can’t tell this sob story where we make the predatory lender the bad guy and not reach out to the bad guy and give them the opportunity to tell the other side.”
    “I know, I know,” I said. “I had Sweet Thang run up to the courthouse and pull the mortgage. But it was missing.”
    “Missing?”
    “Yeah. She said the computer file didn’t exist, and when she went to look for the hard copy, it wasn’t in the books. So we don’t actually know who the mortgage company is.”
    Szanto considered this news for a moment as he gulped some coffee out of a large Dunkin’ Donuts cup he had been reusing for weeks, judging from the stains on it. He frowned at the coffee, like it had just told him to lose weight and stop smoking.
    “This coffee is crap,” he said, then took another large swallow. He frowned again.
    “Well, we can’t run the story without talking to the mortgage company, the broker, or someone to give it some balance,” he said. “I’m holding it.”
    Holding a story means it’s not going to run in the next day’s paper. While that may not sound like such a devastating thing, it’s remarkable how quickly something that’s been held for a day becomes stale. It doesn’t actually lose news value to the outside world. But it does lose buzz within the building. By the next day, the cabal of editors who make the decision about where to place stories in the paper feel like they’ve already been hearing about your story for an eternity. And given their attention spans—think: salamander—they get bored quickly. So even though it would still be new news to readers, it’s treated like old news by the editors. What is surefire A1 material on Day One becomes back-of-the-book fodder on any day thereafter, and the next thing you know your brilliant narrative is just filling space above ads for assisted living facilities.
    “Aw, come on, don’t do that,” I said. “What if I was able to find the guy who sold her the mortgage and get a comment from him?”
    Szanto grimaced. “I told the future ex–Mrs. Szanto I wouldn’t be home late tonight,” he said.
    There were already two ex–Mrs. Szantos. And with the way he treated his wives—giving them about as much care and attention as most people give their rental cars—it was pretty much assumed there would be more.
    “How about this: if I can get the broker by eight, we run the story. After eight, it holds. Deal?”
    “Fine,” Szanto said.
    “Great,” I said, peeling out of his office before he could modify the arrangement.
    I looked at the clock on the wall—6:07—and was actually feeling pretty good about things until I got back to my desk. That’s when I sat down and realized there was only one way I was going to find the goateed, shaved-headed, so-called Puerto Rican man: Go to the Baxter Terrace Public Housing Project after dark.
    Don’t get me wrong, going to the projects any time of the day wasn’t exactly my idea of fun. There were certain dangers constant to Newark’s rougher projects—junkies were not known for keeping stringent track of time, and a junkie that needed money for a fix was always unpredictable. But at least during the day there were normal people out in the courtyards. Old ladies sat on stoops, kids played ball, mothers watched their babies. The dealers were still around, sure, but the regular folks could maintain at least a modicum of social order. It didn’t matter how hardcore a gangbanger was, he still respected a grandma—his own or someone