Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Five

No sooner have I taken my seat on the taped-up stool at the end of the bar in Shangri-La, than I feel a hand on my shoulder. I jump and nearly spill my drink.

"You must feel really good about yourself," a visibly irritated Allah says.

I assume he's referring to the generally positive reception I've gotten this evening over my latest article about what appears to be a conspiracy to traffic young girls in Chicago. The final edition of the Midway won't go to press for two more hours, but the story has been live on the newspaper's website since about six p.m.

In fact, even as he scowls at me, Allah can't help but glance up at the television above the bar, where an MSNBC anchor interviews me in a taped recording from earlier in the day.

"Why ya blockin' my shine," I ask.

I'm joking, but he's in no mood.

My trusted friend and source drops wearily onto the stool next to me and taps the counter. Ray, knowing when to butt in and when to stay out of conversations that don't require jokes, approaches silently with a brandy old-fashioned.

Allah doesn't drink much, but he's rendezvoused with me often enough that Ray remembers.

"Bro, people are dying. And you're in here cracking jokes. I got leads I can't follow, that the law won't allow me to follow, not in any timely way. I mean, you have access and connections that even I don't have. Aren't you even a little curious why I was blowin' up your phone earlier?"

I'd forgotten about that. Not entirely my fault, considering the circus I stumbled into in the newsroom.

Still, I wave dismissively and slap Allah on the back.

"Man, you know I care. But I feel like my sourcing has taken the kind of turn that requires me to pause and think for a minute. Pump has to get primed. And you know as well as I do, it can't be forced past a certain point, not in an above-board way. If it is forced, I could get people killed. I don't want that."

He nods but doesn't concede anything, either. Instead, he wags a finger at me and says, "That right there, your sources drying up, is exactly why we work as a team. I feed you. You feed me. We keep these streets clean."

It all sounds nice, but on some level I'm annoyed. If Allah's my friend, why begrudge me my shot at my name in the bright lights?

"We really a team? If so, why is it that I have to plead for so much info and you're willing to share so little?"

It's a cheap shot, and I instantly regret it. But misplaced pride won't let me apologize. So I sulk, head down, staring into my drink.

Allah would be more than justified to cuss me out and mark me with a scarlet letter. But he just shakes his head, downs the dregs of his cocktail, and stands to go.

"Why, indeed," he responds, slaps the bartop and stalks out.

I don't call or run after him. I take the cowardly way out and order three more drinks in rapid succession till I'm comfortably inebriated and unable to think too hard. I rise, wobbly, and carefully pivot towards the door.

"Stay, homie. Let me make you some coffee."

I can't recall the last time I've heard Ray sound somber and concerned. Maybe never.

"I don't want coffee! I'm ending my day, not starting it!"

He tries again, and again I rebuff him. Finally, Ray ditches his apron, leaps the counter, and calls out to Candy, "Watch things, sweetheart."

We stagger side by side for three blocks, in silence. Or, I stagger and Ray walks at an exaggerated, unnaturally slow pace to keep in lockstep with me, in case I stumble or fall.

I'm drunk. But I'm angry. Maybe I'm drunk because I'm angry.

I've worked hard for twelve years already telling stories for the public good, elevating the downtrodden, comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. I've earned my stripes. And now I have a chance to cash in on that hard work. To get noticed. Accolades when this good angel vs. bad angel-on-my-shoulder struggle. A little fame and fortune might be nice.

Apparently, I've been making this argument aloud, because as we round the corner to the lobby of my building, Ray sighs heavily.

"Listen, homie. You don't have to convince me. Sounds like you need to convince yourself."

I raise a finger to object but quickly redirect that hand to my mouth to prevent the upswell of vomit.

When my cell phone rings a moment later, I know, instinctively, that I can't ignore it. But being otherwise occupied, I fumble in my pocket and hand it to Ray.

He looks surprised like I just handed him the keys to an expensive sports car.

"Hel-, hello?"

I hear nothing for a moment, as I continue to heave, but I can see Ray nodding emphatically. "Yes, yes!"

Finally, after one more nod, he dons a big smile and blurts out, "I'll make sure of it!"