Packing Heat(18)

I loved newspapers and journalists. Writers were the weirdest people in the world, and journalists were the weirdest writers. They were jaded and tough people, each of them a grizzled veteran of countless stories, disappointments, fights, and threats. I wanted to be a real journalist one day, a proper journalist, not the pretender I currently was. My human trafficking story was meant to be the start of that, but now I’d have to find a new way.

The room was buzzing as I crossed the floor. I nodded at a few people I recognized, but mostly I was a stranger in here. I was just a freelancer, which meant I was the bottom of the bottom. I didn’t mind that so much, though sometimes the more established people could be assholes.

“Yo, Cass!”

I paused and smiled. “Jimmy.”

“How’s it going?”

Jimmy stood in the door of his office, his arms crossed. He was in his fifties, his hair graying, his skin taught and tanned. He was thin, probably from the constant stress of being a newspaper editor.

He was the man who had hired me. I considered him my mentor in some ways. When I first got started freelancing, he was the only person to go out of his way to try to help me learn the ropes. He was a good guy, though he could be pretty tough sometimes.

I liked that about him. I liked that he was a no-nonsense kind of guy. His newsroom was orderly, or at least as orderly as a newsroom could be.

I walked over and shrugged. “It’s going okay.”

“Haven’t seen you around in a couple weeks.”

“Been busy.”

“With what? You haven’t written me a damn thing.”

“I was working on my own story for a bit.”

“That human trafficking thing? Still on that?”

“I was,” I said, shaking my head, “but I’m not anymore.”

“What stopped you?”

I paused, not sure what to say. For a second, I wanted to tell him the truth.

But that was stupid. I couldn’t tell him the truth. Rafa had specifically told me not to tell anyone, or at least he had strongly implied that. I wasn’t about to be an idiot the very next day.

“I just got stuck,” I said. “Got sick of banging my head up against it. So now I’m taking a break.”

“Don’t take a break too long,” Jimmy said. “You’ll lose the magic. Know what I mean?”

“I don’t, no. Not really.”

He shrugged. “In any job, there’s a flow. You get into that flow, the job goes easy. In writing a story, a serious story, the flow can be long and boring, but it’s there, sitting at the edges. You can’t lose that.”

“I hear what you’re saying.”

“So stick with it. Every important story started out with a slog. You’ll get past it.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

“You here for some cash in the meantime?”

“That’s the goal.”

He nodded. “Got some real awful shit in the bin. Go have at it.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Good luck, kid.” He waved and disappeared back into his office.

I walked away, frowning to myself.

Was I giving up too easily?

The whole point of being a serious investigative journalist was that you didn’t give up easily. You fought tooth and nail for the truth, no matter what. And here I was, walking away at the first sign of difficulty.

But no. No, that was so stupid. Most journalists didn’t get death threats from the mob. This wasn’t a normal situation.

I kept walking, distracted and frustrated. I stopped at a long table in the back of the room filled with story slips, basically little one-page sheets presenting what stories needed to be written. I grabbed a few that looked promising and headed back out.

They didn’t pay much, maybe a few hundred per finished product, more if they actually got used. But I could make rent if I churned out a few of them per month. They took maybe a week’s worth of effort, sometimes less, sometimes more. It all depended on what I took.

I got into the elevator and headed back down, my mind buzzing with Jimmy’s words, with Rafa’s threats. I didn’t know who to believe or who to trust, or if I needed to simply do what I thought was best.

It was all so much. I clutched the story sheets, trying not to let anger overtake me. Then again, maybe anger was good. It was definitely better than fear.

The elevator got to the bottom and I walked back out through the lobby. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I didn’t feel any better, but at least I had some work to do. I was best when I had something to distract me, something to throw myself into. I wasn’t going to forget what was happening to me, but at least I could ignore it for a little bit while I got these assignments done.