Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (33 page)

Clearly, he’d avoided my question about whether he knew Kent, which made me even more suspicious.

PART FOUR

You have to learn the rules of the game.
And then you have to play better than anyone else
.

—
ALBERT EINSTEIN

39

Will Harris had written about the Gonzales trial every day in the
Daily
and had done a good job of reporting the facts. Because Gonzales was a White Plains resident and a former prominent Hispanic leader, I knew Harris was also keeping tabs on the federal charges that the FBI had filed against Gonzales. I decided to call Harris. He answered on the third ring with a rushed voice.

“It’s Dani Fox. Got a minute?”

“For you always, but I’m on a deadline. If it’s going to take more than a minute, we’ll have to talk later.”

“What do you know about the FBI’s case against Carlos Gonzales?”

Harris, who had been typing in the background, suddenly stopped. My question had gotten his attention. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “I’m the one who calls you for information, remember?”

“Turning tables.”

“Shall I assume Special Agent Longhorn isn’t being forthcoming?”

“I’d rather you didn’t assume anything.”

“Let me finish this deadline piece. Then we can meet for a drink. In fact, let’s meet around six thirty tonight, or are you afraid to be seen with me in public?”

Actually, I was. I didn’t want rumors circulating through the courthouse that I was one of his sources, especially since Whitaker was paranoid about anyone in our office talking to the media except for him.

“Let’s just chat on the phone after your deadline.”

“Not if you want to discuss Carlos Gonzales. I’m only doing that in person. Look, I’ll buy the drinks. How about Elaine’s restaurant over on Huguenot Street in New Rochelle? That should be discreet enough for both of us.”

I agreed reluctantly.

Elaine’s Supper Club sounded elegant, exclusive. It wasn’t. The brown shag carpeting needed to be replaced and the knotty pine paneling gave it a tired, outdated feel. I arrived early and immediately regretted it. Entering a bar alone is never a problem for a man. Everyone assumes a man is there to blow off steam after work. But if a woman walks in alone, men assume she’s on the prowl, looking for zipless sex. Three men were sitting at the bar, four others crowded into a booth were talking loudly. I didn’t recognize any of them. I checked my watch. It was 6:25. There was no sign of Harris.

A waitress, who looked as worn out as Elaine’s and called me “hon,” asked what I wanted to drink. I replied, a bit louder than necessary, that I was waiting for someone but would take Dr Pepper.

“We don’t have soda pop,” she answered.

I ordered a draft beer. As the waitress made her way to the bar, one of the men who’d been sitting there sauntered over.

“Be happy to buy you that beer. You want some company?”

“Someone’s joining me.”

Harris arrived ten minutes late. “Got a new editor and he’s a ballbuster, urr, sorry.” He sat across from me in the booth. “Never met an editor yet who didn’t want to put his mark on a story. Most make it worse.”

Harris surveyed our dismal surroundings. “I didn’t realize this place had gotten so run-down.” He noticed the men at the bar watching us. “I hope waiting hasn’t been too tough on you.”

“Only one barfly buzzed me,” I replied. “He must have noticed my
bee-stung
lips.”

“You liked my story—or are you being sarcastic? I also said you were a real looker.”

The waitress interrupted us. She called Harris “hon,” too. He ordered a draft.

“Actually, I was pretty proud of that bee-stung line. I got several comments from other reporters about how clever it was. And accurate.”

“It’s always difficult to read something someone writes about your appearance. I also have to be careful because of my boss.”

“Say no more. Everyone knows Whitaker is a news whore.”

“Those are your words, not mine.” His comment reminded me that this wasn’t a social meeting. “Before I say anything more,” I said, “I want to make sure we understand the ground rules.”

“Sure thing.”

“This conversation has got to be completely off the record. Just you and me talking. I don’t want to read my name in the paper tomorrow. Got that?”

“No problem,” he said. “You got my word. I know you want to talk about Gonzales, but before we get into that, I’d like to ask you what you have heard about Paul Pisani.”

“What about him?” I asked, taking a sip from my beer. “The truth is that I’ve not seen him lately. He’s been strangely absent from the courthouse but I don’t have a clue why.”

“You really don’t?”

“No, should I?”

Harris looked at me intently and said, “I got wind that Pisani knocked up some young intern at the courthouse. She’s still in college and was working in the county clerk’s office. Her parents are supposedly close friends with Whitaker. They all go to the same country club and they’re threatening to go public.”

Based on the shocked look on my face, Harris knew I was hearing this for the first time.

“All I can tell you is that Pisani has a reputation. This wouldn’t be the first time that he’s seduced some young girl and broken her heart. He’s a sleazeball.”

I suddenly realized that I could get into big trouble talking so frankly.

“We are off the record, right?” I asked.

He looked hurt. “When you told me about your cousin and her abusive husband, I promised I wouldn’t put it in the paper. And I didn’t, did I?”

“No, you didn’t and I really appreciated that.”

“I think I’ve proven you can trust me.”

Without thinking, I reached over and gently touched his hand. “I do trust you, Will.”

I suddenly realized what I had done and pulled back my hand.

He looked confused and I felt embarrassed. We both ignored what had just happened.

“Listen,” I said, “because of this trial and the fact that I work across the street from the courthouse, I don’t hear all the gossip that I used to hear. But I will ask around if you want me to, and if I learn that Pisani got someone pregnant, I’ll tell you.”

“Thanks.” He took a drink of beer and asked, “Can I ask you why you would tell me about Pisani—I mean, I appreciate it, but I’m also a bit surprised.”

“Because I think Paul Pisani abuses women just like the Rudy Hitchinses and Juan Lopezes of society. He just does it without using his fists. He’s a predator.”

A serious look washed over his face. “Unfortunately, that’s not something that just men do.”

I realized Harris knew a lot about me because he had interviewed me for the newspaper, but I didn’t know much about him.

“Have you always wanted to be a journalist?” I asked. “You’re so good at it.”

He looked pleased and said, “Yes, I have. It’s in my blood. My dad and mom ran a small-town paper, and when I was a kid, I used to help them. I did everything from taking ads to answering the phone to setting type for the printing press. I edited the college newspaper later. I’ve been a journalist nearly all of my life.”

“You never thought about doing anything else?”

“Actually, I considered going to law school.”

“What happened?”

“Life. Not too many people know it, but I’ll tell you my sad story. When I was in college, I fell in love and got married. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I said ‘I do.’ But we’d been going out for several years. We were childhood sweethearts and I didn’t want to hurt her. Because we were both in school, I couldn’t afford law school after I graduated, so I went right to work for the
Daily
and I’ve been working here ever since.”

“You’re still married?” I asked.

“Oh, no, no, no. That only lasted a year after graduation. We ended up hurting each other because I didn’t have the guts to say no when I knew in my heart that I should have. Her parents were angry and mine were disappointed, but it was the best thing for us.”

“Where’s she now?”

“Somewhere out west. Last I heard, she was getting married again. I don’t usually tell people that I’ve been married. It makes them think of me as damaged goods, especially women. They think I’m unreliable.”

He’d finished his beer and signaled our waitress to bring him another one. I was only half done with mine but she brought me another mug without me asking.

“How about you?” he asked. “Since we’re being personal. You got a boy friend?”

“I had one. But I’d rather not talk about it. He broke my heart.”

Harris took his glass and clinked it against my mug.

“Here’s to mending broken hearts.”

I decided to change our conversation. “Do you know why the U.S. Attorney hasn’t prosecuted Carlos Gonzales yet on the FBI’s drug and racketeering case?”

Harris glanced around the room to see if anyone was within earshot. Satisfied they weren’t, he said, “I’m not sure, but I have a theory. That’s one reason I suggested we talk in person. I thought maybe we could exchange ideas.”

“So let’s hear it.”

“This is what I know. Carlos Gonzales was running drugs out of his jewelry store in Manhattan. You already know that, too, but did you know that Gonzales might be part of a Colombian drug cartel? Agent Longhorn told me. Could be a big case. Headline-making stuff.”