At twenty-three, you can entertain romantic notions about how the world is supposed to work and where you belong in it. James Damien had such an idea in his twenty-three year old mind. He had landed
his first reporting job outside the safety net of college. He spent the last of his college town pay on a fedora and a series of tweed sport coats. He looked like an extra on the set of a legal thriller movie. Action! And all of the reporters swarm the big star in the climactic scene. While in college town, he had reported on meetings' minutes, sport's scores, and board's votes. He imagined life in this city differently. He envisioned himself in the tweed coat and fedora asking hard-hitting questions about bizarre murders, the mayor's scandals, and social enlightenment. After a month of city life, he had reported only on meetings' minutes, sport's scores, and board's votes. He asked few questions. He listened under his fedora in a tweed jacket. Whenever he despaired, he remembered Dr. Stark's words: "There's always a story to be told. If you are clever enough to find it." He asked himself if he was clever enough to find it. He felt certain he was. In his tweed jacket and fedora, his feet left familiar terrain and slid into East Side. All his romantic notions of reportordom came back. East Side was tough, poor, animal. James had tramped through South Side with no luck. By comparison, East Side made South Side look palatial. He found Vine Street and made the turn. His informant had lead him correctly. The poor street couldn't even afford boards for all of it's busted windows. Although blue sky framed the street, no sunlight penetrated the shadowed buildings. House after house huddled together except for the occasional one that had succumbed to ruin. He walked down the street crunching brown glass under his brown loafers. The street looked as desolate as gunfighter's alley at high noon. His heart told him that people were here, watching him behind closed doors. This feeling upset him not only for the threat to his safety, but also for his story. He needed people to tell a story. In the fifteen hundred block, he met his first Vine Street locals. A toddler sat crying amongst the busted bottles. Checking his surroundings, he spotted the child's house. Men and women in various states of euphoria littered the yard. The brick house threatened to collapse at any sneeze from its inhabitants. Brothel or crack house or both? He couldn't be sure, but it was a story. "Hey son. Watcha crying for?" The child wailed louder. "What's your name? Billy? Zack? Mine's James. You looking for home?" The boy looked at him. "That's a good boy. Where's your mommy? I can help you find her." In answer, the child resumed wailing. "Whaddya want Mister?" A voice asked from behind him. "He seemed lost. I was just trying to help." "He ain't lost. You a cop?" "Are you his mother?" "What if I am? Pig." She picked the screaming child off the ground and left James in the street. As she walked up the crumpled steps, she kicked a sleeping man. She looked at him and then to James. The man's gaze followed. She and the child went into the house while the man woke others in the yard. Soon there were six men watching James. He weighed the options. Stories about crack babies and their mommies only sold so much copy and none if the reporter died first. This story wasn't his. He shuffled further down Vine Street glancing to make sure he wasn't followed. He passed more wary-eyed people, but his first encounter kept him silent. He could smell the river as he reached the end of Vine Street. The final block looked the most desolate because once, it had been prosperous. The whole East side of the street was only skeletal remains of tract houses. Should have been a photojournalist, he reflected. A photojournalist could have turned the despair into a sell. He, however, needed words and witnesses to make a sell. He walked the final few feet and tossed a whole bottle into the rank river as an offering. As the bottle arced, he caught movement from the west side of the street. A banshee form drew nearer to him. Beige rags fluttered around the man's shoulders and ended before his waste. The man's large dick wagged back and forth to the beat of his gait. Food and dirt matted into the man's frizzy hair and beard. "Can I help you?" James asked "No stranger, but maybe, I can help you with something." James had expected a mute request for money. His hand froze in his pocket. The reply silenced him. "Can I, stranger? What do you want?" "Um, I'm James. I write for The Republican." "The newspaper?" "Yeah. You know it?" "Of course. It is the job of the famous to know the media outlets. I must say, The Republican wasn't very generous on coverage though." James smiled and laughed. "Excuse me, did something strike you funny?" "Did I hear you right?" "Yes. Your paper was quite ungenerous with coverage on us. The Daily did a better job." Here was one of James' favorite targets, the loony. Over a beer with his pals, he would have torn this man apart. Isolate on the street, he held his tongue. "If you really are a reporter for The Republican, perhaps you can come talk to us." "Us?" "Yes, the others that are left. We're all living in the Patterson's old place." James Damien looked at the river. What if this nude man was lying? What if he was? James felt certain that he could overtake one naked man if things got ugly. If there were others, he could run. More than likely, he reassured himself, the man was a lone loony. He would tale a tale of his days as a rock star or a president or maybe even Jesus Christ. Then, he would have an interesting story to laugh over with his drinking buddies. What if the man told the truth? That presented a more interesting future for a reporter. Maybe it wasn't just one rock musician; maybe it was a whole band. Drug crazed and destitute, they wandered the street. If the man was telling the truth, James Damien could spin a story about it. "You coming?" "You bet," James answered. "Ok, follow me. They'll be so happy. We haven't had guests in so long." James followed. The man led James behind the row of houses on the west side of the street. The man shuffled over the broken glass bare-footed. He didn't seem to notice the bright red trickling between his toes. James had to shuffle himself so as not to overtake his guide. "James Damien, you say your name is?" "Yeah." "Not much of a name for a reporter. James Damien. You ought to come up with something better than that." The naked man frowned. "And your name sir? What is your name?" "Rodney DuChamp. I used to live at eighteen Vine Street before we all became famous." The man stopped and contemplated the building backs. "Here it is Mr. Damien. Welcome to Patterson Place." Rodney DuChamp held out his hands in a gesture of pride for Patterson Place. Of the houses left standing, it was the best. It was like a dandelion growing in a field of crab grass, pretty but not desirable. The third floor roof had collapsed making the third floor the new roof. Grass grew between the foundation bricks, and only one pillar remained to uphold the second floor balcony. Death by a collapsing house wasn't something James had taken into account when he chose to come. "Wait here. Let me prepare them." After fifteen minutes alone, Rodney DuChamp returned. "They can't wait." James Damien breathed heavy and entered the house. Inside the house, rats chewed on peeling wallpaper. James wondered if the rats were the famous people he was to meet. Unlike most South Side dumps, Patterson place contained no garbage. Someone kept the house neat. Rodney DuChamp led James into a large open room filled only with a few busted chairs arranged in a circle. Rodney stopped behind a large armchair. "Mr. Damien, please sit here. The others will join us. Would you care for anything to eat or drink?" "I'm fine, thank you. This is quite a place you got here, Mr. DuChamp. How many live here?" "After it first happened, there were six of us. Now, just four." Rodney DuChamp settled into a scuffed oak chair near James. "After it?" Rodney smiled at James. "The event that changed everything. Just wait, we will tell you, all of us." "How long ago did it happen?" "Two years." James turned to face an unexpected creak. In the room entrance, a girl of maybe fourteen stood. Unlike Rodney DuChamp, she wore a complete outfit. Her blue-jean jumper and black tee shirt were not new, but they looked clean. She stopped and made a small curtsy towards James. "Hello, Amanda," Rodney said. "Hey, Rod. What's this thing we're doing?" "Amanda, please try to watch your manners. This is James Damien, a reporter for The Republican." The girl twirled a finger in the air. "Wow. I thought they were all done with us." Rodney pointed from Amanda to the chair opposite himself. She rolled her eyes but obeyed his command. "It does no good raising kids in the media glare. She used to be so polite, but now." Rodney raised his hands to the sky. "So, you like being famous, Amanda?" James asked. "Oh sure, can't you tell? How long's this gunna last?" Neither man bothered to answer. Amanda began swinging her feet back and forth across the wooden floor. "James, why don't you tell us how you came to work for The Republican?" "Money and opportunity. Republican offered me more of both than anyone else." "Oh, I see. What made you come down to us?" "Well, you found me. I was just looking for a story." "And you certainly found one. The Republican will applaud your efforts when they hear our story." Rodney slapped both hands down on his lap. "Here he is, at last. And how is Maxwell doing today?" "Max, please. Fine and you?" "Oh splendid. Say hello to James Damien, a Republican reporter." "Hiya James." The new arrival looked the same age as James. He stood well over six feet and had a guitar slung over his right shoulder. "Just a sec, I'm getting Gloria." James listened to the musician's footsteps creak away. Max went upstairs to a room directly overhead. After three unanswered bangs, the door opened. The conversation was not quiet. "Waddya want?" "Rodney's got something downstairs." "Fuck Rodney. I'm tired of this shit." "C'mon. It'll just take a minute. You know he won't start without you." "Waddya got for me?" The tones quieted, and James could make out no more. After some breathless laughter, two sets of creaks traveled down the steps and to them. Max shuffled into a chair, and the woman with him took her turn in the spotlight. She wore a frayed terrycloth robe and James doubted anything else. She surveyed the room with pink-rimmed eyes and from time to time drug her red nose across the robe's sleeves. "Wanna fuck?" He's a nice looking one, Rodney wouldn't you say?" The naked man flushed. The woman looked at Rodney's lap. James looked, too. The huge erection there horrified James. He wondered just what mess his curiosity had gotten him into. "Yeah, Rodney, guess you would agree. You queer, reporter?" "Me? God no." Rodney's eyes fell in embarrassment, and he attempted to cover himself with the scrap of a shirt he wore. "But I have nothing against that sort of thing. Just not for me," James amended. "Here that Rodney? Course maybe you can teach him like Max. That didn't turn out too well though did it?" "Gloria can it," Max said. She snickered and slapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder. She sat to the left of James and slid her chair toward him until her knee touched his. "So pretty boy, you here to interview?" James shifted away from her and ran his fingers over his head. "Nothing so formal. I'm just here to listen. Maybe a story will come of it." "That's not how the other reporters did it," Amanda said. Rodney seemed to recover some of his composure, but he still hunched over his erection. "Can we all just stop for a moment. I invited Mr. Damien. I hope to get us some more coverage. Don't you all want that?" To this, they all agreed. "Have you ever heard of us, Mr. Damien?" Max asked. James stood to pace, but the group look of disappointment forced him to sit again. "Don't worry. I wasn't leaving. Just a stretch. No, I haven't heard about you to answer your question." "Good call to bring him Rodney. We're losing our edge, maybe already lost it," Max said. "You all keep talking about fame. What made you four famous?" "Actually, there were fifteen of us in all. Some died, others moved on. I moved to Vine Street thirty years ago. Then it had a neighborhood feel and several businesses. Out of the four of us, only Gloria lived her then. We went to Gramercy School together, and later Sullivan High." "Always knew you were a queer. Even then. Only boy who wouldn't get with me." The woman lit a cigarette off her daughter's already smoldering butt. "Gloria, please." "What? All part of it, ain't it?" "Who lived in this house?" James asked. James lit his own cigarette and produced a pocket-sized recorder. "Mind if I record?" Max and Rodney shook in unison. Gloria shrugged. "What you gonna use it for?" Amanda asked. "Surely you're used to these, being famous and all." James grinned her way. Instead of answering, she shrugged like her mother had. "Excellent," James said as he pushed the record button. Either he would have material for an article or material for a night with his buddies. "The Patterson's lived in this house, even then, but they had left before the fire." "The fire?" "Yes, the fire. There I've let the cat out of the bag." Rodney smiled. "You asked what made us famous. The fire was our destiny." Gloria rolled her eyes. Amanda glared first at Rodney, then at James. Max hung his head in shame. "You dumbass," Amanda said. "You're supposed to do it better. You shoulda let Max do it. He always does a better, um, what's the word Max?" "Dramatic rendering." Max whispered. "Yeah, dramatic rendering. Max can do that." James wondered again why he was among these squabbling people. A fire didn't sound like a reason for fame. He decided that these people meant to rob him. It had to be. He knew now that they weren't famous, that had all been a ruse. It's how they drew people in for the kill, and it had worked on him. Soon they would use the confusion to steal from him. They couldn't use confusion against him if he left. He rose and tried to leave. The old plank floor betrayed his departure. "Why are you leaving, Mr. Damien?" "Damn!" James cursed. His heart thumped fast. They had caught him. What did he do now? Fight or flight? Stay or go? He wanted to run, but he couldn't remember the floor plan. He could never hope to find an exit. All part of the trap. He turned back to the gathering. "What the hell do you want from me?" "Well, we want you to tell our story. Isn't that right?" Reluctant or not, they all nodded. It was what they wanted. "What a silly question, Mr. Damien. Didn't we make it clear? I thought we had. I'm sorry." "Of course, he's confused. With you to explain, who wouldn't be?" Amanda said. "Please, I can't take this. If I am to stay, the bickering stops." James showed his back to the group. "Can't you give it a rest, Amanda?" Max asked. "Yeah. Knock it off, girl," Gloria said. When James faced them again, they were quiet. Max still stood with his head hung, and Rodney still hunched to hide his embarrassment. Gloria ran her tongue over her lips for James' benefit. Her daughter sat with her arms crossed and face drawn in hate. "If you please, Mr. Duchamp, continue." "Like I said I've lived here most of my life. Wasn't born here, but definitely raised here. I used to work as a nurse at County General till they closed it. Neighborhood was real nice then." "That's all well, Mr. Duchamp, but I need to hear about your fame." Amanda glared in triumph. Gloria let loose a small laugh, and Max shook his head. "What day did fame enter your lives?" "May eighth. What a fine, ordinary day." Rodney's voice cracked. "What were you doing on the big day?" The man closed his eyes and covered his erection with both hands. "Um, nothing important. It was an off day for me. I tried to catch some sleep, but couldn't" "Did you sense anything wrong?" Rodney shook his head, and James noticed the tears hiding in the man's eyes. "Mr. Duchamp?" "Nothing, it's nothing." He walked to a window and stared out of it. "I can tell ya what his panties are in a bind 'bout. Or maybe Max should." Gloria shrieked the words out between laughter. Her knowledge pleased her. "I don't think that will be needed, ma'am." "No. I think I ought to tell. If it's ok, Rodney?" Max asked. "Whatever," Rodney answered. "He couldn't sleep coz of me. I broke our, uh, relationship off that day." Max hung his head again and slid back into the room's shadows. "So, you're gay, too?" "Only bi, not gay." "Oh, so that's why you couldn't sleep?" Both mother and daughter smiled in Rodney's direction. "Yes." "Eh, Maxwell, ain't you gonna tell 'im who ya started to boffin' next?" "Shoot, Mom, I'll tell. It was me, just a girl." Mother and daughter enjoyed their moment. "But he don't touch me anymore." "I see, uh, Mr. Duchamp can you continue?" "Me? Yeah. Just the past. I didn't sleep, so I went walking. I liked to follow the river then. I had a nice walk and coffee at Kel's that used to be on Randolph Street." "When did you return?" "Just in time to see the madness. Around two a.m." Rodney sat down again. James noted that his erection had begun to diminish. Rodney caught him looking and offered a small shrug. Once Rodney sat, even Max settled into a chair. It seemed some of the anxiousness had left them all, for the moment at least. "When did the fire start?" Rodney shrugged again. "Already blazing at two a.m. Not sure." He looked to the others as a leader conferring with his troops. James noticed that even the sultry Amanda acknowledge Rodney's questioning glance. "Musta started at one fifteen or thereabout. I called 911 at one twenty when I saw it, Amanda said. "You called the police?" James asked. "Yep. Got my name on the report. Something iznit?" "Yeah something," James said. For his efforts, Amanda smiled. James offered a small smile in return. When he heard a shrill cackle from Gloria, he wished he hadn't smiled. They all, even Amanda, turned to Gloria. "Go girl. Of all your prospects, this one's got the best earning potential." The men ignored her. "Shut up, Gloria," Amanda said. "Who do you think ya are, young lady? You don't call me that." "Then stay outta my fucking business." Gloria raised her hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm sorry. I'm just happy for ya." She snickered again, and no one believed her. "Anyway. The fire started when Amanda said. I wasn't there for the start," said Rodney. "How did the fire start?" James asked. "Ah, yes, the origin. We've discussed that in detail. No one knows." On this point, no one offered more advice. For James, a mystery was not good enough. "What did the fire report find?" "We never read it." "Well, surely the papers must have reported the reason." "Do you see any clippings here?" Max asked. "We aren't big newspaper subscribers, OK?" After he spoke, Max hung his head again. He acted embarrassed for having spoken. "You see, Mr. Damien, this crazy thing just took us along for the ride. Still, it was big news. It made us famous." "Ok, so the fire started around one fifteen in the morning. Mr. Duchamp noticed it at two. When did you two notice?" "I saw it when the fireman banged on my door. Had to vacate my love nest. Coulda died there happy, I guess, but them heroes saved the day." Max stood in the shadows, head still hung. He had to feel four pairs of eyes focussed on him, but he ignored them. "You're wrong." He spoke, but for a moment no one was certain who had. Each looked to the other and denied the words. They belonged to Max. "What's wrong?" "The time. Didn't start at one fifteen or one twenty." "You calling my girl a liar? Huh? Cat gotchya tongue?" James placed a hand on Gloria's shoulder and pressed her back into her chair. She slapped his hand away but remained seated. "Nobody's a liar. She just saw it later like Rodney and you." "When did you see it?" James asked. "The fire started at midnight." Everyone sat back and contemplated the fact. If he had seen the fire at midnight, then it burned for over an hour before anyone else noticed. This revelation lead to questions. "Impossible," Gloria said. "My girl saw it first. That belongs to her." She folded her arms closing the subject to further debate. "No, she wasn't." "How did you see it?" James asked. "I play the guitar at night and walk. Walking back at midnight, I saw the fire burning. Not much, but it burned. It started at Reilley's place." Engrossed in this new revelation, no one noticed that Rodney had risen and paced over to Max. He stood in front of the younger many wringing his hands. He shook his newfound fists at Max. "Look at me, Maxwell." Max didn't move. "Look at me," Rodney asked again. Max raised his head half an inch. "Goddammit look at me, you little bastard!" "Mr. Duchamp, what are your doing?" James asked. This outburst had silenced the mother-daughter duo. Rodney did not answer. He slapped Max with his open right palm and followed with the back of his right hand. If Max's head moved, no one could tell. The slap was weak, but Max felt the pain. Tears dripped off his nose. Gloria shook her head while Amanda grabbed Max around the waist and delivered him to a stool. "Why are you all so good to him? Maybe, you, I could see." He pointed to James. "But not you two. Don't you get it? He saw it first. Saw it when it was a little blaze. What did he do? Nothing--no call, no warning, nada. What a pal." Amanda considered his words and removed her arm from Max's waist. "What does it matter now?" asked Gloria. "Look around, Gloria. It would seem to matter a lot. Unless of course your taste runs to crumbling walls and meals a la dumpster." He rolled his eyes. "It matters to me, Mom." "What did it matter then either? This neighborhood was headed for hell already. Did it matter then?" Max defended himself. "Amen. And it made us famous. Where'd you be without it, Rod? In the closet sucking ass for some pitiful job, that's where. And you, Mandy, you'd be knocked up no doubt having the government pay for yer babies. What lives we'd all have." In silence, they considered. James could not believe the discussion. He could believe even less that they were considering her argument. When Rodney first slapped Max, James hadn't thought of the implications of Max's story. Like the others, Rodney had shocked him, and James had felt sorry for Max. With the facts spelled out, he wanted to slap Max himself. "True," Rodney said. "Got a point, Momma. Sorry, Max." "Yeah, me too, Max. I take it back." "S'ok. What's done is done," Max said. He still didn't look up, but his body relaxed. The others looked to James. The tale had to be told, and they needed him to guide them through it. "Ok, what did you do after you saw it, Max?" "Went to bed." "What? Went to bed? After you saw a fire burning, you go to bed?" "Yea. I was tired." James had no reply for such indifference. The others looked at Max with pride. They seemed to say, "That's our boy. Don't you love him?" James didn't love Max. In fact, he was beginning to think less and less of Max. "Ok, so Max was pretty much outta the picture then," James said. "At least Amanda had sense enough to call 911, but by then it was too late. Did anyone die?" No one answered. "Who died?" James asked. "The Reilley's," Max said. "Where the fire started? How many?" "Mom, Dad, and the six year old boy," Rodney answered. James glared in Max's direction. Three people died, on a child, he couldn't understand why Max hadn't called. The family hadn't needed to die. He kept his reporter's cool and continued. "Three people dead. Anyone else?" "Old Avery had a heart attack. Doctor's couldn't determine exact time of death. He might have died before the fire," Gloria offered. "Four dead. Quite a night on Vine Street, eh? Anyone else?" Four heads shook. "Glad to hear it. What happened after you called, Amanda?" "They didn't come forever. You know what, too? They called back to ask if it was for real. Like the pizza guys do. No shit. Called back to make sure I wadn't lying. I told 'em I wasn't. But it was another ten minutes before I heard sirens." "How many responded?" "One fire truck and an ambulance and a cop car. That was it. They got here 'bout quarter a two." Rodney broke her speech by standing the room's center. The interruption annoyed James. He wanted to finish the tale. They had convinced him that a story was here. He would need to check first for prior coverage, but he had several angles. He could write about the heroics of young Amanda in contrast to the irresponsibility of Max. Or he could investigate the city's poor response. He had found a gold mine that he couldn't wait to raid, and this half-naked man had interrupted. "Excuse me all, but may I suggest a brief recess? I have some refreshments. One second. Amanda, please, your help." There was no discussion or question. Amanda followed him out of the room. Rodney had said recess, and a recess they would have. The trio didn't attempt a conversation. Max remained, head down his thoughts to himself. Gloria had no real interest in the reporter. He might be good for a quick one, but that didn't have to happen. James detested them both. "Ah, here we are." Rodney returned with Amanda in tow. Each held a tray of cardboard. His tray held aborted Hord'ourves . On her tray, there were five glasses of a green-tinted substance. "What kind of hosts would we be without refreshments?" He circled the group offering his creations. Amanda followed. They saved James for last. "Thank you, I'm not hungry or thirsty." He held up his hand to ward off the offered refreshments. "Now, now. It's quite all right. We have more. You needn't worry about us." "No really. I couldn't possibly . . ." "He doesn't want any. Amanda, we went to all this work, and he turns us down." "What is it?" "These are mini sandwiches made of crackers, bread's scarce here, and cheddar cheese and turkey. The drink is green apple punch. Don't worry, we boil our water." James took the offered items. He didn't dare ask where the ingredients came from. He could see his doctor the next day and have all of the appropriate shots. He slipped half of the mini-sandwich in his mouth and swallowed with the sip of the punch. His happy hosts smiled. The mixture tasted like toasted vomit. He held it down with his will. He set the remaining sandwich and drink on the floor. His duty as a guest was complete. "Thank you--" "Your welcome," Rodney said. "Now, Amanda, what happened when they arrived?" "They came. The air filled with noise. One reporter came 'bout fifteen minutes after they got here." James made note, one reporter. He needed to talk to that reporter. The first objective eye on the scene could tell him the true scene. These people were witness too and powerful but for different reasons. They provided the color, the makeup for the story he envisioned. The discerning reader would demand the meat and bones of the facts and numbers. "Who was that first reporter?" Amanda searched her mind. She couldn't find the name. "Max? Rodney? Gloria?" James asked. Empty stares met his question. "He only talked to me." "What paper?" "The Associate." "Damn!" The Associate had been gone out of business nine months ago. His search for the first reporter would be difficult. "Never mind. What did he ask?" "He just asked if I called the cop. Took my name, age, address." James nodded. Just the facts had been the guiding motto for The Associate. It billed itself as a no frills, thinking man's paper. "The rest of the night blurred on me. Camera flashes. Television cameras poked in my face. And the questions. Always the questions. Heard I ended up on the ten o'clock news. Guess, I did. Didn't have a TV to see. Did get a copy of Uptown Tempo. They called me a hero. My picture made the front page. What a night." She smiled. It had been quite a night for her and the rest. She deserved the title of hero, but what had it done for her? Her picture was in some papers and appearances on the news were her reward. She was famous. "Did you see these?" Gloria watched him. Rodney inched towards him. Max cocked his head to the left, waiting to hear the answer. "Of course." Amanda frowned. "Why didn't you know us?" "What?" James read disappointment on her, but he didn't understand her question. "If ya saw the reports, why didn't ya recognize me and the story?" "Well um, you look so much more grown-up now and the story, well, I see so many stories everyday. I just can't remember everyone." He caught his right hand bobbing in a gesture. He stopped it. His senior journalism professor had warned him against the dangers of gesticulating. He knew it would damage his credibility; he hoped he had caught it in time. "Don't lie. You don't need to, I know ya never saw anything 'bout us. But you'll tell it for us now." She covered her face with her hands. She slipped back in her chair. They all slouched a little and looked to the floor. "Of course, I promise, I'll write it now." No one moved. "Um, Mr. Duchamp. What do you remember of that night?" He looked out the window, where they all had lived before the fire. "When I returned, I saw the smoke first. It was everywhere. It actually blacked out most of the blaze until I was close, too close. The smoke that I breathed threatened to choke me. One of the firemen had to pull me away. It was a mess. People ran all over fighting the fire and making names." "You spoke to a lot of reporters, then?" "Oh yeah, I think Amanda and I were interviewed the most." "From that night for about two weeks on, we had it so good. Reporters all the time. This house was set up as a shelter for all of us survivors, twenty in all. Donations came in, but it was the reporters we all fought over," Rodney added. "Fought over reporters?" "Sure. Everyone wanted to be the one on the front page or the nightly news." "As if in grade school," Max raised his voice. "Max?" "Remember Avery Luttrell?" Three heads nodded. "He lied." That was it. That was all he said. James looked to Rodney Duchamp, then to Amanda for a clue. They said nothing. "Here we go again. How'd ya know he was lying Maxwell?" Gloria asked. James flipped his pad to a clean sheet and jotted Avery Luttrell at the top. "Lying about what?" "Avery said he started it. Killed hisself before the pigs could investigate." "They didn't investigate anyway?" Gloria shook her head. "Don't lie, too, Gloria." Throughout the tale, Max's voice had remained calm, almost soothing. He owned the voice of the balladeer. "Of course they did. They found nothing in Avery Luttrell. He just wanted fame. He got it ever so briefly." "How do you know he didn't do it?" "Because I know who did it." Everyone, James included, inched forward. He had to tell. "Who?" Amanda voiced their mutual question. "Can't tell." He laced his hands around his right kneecap and for the first time looked up at them. "You must tell," Rodney demanded. "And why? "Why? We'll throw you out that's why," Amanda said. "She's right. We'll have nothing more to do with you." Rodney crossed his legs in triumph. "Not like you have much to do with me anyway. Anymore at least." He looked at Rodney as he spoke the last. "No. It belongs only to me and the other." Defeated, James fell back into his chair. Rodney glared at Max. Amanda moved to the farthest chair available from Max, and Gloria laughed. "Guess yer boy finally taught you, Rodney." James looked out he window. The sun perched low on the horizon. He had stayed longer than he planned. The story of these famous people compelled him to listen. He would write their story. He felt that Max had cheated them all. His story, their story, would have been so much better with the conclusion of the mystery. Maybe, his story would stir interest. Maybe, more reporters would visit them. Maybe then, Max would tell his secret. Whatever the outcome, he had to leave Vine Street or spend the night. "I've got to be leaving." Max didn't move. "Must you?" Rodney asked. "We have plenty of space here." Gloria looked at Rodney as if he was the village idiot. "Yes, I guess you must, getting late," Rodney said. "Please write it," Amanda pleaded. "Don't worry, I will." "Take care of yerself." Gloria tweaked him on the ass as he stood. Rodney shook his hand. "Goodbye to all of you." They all muttered good-byes except Max. "Take is easy, Max. Maybe you can tell me who lit that fire one day." "Fine. I'll tell you. I did it. Happy?" Max rushed past them all and disappeared out the door. No one moved to stop him. James had nothing to say, so he used the opportunity to leave. He had done it. He was proud of his day's work. The story itself was good, but with Max's confession, he had the story he had come in search of. He whistled up Vine Street. When he passed the crack house, he offered a one-finger salute. It would have been a daring gesture had anyone lingered outside. Vine Street was going to bed an only the bravest or the most dangerous would stay out. James trotted out of Vine Street before the sunlight disappeared. The next morning, he arrived at the office before anyone else. He searched The Republican's records but found nothing on The Vine Street Fire or its famous residents. Discouraged but not deterred, he found his way to Danny Armson. Danny had been a Republican reporter longer than anyone. He would know about Vine Street. "Danny, got a minute?" He poked only his head into the office. "Sure, James. Watcha got?" "Story I'm working on. You know Vine Street?" "Yuck. What about it?" He wrinkled his nose as he thought of the street. "What do you know about the fire a couple of years back?" "Fire?" "Yeah. I looked at the records, but couldn't find anything." Danny Armson shook his head. "James, I been here thirty years, and I don't recall a Vine Street Fire. Plenty a stories on Vine Street, mind you. Drugs, poverty, you know the type. Fire? No. Who fed you the scoop?" "The survivors. I talked to them yesterday." Danny Armson's belly shook with a fit of laughter. "They musta been pulling your chain, James." "I saw the burned buildings, Danny." "Probably burned it themselves, recent. Crazies on Vine do things like that. I'd leave it alone." James' face flamed red. He had the look of an indignant believer. "No, Danny, I don't think so. It was real. It's my story." "Well, you're welcome to continue. It was just a friendly tip." Danny turned back to his desk. He scrawled notes across yellow-lined paper.James strained to see what he wrote. "What are you writing?" "Working on my article." "What article?" "It's about Eula Mays who just turned a hundred." "May I see it? Danny handed James the paper. After scanning it, he tossed the paper back on the desk and left. It was about Eula Mays. Danny caught the paper before it slid to the floor. James spent the day at the microfiche carrel at the public library. He searched five years back for information on The Vine Street Fire. He asked everyone he saw and called rival newspapers. At day's end, he had found nothing. His article was due the next day. He spent the night crafting his interview notes into an article. He ignored that he had found nothing on the fire. After submitting his article, he went back to Vine Street. He traveled the same path. At the end, he found the same burned buildings, but he did not find Vine Street's famous citizens. He searched their house and others around it. On the water's bank, he sat down waiting to tell them that he had written the article. He would wait as long as necessary because he knew that famous people set odd hours. |
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