The Scarecrow Read Online Free Page A

if I have to and stay put. Anyway, it’s too much to think about right now. Right now I’m just celebrating the end.”
    “Are you at the Red Wind?”
    “No, the Short Stop.”
    “Who’s there?”
    Now I was humiliated.
    “Um, you know, the usual crew. Larry and some Metro types, a bunch of guys from Sports.”
    It was a split second before she said anything and in that hesitation she gave away that she knew I was exaggerating, if not
     outright lying.
    “You going to be okay, Jack?”
    “Yeah, sure. I just… I just have to figure out what—”
    “Jack, I’m sorry, I have one of my callbacks coming in.”
    Her voice was urgent. If she missed the call, there might not be another.
    “Go!” I said quickly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
    I clicked off the phone, thankful that some politician in Washington had saved me from the further embarrassment of discussing
     my life with my ex-wife, whose career was ascending day by day as mine sank like the sun over the smoggy landscape of Hollywood.
     As I shoved the phone back into my pocket I wondered if she had just made that up about getting the callback, attempting to
     end the embarrassment herself.
    I went back into the bar and decided to get serious, ordering an Irish Car Bomb. I gulped it quickly and the Jameson’s burned
     like hot grease going down. I grew morose watching the Dodgers start a game against the hated Giants and get shelled in the
     first inning.
    Romano and Shelton were the first to bail and then by the third inning even Larry Bernard had drunk enough and been reminded
     enough of the dim future of the newspaper business. He slid off his stool and put his hand on my shoulder.
    “There but for the grace of God go I,” he said.
    “What?” I said.
    “It could’ve been me. It could’ve been anybody in that newsroom. But they tagged you because you make the big bucks. You coming
     in here seven years ago, Mr. Bestseller and
Larry King
and all of that. They overpaid to get you then and that made you a target now. I’m surprised you lasted this long, to tell
     you the truth.”
    “Whatever. That doesn’t make it any better.”
    “I know but I had to say it. I’m going to go now. You going home?”
    “I’m going to have one more.”
    “Nah, man, you’ve had enough.”
    “One more. I’ll be fine. If not, I’ll take a cab.”
    “Don’t get a DUI, man. That’d be all you need.”
    “Yeah, what are they going to do to me? Fire me?”
    He nodded like I had made an impressive point, then slapped me on the back a little too hard and sauntered out of the bar.
     I sat alone and watched the game. For my next drink I skipped the Guinness and Bailey’s and went straight to Jameson’s over
     ice. I then drank either two or three more instead of just the one. And I thought about how this was not the end to my career
     that I had envisioned. I thought by now I’d be writing ten-thousand-word takes for
Esquire
and
Vanity Fair
. That they’d be coming to me instead of me going to them. That I’d have my pick of what to write about.
    I ordered one more and the bartender made a deal with me. He’d only splash whiskey on my ice if I gave him my car keys. That
     sounded like a good deal to me and I took it.
    With the whiskey burning my scalp from underneath I thought about Larry Bernard’s story about Baltimore and the ultimate fuck-you.
     I think I nodded to myself a couple times and held my glass up in toast to the lame-duck reporter who had done it.
    And then another idea burned through and seared an imprint on my brain. A variation on the Baltimore fuck-you. One with some
     integrity and as indelible as the etching of a name on a glass trophy. Elbow on the bar top, I held the glass up again. But
     this time it was for myself.
    “Death is my beat,” I whispered to myself. “I make my living from it. I forge my professional reputation on it.”
    Words spoken before but not as my own eulogy. I nodded to myself and knew just how I was going to