Free If Angels Fall by Rick Mofina Page A

haven’t you gone home yet?”
    “Didn’t feel like it. Feel like a beer?”
    “I am tired. It’s been a long day. Can I take a rain
check?”
    Molly stepped closer. He could smell her perfume.
“I’ve given you a handful already, Tommy. When are you going to put them to
use?”
    He liked her perfect-teeth smile, her ice-blue eyes
inviting him to a place he as tempted to enter.
    “See this?” A perfect fingernail tapped a memo. “Could
be exciting, don’t you think?” Molly said before leaving.
    It was a managing editor’s notice calling for
applications for the paper’s new South American bureau in Sāo Paulo. Reed
took five seconds to ingest the idea of applying and the consequences of
success before returning to his desk for his jacket.
    “Any problems?” he asked Duggan on his way out.
    “Good piece. Just in time for first.”
    “I’ll cover the Becker press conference tomorrow?”
    “No, you’re working the night shift in here tomorrow
night.”
    “But I’m the lead report on this one.”
    “Benson called in the order. You’re off the story.”
    Myron Benson, the editor of the paper’s largest
editorial department, controlled fifty reporters. Invoking Benson’s name gave
any instructions immediate currency. Duggan stared at Reed. No elaboration was
needed. The fuckup last year, and that Benson had nearly fired him and kept him
on indefinite probation were known facts.
    “Fine, fine. I get it.”
    Duggan gave him an opened business envelope addressed
to the paper. It bore Metro University’s seal and came from a Dr. K.E. Martin
of the psych department. Reed’s name had been scrawled on it.
    “What’s this?”
    “Benson wants you to do a feature on this bereavement
group.” Duggan nodded at the envelope. “He wants you to tie it in with the
anniversary of the Donner murder and the Becker kidnapping.
    Reed was wounded. Again. He swallowed it.
    “Sure. I’ll get right on it.”
    Crumbs and crap, that’s what they were feeding him.
Reed tucked the envelope into his jacket and headed for the parking lot.

TEN

    The distant horn of a tug echoed from the bay as Tom Reed walked across the Star parking lot. Cool Pacific breezes carried the stench of diesel and exhaust from
the freeway overhead. The green ’77 Comet he had bought after Ann left waited
like a lonely, faithful mutt.
    Reed lost his awe for San Francisco- the lights of
Coit Tower, the financial district, the pyramid, the hills, the bridges, the
Bay.
    He ran a red light entering Sea Park, a community of
uphill mansions whose views rivaled Russian Hill and Pacific Heights. It
bordered a small park dotted by stone tables topped with permanent chessboards.
Old European men brought their own worn pieces here to play friendly games and
reminisce. Beyond the houses were rows of condos. A sedate community. Gleaming
Jaguars, BMW’s and Mercedes lined the streets. Precision clipped shrubs and
hedges hid the pong of tennis balls, the splash of a private pool, and
the occasional whispered investment tip.
    Reed parked near the three-story Edwardian house where
he lived with five other men. The owner, Lila Onescu, was a Rumanian grand dame
with gypsy blood who lived in a condo two blocks away. After Ann left with
Zach, Reed couldn’t bear living alone in their house. A buddy told him of Lila
Onescu’s place, a jewel in Sea Park, well kept, quiet. A hundred bucks a week
for a room on the second floor where he would share a bathroom and kitchen with
two tenants. This was his home.
    Reed creaked up the staircase, welcomed by the typed
note taped to the door. “Where is the rent? L. Onescu.” He was two weeks
behind. He would give her a check tomorrow he promised, fumbling for his key.
    His room had three bay windows overlooking the Marina
District and the Pacific. A dorm-style single bed with rumpled sheets was
against one wall. A mirrored dresser stood against another near an ornamental
fireplace. A small desk sat opposite the bed, and a