Free The Anonymous Source by A.C. Fuller

halfway out the door, Baxton asked, “Alex, by the way, what happened with the woman from the courthouse? You get anything on her?”
    “Nah. She was just a court fan. No connection to the case.”

Chapter Sixteen
    ALEX SAT ALONE at Dive Bar and sifted through the research James had given him. Downton’s name had come up in dozens of articles, most from local papers in the mid-seventies. It took Alex an hour to piece together his story.
    Downton grew up in the Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Brooklyn, raised by his African-American father and Sri Lankan mother. In the seventh grade, and already standing six-foot-five, Downton led his basketball team to the state finals. The next year, coaches from St. John’s and City College started attending his games and the old folks in the neighborhood began calling him “Baby Wilt.” His coaches and peers called him “Downtown D.”
    By his junior year, now six-foot-nine, Downton was a local celebrity. He dominated the competition in high school—averaging twenty points, ten rebounds, and five assists—and was known as a great kid around the neighborhood. Article after article mentioned his volunteer work and good grades. Alex laughed out loud when he found a photo of Downton helping a lady up some steps with her groceries. Who was this guy?
    In 1977, Downton accepted a full scholarship to play at St. John’s. He never attended, but Alex couldn’t figure out why. The next year, his name appeared in an article about a deadly fire at a meat packing plant. One of the victims was Tyree Downton, Demarcus’s father. In 1985, Downton served six months for dealing marijuana. In 1988 he did another year for the same crime, and in 1992 he was sentenced to three years for beating up a man in Washington Square Park. He hadn’t appeared in the papers since.
    Alex was on his second drink when Lance walked in. “I was hoping you’d show up,” Alex said.
    Lance took the stool next to him, ordered a beer, then glanced Alex’s way. “Vodka and soda again? Be careful. That lime wedge might have a third of net carb in it.”
    Alex half-smiled and looked up from his drink. “Have you ever known the Colonel to sidestep a story?”
    “What? No, ‘How was your day, honey?’ I’m deeply hurt.”
    “Seriously,” Alex said. “You’ve been here forever. Has the Colonel always been straight with you?”
    The bartender delivered the beer and Lance took a long sip, smacking his lips. “If I’m gonna be your therapist tonight, you’re buying.”
    Alex turned to face him. “I mean, I know stories sometimes get stuffed for political or financial reasons, but today he didn’t want me looking into something. Something big. I just got the feeling that—”
    “That you’re not the golden boy anymore?” Lance laughed then took another long swig of beer.
    Alex mashed the lime wedge into the bottom of his glass with a little red straw.
    “Boy, you’re really hot for something, huh? Got that youthful exuberance and everything. The Colonel? Yeah, he’ll stonewall you every now and then.”
    “What should I do?”
    Lance took a moment to finish his beer then waved at the bartender. “Nothing you can do. You know that invisible wall between the news people and the ad people we talk about?”
    “Yeah.”
    “It’s getting thinner. Time was, we never even thought about the ad guys. They did their work and we did ours. But it changed in the nineties. Started getting the sense that, when assignments were handed out, we could never afford the personnel to do certain kinds of reporting.”
    Alex glanced at a group of women at the end of the bar, then back at Lance. “But I’m talking about when you’ve got something real, already in hand.”
    Lance took a cigar out of the inside pocket of his jacket and ran it under his nose. “You know they’re gonna ban smoking in bars any minute now. Next, they’ll probably ban carbs. Then we’ll all look like you.”
    “Lance, please. You ever had a big