Free Parker Field by Howard Owen Page A

hope he’s OK.”
    I’m sure you do, I think.
    “Well,” he says, looking up “how much sabbatical do you need?”
    “A month.” I try not to make it sound like a question.
    “A week,” he replies.
    I try to get him to settle for two, but he won’t budge. Hell, if it takes more than a week, I’ll use vacation time. And I’ve got about six unpaid furlough days waiting to be wasted.
    We both say OK, and then he doesn’t say anything else, which is my cue to exit.
    I blow Sandy McCool a kiss on the way out and tell her to get Grubby a sunlamp.
    I’m playing Internet solitaire at my desk when my roomie Abe Custalow calls.
    “Just wanted you to know,” he says. “Rand is back.”
    Finlay Rand apparently returned from his vacation this afternoon to find his apartment more or less trashed, as much by the cops as by the shooter. That’ll teach him to leave a contact number with somebody before he leaves town.
    The police have already been by to play Twenty Questions with him.
    “He’s not too happy,” Custalow says. “He says the guy who broke in damaged a couple of old chairs he said were worth $5,000 each. Can a chair be worth that much, Willie?”
    “I don’t know. Does it have beer-can holders on the arms?”
    “Anyhow, he said he’d like to talk to you.”
    “Why?” I can’t think of much that Finlay Rand and I have in common. He’s a fine-wine kind of guy, and the only kind of Burgundy I’ve drunk much of is the hearty kind, Chateau Gallo.
    “I guess about the shooting. He knows Les lives with Peggy. Maybe he wants to apologize for not putting a better lock on his door.”
    I remind Custalow that Gillespie has told me Rand’s place was entered with a key. No muss, no fuss.
    I tell Abe I’ll call on Mr. Rand tomorrow, which will be the first day of my poorly funded sabbatical.
    I T’S A zero-sum game in the newsroom these days. If somebody takes a week or two off, somebody else has to double up. No cushion anymore. And if the beat is night cops and it’s starting to get warm on the poor side of town, you can’t just blow it off. People die, and other people want to know about it. Everybody bitches about all the bad news in the paper, but try making a living printing stories about people doing the right thing. The right thing’s boring to Bubba and Mary Catherine sitting on their West End screened-in porch. Reading about the down and dirty is what gets people’s juices flowing. Shouldn’t be that way, but Les Hacker shouldn’t be in VCU hospital paralyzed on his right side. Shouldn’t doesn’t mean a damn thing.
    So, I’m pretty sure Sarah Goodnight’s not being sincere when she stops in front of my desk and says, “Thanks a lot.”
    Because she’s been to a dirt nap or two, she gets to be me the next week or so. Wheelie probably expects her to keep covering city council, too. “Excuse me, Mayor. Could you hold off voting on that new sanitation dump for an hour or so? Somebody just caught some lead in the East End.”
    Sarah’s a good newshound. As soon as one of our timeworn political reporters dies or retires (which, from the look of them, won’t be too long now), she’ll be covering state politics. Unlike me, she probably won’t screw it up and wind up doing a repeat performance as night police reporter.
    I apologize for the inconvenience and promise to buy her a few rounds when I get back.
    “You better,” she says.
    I tell her I’ll probably be around most of the time. Two or three trips to exotic places like Wisconsin and north Florida ought to be the extent of my travels. Plus, I don’t want to be away from Les and Peggy for too long.
    It’s a quiet night. I go to the microfilm and do a little research on the ’64 Vees.
    Then, about nine, Kate calls. I tell her I mailed the rent check on the fifth, which is almost true. She interrupts me.
    “What do you know about Raymond Gatewood?”
    I tell her I know he should rot in hell. I fill her in on the latest on