Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Four

My phone buzzes, as I turn off of Milwaukee's scenic Lake Drive and follow the signs for Interstate-43 South and I-94 East back to the Windy City.

The text message is from Allah, but before I can read it, the phone buzzes again, two long, one short, two long.

Damn!

"What's up Barry?"

He doesn't answer and asks my location instead.

Weirdly, he doesn't sound angry. Just excited.

I take a gamble and start to tell him the whole truth.

"I'm just getting on the highway in Milwaukee, headed back to the shop now."

I hesitate for just a moment, and Limpett takes the opening. "Nevermind. Tell me about it later. You need to get back here."

"But..."

"Just get back here!"

"Barry, I was with Joanne Meir. She wanted to talk about the shootings and invited me to her place in Milwaukee to discuss."

Now, he pauses.

"Holy shi--! OK, that's--! OK, I need to know, but you know what? Get back here first!"

He disconnects, and I drive in silence, wondering how a woman with more money than most people will dream of in their lives could possibly help me solve homicides, short of hiring a crew of elite private investigators.

###

I pull under the stone archway and into the Midway's secure parking lot exactly one hour and forty-four minutes after leaving Meir's Milwaukee County lake house. My phone has been shaking like a sex toy, one text message after another. All from Allah, I assume. I'll get at him later. For now, I've got to find out where the fire is that had Limpett so hot and bothered on the phone.

Old Porter, my very own Uncle Ruckus, eyes me curiously as I trot towards the loading dock.

"Hey, why's the lot so full? You ain't doing your job, old man!"

He smirks back at me and wags a finger. "Don't worry about it, darkness! But they want you inside, boy! Now git!"

Darkness. The funny and sad thing is that Porter is at least two shades of brown darker than me. But he hates it. Sees his complexion as a liability.

Self-loathing must be a lonely place.

I ignore the rest of his catcalls, bound up the rear steps two at a time, shove open the door, step through and freeze in a way that only a surprise party's made me do before.

The newsroom, my newsroom is abuzz with activity. There are two camera crews, clearly, based on the sizes of the entourages, from major networks.

Fleischmann, Brawley, and Calibretti are seated in his office, grinning at my confusion.

"It was your story on the Detroit connection," blurts Calibretti.

"Be flattered, Blake," Brawley says. "They're here because your story caught fire on the wire services. Every TV morning show, every talk radio show, every respectable satellite radio show is calling asking to interview you. You made a hot one go nuclear, buddy!"

I'm excited, but...

"Wait. What about the shootings? I thought the city was about to go up in flames. I don't have time to be the story."

I should be stoked. I stumbled bass-ackwards into a story I didn't want but could make me famous. But I'm not stoked. Kids are dying. Hell, an old lady might've died because of what's going on. I don't need fame. I need answers.

And yet, I can't deny that the thought of "making it" is heating me up.