"I'm only human. How could I not be tempted by the prospect of such a high-paying job, complete with the respect of my peers and the promise of getting my stories published, no matter how bizarre they were? As such, it was around 11:35 in the morning when I made the detour and arrived at the headquarters of the Chicago Chronicle. I wasn't exactly sure where Mr. Wainwright's office was, and when I arrived at the paper's nerve center to inquire about its location, I found myself on the receiving end of an unexpected, warm reception…"
"Hello, Mr. Kolchak!" a young man in a brightly-colored vest exclaimed, hugging him. Based on his accent, Carl concluded that he was from somewhere in the Mediterranean, but the hug had taken him by surprise. "Mr. Wainwright said that you would be coming here; he has told us all about how you write the amazing stories that your editor won't publish—"
Another young man quickly pulled him away from the embrace.
"Leave him alone; he's here for an interview with Mr. Wainwright—not you," he muttered, annoyed. He looked back at Carl, apologizing. "You have to forgive him; that's how he greets everyone…"
Carl just waved him off, though he was still surprised and amused by the greeting.
"No problem," he said. "Well, there is one problem; I can't seem to find Mr. Wainwright's office…"
"Oh, it's the next flight of stairs up, at the end of the hall," the Mediterranean man offered. "I can show you the way—"
"I'll take him there, Bartokomous," Gorpley said, shooing the younger men off.
"Actually, I think I can find the way there myself after all," Carl said, still convinced that there was a chance that Gorpley wanted the information he had picked up.
As he headed to Wainwright's office, Carl took a little time to notice how flawless everything seemed to be. The floors shined and the walls shimmered with a coat of good paint—nothing at all like the drab, wooden floors and old, faded walls of the INS; when he was feeling particularly snarky, Carl would often make a comment about how the Board of Health recommended them to avoid leaning on the INS building's walls to avoid lead poisoning from the old paint.
A control panel on the wall Carl passed controlled the central heating and cooling for the Chronicle building, revealing the temperature to be a perfect 68 degrees. Back at the INS, the central heating and air conditioning never worked; he and the others had to bring in space heaters in the winter and fans in the summer—the latter inevitably blowing papers all over the room at least once a day, if not more.
There was no train rumbling by to halt any conversation at the Chronicle. Office space was generous. And, most of all, a large number of people read the Chronicle—people who would read his stories if he did decide to take the job.
A guy could get used to this, he said to himself.
Wainwright's door was opened, and he looked up as Carl approached and cleared his throat to signal his presence.
"Ah, Kolchak, come in! Sit down; make yourself comfortable. Just let me know if you're hungry; I can have someone run to the vending machine and get you something."
"I'm good," Carl insisted, as he sat down in the chair across from Wainwright's desk. "I understand that you were going to discuss the details of this job?"
"Ah, yes," Wainwright said, leaning back on his chair and lacing his fingers together. "Tell me, Kolchak… How much does Vincenzo pay you?"
"Well…" Carl said, shrugging. "The INS isn't exactly a huge paper; we're a wire service. And it's not as though I'm homeless and starving…"
He trailed off as he realized that he probably would've been homeless and starving had Tony not hired him in the first place.
"Alright, so you're living within your means," Wainwright said. "But how would you like to have this as a starting salary?"
He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Carl. The redhead's eyebrows arched in sheer surprise.
"…That's a starting salary?" he asked.
"It's negotiable; I can go higher. A reporter of your caliber deserves that, and more," Wainwright said. "I can promise you that in writing if you desire. Would you like to know what the salary cap would be?"
"I think I can imagine," Carl said. "But I still don't understand why you're going through so much trouble to convince me to work for you."
"It's like I told you over the phone; you are an amazing reporter, and I understand that your talents are not appreciated. Take the Robert Palmer incident, for example—you put yourself in a lot of danger just to get the truth—"
"How did you know about that?" Carl asked, his eyes narrowing. "Tony never published my article!" He knew that all too well, having seen his editor crumple it up at throw it away unceremoniously.
Wainwright froze, caught, but he cleared his throat.
"Well, Kolchak, I'm sure you know that investigative journalism sometimes requires practices that may come across as slightly sneaky…"
"What did you do—bug Tony's office?"
"Of course not—that's not sneaky, that's out-and-out immoral!" Wainwright said. "It just so happens that my previous investigative journalist knew all the loopholes—like how trash put out on the curb does not constitute private property."
"You raided the INS trash cans to get my stories?" Carl asked, flummoxed.
"I'm sure you've done the same during your investigations," Wainwright insisted.
"I never stole stories from the trash!" Carl insisted. Granted, he had looked though trash cans for evidence, but never to steal stories!
"We never stole anything from your stories, Kolchak," Wainwright assured him. "You can look through our entire archives to make sure of it."
"But why would you want my stories?" Carl asked, still unable to comprehend why.
"Well," Wainwright said. "I was in Seattle some time ago, and I came across something most interesting—a limited edition of a Seattle paper that featured a story on a killer. However, the killer was, according to this story, 144 years old."
"And you believed it?"
"Obviously, I did; otherwise, you wouldn't be having this conversation here with me, now would you?"
Carl shrugged.
"And I suppose the rest of your former reporter's trash can treasure hunting dug up more stories of mine that never made it?" Carl asked.
"It did," Wainwright admitted. "You have seen some… truly incredible things, Kolchak. I don't know why Vincenzo thinks that no one would want to read them; just because he wouldn't believe in a ghost if it came up to him and said, 'Boo,' it doesn't mean that everyone else thinks the same way!"
"Well… Tony is no fool; he's just cautious and careful as to what he decides to print," Carl said.
"Ah, you see, Kolchak, this is why I am eager to have you work for me," Wainwright said, smiling. "You defend Vincenzo when he doesn't even appreciate you. I can only imagine the loyalty you'll have to a place like this. So, then… When would you like to start? Of course, I understand that you'll need to give your two weeks' notice to Vincenzo; shall we say… two weeks from today?"
"Well, I think that may be just a little bit hasty," Carl said. "I'll have to give this some thought."
"You do? But this is what you've wanted, isn't it? And what has Vincenzo ever done for you?"
Carl bit his lip. Well, it wasn't New York, but working for a prestigious daily paper was, indeed, what he wanted.
So why was he not jumping at the chance?
"It just seems a bit too good to be true," he said, at last, though it wasn't the truth.
"Well, if you need some time for it to sink in, be my guest," Wainwright said, handing him his business card. "Just give me a call when you've decided to accept, and you can get started as soon as Vincenzo sets you free from that little paper that only a handful of people read."
He would have to say that, Carl muttered to himself.
Nevertheless, he said his goodbyes to Wainwright and, as he headed back to his car and drove back to the INS, he had to admit that he was seriously considering taking the job.
The feeling only increased as he stepped inside the building and seeing the familiar, worn walls. His nose was twitching slightly—a sign that mildew had set in yet again.
"Carl?"
The redhead gave a start as Miss Emily addressed him.
"Carl, is something on your mind?"
She was uncanny in her ability to sense when something was bothering him—and sincere in her concern to help. If Carl did take that job at the Chronicle, he knew that he would indeed miss her.
"I'm fine, Miss Emily," he assured her, not wanting to worry her. "You go and have your lunch."
She nodded.
"Oh, and speaking of lunch," Emily said. "Mr. Vincenzo is getting a bit tired of waiting for you; he put off his lunch because you said you were going to speak to him."
Carl winced.
"Right…" he said. "I'll go see His Majesty right now, then."
He took his leave of Miss Emily and headed straight for Tony's office.
"Behold, O Captain and King, I have returned!"
"What took so long?" Tony demanded. "Please tell me the police didn't detain you again!"
"Actually, Tony, they didn't," Carl assured him. "I just… ran into a bit of traffic on the way back."
The editor's eyes narrowed. He had known Carl Kolchak long enough to sense when he was telling the truth, and when he was not. That was how he knew that all of the bizarre articles on monsters and demons were about things that Carl took very seriously; and it was also how he knew that Carl wasn't being entirely truthful as to why he was late.
Carl continued to look nonchalant, though his mind was on the proposed job at the Chronicle. It meant that he would never have to deal with Tony's endless inquiries, like he was doing now. Wainwright had seemed ready to give anything that Carl wanted on a silver platter; clearly, he saw an appeal in Carl's bizarre stories—one that Tony did not see, and would never see…
"Kolchak!"
Carl snapped back to reality.
"Yeah?"
"What is with you?"
"Oh, I was just thinking about the disappearance at the lake," Carl bluffed.
Tony was not convinced, but the mention of the lake caused him to roll his eyes again.
"Carl, just leave that lake alone," he instructed, handing Carl a book. "I want you to spend the rest of the day reading Julius Caesar to prepare for when you see that show tomorrow!"
"I've read Julius Caesar before," Carl assured him, placing the book back on Tony's desk. "I still remember being forced to memorize one of the soliloquies in high school."
"Really…?" Tony asked, dubious.
"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him—"
"Alright, alright," Tony said. "But a refresher read wouldn't hurt!"
"Tony, relax! I am perfectly capable of working on this lake disappearance story without affecting tomorrow's review in any way. Anyway, let me tell you what I found out…"
"We went through that already," Tony said. "You said that the poor fisherman heard some strange singing, and that music somehow made him vanish!"
"I didn't say it was the music," Carl said. "But the music definitely has a role to play—"
"Carl, the man heard a radio. A radio!"
"How could he have heard a radio when he was out in the middle of the lake?" Carl countered.
"…Maybe some metal part of the boat collected the radio waves!" Tony said, after giving himself a moment to think about it. "There was once a documented case of a guy's metal bridgework in his mouth ending up collecting radio waves like that! If bridgework can do it, so can a boat!"
Carl stared at his employer in bemusement.
"You know, Vincenzo, just when I think you couldn't get into any deeper denial, you surprise me by proving yourself to be even more of a stubborn skeptic than I ever imagined. Why can't you accept for once that there are some things that have no scientific explanation to them?"
Tony slammed his hands down on his desk.
"Then what, pray tell, is your explanation for all of this, if it isn't collected radio waves behind it all?"
Carl's face fell.
"I'm still working on that," he admitted. "I didn't get much time over there thanks to Captain Rausch and that phone call I got…" He trailed off.
"What phone call?" Tony asked, his eyebrows arching.
"Never mind, Tony; that's not important," Carl said, trying to steer the conversation back to the lake. "I'm guessing that Rausch will be gone after lunch; I'll head back after I get a bite to eat, too. Maybe then I can find some answers about that singing."
"No!" Tony ordered. "That's it, Carl; I'm putting my foot down here! I don't want you going back to the lake; just forget the whole thing!"
"Forget the whole thing? Tony, if I can figure this out, it might stop someone else from disappearing the next time they go up there!"
"May I remind you, Kolchak, that I am the one who assigns the stories around here? And if I say that I want you to reread Julius Caesar to prepare for your assigned story tomorrow, you'd better reread Julius Caesar!"
The two were now glaring daggers at each other. It was Carl who backed down—or seemed to.
"Alright, Vincenzo, you win," Carl said, picking up the book again. "I'll reread Julius Caesar. And wouldn't you know that the best reading spot can be found at Navy Pier? I'll let you know how it goes!"
"By the pier—!" Tony sputtered, as Carl dashed out of the office. "Kolchak, get back here! Kolchak!"
Carl smirked to himself. He had won again. Now he could continue with his quest.
But even in the midst of his victory, he couldn't help but ignore the voice in his head reminding him that if he took the job at the Chronicle, he wouldn't have to fight to get a story in the first place.
It would be nice to have free reign over the kinds of stories he wanted to, he realized. And with that would come more money than he would know what to do with…
"Off on another one of your wild monster chases, Kolchak?"
Carl snapped back to the present again, none too pleased to see Ron Updyke rolling his eyes at him.
"Does it matter?" the redhead asked, frowning.
"Yes, it does—I know that Mr. Vincenzo assigned you the Julius Caesar review, and if you're too busy chasing after one of your crazy monster stories, it means that I'm going to be dumped with the responsibility of picking up the review. Tomorrow is supposed to be my day off, and I do not want to spend it being called back to work for a story you were supposed to be covering!"
Carl folded his arms, biting back most of what he wanted to say in his retort.
"Well, excuse me for inconveniencing the lives of the upper crust, Uptight," he said. "But I have every intention of attending that play."
"See that you do," Ron said.
Carl muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing at all," the redhead said, through gritted teeth.
Deciding to leave before Tony tracked him down and made him promise in writing that he wouldn't go to the lake, Carl decided to make his "escape."
He was almost grateful for the arguments he had just had with Tony and Ron; if anything, they had just put everything into perspective for him. Constantly butting heads with the both of them—though with Tony especially—just for a chance to follow a story of his choice that would likely be discarded by Tony anyway once it was finished was getting Carl absolutely nowhere fast. The sooner he got out of here and at the more pleasant environment of the Chronicle, the better.
On the other hand, maybe this would be the one time Tony would believe one of his stories if he could get solid proof that there was something about that mysterious music that the fishermen had heard. There was no point in dealing with Ron, he knew, but there were times that it seemed that Tony was almost convinced. Perhaps convincing him just once would be enough….
Ah, who was he trying to fool? Tony Vincenzo was just as stubborn in refusing to believe the supernatural as Carl was in trying to prove it. Why should this time be any different than the others?
As Carl's thoughts turned once again to the tempting offer of the Chronicle job, with its well-kept building and promise of money and appreciation, it was becoming more and more of a no-brainer.
So why was he still reluctant to accept Wainwright's offer? Was it because Tony had kept him employed all this time when no one else would have? Did he really have a loyalty to him, as Wainwright had said? Was that why Carl had deliberately avoided the subject of the job offer, even when Tony had asked him what he had been thinking about?
He tried to shake the muddled thoughts from his head. It wasn't like him to be sentimental; any person with half a brain would have jumped at the job offer he had received. Tony himself wanted to move beyond mere editor of a wire service. That rationalization was enough for Carl.
Perhaps it was indeed time to leave the INS behind.
Author's note: the Shakespearean quote in this chapter is public domain. Also, Tony's mention about the case where a person's dental bridgework ended up acting like a radio is, in fact, a real story.
