“Look at you, nice and early.”
I turned my head and smiled. Tommy Townsend stood a few feet away, the Inquirer tucked under one arm, a pair of pens sticking out of his shirt pocket. He had his white and black hair pushed back and a white goatee sprung up around his scowling mouth. His dark eyes stared back at me, and for a long beat, he didn’t move.
“I learned a thing or two from you,” I said.
That broke the ice. He grinned and walked over. He sat down with a sigh. He wore his usual costume, a worn button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of dark jeans and brown boots.
“How ya doing, kid?” he asked, and hit my leg with his newspaper.
“I’m all right, Tommy,” I said.
“You seem good.” He cocked his head. “You show up early just to rub it in my face?”
“Of course,” I said. “Nothing better in the world than beating the mighty Tommy Townsend at his own game.”
He laughed. “Careful,” he said. “I just might come out of retirement to take you on.”
I grinned at the old newspaper man and leaned back against the bench. I met Tommy five years earlier when I was just eighteen years old and a freshman at Temple University. I took his Intro to Journalism class and just sort of hit it off with him. I ended up taking all his courses, including his upper level capstone class, and he was my thesis advisor.
But back before he was a teacher, Tommy was one of those old-school, hard-bitten journalists that seemed to be a part of the story more often than not. He grew up in Philly, just like me, and he seemed to know everyone. I read a few of his bigger pieces, including a profile about Mayor Goode and the MOVE bombing. He had the sort of pedigree and voice that I really admired, and as soon as I began taking his classes, I knew I wanted to be just like him.
“How’s Randy treating you?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. “Not a lot of work these days.”
He grunted. “That damned internet.”
I laughed and shook my head. “No, I mean, just not much big news. I’m still making ends meet at that coffee shop.”
“Not a bad thing, you know,” he said. “Working hard is good for you.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say,” I said. “You get to show up for a class here or there and you’re golden.”
He snorted and shook his head, smiling and patting the paper.
“I put in my years of service,” he said. “I ever tell you about the time I nearly got shot covering those gangs up in—”
“Yes,” I said, cutting him off. “About twenty times.”
He gave me a look. “You gotta learn to respect your elders, kid.”
“I know. You tell me every time we meet.”
He laughed and stretched. I knew I got under his skin, but I think he liked it a little bit.
Tommy didn’t have any kids, as far as I knew. He had a wife a long time ago, but she passed away, and he’d been single as long as I’d known him. After I graduated, he got me a job writing for the Metro, and then helped me start freelancing for the Inquirer. While I wasn’t technically a staff writer yet, I thought all I needed was one decent story, and they’d give me a real, full-time position.
And then I’d be an actual journalist. Not just some part-time rag writer, filling in stories about bored housewives turned internet streaming entrepreneurs and middle school teachers that built playground replicas from toothpicks. I wanted to get out there in the street, hunt down leads, interview subjects.
I wanted to be as much a part of the story as a witness after the fact.
“All right, kid,” he said. “You called me out here. Said you got something to talk about.”
“Yeah.” I shifted a little on the bench and glanced over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure why I did it, but it felt like the thing to do.
“Spill,” he said. “I’ve got to teach in a half hour.”
“Do you know the name Vincent Leone?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Leone is familiar,” he said. “They’re that Italian mafia family, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Vincent is the only son of their Don.”
“Okay,” he said, giving me a frown. “So how do you know that?”
“Internet,” I said, waving that away. “Reddit mostly, but there are some Tumblrs and Facebook groups about them, and—”
“All right,” he said, holding up a hand. “Old as dirt and don’t know what half those words mean.”
I grinned at him. “You really are a cliché.”
“And you really are wasting my time, so get to the point.”
I sighed and glanced around one more time. “I met him last night,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Did you know?”
I nodded. “Friend of mine works for a catering company, and she told me that they were catering this, like, fancy thing at the top of the Comcast building. She said it was supposed to be really secret and impressive, and that she could bring me along if I wanted to make some extra cash.”