Deep Quote was a big burly guy in a perennial battle with his weight. I could imagine him sitting at his desk looking over the top of his glasses, scrolling down this guy’s record. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Finished parole ’20. Current employment unknown. No tax returns last year. Owns a two-year-old BMW 5 Series.” An aside, a knowing chuckle. “Wonder where the money for that came from? Nothing. Nothing.” Another thoughtful pause, then, “Okay, here’s something, there’s nine unpaid parking tickets been issued to that car within the last year, all of them on the same block, but a different block from his home address. He got the tickets on Stratford Road. His address is Belmont Circle.”

“Which means?”

“Who the fuck knows. Maybe that home address is a phony. Maybe this place is his hangout, gang headquarters, local drop, maybe that’s where his squeeze lives, could be anything.” I heard a series of puffing sounds as he continued looking over the sheet. “That’s pretty much it, bro.”

“You hear anything, you know who loves you most, right?”

He chuckled. “Just be smart with this. This’d get me fried.”

A few years earlier I would have been taking notes. Instead, soon as he clicked off, I ordered, “Cher, transcribe and print it, please.”

“Yes, boss.” I hate a wiseass computer.

Howie made a soft landing in my chair. “And?”

I clasped my hands, put them behind my head, and leaned back with a smile. “Who’s your favorite reporter?”

“Depends. Downhill, there’s nobody can keep up with you.”

I told him we had a possible. A name, a background that sounded right. Howie started chewing on one of those green plastic flossers, saving his cigar for the victory. “What do you want to do?”

Before I could respond, Frankie B. Goode shouted, “Listen up, everybody. Something’s going on at the White Castle. Lots of smiles. Do some checking, please.”

Howie continued, “You ready to go with it?”

“We can’t name the guy.” The risk of identifying a suspect on such flimsy evidence was much too great. “But we can break it: ‘Authorities have identified a person or persons of interest in the 7/11 attack on the Lincoln Tunnel yada, yada, yada…’ Nothing wrong with that. If we’re wrong, so what, we had a solid tip from a trusted source, no one’s gonna remember.” Besides, truckloads of bullshit were being published. On the other hand, if we were right, if we were right and first, we would attract a lot of attention. Either way, the story was going to get reposted on the major sites, which would have to credit us. Long term, a break like this could even make the difference between the Pro suriviving or going belly-up. Even with his ethics, Howie always reminded us there was a reason it was called the news business. Too often the bottom line was the bottom line.

“Okay.” Howie nodded his approval and pushed himself up. “Okay,” he repeated with a little more decisiveness, “let’s go with it.” He stood in front of the room like a slightly deranged teacher, put two fingers in the corners of his mouth, and whistled the room silent. Everyone paused and gave him their attention. “Listen up, people.” He was standing in front of the office, his stomach flowing gently over his belt like the intermediate slope in Vail. He pointed at me. “Big Wheels here just got a heads-up. It looks like the feds got a name out of New York that they’re spritzing over. See what you can find out.” He scanned the room. “Who’s from Michigan again? Anybody?”