Desperate Measures Read Free

do.”
    “I bet.” Burt’s gaze was piercingly direct.
    Does he suspect? Pittman wondered.
    “Considering how busy you are, I appreciate your making time for the
Chronicle
.”
    “For you,” Pittman said.
    “The same thing.”
    When Jeremy had gotten sick, when Jeremy had died, when Pittman had collapsed, Burt Forsyth had always been there to provide
     reinforcement. “Need to go to the hospital to see your boy? Take all the time you need. Need to stay with him in intensive
     care? As long as you want. Your job? Don’t worry about it. Your desk will be waiting for you.” Burt had visited Jeremy in
     the hospital. Burt had arranged for the most valuable National Football League player to phone Jeremy. Burt had escorted Pittman
     to and from the mortuary. Burt had gotten drunk with Pittman. Although Pittman had tried to convince himself that he had paid
     back every debt, the truth was that Burt could never be repaid. Of all those who might have called last night, Burt was the
     one person Pittman could not refuse.
    Burt studied him. “Got a minute?”
    “My time is yours.”
    “In my office.”
    What now? Pittman thought. Is this where I get the lecture?

4
    The
Chronicle
had a no smoking policy. Pittman could never understand how Burt managed constantly to have the recent smell of cigarette
     smoke on him. His office reeked of it, but there weren’t any ashtrays, and there weren’t any cigarette butts in the wastebasket.
     Besides, Burt’s office had glass walls. If he was breaking the rule and smoking in here, the reporters at the desks outside
     would have seen him.
    A big man, Burt eased himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. Wood creaked.
    Pittman took a chair opposite the desk.
    Burt studied him. “Been drinking too much?”
    Pittman glanced away.
    “I asked you a question,” Burt said.
    “If you were anybody else…”
    “You’d tell me it was none of my business. But since I’m the one asking… Have you been drinking too much?”
    “Depends,” Pittman said.
    “On?”
    “What you call too much.”
    Burt sighed. “I can tell this isn’t going to be a productive conversation.”
    “Look, you asked for nine days. I’m giving them to you. But that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”
    “What’s left of it. You keep drinking as much as I think you have and you’ll kill yourself.”
    “Now that’s a thought,” Pittman said.
    “Drinking won’t bring back Jeremy.”
    “That’s another thought.”
    “And killing yourself won’t bring him back, either.”
    Pittman looked away again.
    “Besides, I’m not trying to run your life,” Burt said. “It’s your job I’m trying to run. I’ve got something different I want
     you to do, a special kind of obituary, and I want to make sure you’re up to doing it. If you’re not, just say so. I’ll keep
     you on the desk, answering obit calls and filling out forms.”
    “Whatever you want.”
    “I didn’t hear you.”
    “I came back to work because you asked. If there’s something you need, I can do it. What kind of special obituary?”
    “The subject isn’t dead yet.”

5
    Pittman changed positions in the chair. Of course, it wasn’t any surprise to him, although it generally was to what Pittman
     called “civilians,” that some obituaries were written before the subject’s death. Aging movie stars, for example. Celebrities
     of one sort or another who were mortally ailing or in extremely advanced years. Common sense dictated that since they were
     going to die soon and since they were famous, why not prepare the obituary sooner rather than later? On occasion, the subjects
     were remarkably resilient. Pittman knew of one case where a lengthy obituary had been written for an elderly comedian—twenty
     years earlier—and the comedian in his nineties was still going strong.
    But Pittman judged from Burt’s somber expression that he hadn’t been summoned here just to write something as ephemeral as
     an obituary for a