Front-Page McGuffin & The Greatest Story Never Told Read Free Page B

crawls—there’s no other word for it—crawls its way up onto his chin and then around the cheek up to the eye socket where one of the fingers extends and pushes the lid up. Front-Page rubs at it, blinks a couple more times, and then drops the arm by his side.
    “Not … well,” says Front-Page, leaving a big space between the words. “How you guys?”
    Edgar gets to his feet and moves to take Front-Page’s hand, having to lift it up from the man’s side first, and pumps it furiously but carefully. “Good to see you,” he says, “been a long time.”
    “Long time,” Front-Page echoes.
    He looks to the other two men at the table and then walks across stiltedly, listing to the left at first until he whacks himself on the hip. This seems to cure the trouble and he makes it all the way to the table without further mishap. His co-ordination seems to have improved a little but it’s still shaky, like he’s not in control of his movements. Front-Page takes hold of Jim Leafman’s hand, shakes it and says, “Jim.” Jim nods, returns the shake.
    “How about that?” Edgar is saying to Jack Fedogan.
    “Something’s wrong,” says Jack, keeping his voice low.
    Over at the table, McCoy Brewer is reaching his hand across to Front-Page but Front-Page backs away, looking at it in a kind of blank-faced horror … a quiet desperation.
    McCoy looks across at Jim and then over at Edgar and Jack. “What did I say?” he asks, but Front-Page is already making his way around the table. When he reaches McCoy, he leans forward and takes hold of McCoy’s hand in both of his own and shakes it emphatically. “Bad luck,” says Front-Page, shaking his head slowly and uncertainly, looking like maybe he’s already had a few Happy Hours of his own before hitting the Working Day.
    McCoy pulls his hand back from Front-Page, who seems momentarily unable to detach himself, and flexes the fingers and then rubs it in his other hand. “Jeez,” says McCoy, “must be cold out there.”
    Jim moves across and puts an arm around Front-Page’s shoulder. “You okay?” He pulls a chair across from a nearby table. “You want to sit down?”
    Front-Page moves his head slowly and jerkily to face Jim Leafman. His eyes are all white for a second and then the pupils slide slowly down. “Not well,” he says.
    Jim helps him to the chair and Front-Page drops onto the seat.
    Bills Williams moves over to stand by the table. Jim and McCoy look at him and shrug.
    “How you doing, wordsmith?” says Bills.
    Front-Page shakes his head. “Not well,” he says, the words sticking partway out.
    McCoy and Jim take their seats and pull their chairs into the table. Edgar says to Jack Fedogan to bring over a pitcher of beer and four glasses. When he sees Bills Williams pulling another chair across, he tells Jack to make that five glasses.
    Over at the table, McCoy asks what was bad luck.
    “Bad luck,” Front-Page agrees enthusiastically.
    “No,” McCoy says, raising his voice like he’s talking to someone who speaks a different language to the one he uses, separating out the words. “What. Did. You. Mean. About. Bad. Luck. When. You. Shook. My. Hand?”
    Front-Page nods. “Bad luck.” And then he leans forward, raps the table with his knuckles, puts his head on his arm and commences to let out the most fearful noise.
    “He’s really lost the plot,” McCoy Brewer observes.
    Edgar Nornhoevan looks down at his hands and notes, with some surprise, that they’re shaking. “I’m not even sure he recognized me … or any of us,” he says, more to himself than to anyone else.
    Jim Leafman taps Edgar on the shoulder and nods in the direction of Front-Page McGuffin. “He having some kind of attack?”
    “He’s crying,” Bills Williams says quietly.
    “Crying?” says McCoy. “That’s crying ?”
    The sound that the one-time star reporter of the New York Times is making is a noise that’s a little bit like nails being dragged across a blackboard,