Dreams Die First Read Online Free

Studios. The Collector pulled his car to a stop in front of the store in a no-parking zone. With a fine disregard for the rules of the road he managed also to take up half the bus stop.
    The windows of the store were painted over with dirty white paint so that you could not see inside, and smeared black lettering spelled out the newspaper’s name.
    The Collector opened the door and walked in. Along the walls of the store were eight or nine empty desks. At the back of the room was a large wallboard filled with papers pinned up with red, yellow and blue tacks.
    “Anybody here?” the Collector called out.
    There was the sound of a door creaking from a back room and a tired-looking middle-aged man came out, drying his hands on a paper towel. He dropped it on the floor as he came toward us. “You’re an hour late,” he said in a complaining voice.
    “I wasn’t late, you were early,” the Collector said flatly.
    “Lonergan said—” The man’s voice faded as the Collector looked at him.
    The Collector gestured to me. “Gareth Brendan, Joe Persky.”
    The man shook my hand unenthusiastically. Even his fingers felt tired. “Nice to meet you.”
    I nodded. “This is Verita Velasquez, my accountant.”
    He shook hands with her, then turned back to me. “Lonergan says you’re interested in buying the paper.”
    “I’m glad he told you. I didn’t hear about it until last night.”
    Persky turned back to the Collector. For the first time a note of emotion came into his voice. “What the hell is Lonergan trying to pull? He told me he had a bona fide customer.”
    The Collector just looked at him.
    Persky turned back to me. “Are you interested or not?”
    “Maybe. That depends. I’d like to look over your operation before I make up my mind.”
    “There’s nothing to look over. It’s all here.”
    “You don’t sound as if you want to sell. Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.”
    “He don’t have any choice,” the Collector said. “Lonergan says he wants to sell.”
    There was a moment’s silence; then the anger seemed to seep out of the man. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
    “The usual things. Circulation, sales, advertising revenue, costs. If you’ll show your books to Miss Velasquez, I’m sure we can find out everything we want to know.”
    The man was sullen. “We never kept any formal books.”
    “You must have records of some kind. How else would you know how you were doing?”
    “I operated mostly on a cash basis. The money came in. I paid it out. That’s all.”
    I turned to the Collector. “Does Lonergan know that?”
    The Collector shrugged. I should have known better than to ask. Of course Lonergan knew. I turned back to Persky. “You must have some figures. You had to file tax returns.”
    “I don’t have any copies.”
    “Somebody must have. Your accountant?”
    “I didn’t use an accountant. I did everything myself. And that included stuffing the paper into mailboxes.”
    I’d had it. If Lonergan thought I was going to stick my neck into this mess, he was crazier than I was. I turned to the Collector. “Let’s go.”
    The Collector moved so fast I hardly saw his hand. Suddenly Persky was thrown back against a desk. His hands clutched at his stomach and he was bent over and almost retching. The Collector’s voice was empty. “You give the man the information he asks for.”
    Persky’s voice rasped in his throat. “How do I know this guy an’ this dame ain’t some kind of revenue dicks? There’s nothing in the law that says I got to incriminate myself.”
    “Fuckhead! Internal Revenue ain’t goin’ to get Lonergan’s money back for him.”
    Slowly Persky straightened up. His face returned to its normal color. “I don’t keep the books here. They’re in my apartment.”
    “We’ll go over there and look at them then,” I said. “Where is your apartment?”
    “Upstairs,” he said. “Over the store.”
    ***
    Verita spread the ledgers and the pile