Charlie Carillo - Raising Jake

raising jake

CHARLIE CARILLO

raising jake

KENSINGTON BOOKS

www.kensingtonbooks.com

To my one and only Kim
A believer

My thanks to:

Tony Carillo, Cissy Carillo, Mary Carillo, Gina Carillo, Rafael
Richardson-Carillo, Frank OMahony,
Betty OMahony, Catherine Bohrsmann, James Bohrsmann, Felicity Rubinstein,
Carol Pink, Malcolm Pink, Charles Lachman, Bill Hoffmann,
Gary Goldstein, Kate Duffy, Audrey LaFehr, Anne Edelstein,
Amy Schiffman, Krista Ingebretson, Peg Ashdown, Ivy Tillyer,
Denise Lister-Fell and Simon Fell (aka Dr. Fellenstein)

Contents

raising jake

C HAPTER O NE

I ts the first phone call from my sons school that Ive ever gotten at work, and of course I immediately think the worst. Im a divorced father who catches glimpses of his seventeen-year-old son on weekends, snapshots of his life ever since I split from his mother, and suddenly my guts go into free fall with the knowledge that anything, absolutely anything could have happened to him. Failing grades. A drug habit. A fatal overdose. Whatever it is its my fault, entirely my fault for not being around.

These jolly possibilities shoot through my brain in less time than it takes to sneeze. If they ever have a Guilt Olympics, Ill carry the torch at the opening ceremonies.

The caller identifies himself as the headmaster, and I can feel sweat breaking out along my hairline. This is the guy who writes letters to me and the rest of the parents, asking for contributions to fill in the gaps not covered by tuition payments. Those payments come to about twenty-four thousand dollars a year, two grand per month, including February, which has just twenty-eight days. Ive always been proud of myself for never writing a contribution check, not once, not ever. I probably wouldnt have written the tuition checks, either, except that those payments are part of my divorce agreement, and if I miss one Im in court, and as much as I hate writing a tuition check, it beats the hell out of writing a check to a lawyer.

Thats not quite true. The truth is that unless my kid goes to private school, hell wind up in a school where he has to pass through a metal detector every day, and who wants that for their child? Like so many parents trapped on the island of Manhattan, I do what I have to do, and tell myself that its well worth the nightmares triggered by ever-deepening debt.

My mouth has gone dry. I have to lick my lips before daring to ask, Is my son hurt?

Oh no! Nothing like that! The guy chuckles apologetically. Forgive me for frightening you, Mr. Sullivan.

Actually, this is just the jolt I need to burn the fuzz off a hangover Ive been nursing all morning. Now, at least, Im clear in the head. Nothing like a death scare to blow the pipes clean.

Why are you calling? I ask, nearly adding the word Headmaster to the sentence. Its a funny word, that one, the kind of word youd sooner associate with leafy English boarding schools than you would a soot-stained brick building on the Upper West Side.

The headmaster clears his throat. Its a matter Id prefer to discuss in person. Could you come to my office at one p.m.?

An hour from now. Thats not a great time for me, Headmaster.

I thought maybe you could extend your lunch hour.

I dont get a lunch hour. Look, his mother will be back in town on Monday. Shes really the one who handles educational matters.

My son is obviously not in a life-and-death situation. It seems fair to pass this mysterious mess off to the ex, the one who selected and insisted upon this school in the first place.

Im afraid it cant wait, the headmaster says. I feel I really must see one of Jacobs guardians today.

Guardians. He actually says guardians. Thats a bad news word, if ever there was one. I start to sweat all over again. What the hell did he do?

One p.m., then?

Yeah, all right, Ill be there.

He couldnt have picked a worse time for a meeting. The newspaper goes to press at 2:00 p.m., and the story Im working on this particular day is a bit complicated, and so far Im not getting anywhere with it.

The story is this: was that bottle of liquid Britney Spears was photographed swigging from during a stroll with her elaborately tattooed boyfriend a bottle of whiskey, as the editors of the New York Star would like to believe, or a bottle of ginseng, as Britneys publicist vows it was? Believe it or not, this is our third day covering this matter, and the bosses are eager to stretch it to a fourth. Its just an excuse to publish the photos over and over, but by now our excuses are starting to seem a little lame.

Its also a tightrope walk, legally speaking. The words have to be just right, all your allegedlys and reportedlys tucked in place, which is probably why the story goes to a crusty old rewrite man like me. Im good at this shit, it both shames and thrills me to say. I can imply things without actually saying them. I can titillate without showing tits.

And now, suddenly, Ive got to dump this hornets nest into somebody elses lap so I can go and see the headmaster at a school I havent set foot in for more than five years.

The day city editor is a prematurely balding Australian named Derek Slaughterchild, and Im not looking forward to telling him I have to bolt with a deadline coming up. Slaughterchild is one of those guys who learned young that the way to move ahead in the tabloid news game is to go through the day with a pained, miserable look on your face, hang around long past your shift, and always be anxious. He believes that work done in a state of panic is better than anything achieved in a state of relaxation.

And thats pretty funny, because his father, a lovable alcoholic named Malcolm Slaughterchild, was his polar opposite. Malcolm was the day city editor back when I was a copyboy, nearly thirty years ago, and no matter what was happening I dont think his pulse rate ever changed. Moments after Hinckley shot Ronald Reagan, everyone in the newsroom was running around screaming, and as I handed the latest wire copy to Malcolm he took a deep breath, ran a hand through his thick, silvery hair and murmured, This could alter my dinner plans.

Apparently such a temperament skips a generation. Malcolm and his ruined liver were dead and buried, his son was alive and miserable, and here I was, damn near fifty years old, screwing up my courage to ask for the afternoon off. Working for a tabloid newspaper is a little bit like being in high school forever. They scream your name when they want you and treat you like an untrustworthy child, and prom night never comes.

Derek.

He looks up at me squinty-eyed, the light from the overhead fluorescents making his scalp gleam at the crown, where his hair is thinnest. You wrapped up?

Not yet.

We really need a new angle on this Britney bullshit, Sammy. Got to freshen it up, mate.

Yeah, well, sadly for us, there wasnt a second photographer on the grassy knoll.

If he gets the Kennedy reference, his face doesnt show it. What have you got, then?

Nothing.

Mate.

Derek, we broke the story. Then we broke Britneys denial. Then we went to the man on the street for his opinion. The only thing left to do is wait until she checks into rehab.

For the first time, he seems interested in something I have to say. Is she checking into rehab?

I have no idea. But I dont think theres any way you can abuse ginseng, so Id say it was unlikely.

Derek picks up the photo of Britney and stares at it like a man hoping to hear voices from above. Suddenly he says, What about her body language?

Excuse me?

Her body language, mate. He runs a bony finger along the length of Britneys body. The way shes positioned. Does it or does it not indicate whether shes drinking a health supplement, or whiskey?