Desperate Measures

7

Pittman glanced back and saw the envelope Burt was holding. His chest felt cold.

“The guy who subbed for you yesterday found this in your desk drawer.” Burt opened the envelope. “It’s addressed to me, so he figured he’d better deliver it.” Burt set a sheet of paper on the desk. “I guess I got it earlier than you wanted. Pretty impersonal, don’t you think, given all we’ve been through?”

Pittman didn’t need to read the typed note to know what it said.

Matthew Pittman, 38, West 12th St., died Wednesday evening from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

A memorial service will begin at noon on Saturday at Donovan’s Tavern, West 10th St. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to the children’s cancer fund at Sloan-Kettering in the name of Jeremy Pittman.

“It was all I could think of.”

“Brevity’s a virtue.” Burt tapped the sheet of paper. “But so is thoroughness. You didn’t mention that you worked for the Chronicle.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass the newspaper.”

“And you didn’t mention that you were survived by your ex-wife, Ellen.”

Pittman shrugged.

“You didn’t want to embarrass her, either?” Burt asked.

Pittman shrugged again. “I got writer’s block when it came to calling Ellen by her new last name. I finally decided to hell with it.”

“I wish you could ignore your other problems as conveniently. Eight more days, Matt. You promised me eight more days.”

“That’s right.”

“You owe me,” Burt said.

“I know,” Pittman said with force. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for-” To interrupt the confrontation, he glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. I’ll get started on Millgate’s obituary after lunch.”