If every story must have a moral, what then, is the moral of this story?
Don’t send pictures of yourself to young women?
Seems ridiculously simple. How does the song The Flower Man go again? You need to hold it back before you lose somebody you love. Fuck, you gotta fight the urge to do something stupid. So stupid, it can get people killed. Especially, those you love the most.
I pick up the bottle beside me, take another deep swig, cap the bottle, set it aside, lay back down. The alcohol . . . it’s not doing its job. It’s not making me brain dead.
But back to the moral of the McGovern story.
Maybe there is no moral. Maybe there is no lesson to be learned. Maybe the McGovern/Brezinski crimes and their murders are just the results of nothing more than human fucking nature. A madman in Germany exterminates six million Jews because he feels like it. A mentally ill man shoots thousands of rounds into a crowd of country music fans in Las Vegas because he felt like it was the right thing to do. A man known as Mr. TV to the local Albany community rapes a teenage Russian immigrant, films it, then has the balls to harass her when she’s old enough to do something about it. Who knows, maybe he’s raped countless women who are too afraid to come forward. It all results in the murder not only of himself but his entire family. He raped and he abused because he felt like it. He wasn’t motivated by religion or politics or by having ingested too much cough medicine. He did it because he wanted to, and that’s that. Human . . . fucking . . . condition. End of story, don’t let the moral slap you in the ass on the way out.
I drink one more shot, feel my head spin.
“Humanity needs an enema,” I whisper aloud as the bottle slips out of my hand, and I pass into a dark, sad oblivion.
The next morning, I’m seated in a chair in front of Henry’s big desk, the rare bright morning sunlight filling the room light an insult. My extra-large Styrofoam cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee sits on the edge of her desk. I’d be holding it in my hands if they weren’t still shaking so badly. While she takes a quick call, I scan the photos Miller just texted me. Dozens of Super-8 movie reels stored inside a secret room down in McGovern’s basement. Movies taken outside the first and even second floor windows of suburban homes. The homes of some of his closest neighbors. Four decades worth of movies, all of them on rich Super-8 sound film. Mr. TV’s favorite moving picture medium.
Henry hangs up the phone, gives me a look with her big brown eyes like I just messed my pants.
“Don’t you just look like shit, Jobz,” she says. “Let me guess, you hit the bottle, and the bottle hit back hard.”
“Shhhhhhhh,” I say, covering my ears. “And for Christ’s sakes, can you turn down that dress?”
Henry is wearing a bright yellow and pink dress. She’s also wearing matching glossy pink lipstick and eyeshadow. Someone passes by her open door. Stops. It’s Dereck. He’s wearing chinos so tight I can make out the outline of his entire package. Even though I’m trying not to.
“Nice having you back, Jobzy,” he says. “Oh, how I’ve missed you so.”
I peel my eyes away from his junk. “Go away, Dereck.”
His eyes go wide, his mouth ajar.
“Well, b-i-t-c-h on a stick,” he says before walking off in a huff.
I can’t help but smile.
“You just calm yourself down, Jobz,” Henry says, before taking a careful sip of her own coffee. “Dereck was just trying to be nice.”
“He wants to get in my pants if you haven’t noticed. Every time he looks at me, I feel violated.”
“Oh, how the tables have turned. How’s it feel to be the target of another man’s unwanted advances?”
“Great,” I say. “I’m flattered in fact.”
She exhales, you know, like I’m incorrigible. “Now, I know you been through a lot these past few days, but you gotta get ahold of yourself. Get yourself together befitting of an agent working for the prestigious New York State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency.”
I reach out with shaking hands, take hold of my coffee cup, bring the lid to my mouth, some of the hot coffee spilling out onto my shirt. I inhale a sip, return the cup to the desk without managing to spill more.
“This job sucks,” I say, half under my breath.
“Whad’d you just say?”
“I said, this job brings in big bucks.”
“Some attitude you got, cracker. What I got here should improve it ten-fold.” She picks up something from her desk. A short stack of full-color glossies. She slides one out, stands the image up so it looks like it’s being broadcast on a flat-screen TV that’s attached to her boobs.
I stare at myself. No, that’s not right. I stare at my half-naked self. Naked from the waist up, that is. A frigid wave shoots through my body like ice water has been injected into my veins. I do all the typical Rodney Dangerfield stuff anyone who’s been caught with their pants down, so to speak, does. I nervously adjust the ball knot on a tie that’s already hanging too low, unclasp the top button on my button-down shirt. I wipe the beads of sweat from off my forehead and inhale a deep, not so calming breath.
“How long have you known?” I inquire, my voice hoarse and dry.
“Since the morning Miller stole you for that job with Mr. TV.”
This little bit of news takes me by surprise. I drink some coffee, try to warm up the cold water in my veins.
“Let me ask you a question,” she says. “You know those self-scan, self-checkout kiosks they got in the supermarket now? You know, the ones don’t need no human beings to check out your chips and beer?”
“They run on artificial intelligence,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “Only, thing is, they run on dumb AI.”
“Dumb AI?”
“That’s right. Dumb AI means the machines aren’t capable of learning from their mistakes like smart AI machines can. You know, the ones that eventually gonna take over the world and make us slaves again. Or me a slave again anyway.”
“So, what is it you’re telling me?”
“You sending pictures of your body to a nice sweet young kid like Kate and not realizing what a mistake it is, makes you dumb AI. But if you smart AI, you won’t ever do it again. Even a slick Sammy like you can only dodge so many bullets.” Waving the picture up and down. “So, what’s it gonna be, Jobz? You dumb AI or smart AI?”
I clear the horrible bitter frog in my throat.
“Why not bust me before now?” I say.
She shuffles through each of the photos, making damn sure I see every single one.
“Because this ain’t what you think, Jobz,” she says, planting the photos image down onto her desktop. “Kate didn’t forward these to me because she wanted to bust your balls. She sent them to me as a friend she wanted to confide in. Because, get this, she thinks they’re cute. She likes you, Jobz. I mean, like really likes you. Don’t ask me why.” Sitting back hard in her swivel chair. “She must got daddy issues or somethin’.”
My entire body elevates. Cold water in my veins suddenly warmer. Hangover suddenly gone. Trembling hands suddenly somewhat steady. I sit up straight in my chair, once more fix my tie.
“You don’t say, Henry.”
“And wipe that smile off your face, skinny-ass-dumb-AI-little-man,” she says, her round face now serious as a coronary. “Maybe Kate ain’t filing any complaints over her sweet little Mr. Steve Jobz, but I’m gonna give you a bit of advice from the best boss and only true friend you got on God’s great earth. I ever hear of you Weinering pictures of your anatomy to one of the employees under my charge again, I will bust your ass to high heaven, and then send it on down to hell for their shot. You got me, Jobz?”
I swallow a brick.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “I understand entirely. I won’t ever send Kate nor you nor anyone in this office photos of my exceptional middle-aged physique.”
She sits back in her chair, a scowl still painting her face. Until just like that, she begins to smile.
>
“You really are something, Jobz,” she says. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”
“Keep me employed?” I say. “Until something better comes along, I guess.”
“Hey, this may be as good as it gets for SmAlbany.”
Just then, a knock on the open office door.
“Hope I’m not interrupting.” It’s Kate, looking lovely and fresh in her charcoal mini skirt and matching jacket. She’s also wearing matching leather boots and tights.
“Good to have you back, Jobzy,” she says with a smile that melts my very soul. “Maybe we should get together and go over the status of the accounts I’ve been working on for you in your absence.”
I gaze at Henry. She gives me a look like she’s saying, For God’s sakes, Jobz, she’s young enough to be your daughter.
Then, I gaze back at Kate.
“How about we do it over lunch at Prime 677,” I say with a smile. “My treat.”
Kate’s face beams.
“The best steakhouse in town,” she says. “Sounds absolutely wonderful, Jobz.”
“Great,” I say. “Meet me in the lobby at noon.”
“See you then,” she says, with a wink. Then, “Oh, Henry, do you need anything from me right now? Tea?”
Henry takes hold of the coffee, raises it off her desk, forces a tight-lipped grin.
“I’m good, Kate, honey,” she says, her eyes glued not on Kate but on me. “You get back to work now, sweetheart.”
“See you for lunch, Jobz,” Kate says, as she takes her leave.
“Oh, the best steakhouse in town, Jobzy,” Henry says, mimicking Kate’s sweet Snow White voice. “Why I might even have to call all my friends and tell them about my lunch date with a man who’s almost my dad’s age.”
I can’t help but smile.
“When you got it, you got it,” I say with a wink, getting up from the chair, taking hold of my coffee. “And you know what they say.”
“No, what do they say, Jobz?”
“Fifty is the new thirty.”
“For you, fifty is the new sixteen.”
“Sweet sixteen, Henry,” I say, exiting the office. “Means I got my whole life ahead of me.”
THE END
If you enjoyed this Steve Jobz PI novel please read the first book in the series, THE EMBALMER.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Winner of the 2015 PWA Shamus Award and the 2015 ITW Thriller Award for Best Original Paperback Novel for MOONLIGHT WEEPS, Vincent Zandri is the NEW YORK TIMES, USA TODAY, and AMAZON KINDLE No.1 bestselling author of more than 30 novels including THE REMAINS, EVERYTHING BURNS, ORCHARD GROVE and the soon to be released, THE DETONATOR. Zandri's list of domestic publishers include Delacorte, Dell, Down & Out Books, Thomas & Mercer, and Polis Books. An MFA in Writing graduate of Vermont College, Zandri's work is translated in the Dutch, Russian, French, Italian, Japanese, and Polish. Recently, Zandri was the subject of a major feature by the New York Times. He has also made appearances on Bloomberg TV and FOX news. In December 2014, Suspense Magazine named Zandri's, THE SHROUD KEY, as one of the "Best Books of 2014." Recently, Suspense Magazine selected WHEN SHADOWS COME as one of the "Best Books of 2016". A freelance photo-journalist and the author of the popular "lit blog," The Vincent Zandri Vox, Zandri has written for Living Ready Magazine, RT, New York Newsday, Hudson Valley Magazine, Writers Digest, The Times Union (Albany), Game & Fish Magazine, and many more. He lives in Albany, New York and Florence, Italy. For more go to WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Vincent Zandri © copyright 2018
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Bear Media/Bear Noir 2018
http://www.vincentzandri.com
Cover design by Elder Lemon Art
Editing by Bridgette O’Hare of Plot2Published Editing
Author Photo by Jessica Painter
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published in the United States of America
The author is represented by Sam Hayat of The Rights Factory
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Flower Man Page 22