American Outrage

by Tim Green

  Muldoon barged in halfway through Jake’s third drink, gut first, wearing snakeskin cowboy boots and stonewashed jeans with a matching jacket. The buttons on his white oxford pulled hard enough on their holes that Jake could see little flecks of pink skin. Muldoon’s collar-length hair was ghost-white and swept straight back off his florid face.

  He crossed the room calling Jake’s name as if he’d discovered gold and the other handful of people in the bar stopped their conversations to look. In Muldoon’s hand was a yellow notepad and a pen and he slapped them down onto the bar, ordering a Scotch and soda before clasping Jake’s hand and saying it was damn good to see him.

  “Right,” Jake said, his teeth slightly numb.

  “I am,” Muldoon said, sipping his drink with one pinky extended and winking. “This is huge. American Outrage locks down the bunker-man story for sweeps. It’ll be big news in the trades. I’m thinking Emmy for you on this one.”

  “I was thinking Emmy for the FBI agent’s wife in Brooklyn.”

  “Come on, Jake,” Muldoon said, soft-punching his shoulder. “You’re a newsman. We both are.”

  “The DA is set for ten at his office on the third floor of the public safety building,” Jake said, knocking down his drink and ordering another. “I’m sure you saw the e-mail from New York. The bunker man is lined up for tomorrow at two. The jail’s out in Jamesville. What time’s the crew call?”

  “Jake.”

  “You’re right, Conrad,” Jake said. “We’re pros. I’ll do my job, you do yours. Otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”

  Muldoon stiffened and his smile went blank.

  “I booked one of the victims, Bethany Cross, for eight in the morning at her house out in Liverpool,” Muldoon said. “Crew call’s at five. I’ll have a PA pick you up in front here at six-thirty. Try to make it this time.”

  Muldoon started to walk away, then spun around and stuck his finger in Jake’s face.

  “Let me tell you something, asshole, that woman was my interview and I wasn’t going to wait around for you to get your personal life in order.”

  Jake squinted at him and shook his head. “You’re pathetic.”

  “She didn’t even like you, Jake,” Muldoon said. “I know that’s hard for you. I know women are supposed to swoon when they see you walk in the room, but that lady wasn’t impressed. You had the mom, I give you that, but the wife was mine.”

  Jake muted a chuckle.

  “Go ahead, laugh,” Muldoon said. “But believe it or not, some women like the fat kid who got picked last because they know that guys like you are selfish assholes they can’t trust.”

  Muldoon started to walk, then spun around again. “And another thing. That shit you did over in Iraq? You think you’re some kind of hero? Think again.”

  “No hero,” he said. “Just my job. Where were you? Looking up Pamela Anderson’s skirt?”

  “Yeah, you were real clever,” Muldoon said, “you tricked a man who was fighting to protect us on a live feed. You stood up for a couple towelheads who got caught in a cross fire, then you come back all proud, like you’re better than the rest, some moral paragon because you win the Murrow Award. Well, just so you know, there was about two hundred million people in this country who were damn glad when you got shitcanned.”

  Muldoon turned and this time sauntered all the way out with his duck-footed walk. Jake turned back to the bar.

  “S-s-s-s-son of a bitch didn’t pay for his d-drink.”

  “I got it,” Jake said, pushing his money stack toward the edge of the bar. “He’s a really good friend.”

  “Oh,” the bartender said, his face turning red. He took the money and changed it out.

  Jake knocked down two more drinks and ordered another, even though the lights had been turned down and the last couple of patrons were wandering out.

  Jake hunched down over his drink, rolling the glass around on its base so that the ice swished softly, until he heard the clicking sound of a woman’s heels on the wood floor. He widened one eye and cast it back over his shoulder.

  She wore the same short leather jacket from earlier in the day, but now she had on snug, low-riding jeans with a belt buckle that matched her turquoise T-shirt. The shirt was cut low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts and short enough that he could see a honey-colored swatch of her hips and stomach.

  Zamira slid up onto the bar stool next to him, exposing the good side of her face. She arched her back and wiggled out of the leather jacket, then she turned just a bit, smiled, and asked if she could have a drink.

  10

  JAKE RETURNED HER GAZE, then signaled the bartender.

  “Red wine,” she said. “Pinot noir, if you have it.”

  The bartender stared at her for a moment before reaching for a wineglass.

  “Small world,” Jake said.

  “I had dinner with some friends at a place around the corner and thought I’d stop by,” she said.

  “How’d you know I was here?” he asked.

  “You mentioned it.”

  “Did I?”

  “That or you hypnotized me.”

  She smiled and nodded, taking the glass of wine from the bartender. She raised it, and when he lifted his drink she touched the lip of her glass to it with a small clink.

  “What are we drinking to?” Jake asked.

  “New friends?”

  “And a whole new attitude, right?” he said, hoisting the glass again and taking a slug.

  She sipped hers and said, “A couple of my girlfriends have seen you on TV. They said I was crazy to walk away like I did. We had a few drinks, and, well.”

  “A few drinks is always good,” Jake said, sliding around in his seat and putting one foot up on the footrest of her stool.

  Zamira took another drink, nearly finishing the glass, and turned so that one leg fell across his at the calf.

  “They thought that at least I should find out more,” she said. “Like you said, everyone has a story.”

  “I like the beach,” Jake said.

  “Right,” she said, “and surfing and blondes.”

  “I’m more about the inside, but if it’s a quiz, brunettes.”

  “But you’re a blond,” she said.

  “Opposites attract.”

  “What about accents?”

  “Love them. Especially Albanian.”

  His left hand was up on the bar and she squeezed it, then let go with a gust of laughter.

  “So,” she said, “how much of what you said today is true and how much of it is part of the TV act?”

  “TV is bullshit.”

  “So, you really have a son who was adopted?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, smiling. “Sam.”

  “And that doesn’t have anything to do with your TV show?” she said, grinning and taking another drink.

  “No,” he said.

  “I thought you said you were always looking for a story.”

  “Well, sometimes the best stories have a way of finding you,” he said. “I could use a good one.”

  “Why?”

  Jake glanced at the bartender, who was drying a glass while he watched an NBA game on the screen in the corner.

  “Great expectations,” he said.

  She wrinkled her brow.

  “In TV, you’re only as good as your last show.”

  “And what was your last show?” she asked.

  “Someone took another shot at Snoop Dogg.”

  “Sounds more exciting than a thirteen-year-old adoption story.”

  “You saying there’s a story?”

  She ran her finger around the rim of her glass and looked away from him.

  “You gotta have more than an empty office and a guy who killed himself. That happens fifty times a day. Got anything more?”

  “I’ve been thinking. There was a lawyer,” Jake said, hesitating. “Polish-sounding name. Kalaski or something. I can’t remember. I only saw him in court once. Everything went through t
he director, Cakebread.”

  “You must have a name somewhere,” she said. “The lawyer’s. Have you checked your records? The Albanian community is large but perhaps I could help.”

  “Trust me,” Jake said. “This is what I do. If I had it, I’d know. So, if I break something, you want me to interview you? Be on TV?”

  “No. It’s just interesting.”

  “You’re interesting,” Jake said, lowering his voice. He reached over and let the backs of his fingers trace the length of her silky hair. The scar seemed faded. He saw only the high, proud cheeks and the big liquid eyes.

  “American women say if you want something that you should take it,” she said, letting her left hand come to rest on his thigh.

  He could feel the sharp edges of her red nails through his pants.

  “And the friends you had dinner with are Americans?” he asked, swallowing.

  “Very,” she said, tracing a figure eight with one nail. “Me, too. I’m trying, anyway. I’m a citizen.”

  “You pledge allegiance to the flag?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Jake touched the side of her face and leaned close. Their lips barely touched. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of her breath. He smelled perfume and a hint of shampoo. When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him. He grinned.

  “Upstairs?” he asked.

  She stared, and nodded her head ever so slightly.

  11

  THE SHRILL SOUND OF THE PHONE cut the darkness and Jake bolted upright. His head throbbed and he worked his mouth open and closed to moisten it. Sun shone through the curtains. A glaze of sweat beaded his forehead. The clock read nine-twelve.

  Jake snatched up the phone, expecting Muldoon.

  “You go now,” the voice said. It was a man with a thick eastern European accent. “This TV story is not good for you. Very dangerous.”

  The phone went dead.

  Jake blinked and swung his feet to the floor, grasping his head in both hands. He staggered to the bathroom and tore through his shaving kit for the Advil. He swallowed four of them and refilled the plastic cup, drinking down three more refills before letting the cup clatter into the sink. He braced a forearm against the wall above the toilet and relieved himself.

  The phone was ringing again. He crossed the room and snatched it up.

  “Who the hell is this?” he asked.

  “Me,” Muldoon said. “I did the interview myself. I figured we could do a standup with you later for a bridge. Not bad for an off-air guy. Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, but if you no-show with the DA, I’m calling Katz.”

  “Was that you that just called?” Jake asked. “Who was that?”

  “I got no idea what you’re talking about, man,” Muldoon said. “All I know is I’m on my way to the DA’s office and you better be there or we’re going to have serious problems.”

  “Where’s the goddamned PA?”

  “He knocked on your door three times and figured you took a cab.”

  “He didn’t knock goddamn hard enough.”

  “You blaming a kid now? Nice.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Jake hung up. He turned on the shower and looked at himself in the mirror. There was a bottle of Visine in his kit and he let the cold drops fill his eyes, blinked for a minute, then held them tight before wiping them on his arm and checking the mirror again. Steam curled up out of the shower and he stepped in, scrubbing and trying to reconstruct what happened.

  He remembered the bar and the kiss. He was certain that had happened. He remembered the feel of her lips and her nail on his thigh. Then they were in his room. He had a fuzzy notion of a black lace bra and matching panties, then nothing. He strained his thoughts and even tried to invent a naked scene that would jar his memory. As he dried off and dressed in a suit and tie, he decided to try another tack. He’d stop trying to remember and just let it come back to him, the way he did when he forgot a name.

  He took the elevator downstairs and stopped at the front desk. The young woman behind the counter wore a cheap cranberry business suit. Her nameplate read MAGGIE.

  “Maggie,” he said, “I just got two calls. I’m in 311. Do you guys have a caller ID? Can you tell me the numbers that came in from the calls I just got?”

  “We do,” she said, walking to another part of the desk and punching some buttons on the phone system. She gave him the number, then said, “The one before that was . . .restricted.”

  “Can you give me the exact time? My clock said nine-twelve for that first call. Is that what the system says?”

  “Uh, nine-eleven.”

  “Any other calls come in at that time?”

  “Just the two for you, then nothing for about ten minutes,” she said.

  “Great, thanks,” Jake said. “Can you get me a cab?”

  “Right out front,” she said.

  He took one of the cards with the hotel’s number out of the cardholder on the desk and wrote NINE-ELEVEN A.M. on the back of it before he slipped it into his pocket.

  He got to the DA’s office with enough time to check in with Cambareri and ask him to get the number of the restricted call made to his hotel. While incoming calls could block themselves on a caller ID, the phone company had them and someone like Cambareri could get them with a phone call. Jake told his friend what happened while Cambareri slid the card between his teeth, cleaning out a piece of his breakfast before angling it to the light.

  “Sounds like you messed with the wrong girl,” Cambareri said. “She married?”

  “She said she wasn’t,” Jake said. “I don’t think it was that.”

  “Ask her.”

  “I will, when I finish with these interviews.”

  Jake looked at his watch and went for the door.

  “I’ll get the number and give you a call,” Cambareri said.

  The DA wore a dark blue pin-striped suit and a red tie. His shirt collar was high, and before they began the interview he hooked his finger inside it and tried to tug it loose. Muldoon was there, wearing a white shirt with blousy sleeves and an open leather vest, pestering Skip Lehman about the lighting. He made a point of ignoring Jake. Jake ignored him right back. When Jake started the interview, Muldoon positioned himself over Jake’s shoulder, which Muldoon knew Jake hated.

  Jake didn’t take the bait. He focused on the DA, conducted the interview, and even paused patiently when Muldoon cut in. When they were finished, Jake made small talk with the DA until he excused himself for a court appearance. Muldoon was in the corner, reviewing the tape and making notes to himself. Jake gave Skip Lehman a look and the crew manager emptied the room.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” Jake said, pulling up a chair. He slapped his hands on his knees, then extended a hand to Muldoon, who glanced up at it before going back to his notes.

  “I was a little drunk,” Jake said. “And I’m going through some personal things. I don’t want to spend the next week going at it with you, Conrad. We can make each other’s lives miserable or we can bury the hatchet.”

  Muldoon looked up at him and said, “I’m not the one who’s on thin ice. This series turns out shitty, it ain’t gonna make or break me. Paycheck’s the same.”

  “You’ve got more pride than that,” Jake said. “You know it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Enough to get out of bed?”

  “Something happened,” Jake said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I could be on to something, Conrad. A story. Something big. I think I might have been drugged last night.”

  Jake told him about Zamira and the adoption agency, then the strange phone call. Muldoon nodded his head, listening with apparent interest.

  When Jake was finished, he said, “You know who the last person was who told me to fuck myself?”

  “No.”

  “Tim Simmons.”

  “Who?”

  “Exactly,” Muldoon said, leaning forward
himself and lowering his voice. “See, assholes like you come and go.”

  “Did you even listen?”

  “Focus,” Muldoon said. “That’s your problem. We’re here to do the bunker man and you’re getting shitfaced and chasing pussy.”

  Muldoon went back to his notebook.

  Jake returned to Cambareri’s office, but the ADA had gone to a meeting. Jake left a message with the secretary, asking that Cambareri call him if he got any information from the phone company, and then walked outside. The travel agency was only a few blocks away. When he got there, he hurried past the security guard with an offhand wave. On the third floor he went to the door where he’d been the previous day. It had the same chipped tan paint on the frame, the same brushed-silver knob, but the door had no nameplate. When Jake tried the handle, it refused to budge. He knocked, then put his ear to the door before he stepped back to look. He walked up and down the hall, examining the other doors, but certain that he had had the right one in the first place.

  Only one, at the other end of the hall, had a nameplate: ROBERT ANTONACCI & ASSOC., LLP, CPA.

  Jake turned the handle and walked in. A secretary looked up from her computer and removed her headset.

  “Can I help you?”

  “The travel agency down at the other end of the hall?” he said. “Do you know what happened to it?”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “This is the third floor, right?”

  “It’s the third floor,” she said. “There might be a travel agency, but not that I ever saw.”

  12

  IT USED TO BE AN ADOPTION AGENCY,” Jake said. “There’s a woman there. Pretty. Long dark hair with a scar on this side of her face?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe you have the wrong building. That happens sometimes.”

  Jake went back down the elevator and approached the security guard, who sat on a stool behind his lectern.

  The guard looked up from his newspaper and said, “The TV man.”

  “Hi,” Jake said.

  “Hey, you found your personality?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve seen the woman from the travel agency on three?” Jake asked.