The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy
Page 47
“How do the words conspiracy and top level and biggest story of the century sound to you?”
“Sounds like a best-seller. But Ev, I’m worried about you. You didn’t do all this stuff they said ...”
“Of course not, Cindy. They’re framing me.”
“Great! That sounds just great, Ev.” Cindy was in her mid-thirties. She’d just caught the tail-end of the sixties youth rebellion, but seemed to nurture a nostalgia for those days. Beneath those Saks Fifth Avenue designer clothes, Scarborough had always suspected, there lurked the heart of a hippie. Her father was a former U.S. senator who now had a cushy job with the Defense Department. Rebellion, like Diane? “You tell me where, I’ll be there.”
“You can help me out?”
“I can give you a place to stay, money—you know, I think. there’s even a royalty check floating about somewhere around here.”
“I’ll need it in cash.”
“Right. No problem. Just tell me where to be. I want to help, Ev. I really do.”
“Okay. Seven-thirty tonight, at the newsstand on the platform at the Columbus Circle subway station. Not the IRT line though—I’ll be getting off the D train.”
“I’ll be there, Ev.” Her voice grew soft. “Be careful okay? We don’t want to lose you.”
“Yeah. Have to go now, Cindy. I can’t stay on phone lines long, I start getting jittery.”
“Understood. Take care, Grumps.”
Scarborough laughed as he hung up the phone. Grumps was Cindy’s private nickname for him and his skeptical ways. She’d tagged him that not long after she started working with him. Cindy had been just a regular editor. Thanks in part to the success of his books; she’d climbed up to senior editor—and then executive editor. But that wasn’t the only reason she was fond of her pet author—Scarborough had always suspected that Cindy had harbored a secret crush on him. Sometimes, he wondered why he’d never taken advantage of that crush after his wife had died. God knew, Cindy had been supportive enough. And he’d taken advantage of enough other women. Cindy was certainly attractive enough! A little neurotic, maybe...
Nonetheless, the bottom-line reason was their professional relationship. That and their friendship. He hadn’t wanted to jeopardize either with an affair; besides, he didn’t know how to be casual enough to accept such an arrangement, although Cindy certainly went out of her way to be available to him.
Well, she had a fiancé now, anyway. Nice guy named Burke—older divorce, VP at some PR. firm. It had all worked out well enough, they were still great friends, she was a very good editor—and clearly, at a time like this, he could rely on her.
Scarborough went into the bakery.
Unfortunately, they didn’t have any pecan pie today, but how about a nice Danish, sir?
He bought a bag of jelly donuts and a cup of coffee and then went back out to his car.
Now that he was near New York, he had some other things to do before he met Cindy tonight.
Chapter 9
Betty leaned into his office cubicle.
“Jake,” she said. “Mr. Kozlowski just called. He’ll see you in his office now.”
“Thanks, kiddo,” said Jake Camden. He popped a couple Turns into his mouth and chewed them, hoping they would allay the storm that was brewing in his stomach. He slapped on some aftershave and sprayed his underarms with Right Guard. No way did he want to offend the boss this morning, in any fashion. Old Koz held his life in his hands. Sighing, he got up, and put a freshly ironed white linen jacket over his best Hawaiian shirt. His slacks even had creases today. If you could have shined tennis shoes, his Reeboks would have been shined. Too bad his penny loafers had gotten themselves lost in his Fibber McGee closet. Nonetheless, it was a fairly clean and sober Jake Camden that was going to meet Kozlowski this morning—maybe not the Mr. Neat that Diane Scarborough had tried to make him into, but sufficiently changed to make the Old Fart sit up and take notice. Which had certainly not been easy after last night’s debate.
Kozlowski was on the phone, leaning back in his huge
swivel chair, looking very much the image of a kingpin lording it over his empire.
“Okay, Joe, okay. Yeah, yeah, we still got lunch; we can talk about it then. Camden just walked in. Big story, he says. Right, see you at one-thirty at the Lido.” The fat man dropped the phone into the cradle and gave Camden a cursory and contemptuous look as he reached over to a humidor for a fresh cigar. “You want one. chum?”
Kozlowski seldom gave out one of his expensive cigars to visitors, but when he offered you one, you’d better take it and enjoy it or he’d be insulted. Jake Camden closed the door behind him, locked it, and then went over and pulled the long crackly thing from its fellows. It smelled of rich, faintly oily tobacco, and was fresh and crisp beneath his fingers. He accepted the light from his boss, took a puff, and then sat down on the edge of the chair fronting the desk.
“Nice, Mr. K. Real nice.”
“This better be good, Camden, or I’m deducting the cost of a box of those things from your salary for taking up my time.”
“Sure, boss. It’s good.”
“Something wrong? You don’t look too hot, Jake. And why the hell are you so clean-looking? Your mother visiting or somethin’?”
“That offer you made to me last night ... those thousands cash up-front for a really great story. Does it still hold?”
“Sure, Jake,” Kozlowski’s eyebrows knitted with interest. “And more, if it sells those million extra copies, like I promised. Why, something land in your lap this morning? Or have you been holding out on me?”
Camden coughed at that. He gently and reverently put his cigar in an ashtray and folded his hands, ignoring the last jibe, concentrating on the plain delivery of what he had to say.
“This is very big, Mr. K. And we’re going to have to handle it with installments, and we can’t go into the full truth because of the sensitive nature of the story.”
“Yeah, yeah. Christ, Jake, stop hemming and hawing man, spit it out.”
“Dr. Everett Scarborough.”
“Huh? What, that guy who went nuts last week, killed some people? We already got a story on that from Peters. You didn’t want to do it. Other fish to fry, you said.”
“I can’t go into the details now. But I have the inside story on that whole business. I was there through many of the events last week. And I’m keeping contact with Scarborough on the run from government authorities.”
“Jesus!”
The story held the old man’s attention sufficiently to allow his cigar to go out. After Camden was finished, a silence settled down between them, but the old man’s eyes glittered like polished agate.
“This,” he said, “will sell copies.”
“I see it as a running series. From the road, as it were. I want it to be very outlaw journalism ... Like installments of a serial.”
“Yeah, yeah! The people will be lined up at their supermarket doors on Monday morning! Besides that, we’ll get all kinds of coverage. I like it, Camden! I like it very much. But will Scarborough agree? You say you’re still in contact with him.”
“No, he won’t like it—but the lead-time will make each story about three weeks’ history. Who knows, he could be vindicated by then ... or he could be killed.”
“Yes, yes ... and the first installment?”
“I have to go to New York. You’ll have the first installment when I get back.” Camden took a deep breath. This was where things got tricky. “I’ve got some conditions. First, I get that bonus you promised. Second, I still have the rights to the story. I can do it up for another paper or magazine after the series ends. Third, I retain book and movie rights.”
Kozlowski picked his cigar back up and relit. A plume of purplish smoke wafted up. He tapped a wad of ash off and leaned over his desk toward his employee. “Wait a minute, I been thinking. You’ve been holding out on me since you got back. You had this big story, and you kept mum. Now you’re spilling your guts. How come?”
Kozlowski puffed on his cigar. He looked away, contemplatively, and then turned with a steely gaze back to his reporter. “It’s the drugs, isn’t it? I told you, when you came down here, stay away from that shit, Jake.” He shook his head. “You know where I come from, Jake? I’m from Brooklyn. I guess it’s not real big secret I ran with the gangs when I was a kid. No secret I worked with the mob.” He shrugged. ‘’America, land of opportunity. Well, I’m legit now, and I’m proud of it. I got some Sicilians who wouldn’t mind me being dead, but as long as I stay off their turf. they leave me alone. I’m a tough man, Jake, ‘cause I grew up tough. I worked with tough people, many of them stone killers. But I tell you, this drug business now ... The Latins ... The blacks ... Some of these assholes would give Lucky Luciano or Al Capone nightmares. What the mob does—is doing—is just the seamier side of a free economy. What’s happening now, though, is total darkness and chaos. I’m starting to think that Satan himself hablas espanol. So Jake, you in trouble with some of these putas?”
Jake turned his eyes down and nodded soberly.
“Okay.” The boss put his cigar down and tented his fingers. “I don’t want a dead reporter on my hands. If anybody gets to kill you, Jake Camden, it’s gonna be me. Let’s deal.”
“You’ll give me the money?”
“Fifteen thousand. I’ll have it for you, cash, when you get back. And no cut for us from any book deal. All I want now is circulation. You get us those extra readers and you’ll make this old pecker stiff as a board with happiness. I got plenty of money, Jake. What I want is to be Number One in the business.”
“Thanks. You won’t be sorry. I swear it.”
“I’m not finished, Jake. You keep your book rights, but I want exclusive information—and all of it. You hold out one significant detail of this Scarborough story, you fuck me over again, Jake Camden, you weasel, I swear to God, my alligators are gonna snack on your ass.”
“But Koz—this whole thing isn’t really Intruder stuff. I mean, it could be real, real complicated. I don’t think some of it is appropriate to cut up into little bite-size digestible pieces.” For a sinking moment, Jake saw his New York Times story sprouting wings and flying away. No way was the Times going to be printing facts recycled from old Intruder stories.
“I’ll be the judge of that, Camden. We’ll probably edit the hell out of your reports. That’s not my point. Just let me be the judge of what gets printed. Understood?”
Oh. The old man just wanted to pick and choose. Fair enough. The Times story did a loop-de-loop, fluttered back onto his shoulder, and was chirping “Pulitzer Prize!” happily into his ear.
“Understood, sir!” He leaned over the table and pumped his boss’s hand. “You won’t be sorry sir. And you really have saved my life.”
“One more thing, Jake. You hooked on that fucking white stuff?”
“No sir.”
“Good. I don’t want you fucking with it any more, understood? I get wind of that, you’re out of here.”
Good enough. Jake could take or leave coke.
“And what about the booze, Jake?”
Oh oh. Jake wasn’t so sure he could quit drinking, especially in stressful times like these.
“Well, uh—”
Kozlowski grinned. “A good newspaperman stops drinking, Jake; he sobers up enough to get the hell out of the crazy business. Fuck this New Temperance stuff, huh? Our health editor loves it, and we gotta print the stories for our public image, but me ... Reading this shit makes me need a drink.” Kozlowski pulled out a bottle of George Dickel whiskey and two glasses from his desk drawer. “What’s say we celebrate, Jake, eh?” He slopped some of the rich amber stuff into the glasses and handed one to his reporter.
“Why, thanks, sir. I must say, I’m feeling better already. Feeling better about everything.
“To UFOs and to secret government conspiracies,” said Kozlowski, standing up and clinking glasses with Camden.
“Yeah.” Jake sipped at the whiskey. It was smooth and warm and good. The knot of tension in his gut began to dissolve with the touch of the liquor’s heat.
“Who knows ... maybe we even have some ETs at the bottom of all this! By the way, feel free to speculate all you want, Jake. That’s what makes our brand of journalism so wonderful, huh? We’re uninhibited by silly facts.”
Jake grinned. “You know, Elvis Presley was always interested in secret operations of the government. Maybe the King is running this whole scam, huh? I can see the headlines now: ‘Elvis Presley’s Saucer Scandal!’ “
“Yeah!” said Kozlowski, eyes lighting up. “Try and find a connection, huh? Call up our Elvis editor.”
Jake smiled to himself. This was great. Any real facts were going to get buried deep below the shit. His New York Times piece was gonna look brand-new! “The New Tom Wolfe” cooed happily into his ear. “Fame! Fortune! Women!”
“Will do, sir,” he said, downing the rest of the drink. “Will do!”
Chapter 10
Everett Scarborough parked his Ford Falcon in a cheap and anonymous lot beside the Hudson River, near West 60th Street. He’d discovered the spot a couple of years ago when he’d made the mistake of bringing his car to Manhattan on one trip and discovered the usurious parking rates in Midtown. Scarborough was not a poor man, but a lifetime of frugality before his book and speaking-career took off was hard to shake.
It was a park and lock, which Scarborough liked as well, and it was close to the Columbus Circle subway stop. However, he had time to kill. He’d already made several more calls to Ed Myers, calls that met with no success. He’d tried a couple of other avenues of inquiry for Myers via phone, disguising his identity—but he had no luck.
Time to kill...
Scarborough wished he’d scheduled the meeting earlier. But as he walked up past Lincoln Center toward Broadway at four-thirty in the afternoon, with the rush-hour traffic and people churning along the concrete canyons of New York City, he realized that he needed to cool his heels awhile. Relax. Everett Scarborough had been running on adrenaline for close to a week. Now that he was back on the East Coast, now that he had built a small but significant network of support, he could use these few hours to take psychological stock. He needed to be in charge emotionally. That seizure back there in Yonkers ... He’d never had anything like that happen before, not even during his grief after his wife had died. And yet, there had been something deja vu-ish about it, something nastily familiar ... No, there was simply no way that he would be able to help Diane if he was a walking basket-case. He had to get control of himself.
At the comer of 60th and Broadway, he cast about for something to do. Taxis and buses skewed past, kicking up bursts of exhaust and horn honks. Crowds of people pushed past, intent for dinner dates, ballet lessons, or their snug West Side yuppie apartments. He felt safer among this sea of faces than he had on the road, much safer. He wasn’t hungry—maybe he could eat at one of the Chinese restaurants along Broadway later. This was one of his rituals during his visits to New York, and instinctively he realized that ritual was what he needed. Up Broadway a bit was a New York branch of Tower Records.
Of course. He’d go shop for CDs. Sure, he didn’t have a player in his car, but it was something to do, and since the technological innovation of digital recording had been introduced onto the marketplace, he’d become a real CD-fiend, regularly checking out Washington suppliers to the point where at least one visit a week to a good store downtown was a habit.
Yes, ritual. If anything could help him, ritual would. Besides, who would think to fi
nd him in a record shop?
He’d spent much of the afternoon driving the rundown highways and dilapidated bridges which webbed around New York City like a rusty road-graveyard. He knew it was paranoia, but he thought that maybe somebody was following him. Of course, he’d had the trembling beginnings of this sensation ever since he’d struck out from Las Vegas. He’d joked to himself about it after a while; even paranoids have people who were after them! Nonetheless, he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling. Now that he was in New York, though, with time in his hands, he had felt that he could engage in some elusive maneuvers.
The New York metropolitan area is particularly tricky for novices to navigate. It consists of a multitude of arteries, veins, and capillaries of traffic, branching out willy-nilly from one another, with dreadful and abrupt signs marking awkwardly angled turnoffs and changes. The numerous bridges and tunnels that connected the island fortress of Manhattan with its neighboring boroughs and New Jersey provided many opportunities for sudden kamikaze lane-changes to shake pursuit. So Everett Scarborough spent more than two hours that afternoon driving about the Big Apple’s thoroughfares like a madman. It was fortunate that most New Yorkers drove like crazies as well, or he would have gotten a ticket. If he had thought that driving like an Italian in a parking garage would have jeopardized his freedom, he would not have done it. But hey, he thought. This is New York, New York, where fender-benders were a mode of affection.
He’d actually found that concentrating on this course of action had improved his mood. He felt more in control now. And certainly, if there had been anyone actually following him, they weren’t doing so anymore. Most likely, they were tangled in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge after his daring turnoff onto the FDR.
Anyway, the feeling of being followed was gone.
Funny, he thought as he walked past the hot dog vender by the ABC Studios with “All My Children” lettered on its marquee, and then hurriedly cut across Broadway to take advantage of the Walk sign. He’d been a man who discounted “things like intuition and extrasensory perception. Now, it seemed, with his ordered and rational world turned topsy-turvy, he was a sudden, if reluctant, believer.