Shoot

by Kieran Crowley

  “I can’t believe it,” Jane said. “That was you?”

  She looked at Jane like she was kidding. I pretended I wasn’t gut-punched by how different she looked. I remembered that this sexy chameleon also looked like a third person, and maybe a fourth, while she was following me on the street.

  “People talk to The Housewife, especially if she’s looking for her puppy,” she said.

  “From the top,” I said. “Who the hell are you, lady?”

  “First, you have to agree to keep anything I say completely confidential.”

  “Not until you tell me your name and what this is about,” I insisted.

  “I’m Amy Massi. A.M.I. Amy Massi Investigations. I’m a licensed private detective and I work for well-known people who expect me to keep their secrets.”

  “Like who?” Jane asked.

  “Movie stars, musicians, rich people who can afford me. One thing I can guarantee, if you work for me, you won’t be bored,” she said.

  When I first came to New York, I thought I wanted a good writing job and peace and quiet. But during the Hacker case, I realized a decade of war had twisted me for life. I didn’t ever want to be bored. That was enough for me.

  “So the missing dog was just a scam?” Jane asked.

  “You bet,” Amy admitted. “But Dr. Strangelove really is my dog. He’s at home with the housekeeper right now.”

  “What kind of cases do you do?” I asked.

  “I work for defense lawyers to prove people didn’t kill somebody. I used to do verification and divorce work but not anymore. Right now, I have a priority security investigation, credible death threats.”

  “Why did you follow me?” I asked her.

  “I read about you and the whole Hacker thing and decided you would be perfect for my new case. I have a changing roster of people I use and I like to check people out, test them, kick the tires first. You knew I was on your tail, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? I couldn’t figure out how I screwed up.”

  “I don’t know,” I told her truthfully. “Why do people get that feeling that someone is watching them?”

  “But I saw you checking window reflections, backtracking,” she protested. “That’s not just a feeling.”

  “So I act on the feeling, what of it?”

  “I can follow most people for weeks. They’re clueless.”

  “So am I. Enlighten me. Who is your client?” I asked.

  “Not until you agree to keep it secret.”

  “It’s not government?” I asked.

  “I told you, we’re private, non-governmental.”

  “Yeah, well, so is Blackwater and hundreds of other scumbags who do bad things,” I told her. “All of them hand puppets for Uncle Sam.”

  “We are a private civilian firm and don’t accept government contract work. We’re actually quite small, a boutique. A non-traditional P.I. agency licensed in New York. We’d like to make you an offer of employment.”

  “To do what?”

  “Investigate these death threats, what you’re good at. As a no-strings freelance investigator. Starting now. At this salary.”

  She took out a notebook and silver pen and wrote numbers down, sliding it toward me. It was bigger than my reporter salary. A lot bigger. Jane peeked at the number.

  “Perhaps it could be fun?” Jane said.

  Amy turned to Jane. “And I’m happy for you to help him out, if you keep your mouth shut. It goes without saying I’m not paying you, Doc. One more thing, Shepherd. I always win. I expect the same thing from you.”

  “Sounds like I’m going to be busy. Can I keep my current boss happy by filing stories?”

  “Yes. If we agree that it will help the case,” Amy said. “Your press contacts are part of why I want you. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ and all that.”

  “As if,” I laughed.

  “You’re a reporter and you don’t think the pen is mightier than the sword?”

  “Nope. I had an instructor who gave a whole lesson on that. He said, ‘Even if it’s mightier than the sword, it don’t do shit against an AK-47.’ We had to show him how a pen could beat a gas-powered fully-auto assault rifle. A couple of us came close, but in combat, we would have died. He always said anyone might be a threat, anyone might be a target, and everything is a weapon.”

  I didn’t mention that a few weeks earlier I had successfully used a fax machine as a defensive weapon.

  “Okay,” I asked. “Who’s getting death threats?”

  “Are you in?” Amy asked.

  “Who is it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. I’m not helping to get any killers, drug dealers or child molesters off.”

  “Worse. A member of Congress.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Wait, that’s government,” Jane said.

  “No. Private,” Amy answered. “I’ve been hired by the Republican National Committee to find out who is threatening to kill Speaker of the House, Congressman Percy Chesterfield, the guy they are about to give their presidential nomination to.”

  “Isn’t that the creep who tried to shut down the government last year and almost destroyed the economy?” Jane asked.

  “That’s the guy,” Amy admitted. “Half the country wants him dead for almost destroying the government and all of the Tea Party people consider him a traitor for not destroying the government. He has to appear in public for the Republican National Convention this week to accept their nomination for president.”

  “Which, for some odd reason, is being held right here in Manhattan, at the new Knickerbocker Convention Center,” Jane added.

  “Right,” Amy agreed. “We… I mean Shepherd and I… have a meeting with Chesterfield and his security team at eight tomorrow morning. We have to keep him alive and find out who is threatening to kill him.”

  “Shouldn’t the FBI or the Secret Service be investigating this—at taxpayer expense?” Jane asked.

  “Chesterfield is protected by an Executive Protection Service team as large as the president’s. The FBI is on the case but the client doesn’t trust them to do anything in a timely way,” Amy said. “He’s had experience with the Bureau before and he’s afraid he’ll be dead a year before they get off their asses.”

  “Sounds like Chesterfield isn’t as dumb as he acts,” I observed. “But it also sounds like you’d have a lot of suspects.”

  “Yeah, that’s a problem,” Amy admitted. “Forget the liberals. The worst thing they would do is send a strong letter to The New York Times. It’s the Tea Party psychos we need to worry about. Fifty thousand of them emailed Chesterfield threats—and every single one owns a gun.”

  6

  Skippy and I took a walk west, over to Fifth Avenue, and crossed when the downtown traffic was stopped by a light. We walked uptown, with the road on the right and Central Park to the left. The husky, nose in the air, scoping out every pedestrian, yanked on the leash, pulling me forward. At one point he dragged me into the park for a pit stop. I took careful note of how he positioned himself on a patch of dead grass. I pulled out my iPhone and hit the compass app, which informed me that Skippy was pointing more or less southwest. I produced a plastic bag from my backpack and threw Skippy’s leavings into a nearby trashcan. He was not pointing north–south, I noticed. But it was close. Hmm.

  We returned to the street and headed back uptown. This was prime RWP territory, as the editors at the newspapers called it. Rich White People. I could see the stakeout in front of Senator Ron Hardstein’s home from a block away, a luxury condo building overlooking the park. Cop cars outside, blue wooden barricades on the sidewalk penning in the press reporters and photographers, parked TV news vans, their giraffe microwave masts telescoped vertically, poised to relay to their stations and the world any sudden breaking news about a powerful person’s penis. Boring.

  “Foof!” Skippy said, as we crossed Fifth Avenue and joined the press corps in their sidewal
k pen.

  “I know, Skippy. I feel the same way,” I told him, as I waved to Daily Press cameraman Sparky Starke. He and the other photographers had their cameras up and ready. Next to Sparky was another Daily Press reporter. He shot me a dagger glance, obviously afraid I was there to steal his story.

  “What’s up, Sparky?” I asked him.

  “Hard-on should be here soon,” Sparky said, without looking away. “You on this one now?”

  “No, I just wanted to tell you something but it can wait. I’m going on another job but it might involve pictures or video, if you’re interested?”

  “Sure, we’ll talk later.”

  Sparky’s three black bulky cameras with long telephoto lenses were hung from his neck. One he held up ready. He was dressed for the warm weather, in denim shorts and a black sleeveless Megadeth tank shirt. He worked as many as seven days a week for the Daily Press, but he was a freelancer on paper, without sick days, vacations, health insurance, life insurance or pension, because the paper saved a lot of money that way.

  In less than a minute, a black limousine pulled up to the curb, as shouts of “Heads up!” rippled through the media mob. The vehicle sat there for several minutes, the occupants invisible behind tinted windows. A uniformed doorman walked out the front door of the residence and stood protectively by the rear door.

  The car door opened and senior United States Senator Richard Hardstein, crisply clad in his usual dark Italian suit, emerged calmly from the limo and strode toward his building. The silver-haired politician walked leisurely, as if he had just won an election, the camera flashes sparkling in his blue eyes. The reporters all yelled at once, shouting each other down.

  “Senator Hardstein, why do you call your penis ‘Fred’?”

  “Senator, how many women did you send photos of your junk?”

  “Senator Hard-on, did you also send pictures of your dick to your wife?”

  “Is your mom proud of you?”

  “How many women have you had sex with?”

  Skippy barked until I told him to stop. The rest of the smarmy questions, as the dignified target ran the gauntlet, merged into one loud, lewd bellow. For some reason, it made me think of dusty pigeons shitting on a bronze statue of a hero. Every day, the Daily Press and the New York Mail featured front page, dueling dick puns in bold headlines. Just when I was getting to like the newspaper business, I realized I was working for junior high school dorks.

  There was no angry response from the senator, only cool detachment. It was as if the sex scandal, in which he was caught in dozens of affairs with willing women he met online, was about another Senator Richard Hardstein.

  Up the block another limo had stopped at the curb while we were all focused on the senator’s limo. The sound of a closing door had made me turn. Two young women in bright pastel miniskirts had emerged from that car and were hot-footing it down the sidewalk. It was tough to do quietly in stiletto heels but they were good at it—toward an alley marked SERVICE, like they knew their way around the place.

  I smiled and waved. The black girl waved and smiled back but the Latina girl snapped at her and they ducked into the service entrance. I turned back to my colleagues. Not a single one had noticed the ladies’ stealthy arrival.

  Before the besieged senator could enter his domicile, I saw a bright flash of red curls. I moved closer and, sure enough, Ginny Mac was blocking the politician’s path, her large breasts on display in a revealing halter dress she had thrust against Hardstein’s chest. It almost worked. The honorable gentleman eyed his constituent’s cleavage and genuinely smiled as Ginny gave a spiel I couldn’t hear—no doubt a plea for an exclusive.

  “Sorry, I have another pressing appointment,” Hardstein told Ginny, one eyebrow arching upwards.

  He was saved by the doorman, who thrust his gold-braided shoulder between them and hustled Hardstein inside. Everybody got the shot of Ginny and her boobs pressed up against him. Ginny was ecstatic. For her, scamming a story was foreplay, an exclusive better than sex. She was laughing, her job done for the day. Her photographer was showing Ginny his frames on the digital camera screen— Senator Hard-on ogling her goodies. It would be on the Mail website within the hour and on the front page in the morning. Ginny would be famous.

  “Ginny, these are great!” her camerawoman gushed. “They will fucking love this. Look at his eyes—they’re right on your tits.”

  “I’ve got a headline,” Ginny announced. “How about this? ‘MY EYES ARE UP HERE, SENATOR.’”

  They started laughing and shouting competing headlines.

  “MAKE A CLEAN BREAST OF IT, SENATOR!”

  “DON’T BE A BOOB, HARD-ON!”

  “YES, TWO SCOOPS, PLEASE!”

  But my fellow reporter from the Daily Press, rookie Orlando Rodriguez, was not amused. A tabloid newspaper couldn’t put a reporter from the competing rag on the front page. Orlando’s cellphone rang. He looked at the screen in horror.

  “Oh, shit, it’s Mel,” Orlando whined.

  “Dude, the TV people went live with it,” Sparky pointed out, scratching Skippy on the head. “The bosses saw the whole thing on the tube.”

  Orlando had to take the call. Mel was already shouting loudly—so loud, we could hear him without speakerphone. There was a lot of profanity and threats.

  “Mel, how was I supposed to stop her? I should have done it first? How could I… I don’t have boobs! You’re kidding. What? Seriously? Wait, Mel, I…”

  The shouting and threats stopped and Orlando was staring at his silent phone.

  “Oh, shit. They’re sending some new reporter with big boobs. I have to interview Ginny Mac,” Orlando moaned, clearly humiliated. “Now. For the online edition.”

  “For real?” Sparky asked.

  “Mel said if I was a good reporter, I would have propositioned Hard-On before Ginny did. Right now, he says The Wood is ‘BETWEEN A SLUT AND A HARD-ON.’” The Wood was a newspaper term for the big bold front-page headline. He reached for a notebook and pen and turned toward the jubilant Ginny.

  “Mel says I have to ask her why she is an unethical, anti-feminist slut.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, man,” Sparky warned. “That will really piss her off.”

  7

  While Orlando was interviewing Ginny Mac, I told Sparky about the two pastel ladies. He became very sparky.

  “Calm down,” I warned him. “Don’t draw any attention.”

  “Sorry,” Sparky said, gulping a pill and washing it down with Evian water.

  As he drank, some new freelance shooter, a young skinny kid with a backwards baseball cap, was backing up without looking and banged into Sparky—who spilled water down his t-shirt.

  “Hey! Fuckin’ watch where you’re going, newbie!” Sparky snapped at the guy.

  The inexperienced photographer snarled an automatic “fuck you” at Sparky over his shoulder.

  Uh-oh.

  Then the skinny kid looked around. He saw Sparky’s arm muscles, tattoos and the look in his eyes. Sparky’s face began squirming. The twitching spread to his neck, his chest. The new guy froze. He may have guessed from his appearance that Sparky was a bodybuilder and martial arts competitor but maybe not that he suffered from Tourette’s syndrome.

  “What did you say to me, dick shit-bird motherfucker?” Sparky demanded, his whole scalp and his black, spiky moussed hair now twitching threateningly like a cranky cockatoo. “You wanna fuck with me, mouse balls?”

  “Uh… no… sorry, man, I didn’t see you,” the freelancer mumbled, edging away. “Sorry.”

  The meds Sparky took to suppress the effects of the condition worked but he tried to keep the dosage low because they came with a cost—bad side effects.

  We turned at the sound of Ginny Mac cursing Orlando out. Ginny was aroused by exclusives but her temper was also legendary. She bribed sources, slashed tires, had competitors beaten up, and the rumor was she once rammed a TV truck with her Honda. Orlando retreated. Ginny followed him back to
us, shouting so everyone could hear.

  “Hey, Orlando, get off your ass and get your own story. Why don’t you ask Shepherd there to get one for you? What is he—retired?”

  “No, I’m not retired, Ginny,” I replied. “But I don’t like this story, so I’m not on it.”

  “Afraid to compete with me?” she taunted. “I don’t blame you.”

  “That’s it, Ginny. I’m afraid of you.”

  “Is this what you’re afraid of?”

  She pressed up against me, exactly as she had with the senator. He had a hard time ignoring her and so did I. She grabbed my hips and pulled us close. Damn. I fought to keep my eyes away from her chest. She was hard to resist and I wondered if she felt the same way. I tried not to remember our time alone together. At least we weren’t being filmed. A flash went off. Ginny’s photographer caught us.

  “No, Ginny, I’m not afraid of your boobs. Don’t you remember? We had sex a few weeks ago—when it was me you wanted information from.”

  “Oooooo” our colleagues cooed in an ooh-la-la tone from grade school.

  They were all watching and listening. More cameras came up.

  Ginny’s eyes hardened but for some reason she disengaged.

  “I think I’ll send a copy to your new girlfriend,” Ginny threatened. “She might like to see what you do at work.”

  “Please do,” I said. “She thinks I have it easy.”

  “Oh snap!” Sparky giggled, his mood improving.

  Ginny moved away, steam coming off her pink cheeks.

  “You’re F.X. Shepherd?” the new guy cut in. “The pet columnist at the New York Mail who caught the Hacker?”

  “Yeah. Right. Now I’m with the Daily Press. I also do my pet column there now.”

  He pumped my hand and told me his name and how amazing I was. I agreed with him until he coasted to a stop. It was easier that way. I was going to be thirty in a few days and probably had less experience than he did but I didn’t interrupt my fan.

  “He’s not the fucking hero, I’m the hero of that story,” Ginny McElhone broke in. “I saved his ass.”