Shoot

by Kieran Crowley

  “Great job, Shep!” Mel laughed. “We shucking raped the Mail!”

  I hate it when people call me Shep.

  “Mel, why is my name on the story?”

  “You’re faking welcome. Sparky told me everything. You set the whole gob-smacking thing up. Without you, we would have zip. You’re too modest. I want my star reporter up front and in their faces. Hey, you’re flipping famous again.”

  “Great. Look, I have another thing this morning. I took a part-time job. I’ll have the column for you soon.”

  “What the bark are you talking about? Screw the column. I want you on this story.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion, Mel, but I’m doing something else that might be a good story. Besides, this has been done to death. It’s over now.”

  “Over? Are you fopping kidding? This is just the lucking beginning. The cops and the DA are downstairs with subpoenas. The faking FBI just called. Everybody but the Department of Agriculture.”

  “You mean you didn’t give the cops the names of the hookers? You made the cops look bad?”

  “Hey, if I give cops the names, they’ll give it to the Mail and end our exclusive. No farting way. Orlando is trying to shanghai the wenches now, get them out of town. The lawyers are on the way over here to deal with the canting cops and the feds. By the way, don’t come here. You probably should also stay away from home for a few days, too—on us, of course. You earned it.”

  “Why?”

  “I think those grass-holes may have a grand jury subpoena or an arrest warrant or something for you. Don’t worry about it—we’ll take care of it.”

  “Good to know. Thanks for your help, Mel.”

  I hung up. He tried calling right back but I let it go to voice mail. I dialed Sparky and told him I wasn’t happy to be on the story. He apologized. I asked him for the names, ages and addresses of the pastel playmates. I had noticed his photo credit on the clothed pictures of the hookers that went with Orlando’s piece. Sparky looked it up on his phone. I wrote it down. He apologized again.

  “I thought you deserved credit, man. They were going to cut you out, so I went to the boss. That asshole Orlando told Mel he spotted the girls, not you!”

  “That’s okay with me,” I said.

  “Seriously? I don’t get you, man. This is a fucking giant story. Why wouldn’t you want in—especially after you were the one who nailed it? You might get a book out of this, or a movie.”

  “I don’t like gossip,” I explained. “Talking about other people’s sex lives is more boring than golf on TV. I know I’ve been away a long time but whenever they put me on gossip, I have no clue who these assholes are.”

  “Shit, it’s all gossip now, buddy. What else is there?”

  “Murder. Somebody’s got to catch the bad guy, so the family can sleep at night.”

  “What? Shepherd, were you in the army or the Boy Scouts?”

  “Both, actually.”

  14

  I dialed Major Case Squad Detective Lieutenant Izzy Negron on his cell. I thought my favorite Jewish-Puerto Rican investigator would be happy to hear from his pet columnist pal.

  “Oh, no,” Izzy groaned as he answered.

  “Nice to speak to you, too, Izzy.”

  “I just saw the fucking paper. I do not want a bite of that,” Izzy said.

  “How do you know I’m calling about Hardstein?”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, I am, sort of.”

  “Shit. I am not on that case.”

  “That’s what I keep telling my boss.”

  “I feel bad for Hardstein’s family,” Izzy said. “Talk about a shonda for the goyim. As my father used to say, ‘Lo agarro con las pendejo en la chocha.’ What do you mean you’re not on the story? Your name is on the front page, Shepherd.”

  I didn’t speak Yiddish or Spanish and couldn’t compete, unless we started speaking Urdu or Pashto.

  “As my father used to say, ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Don’t your bosses give you credit for things you didn’t do?”

  “Never,” Izzy said. “I can’t get credit for the shit I actually do.”

  “Look, off the record, I have the names of the hookers who were with the senator.”

  “The shameless shiksas? Off the record, so what? The guy had a heart attack, went out with a smile. A bi gezunt. This is Major Case, not major hard-on. Call 911, amigo.”

  “My current paper is going to the mats, protecting the ladies’ names, but it’s bullshit,” I told him. “They’re just keeping it from the Mail. The DA is also involved, and the feds. Won’t you get brownie points for passing the identities on, saving them a big court fight?”

  Izzy hesitated again. He kept hesitating. I read him the names, ages and address. The ladies lived together. I explained I didn’t want to be hauled before a grand jury to protect an exclusive that was already out.

  “The thing is, brownie points don’t really count,” Izzy protested. “Try cashing them in, sometime. Also, the guys who couldn’t get the information end up pissed at you for showing them up. You actually make enemies.”

  “What a hotbed of intrigue Police Headquarters is,” I told him.

  “You have no idea. So, where did these pictures come from—you and a photographer out on the balcony, trespassing, sneaking and peeping?”

  “You might not believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Off the record? A drone.”

  “You’re shitting me. You guys have drones now?”

  “Not as good as we had in JSOC but pretty damn good. So, what are you up to, Izzy?”

  “Phil and I are running with the big dogs, nothing but the biggest cases for us. Much too secret to discuss with a lowly reporter, of course.”

  “Must have been all your good work on the Hacker case,” I said.

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to say I owe it all to you?”

  “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Okay, a little. Oh, wait, I get it—you’re trying to score brownie points with me.”

  “Well, maybe a little,” I admitted. “I’m starting a part-time gig tomorrow and I may need help.”

  “That’s the other bad thing about brownie points—you also end up owing the guy who gave you the tip. The guys you beat hate you and then you owe somebody else. That’s two steps backwards.”

  For a guy who saw murder victims all the time, Izzy was kind of negative.

  “But you’ll pass on the sex industry workers’ info?”

  “Sure. I’ll impress my bosses with my omnipotence. I love that euphemism—‘sex industry worker.’ In the pictures, I don’t see the ladies doing any heavy lifting or anything that looks like industry. More like artistry. They got a union yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So, Shepherd, what’s your new part-time gig?”

  “Sorry, it’s secret. I can’t talk about it.”

  Izzy chuckled. I braced myself for more Yiddish or Spanish. Instead, I heard a familiar sarcastic voice in the background. Detective Sergeant Phil D’Amico.

  “Phil thinks you’re becoming a sex industry worker,” Izzy laughed. “He says, ‘Make sure you wear a hard hat.’”

  “Tell him thanks, I will.”

  15

  I walked west in the morning sun, toward Central Park, toward my meeting, with my black backpack on my back. I noticed sporadic staccato patterns of explosions, firecrackers on the day before the Fourth of July. No one paid any attention. A perfect day to shoot someone and get away with it. By the time I reached Fifth Avenue, the back of my neck was itching. Again. Eyes were on me. It was rush hour and the sidewalks were busy. It was hard to isolate my shadow without tipping him off. I pulled out my phone and dialed Amy.

  “Amy, it’s Shepherd. Are you still following me?”

  “What the hell would I do that for?”

  “That’s what I thought. Forget it. See you soon.”

  I stopped at the crosswalk at Fifth Avenue,
forcing people to move around me, a herd around a tree. I ducked around the light pole on the near corner and snuck a peek back. I couldn’t see anyone. I crossed against the light and moved swiftly into the park, the shortcut to my Westside meeting. In the park, I sprinted up a rocky rise and hid inside the nearest clump of thick trees. A group appeared at the entrance— four young, pumped steroid-neck white guys in uniform blue pants. Not uniforms. Pressed skinny jeans, with sharp creases, white silk shirts open halfway down their muscled chests, gold glittering at their necks, collarless black leather jackets, perfect black hair. It was the most formal version of casual clothes I had ever seen. They looked like a retro a cappella singing group. The guy in the lead was wearing a small fedora, also black leather. One of those neo-hipster hats. Sitting atop the brim was an expensive pair of dark plastic sunglasses, the kind that idiots paid a thousand bucks for. Like the hat was wearing shades. Cute.

  They were walking fast now, looking around. I slid behind the thickest tree. They approached and passed by. Young voices, stupid. Brooklyn accents and Italian names: Vinnie, Tony, Bobby, Jay-Jay. They were moving faster, clearly panicked they had lost me. The hat kid, Jay-Jay, was getting pissed and was blaming it on the others. I had to chuckle at the bozos in their little outfits. Junior Mafia action figures. A thousand pounds of juiced muscle between them but not one who felt eyes.

  Who the hell were they? Or, rather, who had sent them and what did they want? Did they just want to find out where I was going and who I was meeting? Or did they have something nastier in mind? Ginny Mac had followed me before, trying to steal my story. She mugged me once in bed and, when that no longer worked, she sent her two big brothers to beat me up. Did she send these clowns? Or was this how billionaire Trevor Todd was going to take his revenge on me for revealing his newspaper as a criminal racketeering scam that used bugging, spying, theft and even murder to get a story? Whoever wanted a piece of me, I didn’t have time for this shit right now. I was running late. Besides, when you have a choice between a victory with violence and a victory with no casualties—it was a no-brainer. When you win, you walk away in one piece and leave your enemy a way out. I left the park and hailed a cab.

  I had to use my NYPD Working Press Pass to get into the brand-new Knickerbocker Convention Center on the West Side; one huge block of luxury high-rise hotel, auditoriums, shops, spas, restaurants, waterfalls, bars, concert halls; a small, self-contained city. The GOP National Convention was about to start and the security was serious. In addition to NYPD cops, there were feds, Homeland Security and lots of plainclothes. The streets around the center were closed, with concrete vehicle barriers, security checkpoints and armored personnel vehicles, bomb trucks, canine units and communications trucks, all gearing up for the nationally televised kickoff tomorrow, on the Fourth of July. The Republicans were again holding their presidential extravaganza in the camp of their supposed enemy—liberal New York City. Of course, Manhattan was media ground zero, so I guess it made sense. It did seem funny that all these law enforcement folks were getting overtime to protect the right-wingers from the left-wing demonstrators, who were sure to show up to protest the Tea Party candidates.

  I had not yet been inside the Knickerbocker Convention Center. It was impressive. They had full airport-style body scanners, and a K-9 cop with a sniffer dog was checking bags. After I went through and my backpack was searched, I was asked to turn on my laptop. I took the MacBook out of its case and fired it up. When they saw my computer was real and not a bomb, I was cleared for entry.

  Amy, again clad in black Italian fashion, met me in the East Lobby, a ten-story atrium with an Amazon rainforest and waterfall. Like a kid from Kansas, I stared up at the waterfall and the giant fiberglass pterodactyls suspended fifty feet above my head. Clear vertical tubes against the back of the atrium housed large rounded elevators, also transparent, moving up and down. Amy looked askance at my New Balance cross trainers, jeans and blue polo shirt but she said nothing.

  “Hi, Amy. Why flying dinosaurs?”

  “Prehistoric Manhattan,” she replied. “The joke is that the valet parking is at this entrance, so the theme is Jurassic Parking.”

  We both laughed.

  “The other three are also time-travel atriums,” Amy said. “Old New York, Future New York, and… I forget the other one. We’re over this way. Third floor, Conference Room A, up two levels.”

  We took a two-person-wide escalator up through the towering foliage to the Manhattan Mezzanine and then a second one up to the Hudson Mezzanine.

  “So, you’re the reporter, I would like you to take shorthand while we talk with Chesterfield,” Amy informed me.

  “I would like that too, but I don’t know shorthand,” I told her, “but I have a good memory. I have a digital recorder, too, and can take notes on my laptop.”

  Amy scowled at me. Obviously, she had assumed all reporters took shorthand. I explained that I was only a pet columnist. She shrugged.

  “You didn’t hire me for my secretarial skills, I assume.”

  She smiled. “What was the deal with your Hardstein pictures in the paper today? A camera drone, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised.

  “Did you do it?”

  “No, a photographer. He’s available. Do you use camera drones?”

  She just smiled. Upstairs, we had to go through more metal detectors, and a shoe detector—even a “Sniffer” air booth to detect explosives.

  We arrived at a set of very large double doors with a bronze plate that identified it as the HUDSON ROOM. A team of plainclothes Executive Protection Service agents were outside. Hands vanished inside suit jackets. Amy identified us and we showed ID but we had to submit our bags for inspection again. My recorder and laptop were also checked out. They took our cellphones, turned them off, removed the batteries and said they would keep them until we were done. This kind of in-depth, hair-trigger security was presidential level. Interesting. How were we supposed to do better? Inside the cavernous, carpeted three-story room, floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows overlooked the Hudson River. A single, long, large wooden conference table was parallel to the big window, with eighteen cushioned black leather armchairs, most along the side and one at each end. The room was empty. We sat on the near side, close to the left end. I noticed there were lots of boats in the river between Manhattan and New Jersey. An NYPD launch, a Coast Guard cutter, and a giant US Navy destroyer, the USS John McCain, equipped with automated five-inch gun turrets, missile launch bays and Phalanx high-speed anti-aircraft, anti-missile Gatling guns. Without doubt the vessel also carried nuclear-tipped Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles.

  These people were very serious about security.

  16

  “Let me do the talking,” Amy told me.

  “Sure, boss,” I said, placing my backpack on the table.

  A flying wedge of new security suits burst into the room. Behind them, in an ash-gray suit, white shirt and red power tie, followed the candidate, Speaker of the House Percy Chesterfield; bronzed, bored, and sucking on an unfiltered cigarette. The GOP politician reached for Amy’s much smaller hand and pumped it, as she introduced herself and me. The guy who shut down the US government over health insurance and almost sparked a worldwide financial crash to improve our economy—and was threatening to do it again—did not reach for my hand. We sat. Chesterfield fired up a new smoke, the brown tobacco and red glow of flame combined in a burnt-umber orange color that matched his skin. Either this guy used spray tan or he was some kind of new mutant. An agent set down a large cut-glass ashtray within reach. Amy started to talk but Chesterfield cut her off and looked at me.

  “Hold it. I served in Congress with Senator Richard Hardstein for many years. Are you the same guy in the Daily Press today—the reporter who caught poor Dickie Hardstein with his pants down?” he asked in a deep, raspy smoker’s voice.

  Uh-oh. It looked like my tabloid work might be a problem.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Th
at was tragic. Terrible. Where is it?” Chesterfield bellowed to his guards. “The paper I was reading?”

  It appeared magically in his hand. He held up the front page. HARD-OFF!

  “There you are, on the front page,” Chesterfield said. “I knew it! You wrote this!”

  This was not going well. Then Chesterfield began laughing hysterically. He pointed to the black box over Hardstein’s afterlife erection and laughed until tears came from his eyes. He got up and came over to me. I stood up. He shook my hand firmly and slapped me on the back. As he raised his arm, his suit jacket opened and I could see a black leather holster containing a bejeweled red, white and blue semiautomatic pistol. Not surprising, I suppose, for a gun nut politico from a tobacco state like Virginia. He insisted one of the agents take a selfie of the two of us, with the Daily Press front page below us. He was grinning. I wasn’t. Amy also stood up, unsure what to do.

  “I feel bad for Dickie but this is the funniest thing I have seen in years—Hard-Off!” Chesterfield chortled, exploding into more laughter. “He never could keep it in his pants. He giggled, wiping away tears. “Mr. Holy Liberal gets his dick caught in a sex scandal—and then drops dead before we can use it against him in an election. Nice career move, Dickie!”

  He went on like this for a few minutes and then sat down, lit another cigarette, and returned to the business at hand.

  “I’ll tell you I was very much against this when the National Committee brought this to me—a New York private eye who is also a reporter for a liberal rag—but there is no one I would like better on this than you,” Chesterfield told me, slapping my back again. “I think it’s bullshit, just a lot of hot air from dickless assholes, but I know I can trust you and Amy. As long as the party pays for this, I’ll play ball, providing we keep it quiet. I don’t want to look like a pussy. I’ve got better security than the president, but I will cooperate—whatever you need.”

  He was spending a lot of time playing this down, this armed super patriot, but I got the impression that somewhere behind the stone face, he was worried.