Black Light bls-2

by Stephen Hunter

  Jed Posey. What had happened to him?

  It took a phone call to find out that after thirty-five years in prison, the old man named Jed Posey resided still on Cell Block D at the state penitentiary at Tucker.

  Now, that was useful. That was very useful.

  A plan began to form in his mind.

  The more he thought, the more excited he got. I like it!

  30

  He was a little early but it was better to be early. He’d worn better suits too, but when you buy a suit at the Fort Smith Wal-Mart at eleven o’clock to wear to an appointment at one, you can’t expect to make the pages of GQ.

  Can I do this? Russ thought.

  Then he thought: Yes, I can do it.

  Bob dropped him at 12:55. It was a nondescript building, sheathed with new siding that cut off all windows, promising fluorescent dankness inside. It wore the odd sign DONREY HOUSE over the single grim entrance. Certainly there was no old-newspaper feeling to it, and nothing in it harkened back to glorious old days when cigar-stomping or tobacco-chewing reporters smart-assed or exaggerated their way into national reputations while having a hell of a good time.

  No, the offices of Southwest Times Record, like the offices of most newspapers in America, looked as if they headquartered a smaller insurance company or a medical supply house or a catalog service.

  He went into a foyer that was blankly efficient if unprepossessing and told the receptionist that he had an appointment at one o’clock with the city editor and the copy chief. He was asked to wait until a very young black woman came down and gave him a cool professional greeting and escorted him up. It was only one story and the trip took them through the newsroom—lit with bright fluorescents, as he had guessed, messy, filled with troglodytes and mutants sleeping or haphazardly cranking away at VDTs like chimps beating on toy pianos, any newsroom—and into the city editor’s office. That’s when he got his first surprise: she didn’t make the introduction because there was no one there to introduce him to. Instead, she herself slid behind the desk.

  Ah! What was the name again, oh yes, Longly, Longly, Longly. Claudia Longly.

  She was looking at the résumé.

  “How long were you at the Oklahoman, Mr. Pewtie?”

  “A year. I started on the features copy desk and they seemed to like me and I became the assistant Lifestyles editor after six months.”

  “And you left …?”

  “Well, I had a great idea for a book and I didn’t think I could do justice to both careers. So I left the Oklahoman two months ago to work on it exclusively; I’d saved a little money. The research got me here, and here I’ve been for three weeks now. But it’s going to take longer and I’m running out of money. So I thought if you had copy desk openings, and you were interested, I could sign on. I am good on copy. I’m fast, I don’t make mistakes, I’m pretty smart and I work hard.”

  “But it’s not a career thing? You don’t see yourself committing to a career on the Record?”

  “Oh, to be honest, my main thing is the book. I don’t want to lie to you. But if you offered me a position, I’d take it as a matter of course that I’d stay at least six months.”

  “You went to Princeton, I see.”

  “Yes. I was lucky, I got a scholarship. I was a superbrain in high school, but I got tired of the East and I felt I needed a change after two years. I did do an internship on the Miami Herald. I’ve got names and so forth for you to call if you want.”

  “Can I ask what the book is about?”

  “There was an act of violence in Polk County in 1955 that had a direct bearing on a subsequent act of violence in Oklahoma that affected my family. My idea was to research and dramatize both of them and show how they were connected. I’m just having trouble running down people from 1955. It’s going to take several months, not several weeks.”

  “I should tell you, if you were offered a position, it’s a Guild paper. I’ll give you a copy of the contract. We’d start you at the one year’s experience mark. It would be three-fifty a week. You’d be on the morning rim, probably from four to midnight. We expect hard work, professionalism and a good attitude. I don’t like a newsroom that talks too much.”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  “Well, let’s go introduce you to Bruce Sims, our copy chief. We’ll give you the test and we’ll see how you do.”

  “That’s fine, thanks very much.”

  Bruce Sims was a folksy older guy, about forty-five, with thinning hair and a newsroom pallor. He jawed with Russ for a bit, showed him around the newsroom, the cafeteria, the wire room, Don’s office—Don, the managing editor, would have the final say—and then finally the library.

  This is what Russ was waiting for.

  “What databases are you into?”

  “Nexus, Entertainment Data Service and On-Line Search.”

  “Cool. What about the phones? Just as I was leaving the Oklahoman they’d bought into a CD-ROM national service.”

  “Oh, yeah. We started that up, too. Phone Disc Power Finder.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what we had. Very useful.”

  By this time, they’d reached a little room off the corridor.

  “You’re ready?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Okay, it’s two-ten. I’ll be back at three-ten.”

  “Swell,” Russ said.

  Bruce left the room and Russ started the test at 2:11. He finished it at 2:26. Of the 100 general information questions, he knew he had gotten 97 right, and only had to guess on the year of the Little Big Horn (he guessed 1873, and it was 1876), the percentage of the vote Upton Sinclair received for governor of the state of California in 1936 (45, right) and whether Willa Cather or Edith Wharton had written My Antonia, and since he’d seen a movie based on a Wharton novel and knew that she was a New York kind of girl, he guessed Cather, right again. Then there was a badly written news story to straighten out which, once he got the lead into English, fell into place in a second. The last page was for a short personal essay on “Why I want to work for the Record” (ho-hum).

  Then, glancing at his watch, he rose, took off his coat, loosened his tie and discreetly stepped out into the corridor. Nobody that he’d been introduced to was in sight. Trying to look as if he belonged, he went to a coffee urn in the newsroom and got himself half a cup in Styrofoam. He picked up a ballpoint and a notepad from an untended desk. He didn’t look ahead but he knew his newsroom culture: everybody read everything, nobody paid any attention to anything.

  He turned into the library, taking a quick peek to see that no one he’d been introduced to was here either. All clear. He went up to a desk that said “Information Service.”

  “Hi, I’m Russ, I’m new in Metro,” he said, hoping they called it Metro, but what else could they call it? It was always called Metro.

  “Oh, uh, hi,” said a middle-aged woman, looking up over half-lensed reading glasses.

  “I’m looking for some numbers. Could you run the CD-ROMs for me, please?”

  She turned and opened a desk, where a stack of CDs in their little clear plastic containers were.

  “Which section of the country?” she asked.

  Key question. Bob had searched his memory that morning and came up with the idea that Miss Connie was from Baltimore, or Maryland anyway. He didn’t know why he thought that; it was just an impression from some clue stored irretrievably in his head. But would she retire to Baltimore? Would she return after her twenty-five tragic years in Arkansas? Or maybe she did return and died there in the eighties. Maybe she did return until she got very old and then moved to Florida. Or Mexico. Or California. Or Arizona. Or—

  “Northeast region. Maryland.”

  She selected a disc and they walked over to a large computer terminal on the adjacent desk. She loaded the disc into the tray, which with a hum absorbed it into the machine, which buzzed, clicked, flashed to life (“Phone Disc Power Finder, from Digital Directory Assistance, Inc.”) and yielded a menu
.

  “Do you know how?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Call me when you’re done.”

  He sat down and snapped through the commands until he got an entry prompt.

  He typed “Constance Longacre.”

  The machine hummed and flashed and diddled, and in seconds, across its blue screen, in white, there traveled a list of endless C. Longacres, Constance Longacres, Conny Longacres, Connie Longacres; fifty-nine of them, spread between Maine and Virginia.

  He scanned the list. Anyone could be her or none of them could be her. What could he do now, write down the fifty-nine numbers and call them, one at a time?

  Well … what about something else?

  He restarted, this time narrowing the field to Maryland. Only thirteen Longacres resided in Maryland. That was something. He could write those down. He did, in fact, in the notebook. Now he could call those thirteen and …

  But he knew another capability of the CD-ROM; it could be entered via phone number or by street address or by institutional identity. Returning to the menu, he called up a prompt by institution. He typed “Nursing home” and narrowed the field to Maryland.

  Clickety-click, whickety-whack. The screen flashed. Suddenly, it was alive with names and addresses, eighty-seven of them according to the helpful listing up top.

  He examined the thirteen Longacres and found between them only five different exchanges. He wrote them down and cross-referenced to the eighty-seven listed addresses and numbers and came up with eleven matches. He compared each of the thirteen numbers with each of the eleven matches.

  There was only one match.

  “C. Longacre, 401-555-0954” and “Downy Marsh, St. Michaels, Md., 401-555-0954.”

  Russ took a deep breath.

  He looked about. Nobody was noticing him.

  There was a phone. He picked it up, dialed 9 to get an outside line, then dialed the digits.

  The phone was answered.

  “Downy Marsh.”

  “Yes, this is Robert Jones, I’m an attorney in Fort Smith, Arkansas. I’m trying to reach a Miss Connie Longacre.”

  “Mrs. Longacre is sleeping.”

  “Well, please don’t disturb her. She’s been named in a will out here, or rather a Connie Longacre, who lived in Polk County, Arkansas, between 1931 and 1956, has. I’ve been trying to track her down. Has your Mrs. Longacre ever mentioned living in Arkansas?”

  “That’s confidential information, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I think she’d be upset if she didn’t attend the reading. The sum of money involved is considerable.”

  “Mrs. Longacre is not a needy woman, Mr. Jones.”

  “I see. Well, with the money, there’s news. News of the people she knew and loved for twenty-five years, and that she left cold for reasons that nobody has ever understood out here.”

  There was a long pause on the phone.

  “She never talks about Arkansas. I only know she was there because her photo album is full of pictures of the country, and once I asked her. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘another lifetime. Far, far away. Arkansas, believe it or not.’ And then I knew it upset her because that night she was crying.”

  “Thank you very much for the information.”

  “You won’t hurt her?”

  “No, ma’am. Not at all.”

  “She’s been through so much. She’s ninety-five now, and very frail.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And, of course, she’s blind. Has been for ten years.”

  Giddy with joy at his triumph, Russ downloaded the machine and returned the disc to the librarian, and with a light step, hurried out the door. He ran smack into his new friend Bruce Sims, who looked at him in surprise.

  Russ felt stupidity drain into his face but then said, in a frenzy of fake desperation, “Bathroom?”

  “Not in the library! Down the hall.”

  “Thanks. The test is on the table. I’m all done. Sorry, but when you gotta go—”

  And he took off running down the hall.

  “—you gotta go,” called out Bruce, laughing.

  Russ went and hid in a stall for ten minutes, then made a big deal out of washing his hands. He emerged to find Bruce waiting.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have left the room. But I never went back—”

  “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. I picked up the test.”

  “So when do you think I’ll hear?”

  “Well, can you give us a week or so? We’ll look it over and see how it fits into our needs. Do you have a phone?”

  “No, I’m sort of mobile now. Let me call you. A week?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  They stopped to pick up Russ’s coat and then were sauntering through the newsroom when Russ noted that nearly everyone had left their desks and gathered around a television set suspended from the ceiling near the wire room.

  “Oh, God,” said Bruce.

  “Willie just called. I think this is it, Bruce,” said someone rushing by. “If it is, meeting at three instead of four.”

  “What’s going on?” Russ said.

  “Come on, watch this, you’ll find it amusing.”

  Russ followed Sims over to the mob of reporters and editors, mesmerized by an empty podium, a microphone and the dreary look of a banquet hall in a chain motel near the interstate. A label on the screen identified the setting: Etheridge Campaign Headquarters, Los Angeles, California.

  “Go, C-Span!” somebody cheered.

  Soon enough, surrounded by aides and accompanied by a handsome but remote woman, a thin man with silver hair and a professionally distinguished face approached the podium. He looked about sixty-five and wore one of those almost uniform-perfect blue suits, a red tie and a white shirt. There wasn’t anything out of place; there wasn’t anything interesting either.

  The party reached the podium. There was shuffling, chatter, awkwardness.

  “Two years and still not organized,” said someone.

  “What a hopeless wanker,” someone with a British accent editorialized.

  “Who the hell is it?” Russ whispered to Sims, even as the man’s features were beginning to vibrate with recognizability, like a character actor who always plays the best friend.

  “Holly Etheridge,” Sims responded. “You know, former Senator Hollis Etheridge. He chose not to seek reelection two years ago and has spent the past twenty-four months running the most inept presidential campaign since Ed Muskie.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember,” said Russ. “He’s the one who built the road for his dad?”

  “The Etheridge Porkway. Who says there’s no free lunch in America? If you knew Harry and then Holly, you got very rich.”

  “My friends,” said Hollis Etheridge, reading stiffly from a prepared statement, “and members of the press who have chosen to honor me with your attention. For years and years, my father had a dream. He dreamed that his only son would become President of the United States. It wasn’t too much to ask for. After all, he had come out of the backwoods of Arkansas and become United States representative for thirty years. As far as he saw it, in this great land of ours, anything was possible and no dream was too large.”

  Russ thought he’d seen the guy on talk shows over the years. He was always a fill-in, a somewhat orthodox man in whose mouth English seemed a foreign language.

  “One thing about old Holly,” whispered Bruce salaciously, “he got more pussy than a toilet seat.”

  “I shared that dream,” Hollis droned onward. “I worked ceaselessly to make it a reality. I gave up my position in the august body known as the United States Senate to make it come true. I raised money and went to banquets and gave speeches.

  “But as my fourth-place finish in last week’s California primary has made clear, that dream will not come true.”

  There were some audible groans from the audience, whom Russ gathered were campaign workers and true believers. Though what in Holly Etheridge was there to believe in
truly, other than the practical craft of the professional politician?

  “That, coupled with a third in New York, a third in Massachusetts and a fourth in New Hampshire, has made it clear that the party will seek another for standard-bearer and that my continued presence distracts from the message of the two from between whom you will choose the candidate.”

  He paused amid the groans.

  “There goes my Pulitzer Prize,” somebody said, to laughter.

  “You were never going to win a Pulitzer Prize,” someone else said. “You don’t work for the Washington Post, the New York Times or the Miami Herald.”

  “True enough,” said the first. “I should have said, there goes my fantasy of a Pulitzer Prize.”

  His colleagues hooted. Someone threw a wadded-up ball of paper at him. Russ smiled. Journalists. Cynics, smartasses, calculating everything as a career move first and history second.

  “Shit,” said Sims to Russ. “Little Rock had its time in the sun. We thought Fort Smith’d get a goose out of old Holly. But no way: too square, too slow, too orthodox.”

  “He could put No Doz to sleep,” somebody else said, “unless he was chasing stewardesses.”

  “I heard his specialty was nurses,” somebody else said. “He liked the uniform thing and the white stockings.”

  “Look at his wife,” somebody else added. “I think she has a DoveBar up her ass.”

  The woman stood just behind the man with one of those painted-on smiles lighting up a face that was pure stone.

  “Dotty, God,” somebody said. “She makes Pat Nixon look like Mary Tyler Moore. She makes Pat look … perky.”

  “A DoveBar is the only thing she’s ever had up her ass.”

  “And so,” said Hollis Etheridge, “I hearby announce my withdrawal from the presidential campaign. I want to thank my wife, Dorothy, Paul Osteen, my campaign manager, and all you loyal workers. You people worked like heck and I do appreciate it; now it’s back to private life for this son of Arkansas. Thank you very much.”

  “Senator,” a question came, “what will you do with your delegates? And your war chest? You still lead in money raised.”

  “That’s to be determined at a later time in consultation with key members of my team,” said Etheridge.