Shackled

by Ray Garton

  "Okay, fine," Fleck said, his thick fingers drumming on the desktop. "But the story the man came to you with was that his wife wouldn't give him head because Liberace told her not to, isn't that right?"

  "Yes, but what she really wanted to — "

  "Then that's the story we write."

  "Yeah, but, Fleck ... she told me she didn't want me to write that. She said she wanted me to report on these Satanists out in the desert who were sacri — "

  "Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, maybe we can use that as a follow-up. But for now, we go with the blow jobs. I mean, can you imagine the headline? Do you know what we have here?" He laughed thickly. "We're talkin' one of the world's flashiest, most famous — not to mention dead! — cocksuckers telling a woman that she shouldn't be takin' her husband's dick into her mouth! You know what that is? That's good stuff, that's what that is!"

  "But she asked that I not go into their sex lives in the — "

  "What're we talkin' here, people who live in a trailer? In the desert? A guy who can't get work? What're they gonna do, sue us? These people can't afford bologna, not to mention mayonnaise! Where the hell they gonna get a lawyer, huh? Okay, so I want you to write it up. On my desk by tomorrow morning so we can make next week's cover. 'Cause this is a cover story, whether you like it or not. You did get pictures, right? I mean, of the two of 'em?"

  Bent thought about it a moment, considered saying no. But he knew that if he did, Fleck would just send him back out there to the desert to take some. "Yeah. I got pictures."

  "Great, great. They'll look good on the cover beneath the headline." He chuckled. " 'DEAD AIDS VICTIM LIBERACE TELLS WOMAN TO AVOID ORAL SEX!’ Huh? Huh? Sound good? Or, um, or maybe, um, 'LIBERACE’S GHOST BEGS WOMAN NOT TO BLOW IT LIKE HE DID!’ " He laughed and it sounded like someone rapidly pounding a plaster wall with a hammer.

  "Yeah, well ... I don't approve."

  "You don't approve. You don't approve!" Fleck leaned across the desk and said quietly, "I don't approve of this whole fuckin' paper, Bent. You kidding? You think this is my idea of a respectable career, something I can be proud of? Get real. But I've got a good paying job, and so do you, so you'd better start thinkin' the same way I do. Otherwise, you might end up in a little trailer out in the desert drinkin' generic colas yourself, know what I mean?"

  Bent sighed, chewing his lip. Fleck was right; he had a job, and he had to keep it. But he had to sleep with himself, too. "Tell you what, Fleck. I'll compromise."

  Fleck squinted, cocked his head and said, in a high, pinched voice, "Huh? What're you talkin' about, compromise?"

  "I'm serious about this, Fleck, no screwing around, okay? I'll put both in the story ... the blow jobs and the Satanists. But only if you put both in the headline. Okay? I'm serious, Fleck. All I'm asking is that you dilute it a little. These people don't need any more pain than they already have."

  Fleck's jaw moved back and forth a few times before he gave a single slight nod. But even though Bent waited for him to speak, he said nothing. Just smirked, looking Bent directly in the eyes.

  "Okay then," Bent said, "it'll be on your desk in the morning."

  "Wonderful, wonderful," Fleck growled happily. "Now, see? You got a great cover story and we didn't even have to pay for the gas to get out in the fuckin' desert, and it's only the middle of the afternoon."

  Bent bowed his head slightly, deciding not to tell Fleck he'd given David Kotter gas money from his own pocket. He knew how tight the Kotters were, and he didn't like the idea of them paying for a stupid trip that was going to end up hurting them anyway, as it turned out.

  "Now," Fleck said, "let's not forget, we've got a meeting with Barbedwire Burgercunt at four. Be there. On time."

  "I'll be there at three fifty-five," Bent said, standing.

  Fleck stood, too, came around the desk, and put an arm around his shoulders, patting him heartily. "That's my boy!" He laughed. "You know why I'm so hard on you, don't you? Because you're my best. My best! See you at four."

  Bent left the office, thinking, Yeah, see you in hell.

  4

  "Unemployment is no longer a statistic," Barbara Bergenstern said as she paced along the long rectangular table in the conference room. "It is now a rocket shooting its way out of the atmosphere. Crime is no longer a national problem, it is a national industry. It's safer to walk a tightrope over the mouth of a lava-bubbling volcano than it is to walk the streets of any large city in America where, at any moment, a brutal, chaotic riot could break out, racial or otherwise ... where one might be shot at by the anonymous passenger of a passing car ... where rape and mugging are more a form of greeting than assault."

  She walked back and forth along the table, behind her staff of writers and editors who were seated there.

  Bent glanced at Fleck, knowing how much he hated Bergenstern's speeches. Fleck looked as if he were about to throw up as he leaned forward and put a big hand over the lower half of his face, trying to cover his distaste.

  She certainly did love the sound of her own voice.

  "The Global Inquisitor provides a specific service to its readers," she went on, pacing, pacing, tapping one palm with a pencil. "We give them fantasy and mystery. We give them the bizarre and unusual, things to help them forget how bad the world is, things in which they can lose themselves. But now, I think it's time for the Inquisitor to serve another purpose as well."

  The pause. There was always the pause. She liked giving them lots of time to think about what she was going to say next, assuming they were gripping her every word desperately as if to keep from falling off a precipice to their deaths.

  Eyes exchanged glances and heads turned to look at her as everyone waited for her to continue.

  She walked slowly along the table toward the empty seat at the end, tapping that pencil, tapping, tapping.

  Barbara Bergenstern was a small woman with a slender, rectangular body. She wore enormous tortoiseshell glasses and had thick, black, gray-flecked hair: the hair was combed back, perfectly straight, then curled sharply inward at her shoulders, as if to hide itself from something.

  She wore a charcoal-gray suit, skirt to her knees, blazer over a white linen blouse with a black necktie, all of which conspired to make her look even colder and harder than she would have without them.

  Seating herself in her chair, she placed her palms flat on the tabletop and her eyes, magnified a bit by the glasses, scanned the reporters and editors seated at the table.

  "Hope," she said. "That is going to be, from this point on, the second service provided by the Inquisitor. In a time when political leaders smile as they commit monumental crimes and only criminals and cannibalistic serial killers grace the covers of major magazines ... when taxes go up and the availability of jobs goes down ... when the entire globe teeters on the verge of total chaos, which could break out at any moment, even though everyone is talking of peace ... we are going to give our readers something to lift their spirits."

  From the pocket of her blazer, she removed one of her long brown cigarettes, lit it with a vicious snap of her lighter, and filled the room with a smell similar to that of a pile of old tires burning.

  She blew the smoke from her lungs as powerfully as if she were trying to blow out the candles on her birthday cake.

  "Don't worry," she said, "we won't be sacrificing the kind of stories that have held our readers for so long." She turned to Bent. "I understand that today you covered a story about a woman who has been told by the ghost of Liberace not to perform oral sex on her husband." She smiled. It was a brief movement, really, more like a nervous twitch, as if she suddenly had the urge to bare her straight, tiny teeth for an instant.

  News travels fast around here, Bent thought as he nodded and said, "Yes, that's right."

  "Very good. Sounds interesting. Well, don't worry, we'll still be doing those. But in every issue ... do you all hear that?" She pointed at them all with the ugly brown cigarette clasped between the scissors of her first two fingers. "Ever
y issue of the Inquisitor will include at least — at least — two stories of hope, two stories that will make our readers' chests swell with hope ... for something good, something better ... for something that will let them know that all is not lost and that there is still good in the world."

  Bent glanced at Fleck again. He was a pale shade of yellow, eyes half-closed, cheeks puffed just a little, as if he might, at any moment now, vomit all over the table.

  "And our first story of hope," she said, reaching beneath her chair, then slapping a folded newspaper onto the tabletop, "will be this." She unfolded it, opened it, riffled through it, then folded it again and speared a column with the long maroon nail of her forefinger. "A seven-year-old boy, the son of a black minister in Vallejo, California — that's in the Bay Area, for those of you who don't know your towns and cities — has disappeared. An apparent kidnapping. The police in the area are hard at work. There are reporters working on it, too. TV and newspapers. Mostly locals. The story hasn't caught on yet. But even this paper only gives it a six-inch column. That's all!” She stood again, began pacing.

  Fleck slumped down in his seat, leaned his head forward, and rubbed his temples, eyes closed as he swallowed again and again, loudly.

  "A little seven-year-old boy," she said dramatically. "The son of a man of god. A minority family who live in a low-rent district. A family that has put its faith in the lord. And this boy — just poof! — is gone. And now, the authorities are searching, working to find the kidnappers ... a manhunt ... or, more importantly, a boyhunt. Or are they? Perhaps they don't feel it's that important. After all, children disappear every day. And black children? Well, let's not even get started on that. What I'm saying is this: Maybe it interests the authorities and reporters and maybe it doesn't, but it interests us. And we will make it interest our readers." She stopped behind Bent, put her cigarette hand on his shoulder, letting its smoke curl around his head like a halo. "And I want you, Bent, to write it."

  He coughed once and said, "Exactly how would you like me to write it, Ms. Bergenstern?"

  "You go to Vallejo, take whatever you need — computer, fax machine, whatever — and you stick to that story like glue, the police, the FBI, you're on them like a hound. But especially the family. Lots of pictures. Lots of stuff about them praying to god for the retrieval of their son, for his safety. Live with them, if you have to, if they'll let you. Make friends with them. Let them know you're their ally, you're on their side. We run a major story on it every week with lots of pictures, as gripping as any soap opera on television ... until that boy is found. The Polly Klaas case made a huge splash in the press. But kidnapped children are old news these days. We'll make it real news."

  A long moment passed, smoke still circling around Bent's face and head. "What if he's not found? Or what if he's found dead? Or what if they only find ... part of him?"

  "That's not the point. You're missing it. You're not listening, you're not thinking!" she shouted, taking her hand from his shoulder and stabbing his temple with a finger. "During that whole story, all of it, we've given those readers something to hope for, something to look forward to, something more than just a little escapism with Liberace's ghost and aliens posing as grade-school teachers!" Her voice softened. "We've given them something to pray for, some people to identify with. If they find the boy alive, the story has a happy ending and they have something to cheer for. If he's dead ... we've got a hell of a tearjerker on our hands that will have captivated every single one of our readers and no doubt grabbed us a lot of new ones!" Pacing around the table again, puffing on her cigarette and blowing smoke hard, she said, "Remember that little girl who got trapped in the well? Everyone — I mean everyone in the fucking country — was glued to that story! What if she'd been dead when they pulled her up! Would it have made any difference to all the networks that covered it? No! They still had their ratings! And everyone in the country, for that little while, had something to hope for, to pray for ... a poor, helpless little girl trapped in a well. But that story belonged to television. So far, no one's paid any attention to this one. This story belongs to us. And that," she said, suddenly spinning around to point at Bent, "is what you're going to do for us ... what that girl in the well did for television."

  She seated herself again at the end of the table. "But that's not all. Each and every one of you are to be on the lookout for stories like this. Stories with hope, with pathos ... stories that will pull at the hearts of our readers, not just occupy their minds with Elvis and UFOs and images of Christ on people's refrigerator doors. Understand?"

  There was no response.

  She closed her eyes and held up the hand that still held the long-ashed cigarette between two fingers. "Excuse me, but I think I just asked a question. Understand?"

  A chorus of "Yes, Ms. Bergenstern" rose from those gathered around the table.

  "And you — " She pointed at Fleck. " — you are going to be held responsible if I don't have at least two — count 'em, two — hopeful, heart-wrenching stories every single goddamned week. Understand?"

  Fleck lifted his head as if it were made of lead. "Yes, Ms. Bergenstern. I understand. I think your idea's a great one, if you ask me, and I think it'll work. And you can be sure I'll see to it that it's carried out. Every single week."

  Bent knew how much pain it caused Fleck to say that, how sick it made him to speak to her as if they were compatriots.

  And it made Bent smile.

  5

  "She wants you on it right away," Fleck said as Bent seated himself before the desk.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I mean, she wants you on it now."

  "When now?"

  “Now now. She wants you on a plane to San Francisco by tonight and she wants you to show up in Vallejo first thing in the morning."

  "Whether I like it or not."

  Fleck spread his arms wide. "What can I say? The woman's a great, sebaceous, wind-flapping cunt. She thinks she's on to something big here, thinks she's struck gold with her stupid hope idea. You ain't gettin' outta this, kid. Not if you want to remain employed."

  Bent sighed heavily. "Okay, okay. But let me tell you something, Fleck." He paused a moment, swallowed hard. "I know enough from my experience at the Times ... if this kid has disappeared, one of three things is gonna happen." He counted them off on his fingers. "He's never gonna be found. He's gonna be found dead. Or he's gonna be found in pieces."

  Fleck shrugged. "She doesn't care. That's her idea of hope. That's why she's a cunt. Now." He stood. "You should start packing. And have a nice trip. Oh, and by the way, leave the pictures of the yokels in the desert, write the story on the plane, and fax it to me by tomorrow. And when you get to Vallejo and get chummy with that pastor and his family, take a couple rolls of pictures we can use with the weekly articles, nice heartwarming stuff, and FedEx 'em to us. And keep taking pictures, anything that looks good. Got it?"

  "Got it," Bent groaned as he left the office.

  Fleck grinned. "Look on the bright side, kiddo. You're traveling on a expense account. That's more than most can say."

  "Yeah. You've got a point," Bent said, nodding, and thinking that while he was there, he might look up Coll. They could shoot the shit, have a few drinks ... club soda or Pepsi, of course, that sort of thing.

  It would be good to see him again ... in fact, it would be great ...

  PART TWO

  The Walkers, Faith,

  and an Upside-Down Cross

  1

  At the San Francisco Airport, Bent had rented a car, a luxury car, being more than happy to spend Barbara Bergenstern's money. Using a map, he made his way, a while before dawn, to Vallejo, which was about thirty miles slightly northeast of San Francisco. He would have made the trip a little faster, had he known precisely where he was going, but once he got there, he pulled into a Denny's parking lot and got out his map of Vallejo itself, looking for the specific neighborhood in which Pastor Walker and his family lived.

  After driv
ing around awhile, he found Brodley Street and turned right.

  It was a very gray and dingy neighborhood in the light of dawn. It had been raining recently because the streets were wet and shiny, and judging from the clouds overhead, it could very well begin to rain again soon.

  But even had it been a sunny day, the light in this neighborhood would have been just as gray and dingy. The houses were small and paint peeled from walls. Screen doors sported tears and holes, and front lawns, desperately in need of reseeding, were yellowed and pocked with patches of bare dirt. The shrubs around some of the houses looked as if someone had driven lawn mowers through them. Some windows were covered with blankets or towels rather than curtains. Toys were left on porches and lawns, neglected and wet from the rain. Cars were up on blocks, hoods lifted. Other cars looked as if they had not been driven for months, a year, maybe more.

  But he found the Walker home easily. It stood out among the others. It was still very, very modest. Paint was peeling on the sides and there was a tear in the screen door, but the best of efforts had been made to keep up the yard, which looked old and seemed to be breathing its last breaths. In spite of the old paint — which, although peeling, was not as bad as most of the others — the house looked clean, as if someone had taken care to do the best with what they had.

  Yes, it was the right address.

  Bent slowed in front of the house, admiring them a little already for what they had done with what they had in a neighborhood that would look, to most eyes, to be filled with undesirables.

  Once he was sure he'd found them, he made a U-turn, went back the way he'd come, and found the closest motel he could, which was only about eight blocks away on a thoroughfare that Bent suspected was prowled by hookers and drug dealers at night.

  Morning had arrived by the time he drove into the parking lot of the motel, left the car running, and went into the office to get a room. It was called the Lamplighter Motor Inn, and once inside his room, Bent decided it would look better in candlelight than lamplight.