by G L Rockey
Lande said, “Guilt complexever since all those heads were lopped off in the Reign of Terror.”
“Too many sauces.” Novak shook his head. “Post also reported that gas could be nine dollars a gallon by Labor Day.”
Mac frowned. “And Beno wants to negotiate with those laundry head jockeysthat goddamn oil money is supporting those guysdoesn’t that jungle bunny get it?”
Lande dragged on her cigar and blew smoke from the side of her funnel-shaped mouth. “You have such a way with words, Bill.”
The general frowned at being called Bill by this female version of Peter O’Toole. He squared his peaked crew cut head toward Lande, said, “Lande, I got satellite pictures of you squatting in the reflecting pool, so don’t get too damn uppity.” He extended his meaty lower jaw as if inviting a hit.
“Which time?” Lande said.
“Smart ass.” MacCallister twisted his thick bulldog neck. “One of these day’s somebody’s gonna lick that smart ass of yours.”
“Ya mean ‘kick,’ don’t ya, Bill?” Lande smiled.
Mac started to stand. “I’ll just show you what I mean”
“Sit down” Novak blinked; memories of shallowness that had brought down dynasties flashed through his mind. He glared at Mac. “What were you going to do, spank her?”
Mac leaned back, “Not even with your hand.”
Lande shook her head in disbelief.
Novak cast dubious glances at his colleagues’ pettiness. I wonder if they realize the depth of the moment at hand, he thought. Probably not.
He despised dealing with inferior intellects but, as he often told himself, to accomplish certain goals the end justifies the means, requires it, and the higher good is ultimately served. He leaned over his desk and smiled at Lande, “So, Babs, how is this media plan of yours proceeding?”
“Maavaalaas, on track, shooting in two weeks, unload everything to the TV guys Labor Day weekend.”
Mac sat up and folded his arms across his chest. “I gotta tell ya, I still think this pissing with the television people could blow up in our faces.”
“Relax, General, relax.” Lande smiled. “Just be sure the Internet satellites go out Friday before Labor Day, the TV sats go out Monday, Labor Day.”
“They’ll be out, but I’m skitty.”
“Have some more Long Island Tea,” Lande said.
Novak ogled Lande’s cockiness. “Like I said before, you understand, Ms. Babs, if this doesn’t work we will all be hanged.”
MacCallister unfolded his arms. “And like I said, by the nuts.”
Lande smiled. “Maybe you guys.”
They chuckled.
Chapter Three
Three weeks later
4:45 p.m EST
Sunday, July 6
Biscayne Bay, Florida
Gripping the mahogany wheel of Veracity, Zack steered past the north point of Elliot Key heading west toward Fender Point’s Pompano Marina. A black T-shirt hanging loose over his khaki shorts, he held the throbbing Chris Craft at ten knots. With a weekend of boating coming to an end, he moved thoughts around, over and ahead to the upcoming evening and future things in general.
First comes a Bohemia at the Bimini Road , maybe two, then dinner, then, seven o’clock this very night, earth time and beyond, Armstrong’s TV speechwho knows what little green ET’s might be watching Ben’s much ballyhooed definitive solution to Planet Earth’s rendition of turning the other cheek—International terrorism, world democracy, goat milk and gout, in that order. Zack shuddered at what Armstrong’s concoction of political thinking and evangelical rhetoric might be.
Moving to the other things, he checked in at an item the world seemed preoccupied with—messianic predictions of the Second Coming. Then again, he wasn’t sure if that was simply a past world myth or a present-world phenomenon. The past world, at least a few thousand years of it, had been waiting for a chosen one, never-ending story, he thought.
Moving on to future things in general, he had to get Veracity’s engines tuned soon. Then there was that editorial he could never get finished, and, like a splinter in his thumb, there was that personal Mary O’Brien thing. He had to pull the switch on that, like, yesterday. Old enough to be her grandfather, he thought.
An urge to turn around, chart a slow trip to Australia, somewhere, anywhere, moved the moment like a giant manta ray swimming in the wake of Veracity. But, the moment fleeting, as usual when moment were such, he contemplated his former life in what had become a continuing ghost-draft autobiography:
After twenty years as a Jesuit Priest, (how do you explain that delicately, work on it) owner, editor, general manager of The Boca, Zackary Stearn has presided for the past five years over publication of what he hoped to be, albeit small, a toothy bite at journalism in the truest sense of the word, i.e., that public enlightenment is the forerunner of justice, the foundation of democracy and, Stearn believes vehemently that, no matter where it might leads or the consequences, the duty of the journalist is to seek truth and provide a fair, comprehensive record of event and honest account of events and issues.
Published twice weekly, with special editions when events warranted, the little gazette enjoys a loyal readership. Vendor distributed throughout the Miami area, the usual run is fifty thousand, with a three-thousand-copy Spanish edition.
“Have to get that to five thousand,” he mumbled and continued:
The publication has become like a person to Zackary—a companion, a necessity. After a day’s work, he can be found in The Bimini Road cafe lecturing his small staff on the why of The Boca: “Words you can touch, reality, truth, facts.” After a third Glenlivet, amid widening yawns, when he segues into Cervantes’ Don Quixote—idealism in a cynical world—he finds himself alone.
“Which is okaysometimes,” he smiled:
An incurable teacher/coach, fifty-second birthday a month ago, despite nearly forty years of on-again, off-again smoking, Zackary still maintains the undergraduate weight he carried as a middleweight boxer at Notre Dame. His slate-gray eyes, when first meeting, look through you. In less than a minute you sense he knows the inner workings of you.
“That last line might have to go,” he said and went on:
His nose, flattened by many left hooks, rests a quarter-inch off-center. His full head of short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair enhances a brown boater’s tan that resembles the glow of natural leaf tobacco. Muscle solid, stomach flat, shoulders squared, neck void of sagging flesh, he projects his prior life’s authority.
“Put all that in past tense and it would be a nice obit,” he muttered. “And two dollars and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. End of bio.”
Easing Veracity toward her mooring, a yard from the wharf’s pilings he reversed the engines then slipped them to neutral. She touched like a feather. Pleased, he turned the engines off, stepped to the dock and, tying off, began sparring with his dinner palate. Lemon chicken at Gum Do, or arroz con camarones at The Bimini Road? It took only seconds. Rice and shrimp it was, at his favorite spot, The Bimini Road.
After hosing salt water from Veracity’s decks, stowing gear, a shower, a shave, he pulled on a pair of faded Wrangler jeans, a clean black T-shirt and his dine-out brown deck shoes. Walking the narrow dock’s weathered planks to the marina, he stopped to note the stillness in the late afternoon air. Cirrus clouds hung high in the winsome sky. A feeling of anxiety came over him. He shook that off and, at the end of the wharf, stopped at a row of metal dispensers that offered various local Florida publications. Noticing that The Boca had sold out, he smiled and ambled across the white crushed-shell parking lot to his sun-faded 2010 silver Subaru. The windows left down a quarter-inch to dissipate heat, he got in, cranked the rebuilt engine to life, turned the air to max and headed, just north of Little Haiti, to The Bimini Road cafe.
Weaving in and out of traffic, he worked on that endless draft-editorial in his head:
Analogous to the famous f
alling tree that supposedly makes no sound in a peopleless forest, would time cease if Homo sapiens were not around to notice? That is, the evidence seems to suggest that the sons and daughters of Adam, Eve, Noah’s three sons or a monkey’s uncle are in deep doo-dah-day. That is, the human race is prepared to become extinct over religion, sex, oil and lines on a map. Some incestuous hate seems loosed in the world, and where did that come from? Gene pool regressing. Evolution in reverse. Entropy full tilt. Stuff is making us nuts.
He tapped his steering wheel and made a mental note: Do an Internet search. Animal kingdom, species, territorial, lines on a map, territorial something, some urinate a line on or something. What species kill for love? There’s mating season. Hummm. Do they hate? That’s more sophisticated, requires a higher awareness. What about religion? I think we homo sapiens have a corner on that. How far we have come.
His cell phone began to ring. Ninety percent certain who it was, he didn’t look see or answer. After around twenty rings it stopped. His editorial thoughts hopelessly scrambled, he concentrated on the upcoming week: Wednesday, finish that editorial on Benny’s E.I.C. ; Boca’s advertising revenue could be better, always could be betterhis thoughts went to this evening, the speech by President Armstrong at seven o’clockthis whole week promises to be cockeyed. Anything else?
“O’Brien,” he said aloud as he pulled to a familiar newsstand, lowered his window and spoke to a Miami icon, “Afternoon, Gus.”
“Mr. Zackary, beautiful Sunday.” Gus handed him The New York Times and, familiar with Zack’s weekend routine, asked, “Catch anything?”
“Naw.” He paid for the paper. “Gonna listen to the President tonight?”
“Ah, that Benny, Mr. Zackary.” Gus smiled. “Ah, that Benny.”
“Have a good day.”
“Yessir.”
Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more than he lets on.”
Chapter Four
Twenty minutes after leaving Pompano Marina, Zack squeezed his car onto the crowded sand parking lot of The Bimini Road and parked between a white van and a vintage Chevy pickup painted orange.
The café occupied the first floor of a cement block two-story building, with a two-bedroom apartment upstairs. The exterior’s stucco, painted chalky white, flaked to the ground. A purple neon sign above the entrance, blinked: THE BIMINI ROAD CAFÉ. Many people called the tiny restaurant a dump. Zack had seen haute cuisine as the guest of bishops, cardinals and wealthy widows. He preferred dumps.
Another reason for the The Bimini Road allure, belly up to the bar, he enjoyed the cafe’s notorious reputation as the hangout for a group called The Pi Underground. Sometimes referred to as 3.14-Under, the Pi were abhorrers of “clearly” so called “true” political arguments which they believed were, not only what they called “bull shit” but the product of circular reasoning. Neither liberal, conservative nor in between, Pi members envisioned a world void of religion, isms, and lines printed on maps, Google, Rand McNally, or otherwise.
Pi members (a few rumored to be in military and government positions), worshipers of, located fifty miles due east of Miami Florida, the mysterious underwater stone formation just off the coast of North Bimini Island, espoused a connection to lost Atlantis relatives, the Bermuda Triangle, and UFO’s.
Even though he was certain the walls of The Bimini Road café emitted strange vibrations, Bermuda Triangle UFO mulligan stew or not, he would tolerate Pi members espousing the nonsense if, for no other reason, to get at The Bimini Road café’s matchless zesty shrimp and rice specialty of the house–arroz con camarones.
Almost as important as the culinary delight itself, Zack revered the vigorous intellect of The Bimini Road’s owner, cook, and dishwasher, Joe Case. Despite the widespread rumor of Joe’s crackpot reputation, in Zack’s mind Joe’s sense of urgency and mission could be summed up in two words–penetrating bluntness. More so when the discussion went to politics.
Standing a little over five-eight, Joe beamed pride when talking of his mother. From Tampico, he had learned his culinary skills and fluent Spanish from her. His father, one time Commander of Fort Sam Houston, San Antonio, Joe's military career flowed out of family tradition. A graduate of West Point, Joe rose to Colonel, Special Forces, wrote the book on desert survival. On his way to becoming a General, he was recruited and joined the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency). But after a TV interview in which he condemned U. S. military intervention in foreign affairs (he pointed out direct ties to capitalism and sleazy monetary interests leading to the overthrow of “non cooperative”foreign governments, accusing the White House of “hypocrisy and crimes in high places”), U.S. officials branded him a renegade and he officially “retired.”
In a subsequent book Spy Diary, Case cited misdeeds against Latin America’s so called “leftists” and included a list of purported U.S. government operatives. The list created an uproar prompting the State Department to strip Case of his U.S. passport.
U.S. officials continuing to pile on, branded Case a traitor linked to foreign intelligence agencies. Case denied the allegations and said he thought of himself as carrying on the American tradition of the Declaration of Independence authors.
Zack, in chats with Case learned that Joe, made frequent trips to Bimini Island as part of what he called “business.” Married to Kim–blond hair in a long pony tail, more than not, pulled through the back of a black Pi baseball hat, horn rimmed glasses, brown eyes, narrow nose, mocha complexion–they lived in a one bedroom apartment above The Bimini Road café.
In chats with Kim Zack learned that the couple had meet while scuba-diving around the Bahamas. In the U.S. Navy for six years, she had inherited The Bimini Road café from some distant relative.
***
Approaching a sign on The Bimini Road’s front door–THIS IS A SMOKING ESTABLISHMENT, there are no no-smoking sections, if you don’t smoke or don’t like smoke, go someplace else --- tener un buen da–Zack entered the café and stopped. All thirteen eating booths brimmed with customers. Not only were the booths full, but to his chagrin, the previously natural wood booths had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink.
He looked to his left. At the far end of the sweat-rubbed wooden bar, sitting on the last three of thirteen red-topped plastic bar stools, three males sat. They wore black Pi baseball hats, sipped beer and, between words, teetered on the wobbly stools.
Calling to mind a few alcohol facilitated late-night arguments with Pi members, Don’t get involved with those guys tonight, he thought and sat on the first barstool near the entrance.
Waiting for a booth to open, anticipating other changes in the decor, he cased the surroundings.
One thing unchanged, separating bar and booths, a four-foot wide strip of avocado green linoleum rippled like waves on a small pond. Also, hanging from rusty chains, flyspecked fluorescent lights cast a familiar yellow glow. And there, glowing in the aged haze, balanced on a triangular platform over the last bar stool, the same ancient TV flickered a baseball game. He sniffed. The familiar odor of beer, tobacco, garlic and humans blanketing everything, also hadn’t changed. He glanced upward, whispered, “Thank You,” and waved to, busy behind the bar, Kim.
Kim: “Zackary, how are you?”
“Great.”
He started to ask about the booth’s new paint job, but noticed people at his favorite far-end booth standing.
New York Times in tow, he ambled over the rippled floor, settled behind the booth’s greasy table, pushed the dirty dishes aside and laid out the paper. In a moment, Joe Case, in stained white polo shirt, navy shorts and crusty Reebok sneakers, came table-side with green check-pad and pencil in hand.
“Champ,” he said.
“Case, you painted the booths.”
“What you eating?”
“Why did you paint the booths?”
“Kim thought they needed it.”
“Pink?”
“What you eating?”
“I liked the warm feel of the natur
al wood”
“What you eating?”
“You waiting tables tonight, too?”
“Butch called in sick. You want your regular?”
“Bohemia, yes, and arroz con camarones.”
“You had a call ‘bout an hour agoyour editor, Mary O’Brien.”
Ignoring him. “See you’re very busy tonight, that’s good.”
Joe grinned and left.
A tall skinny male arrived, cleared Zack’s table, left and a young female wearing a black Pi baseball hat, arrived, served his Bohemia along with salsa and a basket of hot tortilla chips.
Not recognizing her, Zack said, “You’re new, how’s it going?”
“Busy.” She smiled and left.
Awaiting his shrimp and rice entree, Zack drank the cold Bohemia straight from the bottle. As he savored the clean taste, his intense eyes worked The Times like he was searching for semicolons in a reporter’s piece. Devouring, scanning, skimming, he absorbed various sections at differing points of interest. Twice he slapped back to page one. One story, above the fold, top right, sparred with his thoughts. The article concerned the man whose thinking he had great difficulty with (actually, despised), the current President of the United States, Benjamin P. Armstrong. The article a topic in news circles for days, various reports indicated profound Armstrong related things were happening on Planet Earth, but nobody knew for sure what Benny was up to. “Whatever it is,” Zack whispered to himself, “I don’t trust the silver-tongued sonofabitch.”
He browsed around the Times’s advertising, inserts, editorials, politics, business, technology, sports and opinions. In the middle of an opinion piece, the young female with Pi hat arrived and presented , on a large white platter, his arroz con camarones and a second bottle of Bohemia.
“Kim said Bohemia is on the house,” she said.
“Thank you, you’re new here...”
She hurried to another table.