The Journalist

by G L Rockey

  The Bohemia chilled just right, he slapped back to scan the Times’s Armstrong headline:

  President To Outline Thousand Year Peace Plan

  Zack shook his head in quiet amazement, chewed a shrimp and read the article a third time.

  Sunday, July 6, 2020

  Washington, D.C. — After spending what his aides describe as “countless hours in thought, prayer and meditation” President Armstrong is scheduled to address the nation tonight at seven o’clock EST.

  Billed as a special address, the speech is reported to contain the President’s final and definitive foreign policy position. Armstrong is reportedly distraught over the recent terrorist attack in Paris. He would not comment on specifics of his plan, but did say he had prayed about the matter for countless hours and truly believes his speech has been divinely inspired. White House media guru Dr. Barbara Lande promises the address will offer “dynamic hope” in the face of “cowardly acts by international outlaws.” Major TV broadcast networks, cable and direct satellite plan live coverage.

  Zack slapped the paper and repeated Lande’s quote:

  “‘Cowardly acts from international outlaws.’” He wiped his face with his palm, mumbled, “What do you morons expect after cruise missiles in the night, drones in the teethan invitation to dinner?

  He spoke to his estranged God. “Benny, cruise missiles, dronesdangerous mix, don’t You think? Or do You care?” He paused, “Silence, that’s what I thought.” He picked up a shrimp with his fingers and, waving it in the air, continued the conversation with the Almighty. “Did You ever think, somewhere back before You did the rough cut on this fifteen-round thrilla, You might be making a mistake? You knew the outcomewasn’t there a better way? And another thingnever mind, free will, right?”

  He noticed the three Pi beer drinkers at the bar looking at him. He saluted with his Bohemia, smiled and ate the shrimp he had been waving in the air.

  Just then Joe came out of the kitchen and eased in opposite Zack. Sweat rings under his white T-shirt arms, he lit an Aliados cigar.

  Zack said, “Feel free to smoke.”

  “Thanks, want one?”

  “Why are you tempting me?”

  Joe–sharp chin, arrow-straight nose, scarless lips–his best defense in a one-on-one encounter, Zack thought, would be his penetrating, deep-green eyes that hypnotized you. He also figured Joe’s shaved head would dazzle, or at least blind, any opponent.

  “How’s the shrimp?” Joe said.

  “Perfect.”

  Joe glanced at The Times’s front page. He repeated Zackary’s much-used characterization of President Armstrong, “The silver-tongued sonofabitch speaks tonight, huh.”

  “Joe, you’re not supposed to talk about your Commander-In-Chief like that.”

  Joe smiled. “But you can.”

  “That’s different, I’m a newspaper editor.”

  “And I’m a cook and bottle washer.”

  “Host, waiter—what else?”

  Joe checked the front door, looked over his customers then winked at Kim.

  “That Kim is something else.” he said.

  “I could never understand, why don’t you just take Kim, go to your island and cook for her.”

  “Too much to do.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Not done yet.”

  “With what?”

  “Other things.”

  Zack wondered about thathad heard Joe say it several times. This seemed a good time to open it up.

  “Joe, you never told meI always wonderedwhat are those other things?”

  He smiled. “Let’s just keep it at ‘other things,’ many, here and there.”

  Zack, chewing, “I seeokaycall Armstrong anything you want.”

  Joe noticed a couple getting up to leave.

  “Be right back.” He went to the cash register, rang up their check and returned.

  Puffing his cigar, he said, “So, what’s Ben going to say tonight, you think?”

  “Dr. Lande promises” Zack leaned to read from the Times article. “the speech to offer dynamic hope in the face of quote cowardly acts from international outlaws end quote.”

  Joe smiled. “You think Armstrong is insane?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Your editorials.”

  Zack bit the end of a shrimp. “You take my stuff too seriously.”

  “But you’re wrong.”

  Zack paused in mid-chew. “Me?”

  “He’s not insane. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “Let’s just say something is up.”

  Zack wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “The newspaper person in me is asking, could you please be more specific?”

  “The Pi peoplethey’re putting some pieces togethergot a recording.”

  Zack studied Joe, “And?”

  “Let’s just say, algo está pasando.”

  “You said thatsomething is up. What?”

  “Si.”

  “Yes is up?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Who?”

  “Pi.”

  “You, ah, run with those Pi guys a lot?”

  Toothy smile: “Let’s just say Kim does.”

  Zack sipped Bohemia. ”Come on, Joe, what is the something that’s up?”

  “I think Benny is making a move.”

  “Move?”

  He puffed his cigar. “Article One, Section Nine, Paragraph Two of the U.S. Constitution mean anything to you?”

  Zack studied him for a second. “I’m not up on my Constitutional arroz con camarones.”

  “‘The privilege of the writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in cases of rebellion or invasion the public safety may require it.’”

  “So?”

  “That’s a big ‘so,’ my friend. Then there’s Article Four, Section Four.”

  Zack looked at him, “Like I said”

  “Article Four, Section Four: ‘The United States government shall protect each State against invasion and/or domestic violence’” Joe raised a finger. “‘on application of the Legislature’” He puffed then blew smoke in the air. “‘or, when the Legislative cannot be convened, the Executive branch can act unilaterally.’” He smiled. “Get it?”

  “Benny is the Executive.”

  “Yep. Ben can lock up your mother, call up the military, declare martial law, control transportation, communication, restrict travel—you name it.”

  “What about that or-when stuff, only when the legislature can’t be convened?”

  “Those guys are out of town, gone fishing twenty six weeks a year, that’s not a problem, Benny can unilateral till the cow’s come home, pretty much any time he chooses.”

  “No, he can’t.”

  “On top of all the above, emergency powers statutes, Patriot Act revisions, additions, whereas and where fores, yes he can.”

  “You’re up on this stuff.” Zack paused. “What move, you said before, is Ben up to?”

  “A recording.”

  “May I hear?”

  “It’s patchy, got fudged up, we’re putting it together.”

  “May I help?”

  “Not now.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t knownot sure yetlike I said, recording got fouled up.”

  Kim called over the bar, “Case, customer at booth two wants to see the owner.”

  Joe puffed his cigar. “Be right back.”

  “Be nice.”

  In a minute, Joe returned. “Guy wanted to impress his date, said he knew me.”

  “Was she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, where were we?”

  “You know Benny’s Phoenix buddy, Lem Beaulieu?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Bananas, hamburger joints, fried chicken, exercise machines, diet patches, and banks
Guy owns all over the place.” He studied Zack, knew of the Jesuit line in his resume, scratched his chin, said, “I’m confused.”

  “What?”

  “Parable of the talents, Them that have shall get more, them that have not shall get less.”

  “You referring to Matthew twenty-five?” Zack said.

  “Verse 29.”

  A little surprised: “You do know it.”

  “That surprise you?”

  “That ‘more’ thing is not about making money, it’s about using your talents, time, gifts, you know. That’s what the catechism says, anyway.”

  Joe shook his head. “Doesn’t jive.”

  “I didn’t write it.” Zack chewed. “What about the recording?”

  Ignoring him, “And there’s another bow-legged Benny pal, Linda Roy, can move fifty zillion on the stock exchanges at the snap of her fingers. Along with six others, now controls roughly ninety-five percent of the free world beauty products—hair, lipstick, all that stuffand despite all the jawing about alternate fuel and electric gadgets, there’s still the problem of the slick stuff.

  Zack waited.

  “Oil.” Joe puffed.

  “Oil?”

  “Kzillion barrels a dayworld demand, price keeps going up, lot of U.S. mulah is ending up in the hands of countries that don’t like us two hootsLem and Linda, some of their friendsBenny, they don’t like that so much.”

  Maybe the catechism gals and guys got it wrong, maybe Matthew twenty-five is about moneywhat do I know.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t know, honestly, I don’t know,” Zack said.

  “I think you do.” Joe noticed another couple standing to leave. “Be right back.”

  When Joe returned he continued like he had never left.

  “And many of those guys we been cagando en, they have extra-long memorieshate our guts down to here.” He pointed to the floor.

  “Some would say, with reason.”

  “We need to talk to our brothers. Instead, we bomb them, starve them, kill them–for what? To sell them hamburgers? TV sitcoms? High heel shoes,” he put his hand under his chin, “skirts up to hereI’m telling you, it’s coming home to roost.”

  “I see you feel strongly about this.”

  “Hypocrisysupporting military dictatorships around the world, the cost is nuts, not only in money, but in human livestorture, executions, death squadsfor what, so we can get cheap oil, some capitalist can buy a bigger housemake them Christianthe CIA puts so called dissidents into a foreign country to stir up the pot, say they want to create an independent, free democratic societyit’s mierda del torothe so called dissidents are funded and controlled by our government, they don’t want freedom or give a bull’s hind tit, they want to further the interests of the USA’s capitalists.”

  Case studied Zack’s eyes, “A honcho in your former organization was a friend of freedom loving people everywhere, a defender of the peoples' fight for a better worldPope Francis, he said, quote, “When banks fail it’s a disaster, when people die of hunger, have no place to sleep it’s, oh well.’” Case shook his head, “Men kill, women weep, children die.”

  “One thing about this that’s puzzling me.”

  “What?”

  Zack looked around The Bimini Road, indicating the interior with his fork. “Are not you a capitalist?”

  “If I’m a capitalist, Kim is Miss Singapore.”

  “You better be careful, you’ll end up in your black bean soup.”

  “What about you?”

  “What?”

  “Capitalist.”

  “You mean The Bocait buys gas for Veracity, a little left over for Bohemia, shrimp, rice, fishing bait.” Zack ate his last shrimp.

  Joe fixated: “Who made America capo de capo tutti of the worldbecause we shower three times a day?”

  “Some of us don’t.” Zack smiled.

  “Kill from afar. Bombing from the sky is like the Fourth of July; bombing from a bus is different stuff.”

  “Hey, Joe, that’s not bad.”

  “Drone, cruise missile well placed—good for ten stars and a Hail-to-the-Chief.”

  “You’re on a roll.”

  “Billion-dollar weight-loss industry while millions starve. It’s insane. Greedy master with sharp teeth, obscene appetite. Profit has no home.”

  “Case, I was not aware you were a Christian.”

  “Some say Marxist.”

  “That, too.”

  “I’m not either.”

  “Sure as hell sound like it.”

  “Marx had the origin wrong.” He pointed up. “There’s a better way.”

  Zack chewing on a shrimp and Joe’s meaning, said, “You mean religion?”

  “Hardly. Too many fingers in that pie.”

  “What, then?”

  “Love, hate. Order, chaos. Blackness, light. Give, take. Mostly take.” His eyes narrowed. “How many steaks can you eat a week”

  “I sense you feel deeply about this.”

  “Fat cats living in glass mansions a mile in the sky, big as a mountain.” He paused for a moment. “You do realize that at any given moment, in the hands of these ego idiots protecting their bank accounts, we are all—you, me, Kim, all of us—ten minutes from extinction, the whole kit and caboodle And for what Buck-a-gallon gas” He hit the table. “My arroz con camarones can give you that”

  Laughing, he hit the table again.

  “Joe”

  “Just kidding. But something hedores en el Benny’s woodpile.”

  “What’s it smell like?”

  “Road kill.”

  About to take a last bite of rice, Zack said, “Sorry I asked.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “What recording?”

  Joe put a finger to his chest. “Who, me?”

  Zack indexed humor, fact, rumor and what he knew of Case’s Pi clientele. “This have anything to do with your Pi pals?”

  “Let’s just say, U.S. military superioritytwo, maybe three years we’re top dogthen” Joe pursed his lips, “Then it’s over.”

  “I’d go five.”

  “Five?”

  “Rounds, with Benny.”

  Joe smiled. “Watch out—you may get what you pray for.”

  “Or what you deserve.”

  “That, too.”

  New customers arriving, Case stood. “Want another Bohemia?”

  “Sure, but tell me about this other up-thing, stink in the woodpile, you were talking about. Something is up. The recording?”

  Joe grinned. “You’ll be the first to know when the up is down. One Bohemia coming up.” He left.

  Finished with dinner, longing for a cigarette but instead popping a stick of Juicy Fruit, Zack eased out of the booth and stood.

  Leaving his New York Times companion scattered about the table, passing the bar he spoke to Kim. “You taking good care of Case?”

  “Always.”

  “Thank you.”

  At the cash register Zack extended compliments. “Case, I don’t know how you do it. Cook, wait tables, lecture and twenty-five dollars for all of it.” Zack threw the guest-check along with a twenty-dollar bill, a five and a single on the counter.

  Case, familiar with Zackary’s tipping habits, said, “Gratuity included,” then wiped his fingers on his T-shirt and drilled his gaze into Zack. “Mary O’Brien, just a second ago, called again. I told her you wasn’t here.”

  “Answer the phone, too. You are amazing.”

  Case grinned. “On the house.”

  “What did shenever mind.”

  Case rang up the sale.

  Zack thought for a moment then said, “Anyway, I’m going to the office, work to do, study the President’s footwork.” He paused. “What you said earliersomething’s up. When you get more, let me know.”

  “I hear you, Father.” He winked. “And watch out for O’Brien’s left hook.
”

  Case extended his left hand in a thumbs-up gesture.

  Zack thought about correcting the Father connotation but didn’t want to upset Case’s illusion, his image or the arroz con camarones. O’Brien was another matter.

  Chapter Five

  Savoring the exotic outside air, Zack popped a stick of Juicy Fruit. Joe Case’s dinner topics_talk of a recording, something’s up, capitalism, talking to our brothers, masters of the world, profit has no home—bounced in, out and around images of O’Brien—young, alive, quarrelsome, brilliant (actually, genius), eyes like the blue of a-a-a what? How about just blue. Cropped hair, blond the color of beach sand, always disheveled, fleshy nose almost too big but not, high cheekbones, unpainted lips the shape of—

  “Hey, champ.” Joe stuck his head out the front door. “You got a phone call.”

  “Who?”

  Joe grinned. “Three guesses, first two don’t count.”

  “Tell hertell her I’m not here.”

  “Later.” Joe disappeared inside.

  “O’Brien.” Zack shook his head. It’s insane, never work, fantasy. He checked back in with the comments Joe had been talking about, especially the “something’s up” one. Maybe Joe was talking to Pi people too much. He glanced at his gold marine Bulova. In less than an hour, the much-ballyhooed Armstrong speech might give some clues.

  “Day becomes night, night becomes day, fish fly, birds swim, Tweedledee, Tweedledum, virtual reality”

  He squeezed into his Subaru, coaxed it to life, cranked the air to max, punched into traffic and headed to North Miami and The Boca.

  In what had been a ritual since he began life as a layman, Zack went to his office Sunday nights for a jump-start on the upcoming week. The routine also assuaged an emptiness left from his previous life’s Sunday night cloistered rituals. But tonight, beyond the personal void, a nutty insanity romped round the longitudes and latitudes of Planet Earth, he thought. He recalled again Joe Case’s comments—love/hate, order/chaos, blackness/light, give/take, how many steaks can you eat a week

  He glanced up. “What do You think of that?” Paused. Nothing. “That’s what I figured.”

  His thoughts went to a Miami Herald. article he had read some time ago about President Armstrong: Comedian, star of ABC’s sit-com Meat Loaf, Benjamin Armstrong, after the show’s cancellation, has had what he called “an on-the-road-to-Damascus jolt.