The Journalist

by G L Rockey

  “Boca, you are being a dumb jerk about us. Everybody thinks it anyway.”

  “They can think anything they want. We have to live with we.”

  Mary rolled her eyes in amazement. “Is that supposed to be, like, Gertrude Stein or something?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let me ask you. If I were forty-five and fat would you marry me?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Oh, how about fifty and a cane?”

  “Might.”

  “One more. If I were fifty-two and you were twenty-seven”

  “Definitely.”

  “See, that’s the honest answer. It’s just a dumb stubborn male thing with you. Age is such a stupid measure of what people are, a person is”

  “Somebody said that.”

  “Oh, stuff it.”

  “That, too.”

  “It’s true. You know it.”

  “Mary, in less than eight years I’ll be sixty. You’ll be—what—twenty-five?”

  “Six. I’ll be twenty-six. Can’t count, either.” She threw a dime in his glass.

  Zack gazed into his drink. “If there was a child”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I probably wouldn’t see the grade school graduatio”

  “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.” She threw a quarter in his glass.

  “So, what will you tell Ms. Lande when you call her back tomorrow.” Zack lit another Camel.

  “To go jump in a lake.”

  “That’s better.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  “How about ‘go to hell.’”

  The server brought the new round of drinks and looked at the change in Zackary’s glass.

  Zack smiled. “It’s yours, little tip.”

  “Damn little,” Mary said.

  “Right.” The server picked up a ten-dollar bill from the table. “Another seventy-five cents, please.”

  Zack handed him another dollar. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you.” The server left.

  “Big tipper.” Mary threw a penny in Zackary’s fresh drink. “How old was Ms. Elizabeth?”

  “I’d rather not talk about that now.”

  “I would.”

  “She was forty-five.”

  “And her husband died, right? Heart attack, him being only forty, right? She liked ‘em young, right? And she was a lonely, lonely, lonely widow, and you felt so sorry, sorry for her because she was contemplating suicide, slashing her wrists—or was it pills? She didn’t kill him, did she?”

  “Mary.”

  “She’s in California now, remarried, right?”

  He avoided her eyes.

  “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “She better be.”

  “Mary.”

  “Anyway, I might not be in tomorrow. I might quit.”

  “And who is going to write your columns?”

  “You write them.”

  “How about a cup of soup?”

  “Here?”

  “Sure, they have ancient birds’ nest.”

  “No.”

  “Lemon goat’s not bad”

  “Zackary.”

  “We could start with some sushi”

  “Forget it. So tell me again about your priestly days.”

  “End with a fortune cookie”

  “Come on, I like to see where you went wrong, so I can learn.”

  “Mary”

  She tilted her head. “Let me see. From memorythe Reverend Father Zackary Ignatius Stearn got canned, uh, defrocked.” She lowered her voice to imitate Zack. “For one thing, I didn’t see myself as reverend. Neither was I inclined to be obedient. Poverty, on the other hand, I had no problem with. Chastityeh. Besides, I couldn’t see a poor widow commit suicide. I was doing God’s work”

  “Mary”

  “Nevertheless, I understood the inward vow, unlike the outward signs, was supposed to be an indelible tattoo immune to my whims, desiresso they say”

  “Mary” He leaned back and studied her performance.

  She continued. “So I, being a defrockee, out of work, took a professor position at Florida State; but students, professors, nobody would play marbles with me so I decided to be my own boss.” She dragged her palm across her face in imitation. “Anyhow, if I had stayed with teaching I’d be a penniless drunk by now.”

  “That part is true.”

  “So you’re a penniless journalist.”

  “Reporter.”

  “So you’re a penniless reporter.”

  “At least I’m not a drunk.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Mary”

  “So, you’re an over-fifty white male, dropout, a little bit radical, the lowly owner of a two-bit struggling version of the penny press, have a golden opportunity to ravish a beautiful young ladyand you’re blowing it. What else?”

  “Still a good pugilist.”

  “Please, you couldn’t go two rounds with me.”

  “Bet on that.”

  “Okay, when?”

  “I don’t want to make another goddamn life-thing mistake” Zack crushed his cigarette out.

  “Neither do most people.”

  “I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “Let’s change the subject. Do you believe the Apostles Creed?”

  “I asked congregations that every Sundayif they really believed what they were mouthing. Invariably got me in trouble with the bishop.”

  “Why is it you are constantly in trouble with authority?”

  “Interesting question.”

  “I think you’re fifty-two going on ten.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyway, Apostles Creed. ‘We believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. We believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended to the dead. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead. We believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.’”

  After a moment, “I am truly impressed.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I?”

  “Believe it.”

  “And the doubting betrays the truth. That’s why they call it faith.”

  “Nice try, but that’s a lie.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “So, do you believe it?”

  “There are some things we as humans just can never know. Divine mystery.”

  “That helpswas Ms. Elizabeth a mystery?”

  “Best I can do.”

  “Well, you know, Boca, that is not exactly Sister Ursula’s lead-pipe cinch stuff”

  “How did you know about Sister?”

  “It’s more like your mumbo-jumbo and you can’t even agree on the jumbo.”

  “How did you know Sister Ursula?”

  “You told me, remember? A million times” Again, Mary mimicked Zack by wiping her palm across her face, “I recall flunking out, I got an A on a final. Sister Ursula said it was a signlead-pipe cinch, a calling” She looked at him intently. “Did you steal the test?”

  He blushed.

  “I thought so. You go to confession?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Ah, you didn’t.” She continued. “Then it got complicated, this nagging doubtso, aside from Ms. Elizabeth, I made a Gideon-like decision, Judges six something, to test the question of my doubt. I put a fleece out and asked for a sign, the ground wet and the fleece dry. I demanded to know. I waited. Nothing. Neither the ground nor the fleece was getting wet. Damn, I would never be ignored like that.

  “Then along came Ms. Elizabethand what’s a
body to do? She had these enormous, ah, what-a-ya-callneedseverything got wetBy the way, whatever happened there? Why did she go to California and you stayed here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Like, as in you were feeling guilty?”

  “I’m not going to talk about it.”

  “She dumped you.”

  He sipped.

  Mary continued with the Zack imitation. “And so, after the damsel dumped me, a brief frustrating bout with professoring at Florida State, which left even more doubt, I started The Boca with two computers, five thousand dollars, a couple of slave laborers and a second fleece-like prayer.” She hit the tabletop. “By God, show me or else”

  “You know, you should have been in the theater.”

  “Right, change the subject. Anyway, like you said, is it the doubting that got you?”

  “Try chastity.”

  “I’d never know.” Mary raised her eyebrows.

  “I must find a truth that is true for me.”

  “Is that Ms. Elizabeth’s line?”

  “Kierkegaard, ‘The idea for which I can live or die.’”

  “Are you showing off again?”

  “And we’re all in the middle like Buridan’s Ass, starving to death between two bails of hay.”

  “You are showing off, and it’s not as complicated as you like to make it. Just choose. Either you want me or you don’t. Forget the proof stuff.”

  “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Fate, making a mistake, being and time, Heidegger”

  “Stop it”

  “Maybe this is all an accident and I am a monkey’s nephew.” Zack said.

  “Maybe you’re the Monkey King being barbecued, and I’m The Buddha’s niece. Let’s put something simple in a complicated box.”

  “Do you think that’s complicated?”

  “Do you really think I fall for this red-herring floppy disk bullshit?” She shot him a cold stare.

  “Life is more complicated than Do I want you.”

  “Tragedy of life, free will, predestination, original sin, goals, sex, dying, all that ‘to do with living’ stuffsighlife’s such a bitch.”

  Zack sniffed the air. He thought he smelled something burning, sniffed again. “Is that something burning?”

  She nodded. “Guy behind you, cigar. Nice try. It’s not that complicated. Just choose.”

  “I have, too late, too meekly.”

  “When did you ever do anything meekly?”

  “I’m doing one now.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  She fluffed her hair and smiled. “And the meek shall inherit the earth.”

  “And that’s another thing I doubt. Look around.” Zack sucked his front teeth. “So, enough of the past, but why me?”

  “Cause I’m a widow, and I’m so depressed, and I’m going to commit suicide”

  “Mary”

  “And you own a newspaper, are filthy rich, can buy me clothes, take me to faraway places, dine me in elegant restaurants, know maitre d’s around the world, get the best tables, suites, but most of allmost of all” She threw a quarter in his drink and looked into his eyes. “You own a boat.”

  Chapter Ten

  Over more drinks, this and that conversations about tennis, the up coming elections, Beno, Armstrong, the evening moved along, Mary suggested stop at a super market, buy a couple T-bones, go to her place, cook on her new patio hibachi, make a Caesar salad, serve wine, get high, more wine, “Get close.”

  Zack insisted it was too hot.

  After another round of drinks they compromised.

  In a corner booth at the Pulp Fiction Grill for a shared southwestern omelette, coffee and bagels, Mary said, “What is it with you and booths?”

  “Privacy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day

  10:00 a.m. EST

  Friday, August 29, 2020

  The morning thermometer on Miami Beach nudged ninety degrees; the Friday before the long Labor Day weekend looked like a sure bet to break all temperature records.

  Two miles inland, the temperature ninety-two, Russ Parker slowed his car and stopped next to a drive-up audio-only pay phone on North River Road. As he lowered the driver’s side window, thick humid air greeted him. Five-five, two hundred pounds, dressed in leafy green Hawaiian shirt, blue Bermudas and gray flip-flops, Russ ran a hand through the thick hair of his black wig then checked his fake mustache in the rearview mirror. His wide-set brown eyes calm, he flicked beads of sweat from his stunted brow as he scanned the area around him. Nothing unusual.

  Cell phone off, satisfied he was untraceable and prepared, he placed a notepad on the dash, took a prepaid debit card from his shirt pocket and inserted it into the phone’s slot. The ten digits written across the top of his pad would connect him to a local Miami television station, WSUN-TV, Channel 10.

  He stuck his head half out the car window, spoke the digits, and waited.

  After three rings a pleasant female voice answered. “Thank you for calling the SUN of Miami, Channel 10. How may I help you?”

  “Morning, ma’am, News Department, Doug Hoffman, please,” Russ said in a rehearsed drawl.

  “One moment, please.”

  After a few seconds, another female voice, with less pleasantness: “Mr. Hoffman’s office.”

  “Good morning, ma’am. Is he in? Mr. Hoffman, I mean.”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Ah, a news source. I have a video”

  “You’re not at a video phone?”

  “No, ah, pay, voice only, ma’am.”

  “One moment.”

  A minute passed.

  Come on, Hoffman, come on, Russ said to himself.

  Fifteen seconds later the less-pleasant female voice was back. “Sir, whom did you say you were with?”

  “Ah, rather not say, ma’am, a news source. I have this here video, something Doug oughta see. Shot it last night.” Russ wiped sweat from the fat under his double chin.

  “One minute.”

  Thirty seconds ticked off Russ’s silver Rolex. He felt moisture trickle under his arms.

  After another fifteen seconds, a sharp male voice answered. “News, Hoffman.”

  “Hiya, Doug, this is Russ Parker, how ya doing?”

  “I’m doing fine. What can I do for you?”

  “You don’t know me but I”

  “You’re right, I don’t know you. Secretary said you’re from a news source. Which one?”

  “Ah,” Russ wiped his lips. “Listen, I got this video you gotta see.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Yessir, it’s plumb something else.”

  “Something else, huh?”

  “Yessir, I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Of what?”

  “Whattaya mean?”

  “The video, what’s on it?” Hoffman said.

  “I gotta show you. Can I come on over, only take a”

  “I’m very busy. What is the video of?”

  “It’s really something. I never seen anything like it. Last night, was out on Key Largo—my pickup camper. About three in the morning heard some dern funny noises—screaming, laughing. Looked outside. Cops, two of ‘em, white dudes, and a lady.”

  “Lady?”

  “Yessir, tall negra beauty.”

  “Negra, huh?”

  “The lady, yeah.”

  “Uh-huh. So, what’s on the video?”

  “Ya gotta see this video, two cops”

  “What cops? City cops?”

  “Miami.”

  “Okay, so, whattaya got on two Miami cops?” Hoffman said.

  “Rather not talk about it on the phone. You won’t believe ithave ta see it.”

  “Look, ah, Ralph”

  “Russ, Russ Parker.”

  “Yeah, look, Russ, I’m really very busy, unless this is
somethingare you looking to sell it?”

  “Shucks, no, no, not at all. It’s justit’s something ya gotta seethe news, this morning’s news”

  “Morning news, huh?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You’re not looking to smear the Miami cops are you, maybe a relative of Tina Taylor?”

  “Tina Taylor?”

  “You don’t know Tina?”

  “Ah, no, sir.”

  “Ex Miami Police department Deputy Chief, fired by Chief Manny six months ago?”

  “Oh, shucks, no. Don’t know her. Not up on that stuff.”

  “Uh-huhlook, Russ, I don’t have all day to screw around. What is it that you just have to show me?”

  “I think you oughta see it, sir. I’m almost afraid to have possession of the video.”

  “I’m waiting to hear what the video is of, but not much longer.”

  Russ cleared his throat. “Ah, Doug, I’m sorry to have bothered ya. I’ll just call Channel 6, maybe they’d like to see the video. I didn’t mean to bother”

  “Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll just call on over there and”

  “Wait a minute. Okay, what did you say the video is of?”

  “Two cops stopped a lady negra driver, andyou ain’t going to believe this one.”

  “Okay, okay. Look, you’re not far, North River Road, pay phone, right?”

  “How’d ya know that?”

  “Come on, Parker, this is a television news room. Who you trying to flim-flam?”

  “Oh, yeah. Can I bring the video down?”

  “By the by, why are you at a pay phone?”

  “AhI was going to just drop by your station, earlier, on my way to work, but I kinda choked at the last minute, know what I mean? If the cops knew I had thisI’m afraid I’d be bait.” Russ held his breath.

  “But why a pay phone?”

  “I’m a short-order cook, on my way to work, can’t call from work.”

  “Why not from home?”

  “Like I told youwas going to stop at your stationchickened out, I guess.”

  “Right.” Hoffman paused. “Okay, I’ll see you after lunch, say, one-thirty.”

  “Yes sir, okay.”

  Hoffman, suspicion in his voice, said, “What about workcan you get off work?”

  “Oh, sure, sure, no problem.”