by G L Rockey
“So did I.”
Jim raised an eyebrow, “Ms. O’Brien going with you?”
“D-minus. Alone.”
“Right.” Jim pointed to the television screen as the video played again. “Look at that. I cannot believe that.”
“And while you’re over there, we need to find out the name of the female victimwhere, what, why, when, all that stuff, and who those two idiot cops are.”
Jim glanced at the TV. “I can’t believe that.”
“I can’t eitheranyway, when you get ready, go on over there. Meantime, I’ll see if I can find out the name of the so called ‘confidential source’ that furnished the video to our friends at Channel 10, and if said source is a ‘reliable source.’”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Call me after you talk to Manny.”
“I need a raise.”
“Cut back on the cologne.”
Jim started down the stairs.
Zack shouted, “We’ll hold everything till we hear from you.” He propped his feet on his desk and eyed the play of the video again. “Go ahead, kiddies, play that video again. Analyze it again, slow-mo it again, reverse angle it again, zoom-in-the-detail again, go ahead, play it again.”
Chapter Sixteen
4:50 p.m. EST
Zack punched Night Editor Ted Stallings’ first-floor video phone number. After three rings an image of Ted’s slender gothic face appeared on Zack’s phone screen.
Ted said in his normal dry dot-com tone, “I know the question. Did you see the latest insanity on TV?”
“Know the answer?”
“A special edition, like for tomorrow.”
“A-pluscouple pages, some facts, our readers will be expecting it. Let’s talk.”
“When?”
“Half an hour.”
“Why so long?”
“So you can call the printers, get a new deadline for late tonight, then do a quick call around to your contacts, see what’s up—victim, cops involved, names, you know, a few facts.”
“Why muddy things up?”
“I’ll call our friends at Channel 10, try to find out where they got that video,” Zack said.
“Lots of luck on that one.”
“Half-hour.”
“Yep-purr, half-hour.”
Zack flipped his phone off and began thumbing through his Rolodex for Channel 10’s phone number. He mumbled to himself, “Channel 10, Channel 10, call letters, call letters, WSUN-TV, General Manager, Lucy Lockman. I know her from somewhere. You’ll never get through to her. Media in this town thinks you’re insane. Feeling is mutualnever mind.”
Noticing yet another play of the infamous video on TV, he said, “What is it with carnage and sex that rivets the attention of higher forms of animal life? And the gorier the better. I mean, do other creatures pause along the road to ogle Bull Durham mounting Elsie in the clover? Anyway, run that video again, Steve, just go on, keep running it, stir the pot up good. We’ll have lunch over the witches’ brew.”
Zack pushed his Rolodex aside and muttered, “You have a phone directory in the video phone, why don’t you use it? Don’t push me, okay. I’m trying, okay?”
He accessed the local phone directory and punched in WSUN-TV. The number appeared—555-1010.
“Cute how they get that number to match their channel number.” He touched enter and waited through fifteen rings. “Must be busy over there at Disney central.”
Continuing to wait, he scratched notes on a yellow pad for an editorial: In an age when seeing is believing
He paused to think and remembered a quote from E.B. White, a course he had taught. “‘We shall stand or fall by television, of that I am quite sure.’ Hummm. Insert news after television and you, E.B., may have hit the nail on the head.”
He noticed the image of a perky blond WSUN receptionist appear on his video phone. He positioned himself in front of his phone’s camera.
The TV receptionist oozed sweetness. “It’s SUN in Miami. Thank you for calling CBS, Channel 10, WSUN. How may I help you, sir?”
“This is Zackary Stearn, The Boca. Is Lucy Lockman in?”
“I believe she has gone on vacation, but I’ll connect you with her secretary if you like.”
“No, no, that’s okay. Is your news director there?”
“Mr. Hoffman? Yes, one moment, please.”
“Thank you.”
The telephone screen switched to a logo of WSUN—rising yellow sun, green palm trees, huge orange WSUN-TV letters. Zack leaned back, propped his right foot on his left knee and studied a small scratch on his bare ankle. For some reason Joe Case popped into his mind, and he pondered a thought out of nowhere. How many steaks can you eat a week?
He noticed yet another female on the telephone video, this one a brunette. Looks like she won the Belmont by a nose, he thought.
Cold and superior, she spoke. “This is Mr. Hoffman’s office, how may I help you?”
He leaned closer to the camera. “Hi, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca. Is he in?”
“Are you referring to Mr. Hoffman?”
“No, Mahatma Gandhi.”
“Sir?”
“Hoffman, is he in?”
A little more pleasant. “No, sir, he is very busyyou’ve seen the news?”
“How could I miss it?” He feigned a smile. “Is he in?”
“He’s in the control room, can’t be disturbed. He is personally directing our news coverage of this tragedy. Isn’t it awful?”
“You mean awful that he’s in the control room or the news is awful?”
“What? I’m sorry.” She frowned.
“Never mind. When he takes a break from the tragedy, would you ask him to please call me.”
“Could I tell him regarding what?”
“Upcoming fireworks display.”
“Excuse me?”
“The news.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The video you guys are playing”
“Isn’t it awful?”
He wiped his palm across his face, “Please, just ask him to call me—Zackary Stearn, The Boca, 555-2624.”
“Yes. sir, I will. But I must tell you he is very busy and probably will be for some time.”
“Yes, I’m sure, thank you.”
“I’ll give him the message.”
“Thank you.” Zack punched the phone off and noticed a special BREAKING NEWS graphic flash on his TV set. The graphic dissolved to the Seal of the President of the United States.
“Where’d this guy come from,” Zack said and checked the time—5:15 p.m. He shook his head. “Benny, Benny, what are you doing on TV on this pleasant Friday afternoon of a Labor Day weekend.” He turned up the volume and watched:
The Presidential Seal dissolved to a close-up of familiar CBS female anchor, pineapple-blond Jerri Lipps.
Jerri: “and we’re standing by now for a special message from President Armstrong(pauses)now here is the President of the United States.”
The TV video switched to a split screen—on the right the President sat at his White House Press news desk. In a monitor to his left the video WSUN, Channel 10 had been broadcasting, played.
The President peered into the television camera and spoke. “My fellow partners in democracy, I’ve just this past hour been advised of a grisly incident that occurred in the Miami area last evening. You may have already seen a video of the tragic event on your television,” he nodded to the monitor beside him, “it is playing here. Recalling similar incidents in our recent past, and upon hearing of this situation, I immediately called a meeting with key Cabinet officials to assess the implications of the crisis”
Dr. Barbara Lande entered, handed the President a note then left.
Zack squinted his eyes and pinched his wrist. “I’m not believing this.”
Armstrong: “Ah, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen”
Contemplating what he had just seen, Zack walked to the
Mr. Coffee brewer and mumbled, “That was my favorite fan, Dr. Barbara Lande.”
He poured a fresh cup of coffee, returned to his desk and his thoughts danced like those familiar ping-pong balls dropping on a cement floor: What is the significance of what I am seeing, and why am I seeing it, and why is Benny showing that video, and why is he talking to the whole nation about an isolated incident that just broke in local Miami news about an hour ago, and what is Lande doing there, dribbling him notes like pills to a nursing home patient?
He rubbed the top of his head and said to Benny, “Isn’t it kind of early in the story for you, Ben?”
He noticed the President about to continue, watched:
Chagrined, Armstrong looked into the camera, “Ah, I’ve just been handed a note from my media affairs office. It says according to reliable government sources, civil disorder in Miami is imminent. Well, notwithstanding this latest news, as I was saying a minute earlier, as a result of an executive Cabinet meeting, I have alerted special military units to be ready to move into Miami to protect property and, what is more important, innocent citizens.”
The video in the President’s monitor showed an angry mob exchanging blows.
Zack rubbed his chin. “Where in blazes did that come from?”
Armstrong frowned. “I am also sorry to tell you that major disturbances are feared in other highly volatile areas of the nation”
Again Dr. Lande appeared, handed the President another note.
Armstrong: “What? Oh, ah, yes, excuse me again, ladies and gentlemen.”
Zack massaged his lower jaw. “Busy little beaver, huh, Ms. Lande.”
The camera zoomed in to a close-up of the President. He looked up, concerned, spoke: “Ah, as you undoubtedly noted, I have just been handed another note.” Looking morose, he stared into the camera and continued, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you know I’ve always been forthright with you. I have just been advised of some very disturbing international chicanery in this local incident. I will have to look at this more closely before commenting. In the meantime, I will be watching the Miami situation closely.
“And let me say this to would-be law violators: unlawful activity will not be tolerated and you will be brought to justice swiftly. Make no mistake about that. And to you good, law-abiding citizens who are fearful for your family and home, don’t be. I will protect you and your property. Don’t panic, we will keep abreast of the situation and keep you posted as to our response.”
The camera began a slow zoom-out and the screen dissolved to reporter Jerri, who was about to speak.
Zack flipped the sound off and stood behind his desk.
“Sorry, Jer, I need to think.” He looked up. “It’s all a movie, right? Can’t be real, right? No? Then what is it? A play. A novel. A poem. More an epic. No, I got it—Keystone Cops. No? What, then? I got it—a reality TV show, a Benny sit-com. No? What, then?”
He waited. “Oh, I see. You’re rewriting the whole damn thing, new beginning, everything, right? No? Then what is this guano?”
Zack walked to his window. He checked the time—5:30 p.m. He went over the recent events in his mind: Sheriff’s deputy finds murder victim on Key Largo this morninglooks like drug-relatedthis TV video story broke an hour agoBenny appeared on TV two minutes agodisturbing international chicanerymilitary units
He scratched his head, “Am I missing something here?”
He sat at his desk and dialed Mary O’Brien. After five rings, Mary’s face appeared. Looking tired, she said flatly, “Hi.”
“Mary, are you seeing this sideshow on the boob tube?”
“Am.”
“You hearing anything about rioting anywhere else?”
“No.”
“You hear Armstrong?”
“Yes.”
“You see Lande?”
“Yes.”
“You feeling okay?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Tsingtao.”
“Oh. Anyway, no reported riots here, right?”
“Not yet.”
“Where are they getting this stuff?” Zack said.
“Looks like Dr. Lande’s White House News Bureau is busy, busy, busy.”
“Dr. Lande’s news bureau is nuts.”
“Somebody is nuts.”
“We need to talk.”
“When?”
“Half an hour.”
“Okay, maybe we can have dinner.”
“No dinner.”
“Oh, okay, so maybe we can have some fresh coffee. I’ll make it.”
He hesitated. “Ahah, okayyes, you make it. Half an hour. I told Ted we might need to do a special ed”
“For when?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Ted’s coming up, half an hour. In the meantime, think about what we’re going to do with this blessed story.”
“What’s to think?”
“Half an hour. Bye.” Zack hung up and his phone buzzed. He pressed on and up popped the horsy WSUN secretary to Channel 10’s Doug Hoffman.
Zack peered into his camera. “Well, hello there”
“Mr. Hoffman will speak to you now. He’s not at a camera phone. He’s in our control room, so this will be audio only.”
“Super.” Zack waited.
In a moment, Hoffman’s voice with much background shouting: “This is Doug Hoffman, what can I do for you?”
“Hello, there, this is Zackary Stearn, The Boca”
“I know who you are. What’s up?”
“Busy over there, huh?”
“Bet your ass. I’m smack in the middle of it. What’s up, make it snappy.”
“I was wondering, where in the world did you get that video you all have been showing?”
“Dynamite stuff, huh?”
“Something like that. Where on earth did you get it?”
“Confidential source.”
“Is that like it came from a stringer or something?”
“Confidential source.”
“I see, affiliated with a reputable news”
“Confidential source. Is that all you wanted?”
“Yes, I”
“That’s it”
“I”
I gotta go. Listen, next time you need some routine thing like that, just ask the news desk. Gotta go.”
Zack heard the disconnect, and his screen went to the Miami phone company’s logo.
“Huh, nice chap.” He leaned back and out of the corner of his eye noticed new video on the television of a mob smashing store windows. He checked the time—5:45 p.m.
He read the superimposed graphics that identified the pictures as Live from Chopper 5. He asked, “Well, Chopper 5, where are you from?”
He clicked the sound up and recognized anchor Steve Eaton’s voice over the video: “We just picked up this video off our Spot Satellite News Service. It reportedly took place in Dallas just minutes ago. Sources report”
Zack surfed around the TV news channels. Two of the cable news net reporters were commenting on the President’s remarks, analyzing the implications, condemning the Miami Police Department. One channel was reporting on the Dallas mob. Another showed the Key Largo rape and murder video.
He clicked the set off, slammed the remote control on his desk. “Excuse me, but this is bullshit”
He lowered his chin and, while standing behind his desk, imitated TV Anchor Steve Eaton’s baritone delivery: “Well, I got it from Chopper 5, so, I mean, anything from the sky has to be hot, you know, KISS, keep it simple, stupid.” He kicked the side of his chair and looked up. “Are You watching this” He wiped his face with his palm. “These are Your people. How could You allow I know, free willI do not like some of Your people.”
Chapter Seventeen
5:55 p.m. EST
Sitting behind his desk, Zack watched Ted Stallings wander his slender six-foot-t
wo frame into his office. A Georgia transplant, his umber eyes magnifying his reported 162 IQ, he strode, like a strolling giraffe across some field, in one deliberate speed. Stallings wore a UPS-brown short-sleeved shirt and matching Bermudas, his white ankle socks drooping over his brown crepe-soled shoes. Tugging up his shorts, he ran a hand over his red crew cut hair, “I heard you all the way downstairs. I don’t like one in ten people either.”
“I figured you for at least two.”
“Yep-purr.” Ted sighed and looked at his pocket watch. “Never fails. Why do these things always have to happen late on a Friday afternoon? Never fails. Could have been worse, I guess—Sunday or Monday, it being Labor Day. Never fails, everybody getting ready to party, big news story hits. You’d think it’s all planned, probability statisticsbet the big media boys are scrambling.”
“Mary is coming, too.”
“So is Christmas.”
“Ted, be nice, you call the printers?”
“Yep-purr, midnight.”
“Good, find out anything?”
“Nope-purr, nobody knows nothing for certain. Chief Manny can’t be reached, his information officer says it’s drug-relatedset-upsaid that explains Miami’s finest on the videofoul playconspiracy.”
“Hummm, what’d the mayor’s office say?”
“She’s in London, Paris, Moscow—trade mission, something or other. Monroe County Sheriff is out of town, too—holidays” He ran his tongue between his lower lip and teeth, “Nobody knows nothing.” He stretched and almost touched the ceiling. “And I was going to get out of here early, got a 3-D touch chess game.”
“What is a 3-D touch chess game?”
“Three dimensional with the opposite sex.”
“How’s that work?”
“3-D touch chess?”
“Yes.”
“Depends how many are playing.”
“More than two?”
“Up to ten can play.”
“Ten. Okay, so”
“You don’t want to know. Find out anything from Channel 10?”
“Video’s from a ‘confidential source,’ short and sweet.”
“Nothing else.”