by G L Rockey
“You still eat a loaf of Town Talk bread with grape jelly and peanut butter, wash it down with beer?”
There was no answer, so he went on with an Deus sit? “Anyway, dua: efficient cause—in the world of senses there is no cause of a thing which is the cause of itself. In other words, Hank, Skippy didn’t cause Planter’s Peanuts”
Zack freshened his scotch and stroked the mahogany bar. “With us so far, Veracity, dear?”
Nursing his drink, he continued. “Tria: possibility and necessity. That is, in nature things are possible-to-be and possible not-to-be. But if everything is possible-not-to-be then at one time there could have been nothing in existence, which is not possible.”
He sucked his teeth. “If possibly everything wasn’t, that is, nothing existed, why are we here? I mean, here I stand with a Scotch in my hand talking to Veracity. Hello.” He saluted the TV. “Benny would be proud.”
Pacing the cabin: “Where were we? Yes, number four, quattuor: graduation to be found in things. You see, some things are more good and some less good. As a thing that’s hot resembles that which is hottest so there’s something that is truest, noblestblah, blah, blahand so on. Ergo, there must be something which is alike to beings and the cause of their being.”
He sipped. “Always had trouble with that one. What makes the sun hot? Who the tofu knows? Who the tofu cares?”
He slurped. “Last but not least, quinque: governance of the world. Things which lack intelligence, such as natural bodies, act for an end evident from their acting. Moon going around the earthwhatever. Something lacks intelligence cannot move toward an end unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence.”
Smiling, he held his glass high. “That explains Benny Epiphany”
He sat on the sofa, depressed. “Like I said, you could stay in this cow patty until the bulls come home, never get out and then where are you when the cows come home?”
His phone rang. He got up, maneuvered to the bar and switched it on.
Mary, in a close-up, smiled. Looks like Botticelli’s Venus, he thought and, leaning over the bar, said, “What are you doing?”
“How’s the ear?”
“The ear is wonderful.”
“Finishing up here, printers got everything.”
“Jim’s, too?”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Want me to read it?”
“Go ahead.”
She picked up a piece of copy. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
She read: “Chief Denies It” She flared her eyes for him, “I like that.”
“Go ahead,”
“‘By James S. Roberts. Recalling a famous historical TV commercial, ‘Is it live or is it Memorex,’ questions remain unanswered regarding the already infamous Channel 10 video of two Miami police officers murdering a female motorist.
“‘The incident allegedly took place this past Thursday evening on Key Largo. WSUN-TV, Channel 10, was the first station to broadcast the video of the homicide. Deputy Police Chief Glenda Bruno staunchly denies that any Miami police were involved in any way. In an exclusive interview, she held firm to her story that none of her patrol cars were anywhere near Key Largo the night of the incident. Speaking for the chief, they challenged anyone to produce evidence the officers on the tape were their people.
“‘If Glenda and the chief are accurate, the million-dollar question looms big as a Mack truck: who were the alleged officers on the tape?
“‘One thing is certain—an African-American woman was murdered. Monroe Country Sheriff’s deputies discovered her body early Friday morning. Her identity remains a mystery.”
Mary looked into the camera. “Not bad, huh?”
“Hits the nail onna head.”
“Are you drinking?”
“You tell Jim ‘bout the meeting ‘morrow?”
“Are you drinking?”
“No, pr-aying.”
“Liar, you’re drinking. What are you doing up this late?”
“You ‘wakened me.”
“Baloney, what are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Me, too.”
“‘Bout what?”
“If I had gone into the sisterhood, I’d be a Mother Superior by now.”
“D-minus” He sucked his ice cubes.
“So what are we going to do?”
“‘Bout what?”
“Us.”
“I don’ know.”
“I think you do.”
“I think I do, too.” His eyes closing. “I have t’ get some sleep.”
“Why don’t I come to Veracity, nurse your booboo?”
“Stay there, use my office couch.”
“Ted’s got it.”
“Kick ‘im out.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“See y’ t’morra, be carefu’ drivin’ ‘ome.”
“Don’t drown.”
Chapter Twenty Six
11:59 p.m. EST
Moving in and out of fanciful images—Veracity’s gleaming mahogany, the feel of her wheel, the song of her engines, the smell of her cabin, the ocean slapping her sides—Zackary lay back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and dreamed.
a noise, he looked up, Mary stood in the cabin entrance. A cut-off white T-shirt revealed her navel, faded blue denim shorts revealed her slender thighs. Barefoot, she held a basket of large purple grapes.
What are you doing? Zack sat up and looked at her.
Hanging around. Did you doze off?
Just taking a catnap.
How’s that ear? She came to him and sat. Want some grapes? I’ll peel them for you.
I don’t think so.
She ate a grape, put one in his mouth, said, Let’s go for a swim.
You have a suit?
No. She smiled and stepped to the cabin door, her back turned to him she pulled off her T-shirt and dropped her denim shorts, then turned to him. Come on, chicken.
The ocean became Mary.
Zack swam free with fleeting glimpses of her soft lips smothering his face. Swimming in her saltwater warmth, her skin white satin, he touched it, pressed it, caressed it. Riding dolphins, Mary raced ahead and around him, they fell back in the water, diving, sunlight rippled through the water surface, he reached to touch her watery hair and it all became a clanging buoy
Zack opened his eyes to his video phone ringing. He sat up and looked at his wristwatch—9:15 A.M.
Yawning, he maneuvered to the ringing phone and flipped it on.
Mary, much awake, perky, asked, “Nice dream?”
Paused, he was about to say how did you know? but stopped. “Good morning.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Hung over.”
“Your ear?”
“Fine.”
“We still on for eleven?”
“I’m certain.”
“See our special edition?”
“Not yet, I”
“Get a copy, it’s good.”
“Before or after coffee?”
“Before. Did you put iodine on that ear?”
“Bye.”
Potent images of the spent dream still in him, he sat at the bar. Fogged thoughts moved through yesterday, last night, the news. His weekend plans shot, he pushed the port window’s orange drape aside and—sure enough—sun, green water, blue sky, puffy white clouds.
“Nuts” he said.
Since christening Veracity three years before, his cherished Saturday routine had been to rise early, pack ham-and-cheese sandwiches, ice a case of Bohemia, get out on the water, fish, drink, think, commune, talk, write anything down that made sense. Come in around five, hot shower, shave, dinner at The Bimini Road, talk with Joe Case—even that was now gone. The Tea Company was okay but just not the same.
And this particular weekend, this special Labor Day weekend, he had planned to think a thing through. Namely, his relationship with Ms
. O’Brien—past, present and/or future.
“Butsome things are not to be,” he said.
He sighed, stepped to the galley, started the coffee maker, picked up his TV remote and clicked on the TV.
Same news channel still on from last night—he watched video of a reporter standing in front of the Miami Beach Ocean Resort. He turned up the sound.
A petite Latino lady reported “a homicide at the Miami Beach Ocean Resort. Victim is a male Caucasian, found by house cleaners this morning. It appears he was murdered sometime last evening. The police are investigating what they called ‘peculiar circumstances.’ Back to you”
He click to another channel—Road Runner cartoon.
“It’s all a cartoon, makes more sense that way.” He surfed while stripping his clothes off: [Click] “FOX—General Motors, Gary, Indiana, nice fire.” [Click] “NBC—L.A., good crowd control.” [Click] “CBS—Philadelphia, what’s going on there? Fire somewhere.” [Click] “MSNBC—there’s that Channel 10 tape again.” [Click] PBS—Sesame Street.
He clicked off.
Nude, silence strong, wiping his face with his palm, he felt that uncanniness he had experienced last night, driving home. The morbid feeling moved over him like a giant hump back whale at the water’s surface, eclipsing sunlight below. Strange how reality ends, fear begins, he thought. He caught a whiff of that familiar dank smell that associated itself with the anxiety.
“You You magnificent bastard, you.” He looked around, paused, sniffed. Nothing. “It’s all in your mind,” he said.
He retrieved a mug of coffee, sipped, thought about taking a shower and shaving but chucked the idea and pulled on a fresh outfit—black T-shirt and Wrangler jeans—and slipped into his deck shoes.
At the “head’s” mirror, he pulled the Band-Aid off his ear and studied the nick. I heal quick, he thought, and decided to let the world see his badge of
Of what? he wondered. “Courage? Close, but no cigar.”
Leaving, he caressed the mahogany of Veracity. “Don’t blame me for not going out today.”
He ambled up the three steps that led to the quarterdeck, went aft and sniffed the balmy, humid air. Deceivingly serene, he thought then looked out at the green-blue water of the bay.
The calm surface reflected the sun in a million directions; further out the sea breathed. He paused then stepped to the dock and made the familiar trek to the end of the wharf and the metal newspaper dispensers. He kicked The Boca machine just below the money slot. The front dropped and he retrieved a paper. My paper, he rationalized. No guilt whatsoever.
He scanned The Boca’s front page headline: CHIEF DENIES IT
“Not bad, Jimbo, not bad, Mary even liked it.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Saturday, 9:45 a.m. EST
In the Pompano Marina parking lot, Zack did a quick walk-around of his Subaru, inspected where the rear window once was, felt violated, got in and headed north toward The Boca offices. The muggy outside air sucking at the back of his head, maxed air-conditioner screaming, he lit a Camel and snapped on the radio. A familiar female talk show host’s voice shrilled through the turbulent air.
Zack turned the sound up.
Talk show host: “Ah, you toilet-head liberals are all alike. The cops were doing their job, stopping that dope head broad.”
Male caller: “All I’m saying is they didn’t have a right to stop her in the first place.”
Talk show host: “She was drunk as a skunk, you could see that, staggering all over the place, whatta ya want them to do?”
Male caller: “You’re a fat, dumb, bigoted jerk.”
Talk show host: “What You dip head, next time you get in trouble call a drug dealer.”
Male caller: “I was just asking why the police had stopped that driver in the first place, if they had sufficient cause, no matter what.”
Talk show host: “You dumb dip head, if they had sufficient cause, what was that dumb bimbo doing, what if she started to pull a gun on ‘em”
Zack snapped the radio off and glanced up. “They call it the Bill of Rights down here, freedom of speech, press. Censorship might have a chilling effect on thought.” He paused. “But You knew that, right?”
Weaving thru traffic, he pursued on a thought he had been contemplating for some time, possibly an essay, maybe that never ending editorial: The colors black and white—white being the presence of all color, black being the absence of all color—why black awaiting the lighta candle in blackness? Why not light instead of the blacknesswinding up rather than downprogress rather than degeneration?
He heard But look how far we have comethe progress we have madewhere we are todayevolved from beasts into these caring, compassionate creatures.
He rubbed his sprouting beard. “Hummm.”
A verse from his prior life’s training occurred to him. Buy the truth and sell it not. Proverbs 23-something. What is truth?” he mumbled. “What is a lie? Do the concepts go only for we finely developed higher-ups?” He paused. “But of courselying is a fine art reserved to more eclectic thinkerstruth, eh.”
He thought of Joe Case, and something came to mind from somewhere: Freedom to choose is reserved in the universe but to you.
Then the words of Lewis Carrol’s Tweedledee came to him: “Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”
He wiped his brow. “Right, Jocko, keep that thought. I don’t have time to mess with you right now.”
He pulled to the familiar newsstand where he got his New York Times and rolled down his window. “Morning, Gus.”
“Morning, Mr. Zackary, beautiful morning.” Gus handed him the Times. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Confused.”
“Everybody is confused these days,” Gus said.
“You can say that again.” He paid for the newspaper and read the headline: PRESIDENT GUARANTEES LAW AND ORDER. He looked at Gus.
“Wonder if Benny will sign that guarantee.” Zack smiled.
“Ah, that Benny, Mr. Zackary.” Gus smiled back.
“Have a good day.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more about truth than I, Benny and the U.N. put together.”
He turned the radio on again. Same station, same shrill host, different caller.
Talk show host: “Ah, you’re a dumb, puke head jack-off. The only mistake the cops made is they should have dumped the evidence in Biscayne Bay.”
Female caller: “You complete imbecile”
Talk show host: “What You air head. Get a job. Probably on welfare.”
Female caller: “I’m tellin’ you, you better watch yourself, ‘cause we’re gonna get you, baby.”
Talk show host: “You dumb scumbag, you just try. I’ll have the cops on you like stink on the homeless.”
Female: “Oh, yeah, you—”
Zack snapped the radio off.
Chapter Twenty Eight
10:00 a.m. EST
After calling to see if Chief Manny was in, he was, asking if he would see her, Mary turned at the next street. In seconds, she pulled into the parking lot of Miami Police Department headquarters. She had landed an interview with the Chief.
Chapter Twenty Nine
10:35 a.m. EST
Contemplating what he had been listening to on the radio, Zack kicked open the door to his office.
“Morons” He slammed the Times and The Boca on his desk. “Idiots.” He looked at Ted sprawled on the couch. “You sleeping?”
“Was.” Ted sat up.
“It’s unbelievable.”
“What now?” Ted, still dressed in yesterday’s basic brown, yawned.
“I can’t believe these radio talk show jerks. They thrive on stirring it up.”
“Which one now?”
“That what’s-her-nameWOW-AM.”
“Rhoda Ray. ”
/> “She’s challenging a caller who asked if the police had sufficient cause to stop that driver.”
“What driver?”
“What driver? The video. The female that Miami’s finest allegedly”
“Oh.”
Zack mimicked the talk show host. “‘What if she started to pull a gun?’” He kicked his desk. “What if a cow had nuts?”
“She’s just hyping her show, ratings, everybody does it.”
“‘Everybody does it.’” He sat behind his desk. “I hate that line.”
“Twenty-first century, way it is.”
“Way it is—can’t smoke; have to use a seatbelt; mandatory helmet to grocery shop; can’t eat a rare steak, raw eggs, bacon fat; sunshine is taboo; can’t say girl/boy but you can mainline geeks biting foreskin on YouTube. See Tommy Lee and what’s-her-name’s hole-in-one on demand from the cyber marvels of communication anytime you wish, day or night, for a hoot and a hollerwhat is that?”
“How you know about Tommy Lee’s hole-in-one?”
“Research.”
“Oh.”
“So what is it?”
“Freedom of speech. ‘Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press’”
“Blah, blah, blah. You think Jefferson and the boys thought about TV, Internet, when, with quill in hand, they penned that press thing?” He straightened a few items on his desk.
“Maybe the hole-in-one.”
“Maybe. Meantime, what’s going on otherwise, with our darling Channel 10 news video and Manny’s office and all that other sweetness from the Capital of DC where resides Benny and his house guest, God?”
“Wanna look at TV?” Ted reached for the remote control. “Or did you want to kick a hole in it?”
“Don’t turn it on. I want to think for a minute.” Zack nodded at the empty Mr. Coffee carafe. “We need some water.”
Ted frowned.
Zack tilted his head. “Please. You need to comb your hair anyway.”