by G L Rockey
Meg: “We have Ambassador Kadid with us. Ambassador, what is the charge you just announced?”
Ambassador Kadid looked like he wanted to kick something. “This is all a fabrication, no terrorists, this is a plot, lies, all lies, mother of lies, camel dung.”
Meg: “But why would”
Ambassador: “Ask your President.” The ambassador stomped off-camera.
Meg turned to the camera, raised her eyebrows then continued. “When contacted, White House sources were swift in denouncing the allegations as heinous lies.”
Zack punched mute. “Amazing. Get this thing back on phone.”
“Just click the little phone icon.”
Zack moved the mouse and clicked it. “From what Beno just said, I don’t think she knows what’s going on.”
“Maybe nothing is going on.”
Zack stared at him. “Take that tie off, it’s cutting the oxygen to your brain. Maybe things will get clearer for you.”
“It’s too far-fetched.”
“Like Kadid said, camel shit, how do you dial a phone number on this thing?
“Keyboard.”
Zack started punching at the keyboard and, without looking at Jim, said, “Like I said, take that tie off and go to the office, time is short.”
“Somebody said that.”
“Me. Anyway, better get going. Call Mary and Ted then start working on a special edition on this recording. When I get back we’ll do a full transcript.”
“A special edition? Zack, it’s Sunday, Labor Day weekend.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Zack lit a Camel. “I’ll be there shortly. Maybe see if you can get City Hall and call the mayor, tell her about our meeting with Joe Case, the audio recording.”
“And what do I say? ‘Mayor, ah, this is Jim Roberts, The Boca. We have come into possession of a recording, I don’t happen to have it on me right now, made by a group called Pi and a former restaurant owner—you may know of him—Joe Case, he’s been arrested twenty or so times, the city health department closed his dump, The Bimini Road, three times” He tipped his head toward Zack. “Think about it.”
“When you get to The Boca don’t use any offices, especially mine. Don’t say anything to anybody. Use an outside pay phone. Makeshift an office in that first floor storage area. I’ll be there soon as I get Channel 10 squared away.”
Jim placed his hands on his hips. “I’m not believing this.”
“Me, either, but you see how easy history can get screwed up. Get hold of Mary and Ted; tell them about the audio recording.”
Jim threw his apple core in a wastebasket and picked up a packet of coffee. “You wanta just chew the coffee?”
“Yeah, throw it here.”
Jim threw him the packet.
“Thanks.”
Walking to the door, Jim said, “By the way, you need a shower.”
“Please take that tie off.”
“Bye.” Jim started to close the door behind him.
Zack said, “Oh, massa, I’m gonna need your car.”
Jim stepped back into the room. “And what am I supposed to do, walk?”
“Take a cab. When you get to The Boca, call Ted—he’s probably there anyway, but if not he’s on VeracityNo, on second thought, if he’s not there, don’t call him. Take the cab over to Veracity. He’s got my keys, you can use my Subaru. Fill it up, bring Ted back with you to The Boca.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I’ll see you in a bit, throw me your keys.”
Chapter Forty Six
10:30 a.m. EST
Ignoring a no smoking sigh, Zachary lit a More and finally getting a video phone dial tone, mumbled, “What was that Channel 10's number?” He chewed some coffee then, “how could one forget, 555-1010. He entered the number. After two rings, canned video of that same familiar blond receptionist appeared. He listened to her mechanical voice: “Hello, this is the SUN in Miami. Thank you for calling WSUN TV-10. Our regular office hours are eight-thirty to five-thirty Monday through Friday. If you have urgent information please call the news hotline at 1-800-555-1010, and be sure to join Steve Eaton every weeknight at six and eleven for the latest news as it happens. Have a SUN day.”
“Do you believe that?” He entered the news hotline, lit a Camel and chewed coffee.
A WSUN logo appeared; then the video switched to a young, casually clad, model-thin female. She looked into the camera.
“SUN newsroom hotline.”
“This is Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca. I need to talk to Hoffman.”
“Oh, you do. Well, this is Kay Barto, and I need a day off.”
“What?”
“Hoffman isn’t here.”
“Look, I’m the editor of The Boca. I must speak to Hoffman, it is imperative.”
“Mr. Hoffman is not here.”
“I thought he was personally directing this tragedy.”
“What?”
“Look, I must speak to Hoffman.”
“Like I saidwhat’s that in your hand?”
“A cigarette.”
“Oh, my God You’re committing suicide.”
“Please give me Hoffman’s home number.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Look, who’s in charge there?”
“Who’s in charge there?”
“Ms., please”
“Who’d you say you were?”
“Zackary Stearn, The Boca.”
He watched her yell away from the phone. “Hey Anybody know Zackary Stearn from The Boca?”
A male voice answered, “I do,” and a young shirt-and-tie male squeezed beside Kay. She left.
The male smiled. “Hello, this is Frank Fitello, weekend producer. May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of The—”
“Yes, I know, we talk about your paper regularlystrange perspectives.”
“I’m glad you like it. Who is in charge there?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Who’s in charge there?”
“Well, I am right now.”
“I have a recording. I need you to air it immediately.”
“Ho, ho, ho—and I’m Santa Claus and I need another Rudolph.”
“This is not a joke. I need you to air a recording.”
“Sir, I can’t just broadcast a recording. We’re under a zillion restrictions right now from big D.C. bother.”
“So who do I need to talk to?”
“Well, Doug Hoffman is the news director and our dear loveable general manager is Ms. Lucy Lockman, but I believe she is out of town for the weekend.”
“I need Hoffman’s number.”
“Can’t give that out.”
“Look, this is an emergency.”
“Sorry.”
“What about Lockman’s?”
“Can’t ever, ever, ever even think of doing that.”
“Look, son, I won’t tell them where I got it.”
“They find things out.”
“I will give you a job if you get fired, okay? Free parking, everything.”
“How much you pay?”
“Competitive. Look, this is truly an emergency. Just give me Hoffman’s number. I won’t tell him where I got it, I swear.”
“WellIlook, you didn’t get it from me.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“555-8340.”
“You’re a genius, thank you.” Zack pressed enter and keyed Hoffman’s phone number. He watched the screen read out Douglas M. Hoffman, 555-8340. He listened to a pleasant recorded message: “This is the Hoffman household. Please leave your name, phone number and a brief massage and we will return your call.” He waited for the tone to end then spoke.
“This is Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca”
The voice of Hoffman interrupted. “Hello, this is Doug Hoffman.”
“I was just leaving you a message.”
“I heard.”
“No. Who gave you this number?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’re damn right it does.”
“Mr. Hoffman, I run a newspaper”
“I remember.”
“Do you think I don’t have a morgue of home phone numbers, important people in this community and how to get in touch with them when momentous things are occurring?”
“So?”
“You are a very important person and these are momentous times.”
Long pause. “Oh, yeah, so why are you calling me on a Sunday morning?”
“Have you been watching television?”
“Always have a set on.”
“Look, I have something of national importance that I have to talk to you about.”
“Oh, wow, national importance.” Doug chuckled.
“Please, this is no joke.”
“So talk.”
“I can’t on the phone.”
“So how do you propose to talk to me?”
“I need to meet with you, as soon as possible.”
“You have to be kidding. It’s Sunday morning. I do not meet on Sunday mornings.”
“In case you didn’t notice, there are a few items of news going on in our big wonderful world that might deserve your attention.”
“No shit, Dick Tracy.”
“How original.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, please, it’s a scoop, you can have it.”
Loud laugh. “Sure, a newspaper guy is going to give a TV guy a scoop.”
“That should convince you even more.”
“Get real.”
“Mr. Hoffman, this is beyond winning. It does not matter to me.”
“It matters to me, pal, every day.”
“Look, this is going nowhere. I’ll call another station.”
“Ah, wait a minute.”
Hoffman’s face appeared on the video phone screen. Zack analyzed him—disheveled hair, wide-set eyes magnified by thick, black-rimmed bebop glasses, chubby cheeks, nostrils enlarged, little lips pursed.
Zack looked up. I knew I wasn’t going to like this guy. Don’t ask me why, I just knew it.
Hoffman adjusted his glasses and said, “So tell me, what is this scoop you supposedly have?”
“It’s about the ‘exclusive’ video you broadcast last Friday.”
“Hell of a story, huh? Talk about a scoop.”
Zack burped up some apple. “Look, some of this news stuff is not right. I can’t talk freely on the phone.”
“Can’t talk about it on the phone? Why?”
“I have a recording. Can I meet you at your station?”
“Can’t talk about it on the phone and you have a recording?” Hoffman shook his head. “Are you for real?”
“Yes.” Zack paused. “Look, like I said, I’m not wasting any more time. I’ll call another station.”
“Hold your horses, hoss”
“Well, thank you very much. You say when.”
“Shit.”
“It’s ten-forty now, how about an hour?” Zack said.
“No way, make it one o’clock.”
“Okay, one.”
“Shit. This better be good. Meet me at the station—you know where it is I assume?”
“I know where WSUN is.”
Chapter Forty Seven
12:55 p.m. EST
His Subaru’s cool conditioned air siphoning out the broken rear window, Zack sniffed his armpits. Not good. He stopped at the closed gate to Channel 10’s parking lot and studied the razor wire that topped a ten-foot chain link fence. Inside the fence stood a two-story white brick building with tiny rectangular windows. A ten-foot red-neon sign beckoned CHANNEL 10, THE SUN, WSUN-TV.
Zack rolled his window down and looked at a remote camera and speaker. In a few seconds a tenor voice asked, “May I help you?”
“I’m Zackary Stearn, have an appointment with Doug Hoffman.”
Small chuckle in the voice: “He’s not here on Sundays.”
“He will be, I have a one o’clock appointment with him.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you, he’s never here onone moment please.”
Zack tapped the steering wheel and whispered, “Hoffman, if you don’t show up”
The male voice came on again. “That was a call from Mr. Hoffman. He’s on his way. Said he was expecting you. I’ll open the gate. Proceed to the visitor spaces to your right, park in one of the slots marked ‘visitor,’ turn your engine off, proceed directly to the side entrance marked ‘Employees Only’ and wait for Mr. Hoffman.”
“Forgot to tell me the speed limit,” Zack mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
As directed, Zack pulled to a visitor’s space and parked. Are they keeping something out of this place or holding something in? he wondered. The medium is the message or is the message the medium? He glanced in his rearview mirror and watched a red Mercedes convertible pull through the entrance gate. The driver wore an orange CHANNEL 10 baseball cap. Wire-rimmed round sunglasses perched on his nose. He parked in a reserved slot near the front door, got out and looked toward Zack’s car.
Zack said to himself, “Gotta be, in person, the lovable Mr. Hoffman,” and stepped out of his car.
Hoffman shouted, “Hey, you You Zack Stearn?”
Zack called back, “Yes, yes, I am.”
“Over here.”
Zack walked toward him and noted NEWS DIRECTOR in large white letters across the front of Hoffman’s green T-shirt. Closer, he saw his own face reflected in Hoffman’s black sunglasses. He smiled and said, “You in there?”
“You got it.”
Zack extended his right hand to shake. Hoffman declined, scrutinized him head to toe then said, “You live on the street?”
Zack, hit with Doug’s septic-tank morning breath, stepped back. “No, do you?”
“You look like you slept in those clothes.”
“Oh. No, I’ve been working all night.”
Doug raised an eyebrow, “Partner, you stink.”
“Sorry,” Zack mumbled, “Thought is was your breath.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. Follow me.”
Hoffman unlocked the station door and, like a bellhop stuck with a deadbeat guest, led the way through a maze of hallways and past a newsroom that bustled with activity and not a few gawking glances at seeing Hoffman in on a Sunday morning.
They reached a blue metal door that read, in silver letters, Douglas A. Hoffman, NEWS DIRECTOR.
Doug unlocked the door and entered. Zack followed. Doug sat behind his desk, propped his sandaled feet on the cluttered top, glared at Zack, said, “This better be good, Stearn.”
“It is.” Zack placed his CD player on Hoffman’s desk and sniffed the air–peculiar odor, like something burning.
Hoffman said, “Like I said, this better be good.”
“I think it’s better than that. You’ll recognize one of the voices, I’m sure.”
“Oh?”
“Dr. Barbara Lande, Armstrong’s media guru. She’s the female, the others are Leo Novak, President’s E.I.C. head, and General Mac MacCallister—you may know them as Cerebrum, Cerebellum, and Medulla Oblongata.”
“Know ‘em all.” Hoffman nodded smugly.
“Mind if I sit?” Zack touched one of the orange vinyl chairs in front of Hoffman’s desk.
“Suit yourself.”
“Thank you.” Zack glanced upward and whispered under his breath, “He’s one of Yours.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Ready?”
“Anytime.”
“Oh, I must tell you, kind sir, there were some technical glitches—microphone, some static—but theyou’ll get the drift.”
Smirking: “Uh-huh.”
Zack pressed the play button.
As the CD played, Hoffman studied his chewe
d fingernails, munched his right thumbnail then his left thumbnail, bent a paper clip, probed wax from his ears with the clip’s end, smelled the brown extract, threw the clip in his wastebasket, picked his nose with thumb and index finger so it looked like he might be just scratching the inside of the nostril, adjusted his sunglasses, took dental floss from his top desk drawer, flossed his top and bottom front teeth, looked at the residue, sniffed it, threw the floss in the wastebasket, twiddled his thumbs, listened, yawnedand the CD ended.
He tilted his head back. “That’s it?”
“That’s it, yes. Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Are you shitting me? That’s what I drove thirty miles on a Sunday afternoon to listen to? What is this bullshit?”
“It is Barbara Lande, the President’s media guru, Leo Novak, head of the E.I.C., and”
“That’s who you allege it is, but what the fuck is it?”
“discussing the production of the bogus video that you broadcast last Friday, the”
“Bogus Bogus My ass.”
“the video that started this current little international mess that we seem to find ourselves in.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, Mr. Hoffman, not bullshit, true shit. You have been had.”
Doug sat up. “Bullshit.”
“No, Doug, the video you broadcast last Friday was a fake, staged, and your President Armstrong is at the center of it. You been used, asshole.”
“What did you call me?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean”
“That recording of yours is a fake. Computer-cloned speech, static all over the fucking thing. What’d you do, use a Pokemon recorder? Whose voices are those?”
“One is Lande. I’ve heard her a million times on your television station. You have, too. Even a computer couldn’t clone that lady’s accent.”
“Bullshit. This is preposterous bullshit.” He adjusted his sunglasses.
“You say that one more” Zack paused, checked his temper then went on. “Why would someone impersonate Barbara Lande on a CD about something like that? Makes no sense, does it?”
“Sure it does. Some jack-off TV station that we scooped, some politician looking to discredit Armstrong, could be a million reasons. Could be you, trying to embarrass mejealous.”