The Journalist

by G L Rockey

  “Of what?”

  “Ha.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “And you’re a jerk.” He started to get up. “Why am I here?”

  “There is a coup d'éta”

  “Coup d'état You goddamn fucking idiot. Let me tell you what you can do with that fucking recording. Stick it up your stupid ass Coup d'étatJesus Christ, get the fuck out of here”

  Zack wiped his forehead. “You have to broadcast this tape.”

  “You’re crazy.” Hoffman rolled his eyes. “Get out”

  “Look, I’m not good at begging, but I’d really like you to go on the air with this recording. If you broadcast it now, it will be all over the world in a half-hour, you can say you did it. You’ll be a hero.”

  Contemptuous: “Why don’t you print it, weenie head?”

  “I will. We’re working on a special edition as we speak.”

  “You newspaper elitists. We got you by the balls when it comes to breaking stuff.”

  “Look, that’s not important now. There are more important things than keeping score.”

  “You sound like some fucking Jesus freak.”

  “As we speak, the U.S. military is preparing to unilaterally invade several sovereign nations.”

  “You’re insane, crazy, you really are.”

  “Okay, I’m crazy, but you have to go on the air with this recording.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Credibility.”

  Zack exploded, hitting the desk with his fists. “What goddamned credibility?”

  “Watch it, pal, watch it.”

  Zack backed off. “Sorry.”

  “Your recording is bogus.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “What is your source?”

  “What was your source for the video you broadcast?”

  “Can’t reveal that, confidential, Shield Law, we’re protected.”

  “I’ll reveal mine.”

  “So, reveal it.”

  Hesitating, Zack said softly, “Joe Caseused to run The Bimini Road”

  “What? Who did you say? Did you say Joe Case? The fuck fake freak agitator, arrested, in and out of jailused to run that Bimini Road shit holeis that what you said?”

  After a moment: “Yes.”

  Hoffman, in deep belly laughter, leaned over his desk: “I’m not fucking believing this. Ha-ha-ha, Joe Case, ha-ha-ha, Jesus Christ.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Let me get this straight. This Joe Case guy, used to run that Bimini Road shit hole restaurant, gave you this recording, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there is a coup d'état underway?”

  “Yes.”

  Hoffman pounded his desk. “I can’t fucking believe you. Get the fuck out of here, you fucking nut you. Now”

  Zack stood, leaned over the desk. “Hoffman, I haven’t slept in many hours. I’m hungry. I need a shower, a shave, my teeth need brushing, I need caffeine, and I am beginning to confirm a deep dislike for you.”

  “Bow-wow-wow, is that like some kind of fucking threat?”

  Looking upward, Zack walked around Hoffman’s desk.

  “He’s one of Yours but he’s mine for the moment.” With a quick right, he swept Hoffman’s sunglasses to the floor.

  Hoffman’s eyes bulged in surprise.

  “Don’t you know it’s not polite to wear sunglasses when you’re talking to a guest.” Zack took Hoffman’s throat in his left hand and began to squeeze.

  Eyes popping, Hoffman gagged. “Okay, okay.”

  Zack released and stepped back.

  Hoffman fell back in his chair. “You broke my sunglasses. I’m calling security.” He punched a button on his computer phone.

  Zack smashed his hand away from the keyboard.

  “Ouch, Jesus Christ.” Hoffman curled up in his chair. “Okay, okay. Look, even if I wanted to put this on the air, I’d have to clear it with my general manager, and she’s out of town for the weekend.”

  “Call her, we’ll play it for her.”

  “Ha, call her. Do you know Lucy Lockman?”

  “Not personally.”

  “Okay, but even if we get her, Feds got the restrictions on”

  “Call her.”

  “You made me do it.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Okay, but personally, I think you’re on the funny stuff.”

  Zack started to reach for him again.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Do it.” He pointed to the phone. “Call your boss.”

  “Okay, okay, but if you think you’re going to get this broadcast you’re out of your mind. Babs Lande, the White House, the FCCthey all put out directives. We have to clear everything.”

  “Doesn’t that in itself tell you something?” Zack riveted a stare into Hoffman’s eyes.

  “Not reallynational security requirements, terrorists, rioting”

  “Don’t you see”

  Hoffman’s office door crashed open and two beefy security officers, revolvers drawn, entered.

  The shouts of Hoffman echoed through the office into the hallway. “Get him the fuck out of here Get him out He’s crazy, attacked me”

  While being dragged by the arms to the exit Zack shouted, “‘And they shall be blinded by the truth.’”

  The bigger guard said, “Shut the fuck up, freak.”

  “Second Corinthians three-something.” Zack smiled.

  The other guard gouged him in the ribs. “He said shut up, sweetheart.”

  The guards tossed Zack, headfirst onto the asphalt parking lot.

  Chapter Forty Eight

  2:00 p.m. EST

  Humiliated, elbows scratched, a red bruise on his chin, knowing he could have taken those bozo guards if they had been unarmed, Zack entered the small first-floor storage area of The Boca where Jim sat on a wooden box.

  Zack nodded to him, surveyed a battered card table and three folding chairs, said, “Nice job, Jimbo. Maybe you did have another calling–office design.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “You still got that coat and tie on.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I stopped a truck.”

  “Oh.”

  “You call the mayor?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t know where to begin.”

  Zack said, “I don’t, either. I see my car is here, you talk to Ted?”

  “He talked to me.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “No, I wanted to seehow did it go with Channel 10?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Went home.”

  Zack looked around the room, thought a moment then winked. “How about a soda? Let’s walk down to McDonald’s.”

  “I just had a soda.”

  “Come on, do you good.”

  Outside, the sky gray, the clouds menacing, the threat of an isolated afternoon thunderstorm, they strolled the sidewalk.

  “So, how did it go?” Jim said.

  “It didn’t.” Zack wiped his chin.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Something must be done about idiots running major-market television station. It’s like Proverbs twenty-six-somethingdogs eating their own puke.”

  “Not so good, huh?”

  “And they call it freedom of speechthe press.”

  “So, Hoffman wouldn’t broadcast Case’s audio recording, huh?” Jim said.

  “Said he couldn’t verify it. Even if he could, he had to get permission from the general manager,” he wiped his face, “who happens to be out of town. And even if he could reach her he had to run it by the honorable Dr. Lande’s office. You believe that? With a straight face he tells me, ‘Even if I can get evidence that the recording is not a fake I can’t put it on the air. The directive from Lande’s office would prohibit it.’�
� He looked at Jim. “Don’t the lights, at some point, go on?”

  “So what happened?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  They entered the McDonald’s, approached the counter and ordered Cokes. As they were served, Zack said to Jim, “You want an order of fries?”

  “I had some earlier.”

  Zack looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the smiling clerk. “A large fry too, please.”

  Served, Zack loaded up on ketchup and led Jim to a booth by a window.

  “So what happened?” Jim said.

  “Hoffman wanted to know where I got the recording. I told him I’d tell him my source if he told me the source for that killer video he broadcast.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “So?”

  “I told him mine.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He laughed me off the planet.”

  “What did you expect? If somebody told you they had a secret recording from a former Miami bistro owner, living on Bimini Island with a harem of twenty-year-old fillies, preaching that the world was ending, what would you do?”

  “F-minus.” Zack dipped a fry in ketchup and ate it. “Want one?”

  Jim took one. “Maybe just one.” Dipping some of Zack’s ketchup, he said, “So, bottom line?”

  “Hoffman wouldn’t do it. I threatened to kill him but he bluffed me.”

  “Bluffed you?”

  “Whatever. You know, I seldom use God’s name in vain, but goddamn it, this is unbelievable An honest-to-God real coup, and this guy wants some verification of my source. What about his video? The phony stuff. Their source. It’s the Catch-22 of all time.” Zack smacked the table.

  People looked.

  Jim said, “Like I said, would you believe your source if you were not there in person?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.” Jim took another fry.

  “Oh?” Zack lowered his chin and looked at Jim with mild surprise. “What have you heard?”

  “Ted said Mary talked to Chief Manny again.”

  “Why is it she gets to talk to Manny all the time, you get only to talk to Deputy Chief Glenda?”

  “Charisma, speaking of which, you better snap that Mary O’Brien up, Bwana. Twenty guys are in line as we speak.”

  “That’s out of line, Mr. Roberts.” Zack ate a fry. “So, what did Ted say Mary found out?”

  “Get this. Manny said they found out the identity of the female victim.” He paused and dipped his half-eaten fry in Zack’s ketchup.

  Waiting, Zack said, “Is there a commercial break in here someplace, coming up next, or do I have to order something from an eight-hundred number?”

  “Seems she’s the famous porno star, Margo Cue, from Margo and the Nineteen Elves, a movie, in case you didn’t see it.”

  Zack thought a moment. “Is this a movie you’ve seen?”

  “Research.” Jim took a bite of fry. “And get this, they’ve enhanced that Channel 10 video. The little fat cop appears to be the same guy that got his throat slashed at the Miami Beach Ocean Resort last Thursday. Manny says it looks like they’re one and the samehe’s checking it out.”

  Truth cooking between them, Zack munched a fry. “Did Manny release this?”

  “No.” Jim took some more ketchup on his almost-eaten fry.

  “Do you mind?” Zack paused.

  “What?”

  “You bit that frydouble dipnothing. So, why didn’t Manny release this stuff to the press tell Mary?”

  “Ted says Mary said Manny was giving it to her, Ms. Mary, because he likes her, quote, ‘she’s so refreshingly bright and honest.’”

  “Mary said that?”

  “Ted said she said that, and you know Ted.”

  “Ted never told a lie in his life.”

  Jim said, “Manny doesn’t want more phony charges that he’s withholding, distorting the newshe wants to confirm the little fat guy.”

  “What about the Ms. Margo porno star thing?”

  “Gave it to everybody.”

  “And?”

  “Lande’s office, remember? Clamped a hold on the media, everything, remember?”

  “I keep forgetting.”

  Jim took another fry.

  “I thought you had some fries earlier.”

  “I did, Big Mac, too. Still hungry.”

  Zack studied him. “Go get an order of fries.”

  “I like these ones.” Jim took another gob of ketchup. “Maybe we should call that what’s-his-name, cable news anchor, said they weren’t going to be pushed around, censored.”

  “Fat chance.” Zack shook his head. “And even so, we’ll go through the same thing we did with that dolt head at Channel 10confirm my recording, hah.”

  “I called AP, told them who I waswhy is it everybody thinks The Boca is a joke?”

  “I think it’s the charismatic employees.”

  Jim took another fry and ate it. “That settles it. You have to contact Beno. She’ll see you.” He took another fry.

  “That’s five.”

  “What?”

  “Fries.”

  “You been counting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Palm Bank has a video phone at their ATM machineyou think they have Beno bugged?” Jim said.

  “Is a cat curious? Think about it. Bet they have Beno’s every move bugged.”

  “Yours, too.”

  “Blackguards. Doesn’t matter where I call frommaybe I should use one of your many credit cards at that ATM pay phone, just in case.”

  Jim stood. “Forget itand by the way, whatever you do, bathe soon.”

  “You should smell that Hoffman guy, card please, and stay here, keep checking around, remember phones are bugged.”

  Chapter Forty Nine

  2:30 p.m. EST

  Leaving Jim in the make shift office, the sky a reflected ashen yellow, black clouds ominously low, the air thick with humidity, Zack approached the Palm ATM machine. He lit a Camel, stripped Jim’s credit card through a slot and accessed the Washington DC white pages. Thinking, what will I tell the Senator, how will I explain this? I’ll sound like aa what? A fruitcake. So what else is new? He typed in Beno’s name and hit enter.

  Waiting, he recalled Jim’s admonition about Mary. “Twenty guys waiting in line.”

  He looked at the video lettering popping up on the screen—SENATOR NANCY BENO. He listened to a recorded message.

  “Thank you for calling the office of Senator Nancy Beno. The Senator is not in right now. If you must speak to someone please enter 555-BENO.”

  Zack entered the number. It rang twice and the Senator’s name and number appeared on the screen.

  A pleasant male voice: “This is Senator Beno’s office.”

  “Hello, this is Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca, Miami. What, no video at the Senator’s office?”

  “Not on weekends, holidays, and now the emergency. This is a special VIP answering service.”

  “That’s refreshing. Listen, I must speak to Senator Beno.”

  “Sir, it is holiday recess, and with the emergency, DC is shut down. The Senator is not available.”

  “You don’t seem to understand, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca.”

  “Sir, forgive me, but even if you are who you say you are, how do I know you are who you say you are?”

  “What is this verification nicety every place I call the past few days? I’m Zackary Stearn, I must talk to the Senator.”

  “Sir”

  “Please, she’ll know who I am.”

  Pause. “Well, all right, I will relay the info to the Senator. If she is available. If she can be reached. As you must know, all phone service is being monitored for terrorist activities”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “I beg your pardon”

  “Nothing.”

  “If
available, may the Senator call you back at this number?”

  “What number?”

  “My caller ID is displaying 305-555-1234.”

  Zack paused, thought about Armstrong’s goons, looked around, thought, At some point you have to have a little faith. “Yes, hurry, I’ll wait.”

  After a pause: “Okay, I’ll call her, but I can’t promise you anything.”

  “Thank you immensely. What is your name?”

  “I’m Boston Smith.”

  “Boston, thank you, you are going down in history.”

  “What?”

  “Forget I said that. I’m saying too much lately. Ah, please, call the Senator. I am Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca, thank you.”

  “We’ll see. Have a nice day.”

  Sweating, Zack wiped the top of his head then ran his hand over his face. “Need a shave.” He took a deep breath. “Need a shower, too.” He thought, MORE or Camel? “Okay, Camel.” Senator will think I’m crazy. You are crazy. He thought of what Jim had said about Mary as he lit a Camel. “Twenty guys waiting in line”

  A little gray-haired lady with a folded red cane umbrella approached the ATM.

  Zack began tapping the camera, the monitor, punching buttons. He smiled at the lady and said innocently. “Broke.”

  “Maybe you’re overdrawn, bucko.”

  “No, phone, broke as in broken.”

  The phone rang, the screen flashed and Zack said, “Must be working.”

  A pleasant picture of Senator Beno appeared. She looked into the camera, her face round with warm, discerning eyes, Franklin reading glasses hanging from a thin gold chain around her neck, jet-black hair combed now with a pompadour wave in front, she said, “Hello.”

  Zack: “Senator, thanks for calling. I’m Zack”

  “I know who you are, of course. I’ve read your newspaper. Like it very much. What can I do for you, Mr. Stearn?”

  “Thank you and it’s Zackary. Please call me Zack.”

  “All right, what can I do for you, Zack?”

  “Listen, Senator Beno, I have something, I” He turned to the lady behind him. “This is going to take a few minutes”

  “Better not, sonny.”

  “Okay, but”

  “Hurry up,” Gray Lady said. “I have to call my son in California. Goddamn Floridaeverybody is sun stroked.”

  Zack turned to the camera.