by Pete Hautman
Crow focused his thoughts on shifting from second to third gear. He said, “Where did you come from, anyway?”
“I’m from Cincinnati and, believe me, there are a lot of busybodies in Cincinnati. My grandmother was their leader. She was just like you. Her own life just didn’t cut it. You know what you’re doing, Crow? You’re acting like a cop. Just looking for trouble, looking for a chance to be a hero.”
The challenge of driving while listening to Debrowski was too much for Crow’s bruised synapses. He pulled over, set the brake, and massaged his temples with his fingertips.
“The thing is,” Debrowski continued, “nobody cares where Hyatt Hilton is except you and that other cop, that friend of yours. I doubt if even Carmen cares. Nobody knows whether he did anything, or didn’t do something he should’ve done, or what. But it’ll all come out, Crow. You’ve done the one thing you could’ve done that mattered—you saved that girl’s life. Assuming she survives.”
“Debrowski, I really need you to do something for me. Would you please stop talking?”
“Stop talking?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. We go home, I put you to bed, I make you a nice cup of cocoa, then I shut up. You get some rest, tomorrow you can do what you want. Go be a hero.”
“What kind of deal is that?”
“It’s the best offer you’ve had lately. If I were you, I’d go for it.”
All four of his office TV monitors were running, but the one that had Drew’s attention was WCCO, which was showing an aerial shot of a cornfield with a green sport-utility vehicle parked right smack in the middle of it. The camera backed off to show the crushed cornstalks where the vehicle had entered the field, and the paramedics carrying a blood-soaked figure toward the ambulance parked on the shoulder of the highway. The search-and-rescue footage had come on just after the interview with Hyatt Hilton on KMSP.
Drew’s jaw pulsed as he listened to the announcer crowing about their exclusive footage. His phone began to ring; Drew leaned forward and hit the speakerphone button.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Mr. Hilton on line three.”
“Yeah? Put the son-of-a-bitch on.”
“Drew?” Hyatt’s voice squawked from the speakerphone.
“Ah! Our intrepid reporter, Mister Hyatt Hilton.” Drew Chance leaned back, his eyes on the TVs. KMSP was now showing the same cornfield tape.
“Are you on a speakerphone? I can hardly hear you.”
“It must be the connection,” said Drew. There was no way he was going to pick up for Hy the Guy. “What can I do for you, Hy?”
“Did you look at the tape?”
“Yes indeedy, I did,” said Drew. “Very interesting technique. You never ran a camera before, did you, Hy?”
“What? Speak up, would you?”
Drew leaned toward the phone. “I said, ‘The tape sucked!’ You hear me that time?”
“What do you mean?”
Drew’s face had gone scarlet. “You couldn’t run that piece of shit on public access, you dumb fuck.” He put his mouth right up to the microphone. “And while I got you—for the last time, I hope—what the fuck were you doing talking to Channel Nine?”
“Hey, that wasn’t my idea. They came to me!”
“You’re dumber than I thought, and you know what, Hy? I always thought you were pretty fucking stupid.”
After a moment Hyatt said, “Does this mean I’m free to sell my story to other news organizations?”
“Furthermore, the one chance we got to be there when something actually happens, I don’t hear shit from the intrepid Mr. Butt-fuck Hilton. What kind of exclusive you think I’m gonna have, them running tape of your rescued bride on six fucking stations?”
Hyatt said, “Did you say rescued?”
“Turn on your TV, dumbass.” Drew hit the disconnect button. He touched two fingers to his jugular and counted heartbeats, waiting for his pulse to drop back to its normal 120 beats per minute. So much for Mr. Hyatt Hilton. He should’ve known from the get-go that little Alan Orlich the clairvoyant fingerpainter was his best bet.
52
Many a good news story has been ruined by oververification.
—James Gordon Bennett
THERE WAS A WORD That would stop the ringing. What was it? Joe Crow swam through crevasses, opened drawers, turned over cards. His hand, more awake than he, grasped the offending object and brought it to his ear. The word popped off his tongue: “Hello?”
“Crow, this is Zink. You asleep?”
“I don’t know.”
“Turn on your radio.”
“Zink?”
“Yeah. Turn on KSTP. Now.” Zink hung up.
Crow looked at his clock-radio. A few minutes after nine. The last thing he remembered, Debrowski had been massaging his forehead. That was twelve hours ago. She must’ve gone downstairs to her half of the duplex. He sat up. That felt pretty good. He turned on the radio, adjusted the tuner. A woman’s strident voice came over the tiny speaker:
“Now let me see if I understand what you’re saying to me, Mr. Hilton—Hyatt Hilton—tell me Hyatt, I want to know, is that your real name?”
“Yes it is. I—”
“It’s all right if I call you Hyatt, isn’t it? What do your friends call you? Do they call you Hy? I’m going to call you Hy. Hy, if I’m understanding you, the leaders of this organization—and I call it an organization, not a church—these people actually believe—and I’m just going by what you tell me—these people actually think that they’re immortal?”
“That’s right, Barbara. I—”
“Now stop me if I’m off-base here, but I’m sure my listeners are wondering this, as I am—isn’t that just a little bit naive? I mean, what makes them think—what makes them think that of all the people who have ever lived that they—and I’m talking here about the leaders of this so-called Amaranthine whatever-it-is—why should they think that they are immortal?”
“You know, I—”
“But you were actually a member of this organization for quite some time, isn’t that true? In fact, you were one of the founders. Are you immortal, Hy?”
“No, actually I’m—”
“But you left the, ah, organization. Now tell me, Hy, these immortals, this, ah, Rupert Chandra and Polyhymnia DeSimone—am I saying their names right? Well, who cares. These two con artists—is that too strong? I’m going to get myself in trouble again, but I call it the way I see it—these con artists claim to have discovered the secret to eternal youth—we’re not talking Retin-A here, ladies and gentlemen—but from what you’re telling me, they actually were having plastic surgery. Now is that a fact? Or are you just guessing? Tell me, Hy?”
“It’s true. But the really bizarre part of the story is what they did with Carmen.”
“Yes, Carmen is your bride—or rather your fiancée—who you say was kidnapped.”
“We were both kidnapped and—”
“But she was found yesterday, I understand, in a bean field—is that right? Rob? A bean field? A cornfield. Rob, my producer, tells me it was a cornfield. And isn’t there some question about the alleged kidnapping? I understand she was found in her car, and she’s all right? I heard she was fine. Have you talked to her?”
“Not yet. I just—”
“Because if I was lying in the hospital I’d want to hear from my fiancé. But I’m getting off the subject. Back to this plastic surgery—we’ll talk about the kidnapping—the alleged kidnapping—in just a minute, but let me understand something—what exactly, what work did these two con artists have done? I’ve seen pictures of this couple, and I have to tell you that they’re a handsome pair. But the photo you showed me, Hy, that was taken before their surgery, is that correct? What exactly did they have done?
“I’m not one hundred percent sure—”
“Then how can you sit here and tell me that you know for a fact that the surgery took place? You see, this is what I’m talki
ng about. People accusing public figures of doing things when they don’t actually have the facts—not that I’m defending these so-called immortals, understand, but—case in point—you, Mr. Hilton, cannot actually say that you have seen, with your own eyes, this plastic surgery? Am I correct or am I right?”
“Uh, you’re right, of course, but the surgery—”
“Alleged surgery.”
“Right. But that’s incidental to my story. We were kidnapped on the way to our wedding. These people are real-life vampires, Barbara.”
“Did you know—I had a doctor on my show a few months ago—did you know that they are actually using leeches again? In the United States of America?”
“No, I—”
“We’ll be right back, ladies and gentlemen, to talk more with Hyatt Hilton, whose bride-to-be was kidnapped on the way to their wedding, and we’ll talk some more about plastic surgery; and I’ll also be telling you about my experience with plastic surgery—and I’m not talking about my tattoo, ladies and gentlemen. Now I know you can’t see me over your radio, but I have to tell you—let me just say that I considered it the thoughtful thing to do, and anyone who knows me knows that I’m a pushy broad but I’m one of the most thoughtful people I know. That’s right. And out of respect for the people who have to look at me every day, I try to keep up appearances, and I might not be immortal but I care about how I look. So. You know me. I love quality, I love my pearls and my gold jewelry, and I love my jeweler, and if you love quality and if you care about how you look, you’ll love my jeweler too …”
Hyatt felt as though someone had given his brain a hotfoot. Yow! Thirty minutes of being grilled by Barbara Carlson had cooked his synapses good. Oh well, maybe it would get the ball rolling, get some of the other media interested. He might work his way up to Imus or Larry King. And then the biggies, the TV shows: Geraldo Rivera, Ricki Lake, Maury Povich. He hoped he’d sounded okay on the radio. Serious, but entertaining. That was what they wanted, what they would pay for.
He rested his hand on the phone. What next? Maybe call that morning guy on KQRS. Or should he go straight for the national exposure? No, start local. That was what Chip would call the strategic approach. Or maybe the strategic approach was to go straight to the top.
Maybe he should call Rochester again, see if he could get through to Carmen. See if she was still alive. The way to really work this media thing was to do it as a couple. If there were two of them, people would believe. Get Carmen’s pretty face on the tube talking about the vampire church, and people would sit up and listen. The two of them on American Journal—that would be perfect. He wondered what had happened to her. He’d tied her up good. She hadn’t untied herself, so it must’ve been that idiot Chip, getting it wrong. But how had she ended up in that cornfield, and where was Chip? For that matter, where were Rupe and Polly?
Too many questions. Hyatt opened the refrigerator and looked again for something edible. All he saw were the same dried up pizza remnants—some of them had no doubt been in there for months—and scraps of wire neatly tied in bundles and sorted by color. Jimmy Swann had lived on pizza, and he liked to keep his wire collection below forty degrees.
He wondered what had happened to Jimmy.
Having no cash and no place to go, Hyatt had arrived at Jimmy Swann’s doorstep yesterday afternoon, hoping that Jimmy had forgotten about their last meeting. It was worth a try—assuming that Jimmy didn’t have another tinfoil-wrapped shotgun. He had approached the front door cautiously. When his ringing and knocking produced no response, Hyatt had twisted the handle and found the door to be unlocked. Jimmy was gone.
Hyatt would soon be gone, too. He had called every pizza joint in a five-mile radius, and every one of them had refused to deliver. Jimmy Swann scared off all the pizza delivery guys, which was probably what had ultimately forced him to leave. Starved out. Ventured back out onto the street, where the police might find him. He wasn’t sure why they were looking for him, but whatever the reason, he was sure it would only serve to cramp his style. It would be tough to do media interviews from a jail cell. Find a new base of operations. Jimmy’s place was too damn weird. Besides, it still reeked of Jimmy. That son-of-a-bitch Drew—Andy Greenblatt—was going to miss out big time. Story of the century, and he walks away from it. He’d be damn sorry when he turned on his TV and saw Hyatt Hilton being interviewed by Katie Couric.
He wished he could get through to Carmen.
What he had to do, he had to get on the phone again. Keep working the phone. That was the secret.
He had just been put on hold by the assistant to Jenny Jones’s producer when someone knocked on the front door.
Crow stepped back from the door, the foil-wrapped, antennae-studded shotgun in plain view, holding it in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner. He’d found Hyatt’s BMW tucked back in the alley, but he wasn’t sure who or what else lurked within this old house.
A curtain moved. Seconds later, Hyatt Hilton opened the door.
“Am I glad to see you!” he said.
Crow said, “Really?” He peered past him into the dim interior. “Is your friend here? I want to return his magic gun.” Crow held up the shotgun.
“I can take it.”
Crow handed Hyatt the gun. “It’s not loaded.” He followed Hyatt inside. “Your friend likes to read,” he said, noticing the piles of magazines.
Hyatt leaned the gun against the wall. They stood in the cluttered hallway, facing each other.
“I’d offer you coffee, but I’m fresh out.”
“How about you just tell me what you and Carmen have been doing. Why stage a kidnapping? I don’t get it.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Hyatt said, ignoring the question. “I heard you were in the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” Crow said. “But I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a minute.”
Hyatt led him through the hallway. The smell of beer and sweat became stronger. They entered what had once been a sitting room. Hyatt pointed at the sagging, unfolded sofa-bed. Every other item of furniture was covered by magazines and empty pizza boxes.
“Maybe I don’t need to sit down,” said Crow. “You know, the cops want to talk to you.”
“They should be talking to Rupe and Polly. I’m the victim here, Joe. Nobody seems to understand that.”
“I heard you on the radio this morning.”
“Oh? How did I sound?” Hyatt sat down on the edge of the mattress.
“Like a guy looking for attention. I didn’t believe anything you said.”
Hyatt wrinkled his forehead. “Really?”
“Yeah. Yesterday I thought maybe you were telling the truth. Today I think you’re full of it.”
“Was it something I said?”
Crow laughed. “Yeah. You said, ‘You can’t believe what anybody tells you.’”
Hyatt looked thoughtful. “I might’ve said that.”
“I talked to Carmen.”
“You did?”
“She said to tell you she’s not going to do it.”
Hyatt frowned. “She’s not? Do what?”
“That’s what I want to know. What’s really got me curious is why? I know you arranged for that Chip guy to hit me and drive off with the limousine—”
“That’s not true!”
“And I’m pretty sure that the Elders of the Amaranthine Church are not bloodsucking vampires. Bloodsuckers, maybe, but not in the literal sense. What I can’t figure out is, what’s your angle? Were you planning to somehow extort money out of them? Embarrass them? Or is this just your way of keeping yourself entertained?”
Hyatt said, “Joe, all I ever wanted to do was get married and settle down. You know how old I am?”
“Forty-four.”
Hyatt jerked as if from a mild electric shock. “I was going to tell you forty,” he said, wagging his index finger, chiding. “But obviously you’ve been snooping. Anyhow, when you get to be my age, Joe, you’ll understand. You got one last chance
, one more load to shoot, so to speak, before you wake up and look down and see you got one foot in the grave.”
“I know that feeling.”
“You’re too young to know it. By the time you’re my age I’ll be a few years short of getting screwed out of my Social Security. All that money I put into the system, poof. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Hy, you never put a dime into the system.”
“That’s not the point. Me and Carmen, we’re a team. We’re going to reschedule the wedding and get married. That’s all I want. Also, I’ve been talking to a lot of media people. I’m going to get on TV and tell my story. Once they hear how it was, they’ll understand. It’s a great story.”
“It sounds like that’s all it is.”
“You don’t understand,” sighed Hyatt. “First of all, I didn’t do what you say. And second, even if I had, don’t you think I’d have done a better job? I mean, what a mess! Media people don’t like things messy. They like stories that are nice and neat, like the guy whose wife cut off his dick. That was a good story.”
“Maybe you should try that.”
Hyatt sighed. “Right now, it feels like maybe that’s what I did.”
Someone knocked on the front door.
“Who’s that?” Hyatt asked.
“A friend of mine,” said Crow. “Name of Wes. I told him to meet me here.”
Laura Debrowski was sitting in the GTO trying to open the combination padlock Crow had left on his dashboard. It was one of her hobbies—usually she could crack a lock in about three minutes, but she’d been working on this one ever since Crow had entered the old gray house. At one point, ten minutes after he’d gone inside, she’d nearly abandoned the project to go in after him. But then the two cops had shown up, so she’d gone back to work on the lock.
A few minutes later, Crow got in the car wearing a faint smile.
Debrowski said, “How’d that go?”
“It went fine. He was there.”
“He tell you what you wanted to know?”