by Glen Carter
Jack figured Carmichael was on the warpath because of his budget overruns. “Thanks for the heads up, Sophie.”
A minute later he walked into his office and sat. Loosening his necktie, he breathed deeply. Walter Carmichael was a formidable opponent when push came to shove over resources. Jack wasn’t into budgets. Shareholders were the hand he had no problem biting. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to locking horns with the vice president of news. When Jack was just about ready, he reached into a small refrigerator at the side of his desk and grabbed a bottle of water. He twisted it open, gulped half of it, and walked out of the office.
Carmichael was on the phone when Jack walked in, so he motioned for him to take a seat. Jack obliged and a moment later picked up the autographed baseball that Walter displayed on his desk. He tossed it nonchalantly into the air.
Carmichael covered the mouthpiece. “Finger oils, Jack. Please.”
“Sorry.” Jack replaced the keepsake and surveyed Walter’s office. A floor to ceiling cabinet held a half dozen flat-screen TVs, all tuned to various competitors. Framed photographs were hung on every wall. Carmichael covering wars and the like, meeting world leaders. It meant something that Carmichael valued these things. He was a real journalist who had gotten his hands dirty.
There was a quiet rap on the door and then a man poked his head in. Carmichael waved at him to enter. Jack didn’t recall his name but recognized the man as one of the mucky-mucks from finance. Herbert or Harold or something.
“Helland Jaffrey.” The man extended a hand.
Jack shook it and nodded. Now he remembered. This guy was head of the Resource Assessment Team. RAT. Appropriate, Jack decided. He also remembered the Resource Assessment Team was the brainchild of Milton Wade, the head of finance, who had looked him straight in the eye once and declared that news anchors were vastly overpaid for the value they brought to the network. Wade’s memo a couple of months back said RAT was being tasked to find “inefficiencies” in the network, another way of saying cuts were on the way.
Helland took a seat and gave Jack a greasy smile. He had small but shockingly intense blue eyes and thinning dark hair, which was slicked back to reveal a dagger-like widow’s peak. He wore a pinstriped suit, which Jack guessed was at least one size too small. His black shoes had tassels and actually gleamed. What the hell is Jaffrey doing here?
“Yes, I understand completely,” Carmichael added to his telephone conversation. “Absolutely. This issue must be dealt with in short order. Rest assured, I’ll see to it.” With that he ended the call and hung up.
For a moment no one spoke. Then,Walter leaned back stiffly in his chair and said, “The chairman of the board is not pleased.”
Jack knew better than to say anything, yet. The chairman’s happiness was something both these men took very seriously. Jack usually didn’t worry about it. Sometimes though, the chairman’s displeasuremeant Walter’s displeasure and that meant pain for all of them.
Strangely the RAT man didn’t seem too concerned about any of this. He sat quietly, waiting as if for a command to blindfold a condemned prisoner.
“The second quarter is down eight percent,” Walter continued. “The street is reacting badly and the chairman believes it’s going to get worse.” Carmichael looked from Jack to Jaffrey and back again. “Jack, I’m glad you’re here, because the chairman believes we are part of this problem. Audience share is way off across the board, especially in news properties.”
Jack’s stomach tightened. Truth was the numbers were a disaster. The only bright spot was his show, which had managed to avoid the slide. It was no secret that a large part of the network’s problem was Frank Simmons, the lead anchor for the flagship evening news. He had a dangerous habit of overriding his producers. Bad calls were being made and they’d been missing important stories as a result. Christ, many of the stories they were covering were missing the mark by a mile. On the night a suicide bomber killed three US soldiers in Baghdad, Simmons insisted the story lead the second segment because Americans were no longer interested in the Iraq war. That night, at his insistence, they led with a story about taxes on luxury cars. It came as no surprise when two of their best reporters defected to the competition after which a columnist wrote that Frank Simmons was at the helm of a sinking ship. Another suggested the network’s news division was suffering a “crisis of leadership and credibility.”
Jack had seen it coming for months now. Frank Simmons was sticking his well-powdered nose where it didn’t belong and his failures had cost the network big time because when the flagship newscast foundered, most everything else went down with it. It also came as no surprise to Jack that the network’s bottom line was suffering. That’s what happened when audience share faltered. He was also certain Frank Simmons would find a way to deflect responsibility.
Carmichael cleared his throat, and then he leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I’ll get right to the point. Each division is being instructed to cut.” Walter swallowed hard. “And to cut deeply.”
“How deep?” Less travel. Fewer paper clips. What the hell. Jack was willing to do his part.
Walter looked at him grimly. “Jack, I’m sorry to say your show has been cancelled.”
Say that again.
“The unit is being dismantled and your resources will be repositioned within the news division. Helland will require a detailed accounting of your staff in order to make those decisions, though it’s unlikely anyone from your group will be kept on.”
What had Walter said? Something about his show. Jaffrey stared at him, a smirk forming on his smug, bean-counting face.
Carmichael wasn’t finished. “As a cost cutting measure, you’re being let go. I’m sorry, Jack.”
19
That bit about misery loving company was the truest thing ever said. Jack watched them arrive. The walking wounded. Each clutched their severance documents like terminal test results. In an afternoon, his little troupe of producers, writers, and editors had shifted from denial to anger. Hell, they’d already been declared dead before anyone had said anything about being sick.
Monte’s Pub was the staging area for a war of emotions. They hugged, cursed, and cried—but mostly cursed. Then they gave in to the booze.
Word on the cancellation of their show trickled out slowly, but then became a flood. Monte Grimes placed a fresh glass in front of Jack and surveyed the crowd. “Your tab’s taking a real beating.”
“Keep it open,” Jack said, sliding his empty across the bar.
Monte nodded and then walked away.
Jack was still trying to work it out. Walter’s announcement was still a blur, even the stuff about the payout clause in his contract. Jack had wanted to punch the smug look off RAT man’s face. Instead, he walked out, gathered a few things in his office, and was escorted from the building. His cellphone started to ring immediately. Holly, his executive producer, was first. “Security guards are all over the place, Jack.What’s up?” Jack told her. She sobbed and hung up, the next to be escorted into Carmichael’s office.
Jack had already spoken with his agent. Lou Perlman was disgusted and sympathetic. “I heard the network was about to do something stupid,” Perlman told him. “But I have to admit, I didn’t think they’d be this stupid.” Over the next five minutes, Perlman earned his pay as agent and Jack’s appreciation as a friend. “Don’t panic,” Perlman said. “I’ll start working the phones.There’s talk Nova is looking for someone.” With that, Perlman scheduled lunch and begged off to take another call.
He hadn’t heard from Kaitlin yet. She was likely in some editing suite. Door locked, no interruptions. That was the way she operated. He’d left one message. That was three hours ago. Clearly, no one wanted to barge in with the bad news.The good news was Kaitlin still had a job. She was a reporter on the nightly show, which had suffered no cutbacks. That much he had been able to find out before leaving Carmichael’s office. The RAT man wouldn’t be sinking his teeth into the flagship broadcast be
cause pulling resources on Frank Simmons would be like ripping the tubes from a chemo patient. Besides, Frank and the chairman of the board were old golfing buddies and coincidentally, Frank rarely won.
Jack ordered another drink, hoping to numb the ache that was pulsing in his jaw. His dentist said it came from grinding his teeth and if he didn’t stop he’d be stuck with a bite guard or worse. A bead of sweat ran the course of his forehead. He picked up a napkin and folded it, once then twice, then unfolded it. Jacked used the napkin to sop the sweat from his brow. For a second it felt like he was trapped underwater. Staring up towards light and oxygen. Another spell of his, nothing to get too concerned about. It happened when there were too many emotions and not enough space in his head to store them. He thought again about the decision to gas his show. It had nothing to do with journalism and ratings. The people with the power had screwed themselves with an incredibly stupid move.
Jack peeled off another napkin, folded it. It seemed like the only thing he could control at that moment. He thought about Malloy and Helena Storozhenko, his big scoop. It had been a goose chase extraordinaire, a collection of “what ifs” that led to a curious photograph taken by a woman who was now dead. Malloy wanted nothing more to do with it and Jack couldn’t blame him. The retired G-man had been sucked into the fantasy big time, to Odessa and back, then to Jack’s house on Bark Island. Hopefully Malloy was aboard his boat right now enjoying his little piece of paradise.
Still, something about Helena’s photograph wasn’t right. But what? He considered taking it out for another look, but decided now was not the time.
Jack didn’t see Kaitlin when she walked through the door. He smelled perfume before he turned around to see her. Standing there with tears in her eyes.
“Jack, I’m so sorry.”
He told her everything on the way home in the cab, speaking in whispers, until they reached their building. Kaitlin took him in her arms and said everything he needed to hear at that moment. Later, curled together on the sofa, she listened intently as Jack spoke.
“I’ll quit,” she declared. “I’ll tell Carmichael to shove his job. They can’t do this to you.”
“Don’t even think of it,” Jack replied. “Besides, one of us has to pay the bills.” They laughed at that. Paying the bills wouldn’t be a problem. Not in the least.
Jack didn’twant to talk about his miserable day anymore. Kaitlin smiled her understanding and headed for the bedroom. A moment later, he heard water pouring into the bathtub.
Kaitlin had her soak and was already asleep when Jack filled a bowl with chilled pineapple and ice cream. It was late, the television was on, and he was making a mess of himself. He thought about Perlman’s promise to work the phones. What if those phones weren’t being answered? What if Jack Doyle was suddenly not such a hot property? Shit happened like that all the time. Without explanation your star flickers and in the blink of an eye it streaks across the night sky. Dead before you fully realize what you’re seeing. His universe had changed. Jack swallowed. Breathed deeply, until his anxiety eased. An hour later, he awoke to the sound of the TV.
“Time to die, McGruger. Draw!”
McGruger went down like a sack of hammers. Jack picked up the remote to see what else was on. The movie station was running King Kong. Jack was engrossed as the giant ape ran amok on the streets of New York. Everyone was screaming. The ape was snatching up blondes, flinging them away when he saw they weren’t the woman he’d fallen for back home in the jungle. Jack didn’t remember the actress’s name, but the ape was really pissed that he couldn’t find her. In the meantime, everyone was fleeing in panic. Screaming. Running away.The ape hurled a couple more blondes and roared more loudly. He wouldn’t be mollified until—There she was, at last. Just standing there in the middle of the street. Not running away like everyone else. In fact, she sauntered in the opposite direction, towards the big monkey.
Something tickled the back of Jack’s brain. He clung to the scene unfolding on TV. Kong was considerably calmer now as she walked towards him. Not running away, even though it would have made much more sense to follow the crowd. Do what the crowd does. It was simple group dynamics. Fed by survival instinct or some other unified purpose. After a moment, Kong bent down and wrapped his massive fingers around her. She was his now.
“Oh, Kong.”
Of course the relationship had a sorry end.
It were beauty that killed the beast.
Jack sat suddenly upright. Of course, it was so obvious. He got to his feet and thumped across the room towards his briefcase, realizing a couple of things.The second of which, that he was a dumb ape.
20
Jack twisted the stem on his watch to adjust for Florida time. It was two days after Carmichael and the RAT man cancelled his highly rated newsmagazine program.
Jack’s father had always said “Never look back, always look forward.” Sadly, it was advice he couldn’t follow himself when his schooner was wrecked up off Nova Scotia. His father survived; his crew didn’t. Caleb Doyle eventually lost his lungs to cancer, but it was self-loathing that really killed him. Shit like that had a habit of sticking to you. It stuck to his dad.
The aircraft banked hard over Panama City, revealing clear blue water and white sugary sand. The plane dropped low over a marina and Jack wondered whether Malloy was down there on his boat, enjoying a frosty beverage before dinner.
Jack had made a hurried trip to Mesner before leaving for Florida. There was something he needed done with the Storozhenko photo, and after listening to Dwayne explain every step of the process, Jack was more than satisfied with the results.
The landing gear came down with a thump. The flight attendant stopped and asked Jack to prepare for arrival. She smiled and Jack could tell she was trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. He was used to it. People sometimes had trouble placing the face.
Thirty minutes after touching down, a cab deposited him at the entrance to Buck’s Marina. A faded sign on the fence advertised full services, including cable and pump out. About a hundred yards in, he spotted the office and laundry and next to it a metal Quonset hut surrounded by outboard motors, oil drums, and a small sailboat heeled over on its gunnels. Jack doubted there’d be any Trans-Atlantic yachts with solid gold faucets docked at Buck’s.
He was second-guessing his decision not to call first. What if Malloy wasn’t in residence? What if he was off at some G-man reunion or something, or chasing the shadows of another cold case? Not much chance of that, Jack figured. Besides, Malloy had said he spent all his time tooling around his boat these days.
Jack suddenly spun on the sound of a vehicle. A pickup truck skidded to a stop inches away. The driver leaned out his window. “Help ya?” Jack was struck by the smell of tobacco and body odour. The man had a grimy stubbled face and looked to Jack like a man who’d beat you senseless for the last drink in the house. Jack wasn’t going to complain about his driving. “Looking for Ed Malloy,” he said. “His boat’s Gee-man.”
Suspicion flashed on the man’s face. “I know what his boat’s called.” He looked Jack up and down and then flicked a butt in the vicinity of his Docksiders. “You a cop?”
Malloy certainly had no worry of law enforcers, so Jack guessed the question was for this bad boy. He spotted a faded jailhouse tattoo on the man’s arm. Some kind of predatory animal. “I’m not a cop,” Jack said. “A friend.”
The man looked doubtful. “Throw your gear in the back and get in,” he grunted.
Jack did as he was told and walked to the passenger door. It opened with a loud groan and he climbed in. “Jack Doyle,” he said sticking out his hand. It hung there like a wax limb. A vanity key ring swinging off the ignition said, “BUCK” in blocky brass letters.
Buck was big, with scarred meaty hands. He had thick muscled arms but the rest of his considerable bulk came from fat, which pushed and tugged at filthy overalls. The other arm was tattooed as well. A line of digits running lengthways from his elbow. A
n inmate number, Jack guessed. Buck stomped on the gas and all of ten seconds later hit the breaks hard. He rolled out of the truck and looked over to see if Jack was following. Jack jumped out and grabbed his stuff.
A security fence ran the width of the property separating the out buildings and a large dirt parking lot from the boat slips. Buck ambled up to a security entrance where he punched in a code, waited for the click, and swung the gate open.
“Slip sixty-two,” he said, stepping aside to allow Jack through. “When you come back out make sure the gate catches. Sometimes we get visitors.”
Jack thanked him and stomped down the ramp. It took him a couple of minutes to get his bearings. The sailboats were parked at slips that stretched further out into the bay on his right. He knew Molloy’s boat would be grouped with the cruisers closer in since they didn’t have keels to worry about. He turned left where the dock hugged the shoreline and continued until he reached slip number fifty. Parked there was a sliver of gleaming white fiberglass with red vinyl seats and splashes of chrome. Two topless beauties were stretched out on towels at the back of the boat. “Nice ship,” Jack said. The girls just giggled. Further along, at slip sixty-two, there was a cabin cruiser, about thirty feet, with a wide fiberglass hull and lots of teak. Jack stopped at the stern, staring at a man who was slouched in a deck chair, a Tilley hat pulled low over his face. There was a beer cooler at his feet and an open magazine on his lap. Jack chuckled. “Permission to come aboard,” he said to a dozing Ed Malloy.
21
Malloy handed Jack a beer and tapped the RPM gauge. “She’ll do eleven knots with the right trim and a good tail wind. Not as quick as that cigarette boat down the way, but I’m not in it for the speed.”
Jack tipped his bottle towards slip number fifty. “In it for the topless hard bodies?”
Malloy smiled. “Barbie and Darbie. Sisters from New Jersey.”
“Kidding.”