by S. W. Capps
State officials had released a study showing slight increases in Oklahoma child abuse cases. Toole saw it as an attention-grabbing six o’clock kicker. “A deadly trend,” he called it, “one linked to the spiraling Texomaland economy.”
He’d already written the lead-in.
“It’s a child abuse piece,” Stacy explained, “so make sure you shoot from a distance. No faces. We don’t want any false light lawsuits.”
The new camera op climbed from the car, his expression dark. He was more than familiar with today’s topic, having grown up in one of the poorest sections of Oklahoma City. Grabbing the gear, he dropped to one knee and aimed his lens at the sun.
“What are you doing?” Stacy leaped from the car. “You’ll burn the tubes!”
The man turned. “We’re still usin’ tube cameras?” Stacy nodded. “Dude, that ain’t gonna work. That ain’t gonna work at all!”
“It’s going to have to work. It’s all we’ve got.”
He climbed to his feet, clearly irritated. “How am I s’posed to give you anything creative with this old door stop?”
“Not my problem.” Stacy was getting irritated as well—he still had a standup and three interviews to shoot. He thought for a moment. “You want creative?” He walked to the sandbox and picked up a ball, placing it in front of the camera. “Frame your shot with the ball in the foreground, the kids in the distance.” The man didn’t move. “Now what’s wrong?”
“I ain’t gonna shoot that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a trumped-up shot. This is news. We’re s’posed to shoot what we see, not what we want to see.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! This isn’t Journalism school.” Stacy tossed his Steno and took over. “Do you know how much work we have today?” The cameraman shrugged. “A lot, that’s how much.”
Stacy had never been prone to outbursts. But deadline pressure did things to people, lack of sleep only adding to the problem. He zoomed in and hit RECORD. Perhaps the biggest surprise wasn’t the outburst itself but the realization that things were changing—he was changing.
And not necessarily for the better.
***
“You know what to do, a shot of the defendants, a few cutaways.” Bub DeSpain nodded, Stacy heading for the courtroom. As he pushed through the door, he ran into Marv Bridges.
“Watch it, young man.” The undersheriff offered his bigger-than-life grin. “Ya wanna be arrested for assault on an officer?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. An’ ya shoulda been arrested for that Thanksgivin’ piece ya did. ‘The Dangers a’ Overcookin’ a Turkey’? That was a crime burnin’ a bird like that!”
Stacy smiled. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Didn’t think it was. Told the wife ya had more sense.”
“You watch Channel 8 every night?”
“Figger since the fourth estate’s watchin’ me, I best be doin’ the same with them. ’Sides…” He winked. “…I like that Katie Powers.”
Stacy flushed red—did Bridges know something? “You don’t have a Nielsen box, do you?”
“Only box I got near the TV’s a box a’ Cheese Nips. An’ it gets plenty a’ use.”
“All rise.”
Both turned to see Judge Harold Brinkman enter, wearing a tattered robe and a scowl. After a nod, Bridges moved to the back wall, Stacy sitting.
As the bailiff riffled through information, reporters took notes, Bub shooting through the window. Cameras weren’t allowed in Judge Brinkman’s courtroom. He felt they impeded the judicial process.
“Harold Albert Griggs and Edna Maxine Griggs, you’ve been charged by the state of Oklahoma with possession of marijuana and possession with intent to distribute.” Stacy recognized the couple from their unflattering mug shots. They shared a public defender. “You wish to make a plea?”
“We do, your honor,” the lawyer spoke up. “My clients would like to plead guilty to the first count. Not guilty to the second count.”
The judge reviewed his notes, then turned to Harold Griggs. “Sir, according to these charges, ten bundles of marijuana were harvested from your property. Do you expect this court to believe you grew a hundred-and-fifty pounds of marijuana and had no intent to distribute it?”
“Hell, yeah…” His attorney elbowed him. “…I mean…yes, yer honor.”
The magistrate peered down through half-moon spectacles. “Just what were you planning to do with it then?”
Harold Griggs looked at his lawyer, then back at the judge. “I’s gonna smoke it.”
Several onlookers chuckled, the Assistant D.A. and court stenographer among them. As Stacy glanced around the room, everyone seemed to be smiling—everyone but Bridges. For the first time Stacy could remember, his friendly expression was gone, replaced by one of hatred. Apparently, the man found no humor in what this, or any other, drug pusher had to say.
***
The phone rang six times before he found the handset. “H-h-hello.”
“Stacy. Larry Toole.” Half-asleep, Stacy stared at the clock—3:00 a.m. “I just got off the phone with Julius. He’ll meet you there.” The man sounded wired, Stacy still in a fog. “The fire’s at the old mill.” Fire? His senses racked into focus. “According to the scanner, it’s a three bagger.”
Stacy stared at the device next to his bed. He’d killed it around midnight, unable to sleep.
“You dressed?”
“Yeah…” He climbed to his feet. “…I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Sooner the better.” Click. Stacy moved to the bathroom, splashing water against his face. A minute later, he was dressed and headed for the car.
Climbing in the Celica was like stepping into a meat locker. It took five minutes to defrost the windshield, another ten to make it across town. As he turned on Martin Luther King—formerly 3rd Avenue—he saw the yellow-orange glow, the building fully engulfed. He wondered how the fire started. The place hadn’t been used in years. That meant no electricity and no vindictive employees. He looked to the cloudless sky. Lightning hadn’t started it, that was for sure.
He rolled to a stop, taken aback by the sheer size of the blaze. Flames leaped fifty feet in the air, smoke replacing stars. He’d never seen a fire of this magnitude. He was struck by its formidableness—its power.
“What’s up, dude?” Julius waved, mounting a Sony DXC-3000 to the tripod.
“Where did that come from?”
The cameraman grinned, teeth showing over a ratty scarf. “Don’t worry ’bout where it came from. Just be glad we got it.” He hooked the camera to the deck and began shooting, first a wide shot, then a series of close-ups. His gloved hands worked quickly, panning, zooming, then hoisting the new toy to his shoulder. “Now for the good shit!” He headed straight for the fire, ducking under the caution tape when no one was looking. Stacy thought he was crazy. He was also damn glad to have him. By now, Darryl would’ve called home twice and Bub would be looking for marshmallows.
The fire roared for two-and-a-half hours, the unbearable heat making Stacy forget the winter. In many ways, it seemed a living thing, angry and unconquerable. But three fire units eventually tamed the beast. By six in the morning, flames were a memory.
Channel 2 showed up at 6:15, Channel 7 an hour later. Julius, sweat-soaked and soot-covered, had already captured three twenty-minute loads, Stacy having interviewed Roy Maghee, two witnesses, and an ex-mill foreman.
It didn’t happen often, but Channel 8 had scooped the competition.
Stacy and Julius returned to the station, conquering heroes. Toole was ecstatic. Amy Chow blocked time for her new lead story. After drinking half the water cooler, Julius headed to the edit booth, Stacy sitting down to type.
An hour later, he got the call from Maghee. “The mill fire was suspicious.”
Stacy leaned forward, still covered in ash. “Meaning?”
There was a long pause. “Meaning the actual cause hasn’t been determine
d. But all accidental causes have been ruled out.”
When Stacy told Toole, the man rejoiced. Now in addition to exclusive footage, he had a legitimate lead!
At 12:01, Toole leaned into camera, trying his best to look humble. “Good day, Texomaland. Investigators are calling it arson…”
***
Roy Maghee pressed the buzzer, juggling presents as he reached for a cigarette. His wife’s stare said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’ After twelve years of marriage, the pair could speak volumes without uttering a word.
Marv Bridges opened the door. “Well, if it ain’t the ‘Princess an’ the Pauper’.” Tanya Maghee smiled. Her husband didn’t. “Kaye’s in the kitchen, havin’ a go at the goose. Make sure she don’t overcook it this year.” The woman hugged him on her way past, the place unkempt as ever.
“Merry Christmas, Ebenezer.”
“Ya work all day on that one?”
Maghee handed him the gifts. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
Bridges stared at the presents. Had it really been two years since the Maghees gave Jake that tackle box? The kid’s smile had lit the room. “Lemme guess…fruitcake an’ Cold Duck.” His guest nodded. “Not exactly Waterford crystal, but thanks.”
Maghee walked to the fireplace, trying to get warm. There was no Christmas tree. No carols being played on the console. It was downright depressing—same as last year. “You going to break into Jingle Bells or are we going to crack that Duck?”
“Kaye…” The undersheriff hollered. “…we’re goin’ outside ta inspect that deck I been meanin’ ta put in.” As usual, there was no response. Grabbing a hat, he led his friend through the back door.
“That’s a fire hazard, you know.” Maghee pointed to a wad of extension cords, each leading to a dust-covered power tool.
“Ah, well…” Bridges half-smiled. “…ain’t like we got much ta lose.” He looked to the dirt in the backyard. “I was gonna put in one a’ them fancy gazebos. Plant some trees maybe.” He turned back to his friend. “Can’t never seem ta find the time.”
“You’ll get to it.”
Bridges shrugged, popping the plastic cork. “Guess I shoulda grabbed a glass. We’ll have ta make like the old days.” He raised the bottle and chugged, then passed it to Maghee.
The man sipped, lighting a cigarette. “You remember the time we caught those bass at Muxie’s pond?”
Bridges looked indignant. “You mean, I caught ’em. You just snagged logs.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
He grabbed the bottle back.
“We filled three ice chests with fish,” Maghee continued, “then took them to the high school in the back of that old Chevy I bought.”
“We bought. An’, yeah, I ’member. It was one a’ the few times it ran.”
The investigator took a drag. “It was pitch dark when we got there. Couldn’t see the ground beneath us. But somehow we managed to dump all those fish in the pool before hightailing it home.”
Bridges chuckled, bumming a cigarette. “Not sure how we made it home after all them beers. Circulated a petition the next day, askin’ for the day off on account a’ the ‘Christmas Miracle in the Swimmin’ Pool’.” Both men laughed. “Said it was bigger’n Mary givin’ birth in the stables! Even threatened ta call the papers.”
Maghee flicked ash in an empty pot. “Only papers we got were the ones serving us detention. I told you I had a bad feeling.” Even then, Maghee was famous for his bad feelings. They were rarely wrong.
“How’s I s’posed ta ’member we had three ice chests instead a’ two.”
“You could’ve at least grabbed the one with my name on it!”
They laughed again, downing more champagne. But as Maghee took another hit, his expression grew serious.
“I’ve got another bad feeling, Marv.” The lawmen looked at each other, smoke wafting between them. “Whoever set that mill fire knew what he was doing.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt. “I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of him.”
***
Stacy knelt at the doorstep, snow falling in wispy flurries. Three letters and a package blocked his path. He grabbed them on the way in. It was pushing midnight. He’d worked another twelve-hour shift, then gone shopping, anxious to get a frozen pizza in the oven.
But like ‘the cat’, curiosity was killing him.
He set everything down and opened the package. It held one of his demo tapes, with a note from the CBS affiliate in Boise. Thanks for submitting your work, but we’ve hired another candidate. The letters were much the same, offering words like however and unfortunately. The last letter wasn’t a letter at all, just a copy of Stacy’s resume, the words NO THANKS scrawled at the top.
He stared at the pile, trying to decide what he was feeling. Strangely enough, it was relief. A lot had happened since he mailed those tapes. Katie had happened. And though staying in Avalon wasn’t part of his plan…maybe it was the right thing for now.
He reached in the bag and pulled out a Heineken. Stacy didn’t treat himself to expensive beer often, but it was New Year’s Eve—and his birthday! Born at 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 1964, he was the last ‘Baby Boomer’. He opened the beer and drank, setting the bottle next to the Underwood. As he stared at the keys, his mind drifted back to his twelfth birthday. His mother had wrapped a cigar box in newspaper. Inside, a note told him to look in his room. When he did, he found the typewriter sitting on his desk, a huge red ribbon tied to the space bar.
It was the greatest gift he’d ever received.
This year, his mother sent him a pair of galoshes and three new ties. He hadn’t made it home for the holidays. He’d spent Christmas alone, Katie having used vacation time to be with her family in Texas. She’d called once or twice but sounded distracted. Chip Hale had invited Stacy to a New Year’s Eve party, but, as always, he declined.
He fired up the oven and turned on the radio. As he drank, he stared at the empty room. In the corner, miniature lights blinked on a dying Christmas tree. In the window, a strand of tinsel formed a melancholy smile.
“Happy New Year, Avalon,” a voice echoed through the speakers. “This is Nate Shefler, wishing you all the best in the coming year. May your goals be met, your resolutions realized, and your dreams come true.”
As Auld Lang Syne played again and again, Stacy killed his beer. He’d never felt so alone in his life. So filled with questions about where life was taking him.
The new year would bring answers.
Some he was ready for. Some not.
Chapter 6
January 1988
(NEWSWIRE): VICE PRES. BUSH AND CBS NEWS ANCHOR DAN RATHER SPAR ON LIVE TV OVER V.P.’s ROLE IN IRAN-ARMS DEAL ... SCIENTISTS WARN OF ‘RADON GAS’ DANGERS TO AMERICAN HOMES ... REDSKINS DEFEAT BRONCOS 42–10 IN SUPER BOWL XXII
Stacy stared at his desk calendar. 1988. The number looked strange. Futuristic. In the year to come, a black man would make a serious run at the White House. The space shuttle would soar again. And GM would proclaim, “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile.” On TV, Geraldo would break his nose in a brawl with white supremacists, Donahue would wear a dress, and Oprah would shed sixty pounds. Is Elvis alive? It’s a question people would be asking. And those same people would elect the country’s 41st president, George Herbert Walker Bush, who promised, “A kinder, gentler nation.”
“Quiet down, people!” A hush fell over the newsroom as Dick Wilhelm entered, smiling. It wasn’t the smile he used on advertisers. The G.M. actually looked happy—jubilant in fact. “I trust you all had a pleasant holiday.” Stacy surveyed the room. Everyone was there but Katie. She’d driven back late last night and had probably overslept. He hoped Wilhelm wouldn’t notice. “I have a surprise for you. Follow me.”
They moved down the hall in a nervous procession, Thad making arm motions to mimic a freight train. When they passed Toole’s office, the news director spoke into the phone—pacing, smoking.
Cold fire greeted them as they filed outside, the January sun obscuring their view. “This way, people.” Like a well-dressed Moses, Wilhelm led his followers around the corner, not to the ‘Land of Promise’, but to the next best thing—at least in his eyes. “There it is. Our chariot to glory!”
The crew looked puzzled, Stacy stepping past Reg McNair—no one could see over that pompadour. On the patchy snow sat an Econoline van, equipped with all-terrain tires and a telescoping microwave. The back doors were open, a man with wild hair and a Great 8 parka polishing the console. “What is it?” someone asked.
Wilhelm faced the crowd. “This, my little friends, is what separates us from the competition.” As he moved forward, Katie tiptoed in from the rear. She wore a pretty new dress—a Christmas gift, no doubt—so formfitting it made her breasts look two sizes larger. Stacy couldn’t stop staring.
“You’re looking at Texomaland’s first—and only—live truck. And tomorrow, it’s going to have the Great 8 logo emblazoned on both sides!” Several people pushed forward, Julius leading the way. “As you can see, I’ve spared no expense. There’s an edit bay, an audio suite, and enough generator power to light Avalon for a month.” Stacy peered into the van. The accommodations were indeed plush, the impressive control panel blinking red, white, and blue—a silent tribute to the U.S. of A.
“I’ve done my job, people. Now it’s your turn.” He pointed to the man in the parka. “I want you to keep Brannuck here hopping.” The G.M. had emancipated Don Brannuck from the ENGINEERS room. And with an extra dime an hour in his pocket, he had no intention of going back. “This is the best system money can buy, and you can bet your life we’re going to use it. I want to go live at noon, six, and ten. I want to knock Channels 2 and 7 on their unsuspecting asses!”