by S. W. Capps
Toole wanted to break into Good Morning, America.
“We’re close.” Stacy drew an ice-cold breath, the air reeking. “There!” He pointed to a sheriff’s vehicle, one of eight lining the frozen driveway. Darryl pulled over, passing an Oklahoma Bureau of Narcotics van.
As they walked up the drive, they passed several deputies, some nodding, others ignoring them. Stacy couldn’t help wondering which one tipped off the Klan.
“Bill Stacy!” a voice came from the shadows. “We gotta stop meetin’ like this!” Marv Bridges stepped through the weeds, a windbreaker his only shield against the cold. “Figgered y’all’d be the first ta arrive, ’least nowadays.”
“How are you, Marv?”
“Fair ta middlin’.”
Stacy cut his eyes to the ground. “By the way…” He looked up. “…thanks for your help the other night.”
“Don’t mention it.” He tromped down a path. “This way, fellas. An’ don’t go strayin’ off on your own. This here’s one dangerous crime scene.” Stacy grabbed the tripod, Darryl gulping. “Came upon these boys at two in the mornin’. Had ta be quiet as church mice, too. Listenin’ devices everywhere.”
Stacy stopped at a long-dead hedge. The scene before him was surreal. Portable lights enveloped a crumbling shack, the roof sagging like a mattress. Chickens—most still alive—filled a makeshift coop. And two chained Rottweilers guarded the door. Stacy covered his nose. “What is that?”
“Phenylacitic acid,” the undersheriff answered. “Used in the cookin’ process. Bad stuff, too, but we in the law enforcement community love it. Gives ’em away ever’ time.”
Stacy took notes, Darryl zooming. “How did they survive in these conditions?”
“This ain’t even the worst I’ve seen. Meth labbers don’t need but a little food an’ a lotta dope ta get by. These fellas ate eggs cooked on a propane grill. An’ crapped on the floor when they couldn’t make it ta the outhouse.”
“How did you find them?”
“UPS man tipped us off. Ain’t nobody untouchable. No matter how cut off from the outside world he thinks he is.”
Stacy had a thought. “Any chance we could shoot inside?”
Bridges started to answer, but an OBN agent intervened. “I don’t see why not. As long as we can get a copy of the tape.”
Bridges glanced at Stacy, then pulled the bureau man aside. “Jim, these boys’re friends a’ mine. Not sure I want ’em goin’ in there.”
“Come on, Marv,” the man argued. “You and I both know we’re fighting a losing battle in this state. People need to see what we’re up against.”
Bridges thought for a minute. “Okay. But only the cameraman.”
The agent turned to Stacy. “’Fraid you’re a little tall for the HAZMAT suit.”
“HAZMAT suit?” Darryl spoke up.
“An’ a gas mask,” Bridges added. “Chemicals’ll knock ya for a loop otherwise. An’ there’s always the chance a’ explosion.” Darryl’s face turned cocaine white. “For the record, my vote’s still no, but if Jim’s givin’ his blessin’.”
All eyes were on Darryl. A tick had developed in his left cheek, his pupils big as aggies. He wasn’t used to making decisions. “I’d like to call my wife.”
“Darryl,” Stacy fumed, “these guys crap on the floor, for God’s sake! They’re not going to have a phone.”
“I can radio her from the car. We have a CB at home!”
The lawmen smirked, Stacy frowning.
“All right, but make it fast. The competition’ll be here any—”
“You must be psychic, Bill.” Everyone turned as a muscular cameraman stomped through the grass. “Psychic powers and diplomatic grace with the KKK? You’re a man of many talents.” Stacy sent Darryl on his way, the Channel 2 camera op slipping on a plastic suit. The next few minutes passed like hours, an icy breeze stirring the dogwoods. As a rooster crowed, Darryl squeezed through the boscage.
“Sorry, my wife said no.”
Stacy nodded, disappointed but sympathetic. He wasn’t sure he’d have gone in either, not with the info Bridges supplied. If Stacy didn’t know better, he’d swear the undersheriff was looking out for him. “Okay. More exteriors then.”
As Darryl manned the camera, Stacy’s gut twisted. He hoped Toole—and more importantly Wilhelm—wouldn’t be watching Channel 2 tonight.
***
“It must be eighty degrees in here.” Katie fanned herself with a copy of her script, Stacy lowering the thermostat. He’d worked all day to clean his apartment, even found the source of the ‘mystery stench’—a dead rat behind the fridge.
“I just can’t shake this cold.” He carried her plate to the sink, having prepared his mother’s Irish Pot Roast. As always, she’d eaten next to nothing. “I’m not complaining. At least I’m still employed.” Darryl Rogers was not. Turns out Wilhelm did watch Channel 2, firing the cameraman the minute he saw him.
Katie plucked her lead-in from the Underwood. “How many live shots are you up to?”
“Counting yesterday…” The scanner chirped behind him. “...ten.”
Things had indeed been hectic. If he wasn’t going live at noon, six, or ten, it was Katie or one of the others. The new live truck had taken over everyone’s life. In the last month, he and Katie had worked on her writing twice, met for dinner once—and had sex less than that.
She handed him her script, then walked to the refrigerator. “Did I tell you I talked to Phil?” He shook his head, reading the new lead-in. Helping Katie with her writing had replaced working on his own. “He didn’t sound good. He’s living at home and working at Dairy Queen to pay for the tapes he’s sending out.” Stacy glanced at the closet—he’d shoved his demos inside before Katie arrived—then back at the script. “And he was crushed when Raul got that reporter’s job in Springfield.”
“This is much stronger, Katie. It gets right to the point, even frightens the viewer a little. I think Toole would love it.”
“You do?” She opened a beer, voice quivering with schoolgirl hope.
“I do.” She sat down next to him, offering a sip. Stacy shook his head. “I’d hate to pass this cold on to you.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Their lips met with the fire of long-parted lovers. He’d failed to realize how much he missed her touch, her incredible skin. Dropping the script, he swept his hands over her body. She unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled at her top. In no time, they were aroused to the point of eruption.
“Make love to me!” she demanded.
As he unhooked her bra, something stopped him. “What did you do?”
She pulled back, then looked to the floor. “Nothing, Stacy…” He continued to stare. “…I just…had a little surgery, that’s all…when I went home for the holidays.” She waited for a response. None came. “It’s no big deal.”
He’d suspected it for weeks. His suspicions were now confirmed.
Her new breasts were huge, as large—if not larger—than Lisa’s.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with our new co-anchor, does it?”
“Of course not!” she fired back. “How could you even think that?”
“Well…” He hesitated. “…it just seems odd that a month after we hire—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She pulled away, re-fastening her bra.
“How could you afford something like that?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but my father paid for it.”
“Your father? But I thought—”
“It was a gift, okay? He asked me what I wanted for Christmas. And that’s what I told him. Jesus, Stacy, most men would be happy!”
“I want you to be happy.”
“I am.” Her expression said otherwise.
He thought about leaving it at that—but didn’t. “Because it’s a hell of a price to pay if you’re doing it for the wrong reasons…and I just think…well…I liked you better when you were all real.”
It was a horrible choice of words, but editing was impossible.
“All real?” She shot to her feet, re-buttoning her blouse. “And just how real are you, ‘Bill Stacy’?” He tried to calm her, but she wouldn’t have it. “We’ve been seeing each other for months. How much have you told me about yourself?” She stuffed a foot in her pump. “I don’t know any more about you today than I did at Turner Falls. You’re a closed book. Too damn perfect to let anyone in.” She stepped into her other shoe. “Well, some of us aren’t perfect. Some of us have to do whatever it takes to make it in this business. And some of us have feelings. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Katie, listen—”
“No, you listen!” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “You don’t know what I’ve been through! You have no idea what it’s like to have a father who looks at you the way my father looks at me!” She stomped to the door and turned. “And until you do, don’t judge me! Don’t ever judge me!” She flung it open and stormed away, rattling the new window.
Jesus, so much for honesty! But deep down, he knew she was right. He hadn’t shared his feelings with her, hadn’t opened up about anything. As the scanner blipped, he looked to the framed photos on the table. She was right about something else, too.
He had no idea what it was like to have a father like Katie’s.
He had no idea what it was like to have a father at all.
Chapter 7
February 1988
(NEWSWIRE): FLORIDA GRAND JURY INDICTS GEN. MANUEL NORIEGA ON DRUG CHARGES ... TELEVANGELIST JIMMY SWAGGART BEGS CONGREGATION’S FORGIVENESS FOR ‘UN-SPECIFIED SIN’ ... CHRISTIANS AND MOSLEMS CLASH IN SOVIET REPUBLIC, LEAVING 31 DEAD
Larry Toole was born on April Fool’s Day. But his arrival was no joke. His parents had tried for years to have children. When they stopped trying, Larry Albert Toole II ‘reported live’ on the scene. Tipping the scales at just two-and-a-half pounds, the scrawny preemie was offered little hope. But the Tooles had money, Larry, Sr. an oil man, Evelyn an attorney. Ignoring their doctor’s advice, they chartered a plane to Europe, walking out of a clinic five weeks later with a healthy baby boy. It wasn’t theirs, of course. But a young nurse was able to retire early on what the Tooles paid her to make the switch. And the baby’s real parents, a blue-collar couple from Sweden, buried ‘their child’ a week later.
Little Larry grew up on the right side of the tracks. Went to the best schools. Wore the nicest clothes. As a result, money meant nothing to him. Fame was what he wanted. And power.
In high school, he landed a job as a DJ. His shift ran from midnight to four, but he had no trouble staying up—sleep was less important to him than money. His late-night program got so popular, the station moved him to primetime, clearing the wee hours for his other passion—terrorizing the local community. He and his friends trespassed, ‘borrowed’ cars, and used drugs, all with regularity.
By the time he graduated high school, Toole had a rap sheet longer than the Cimarron. To avoid prosecution, his parents struck a deal with the D.A. Their son would go to college out of state, returning home only after he received a degree—a Broadcast Journalism degree, as it turned out. With delinquency behind him, he could focus on becoming the best reporter UT ever turned out. He spoke like his network heroes, even dressed like them, amassing a wardrobe that rivaled Cronkite’s. And when he graduated top of his class, he knew just where he wanted to go—KEGT in Avalon. A month after hiring on, Toole aired an exposé on the D.A.’s office, causing three people to lose their jobs, the prosecutor who’d banished him landing in prison.
Revenge was sweet. And so was the TV news business.
“Katie, Stacy.” He waved them into his office. “You two are working together today.” They glanced at each other, not having spoken in days. Stacy knew the quarrel was his fault but was too stubborn to admit it. “Just got a call on the hotline.” Toole had instituted a ‘Great 8 Tip Number’ to elicit story ideas, running flashy bumpers at the end of every news promo. It was starting to pay off. “Guy from the Rowdywear plant.”
“The pants manufacturer?” Katie asked.
Toole nodded. “Seems the owner’s bouncing checks. Workers haven’t been paid in weeks. The ones who haven’t walked are ready to revolt. Tipster says if they don’t get paid by closing time, they’re going to demonstrate in front of the plant. And here’s the best part. He only called one station.”
“You think the owner’ll talk to us?”
“Who gives a fuck?” Toole lit a cig. “What’s he going to say? ‘Times are hard?’ ‘We’re doing what we can?’ It’s all bullshit anyway. Besides, why create sympathy for the man? This story’s about the little guy. It’s big business versus the non-unionized laborer. I want you there at five sharp. Shoot the demonstration. Talk to employees. Get someone—anyone—to go on camera and condemn the front office. And when it comes to the owner…well…we’ll just say he’s unavailable for comment.”
Stacy shifted in his seat. “Is that really fair?”
“No less fair than failing to pay your employees.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Larry,” Katie offered, chest out.
Stacy shot her a glance. “One more question...why both of us?”
He raised the KOOL to his lips. “New concept I’m testing out. Team coverage. ‘Reporter A’ covers one angle, ‘Reporter B’ another. Then we use the truck for back-to-back live shots.” He paused to blow smoke. “Stacy, you’re on the main story—the payroll problems, the disgruntled workers. Katie, you do the related piece— ‘What Would a Plant Closing Mean to the Local Economy?’” He smiled, smoke encircling his head like a riot helmet.
“It’s ratings month again. I want our friends at Channels 2 and 7 to know they’re in for a dogfight. Any questions?” They shook their heads. “Good…” He pointed to the door. “…as in good-bye!”
***
The drive to Rowdywear, Inc. that afternoon was a long one. A freak storm had dumped six inches of snow on Avalon, painting the landscape a shimmery white. The competition would lead their newscasts with weather stories. Channel 8 had other ideas.
“So,” Stacy broke the week-long silence, “did you get the bites you needed?”
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?”
“Look, Katie…about the other night…” He turned on Main, passing a snowplow. “…I didn’t mean what I said…I was in shock! I mean, you have to admit, that was some surprise.”
The hurt in her eyes faded. “I know it was. And I meant to tell you. It’s just…” She smiled. “…how do you bring something like that up? ‘Sorry about your chest cold, Stacy. And speaking of chests, I had my boobs done.’”
They laughed awkwardly, Stacy taking her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge you. I just didn’t want you to think you had to change.” He hesitated. “I like you the way you are.”
She leaned in to kiss him, but the scene outside stopped her. “My goodness!”
Across the way, three hundred people filled the parking lot, some carrying signs, others chanting. The demonstration was larger than expected. When Toole saw the video, he’d be giddier than a dog in heat. “There’s Brannuck.” The engineer stood next to the live truck, ankle-deep in powder.
“Y’all ready to edit?” he shouted as the Escort swerved to a stop.
“She is.” Stacy reached in the backseat, handing Katie her tape.
“Need any help, sweetie?”
“No…” He glanced at his watch. “…I’ve got a whole hour before we go live!”
She smiled again. “Thanks for the apology, Stacy.”
“Sorry it took so long.”
She moved to the truck, Stacy facing the mob—it looked like ‘double-coupon day’ at the Piggly-Wiggly! Camera rolling, he went to work. There was plenty of B-roll to be had, but only two people agreed to speak on-camera, neither offering much insight.
Then he met Ernest Farmer.
The company bookkeeper was nervous. He hande
d Stacy a stack of ledgers that included high-dollar payments to the owner’s wife and sons. “He’s paying off gambling debts with our money. Has been for months. Pays his family out of the coffers, then they pay the bookies.”
Stacy couldn’t believe his ears. “Let me get the tripod.”
“No cameras. Damn things give me the shakes. But I’d swear to it in court.” He lit a cigarette. “I’ll probably have to.”
Stacy begged him to reconsider, then bolted for the car. “Mobil 1 to Base!” He kept Farmer in his sights, Toole answering. “Larry, I’ve got a situation.” He paused to catch his breath, the news director jumping in.
“Enlighten me.”
Stacy recapped the bookkeeper’s claims. “What do you think?”
“I think we just hit the jackpot!”
“But I can’t verify his story.” He glanced at his watch again. “Not in the next twenty minutes anyway. And he won’t go on camera.”
“You let me worry about that. Just get me your piece by 5:50.”
5:50? That gave him ten minutes to write, edit, and send. “Mobil 1 out!” He scratched out a script and sprinted for the truck. It took a new personal record, but Stacy pulled it off, Brannuck microwaving his package at 5:49.
“Stand by,” the engineer hollered. As Stacy hit his mark, Katie manned the camera. Watching his piece on the live truck monitor, he fought hard to control his pulse. But it soared at the end of his package—a man appeared in silhouette, a rather obese man, his voice electronically garbled. The C.G. read Unnamed Source, Rowdywear, Inc. But the man on-screen was unmistakably Bub DeSpain, reciting the gambling allegations like a company insider.
Stacy knew Toole was capable of stretching the truth. But faking an interview? This was too much.