by S. W. Capps
“Any other news crews there?”
Stacy looked over his shoulder. “Not yet.”
“Outstanding!” Rescuers pulled the other victim from the water, dodging smoke and flames. “I need you to wade out there and stand next to the firemen. I want it to look like you’re helping.”
Stacy stared at the handset. “Are you nuts?”
“Not even close. And make sure Julius shoots everything.”
“But they don’t need me out there. And besides, I’m wearing a suit!”
“I’ll pay for your fucking dry cleaning!”
This was a new low. Someone’s life was being destroyed. And all his boss could think of was the next Great 8 news promo. With the boat racing for shore, Stacy had to make a decision.
Dammit!
He tore out for the ramp, kicking off his shoes. The water was surprisingly warm, the concrete slope thick with algae. Navigating the muck, he signaled Julius, the stunned camera op turning his lens on the reporter-turned-rescuer. Stacy felt like a complete jerk when he joined the firefighters, none of them saying a word. As the boat slowed, the men on board barely looked his way. Why should they? They had real work to do.
They passed the first victim to a fireman, who sent him up the line, an ambulance waiting on shore. As Stacy reached out to ‘help’, he saw the man’s skin, pink and bubbling. He wanted to run, to climb out of the water and drive straight home to his mother. But that wasn’t an option anymore. His boss had given him an order. And, yes, he could’ve said no, could’ve told him to ‘go jump in a lake’. But he didn’t.
And that sickened him more than the scene before him.
The second victim, a woman, was clearly dead. A third victim, the couple’s two-year-old son, was never found. Stacy went live from the scene at six, the last insult of the day coming when Toole asked him to wade back in the water moments before air.
He wanted his clothes to look wetter.
***
Stacy hurried through the kitchen, he and Julius running late. “Hey, Jul—” He opened the door, stopping cold. The man was putting his shirt on, a galaxy of scars, burns, and welts on his exposed back.
Stacy toppled into a vacuum, memories flashing like lightning. When he landed, he was back in Portland. On 78th Street, the band of thugs surrounding him in the alley. “Ain’t got no momma to save you now, do you, white boy?” Indeed, he didn’t. Helen Zwardowski had gone to the store and wouldn’t be back for hours. “And you ain’t never had no daddy!” Nothing hurt worse than references to his father. Not a punch in the gut, a jab to the eye, or a kick in the head—all of which he was about to receive.
“Why are you doing this?” he heard his eight-year-old voice beg.
“’Cause you ain’t like us!” Dexter Monroe answered, his cronies closing in. The first blow buckled Stacy’s knees. After that, it was a firestorm of fists and feet. Facedown on the asphalt, he thought he’d imagined his mother’s voice. But when he wiped the blood from his eyes, he saw her. Hearing screams when she returned for her grocery list, Helen Zwardowski burst out the back door, grabbing Stacy’s attackers and tossing them aside. All but Dexter Monroe, that is. He was considerably larger than the rest. It took all the strength she had to pull the bully off her son. In the process, she ripped his T-shirt, exposing his back. The other boys stopped and stared, as did Stacy’s mother. The young man’s back was covered with the same scars as Julius’, some fresh, some dark with age. Stacy would never forget what happened next. The 78th Street bully, the kid who’d tortured him for more than a year, took out in a dead sprint, wailing at the top of his lungs, “You ain’t no better than me!” His followers watched in silence, then filed away, their eyes conveying the same defiant pride as Julius Candelle’s.
“Sorry…” Stacy watched as Julius pulled his shirt down, his mind still reeling. “…are you…ready?”
The cameraman nodded, turning away.
As Stacy backed off, he licked his lips, tasting blood again. He wanted to ask Julius about what he’d seen. Wanted to offer comfort. But he knew that was impossible. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
Jesus, Jul! They were bound to see each other without a shirt on once in a while. Why hadn’t he told him? Isn’t that what friends were for? Stacy frowned, making his way outside. What did he know about friendship? And what had he ever told Julius?
As he walked to the Escort, he did what he always did—buried the new image with the old. One day, he’d go looking for them. But not today.
He climbed in the car and waited, glancing at the house next door. A silhouette filled the window, their neighbor staring him down again. In the two months they’d lived next to Earl Reeves—they’d gotten his name from a misdelivered letter—he’d yet to wave or say “hello”. But his gaze spoke volumes. Chief Allenbaugh said he had “lotsa eyes in this town”. Maybe two belonged to ‘Redneck Earl’.
As a police cruiser passed, Julius walked out to the car. Without a word, they fastened their seatbelts and drove to work.
***
As he rolled into Sulphur, he clicked on the radio, KAVN offering a New Age instrumental. The station was making every effort to distance itself from Nate Shefler, a format change—one emphasizing music over murderous DJs—the latest strategy.
Stacy was meeting Katie at the Chickasaw Motor Inn. Although he had serious doubts, he wanted to see if they could rekindle what they once had.
But there was something he needed to do first.
He stopped at Pearl’s, rushing inside. Across the way, Marv Bridges waved from a booth, Stacy apologizing for being late.
“They actually give ya a day off, huh?” Stacy sat, the undersheriff removing his worn but ‘lucky’ fishing hat.
“Thanks for coming, Marv.”
Doris dropped off menus and iced teas. “Your treat, Bill?” Stacy nodded. He ordered the deluxe chicken dinner. “An’ add me some extra gravy, will ya, hun?”
Stacy chose the French Dip, then turned to the matter at hand. “I need to be straight with you.” The lawman raised an eyebrow. “First off, my real name’s Stacy. Stacy Zwardowski. This whole ‘Bill Stacy’ thing wasn’t my idea. And if you want to know the truth, it’s worn itself pretty thin.”
“’Magine it has. Pro’ly feels like you’re lyin’ ever’ time ya open your mouth.” He didn’t know the half of it. “’Course, I’d bet dollars ta donuts ya ain’t the only one.”
“You’d win that bet.” Doris delivered bread, Bridges grabbing a roll. “So have you had any luck with what I asked for?”
The man raised his other eyebrow. “Hell, I figgered we could have us a little lunch conversation—maybe even talk some football—’fore we got down ta business.”
“Sorry.” Stacy checked the clock. “I’m meeting someone at two.”
“I’m guessin’ she’s prettier’n me?” Stacy blushed. “All right, let’s get after it then.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I didn’t find much, Bill…er…Stacy. This here Toole fella ain’t got no record ta speak of. Parkin’ ticket here an’ there. Speedin’ violation. But nothin’ criminal.”
“Are you sure you looked everywhere?”
Bridges cocked his head to one side. “What exactly is it you’re lookin’ for?”
Stacy trusted the undersheriff. But he didn’t want to say—not yet. “When I find it, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Son…” The man stared. “…are you all right?”
The question took Stacy aback. He thought he’d tucked everything away, the concern for his friend, the pain from his childhood—the guilt. “I’m fine.”
There was a long silence before Bridges continued. Finally, “When ya become an adult, your juvenile records’re sealed. Makes it a whole lot harder for anyone ta get ’hold of ’em. But I can tell ya someone who knows an awful lot ’bout Larry Toole, the boy.”
Stacy leaned forward.
“Name’s Russell Longdale. He was the Dexter County D.A. ten years ag
o. Lost his job. Got debarred. Even did some time. But don’t let that fool ya. He’s a damn good fella.” He paused to sip tea. “Lives up in Coalgate now. Keeps to hisself mostly. I don’t know if he’ll talk ta ya, but if ya wanna learn more ’bout your boss, I’d start there.”
As Doris brought their meals, Stacy closed his Steno. “Thanks. This helps a lot.” He took a moment to unfold his napkin, placing it in his lap.
Bridges stared, a look of disquiet moving over his face.
“What is it, Marv?”
The undersheriff shook his head. “Nothin’, Stacy.” If Stacy didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was fighting back tears. They ate their lunches in silence, Bridges, when finished, pulling out a pen. “I need ya ta promise me somethin’.” He wrote his number on a business card. “If ya ever need me—for anythin’—you call me, okay?”
Stacy slipped the card in his pocket. “Count on it, Marv.”
They stood, Bridges grabbing his hat as they moved for the door. “Well, good luck with your two o’clock meetin’.”
Stacy glanced at his watch.
In ten minutes, he was going to need all the luck he could get.
***
He stared at the ceiling. She lit a Virginia Slim. “That was great.”
“Yeah, great.”
Stacy coughed, wondering when his girlfriend took up smoking. “Missed you.”
“Missed you, too.”
They shifted and stirred, both trying to get comfortable.
“Isn’t it great about the ratings?”
“What ratings?”
“You didn’t hear?” Her smile lit the room. “Larry announced it yesterday. We finished second again, but only a point behind Channel 2!” He shook his head, wondering why no one had told him. Since moving to Clarion, he and Julius had been made to feel like a pair of Gilligan-esque castaways.
“Would’ve been nice to hear it from my boss.”
“Oh…I’m sure Larry meant to tell you.” She blew a white trail. “We’ve just been so busy. Seems like every day we’re off to a mall opening, or a pep rally, or—”
“Gee, all that and he still has time to invent the news.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He peered through the smoke. “You know what it means, Katie. Our newscast is a joke. And Toole’s the punch line!”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“Do you even listen to what you read on the prompter? Toole’s orchestrating everything at Channel 8, the stories we do, the live shots—”
“That’s his job, sweetie.”
“Was it his job to send Julius to a Klan rally? Or have me jump in a lake and pretend to help rescuers? How about putting me on set an hour after I survived a tornado?” She tried to say something, but he kept going. “He’s shot fake interviews, aired phony live shots, even dropped bogus tips on the competition. The man’ll do anything for ratings, Katie!”
“Stacy.” She flashed a condescending smile. “I think you’re exaggerating.”
“If there’s no news, he creates news. You saw what he did last week. He set that cop up. Chip said he bragged all over the newsroom the next day.”
“If Larry’s guilty of anything, it’s being a workaholic. I mean, the man never sleeps.” How would she know that? “News is his life, Stacy. And regardless of how you feel about him, you can’t argue with success.”
“Is that all you care about?”
“Why shouldn’t I care about it?” Her eyes looked duller than he remembered. “We finished a point behind Channel 2. We’ve never even come close to those numbers. And if you ask me, Larry’s a hundred percent responsible.” She snuffed out her cigarette. “Instead of knocking him, maybe you should give him credit. He’s turned this station around single-handedly, and in the process, made each and every one of us a commodity. People look up to us now. They think we’re something special.”
“Something special?” he chuffed. “Because we B.S. our viewers? Hype every story? Because our ‘award-winning’ news director lies to his own employees?” Smoke curled from the ashtray like a sickle. “He wouldn’t tell us why we were going to that motel, Katie, because he didn’t want an argument. We were his pawns. And then, worst of all, he let us take the fall for him.”
“‘Take the fall’?”
“Do you know where we spent the next afternoon? At the Clarion Police station. Payback for Toole’s little sting operation.”
She stared—had he finally gotten to her? “Look…I’m not saying I agree with everything Larry does. But I know we’re better off with him than without him.”
“Dammit, Katie! The ends don’t justify the means!”
She inched away. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m scaring you?” His face reddened. “You know what scares me? The other stations in our coverage area are starting to imitate us. I’m seeing anchors look more like actors, reporters becoming the focus of their stories, news writers forgetting the word news is in their title. And it doesn’t stop here! I guarantee it’s happening in Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Everyone’s trying to one-up each other. And where does it all end? Are we going to come to work one day and find out we’re doing the six o’clock news naked?”
“Stacy…” She reached out as if petting a rabid dog. “…I know you’ve been through a lot, but you’re way off base. No one ever said the news business was perfect. And if you’re trying to blame it all on Larry, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Am I?” He paused, ignoring Julius’ warnings again. “I think Toole’s the Texomaland Torch!”
“You what?”
“Hear me—”
“Jesus Christ, Stacy!” She tore back the covers, grabbing her clothes. “You’ve completely lost it! First, you accuse Phil, and now you’re pointing the finger at Larry!”
He grabbed her wrist, feeling bones. “How come Channel 8’s always the first crew to arrive? Because Larry tips us off before anyone else knows!”
“This is insane.”
“Is it? Then, why do we beat these stories like a drum? Go live five times a day?” He looked deep in her eyes, deeper than when they kissed at Turner Falls, than when they made love for the first time. “How come the Torch never struck in Clarion till KEGT opened a bureau there?”
She stared for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was a little girl’s. “Why in God’s name would Larry start those fires?”
“You already know the answer, Katie.” He eased his grip. “You said it yourself, we finished a ‘point behind Channel 2’. And ‘Larry’s a hundred percent responsible’.”
She ripped her arm away. “Do you know what you’re saying? You’re calling Larry Toole a murderer!”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then where’s your proof?” He cut his eyes to the bed. “You remember the word. It’s what we need to convict someone of a crime! What we need in the news business to report a story!”
“I don’t have proof…yet.”
“Honestly, Stacy…” She threw her clothes on. “…you need help! Maybe you’re still spooked from the tornado. Or haven’t dealt with your mother’s death. Whatever it is, you need serious psychological help!”
“Oh, really?” She buttoned her blouse. “So you think no one in his right mind would accuse a Channel 8 employee of this?” Stepping into her pumps, she stomped to the door. “Then why are the Clarion Police calling Bill Stacy and Julius Candelle ‘persons of interest’ in this case?”
She hesitated, refusing to look at him. “Get help, Stacy. Please.”
As the door slammed, silence engulfed him.
It wasn’t the first time a lovemaking session ended this way between them.
But it would be the last.
***
“I know I shouldn’t have, Jul.” He emptied his stein. “But what’s done is done.”
Julius glanced over his shoulder, keeping tabs on the crowd.
“It just pisses me off how she defends
him all the time.” The barkeep brought two more beers. “I mean, is it me, or is something going on between those two?”
“Don’t know, dude.” Julius turned as the door opened, a pack of frat boys stumbling inside. The Lion’s Den had gone from quiet dive to hopping hot spot. College students packed the dance floor, moving to Rick Astley’s Together Forever, while cowboy-types lined the cinderblock walls, waiting for the next country segment. Stacy and Julius had come here often since their encounter with Trevor Carson, but they’d never seen it like this.
They’d never seen the eccentric lawyer again either.
“Let’s get out of here,” Stacy hollered over the music.
“You read my mind. Where to, dude?”
“The bridge.”
On the way to the Clear Boggy, conversation drifted from Katie to Toole to Reg McNair’s giant hair. Words came easy between the two, laughter easier. But the topic Stacy wanted to broach—needed to broach—was no laughing matter.
He’d been holding out hope that Julius would bring it up, but the stoic camera op had yet to do so. They’d been at the bridge for more than an hour when Stacy’s patience waned. “Hey, Jul…” He opened another beer. “…what happened to your back?”
The man’s gaze shifted from the darkness to Stacy, then back again. For a long time, he said nothing. Finally, “Ain’t somethin’ I like talkin’ ’bout.”
Stacy watched. Listened. Waited him out.
The man cleared his throat, listening to the river. “My father worked for the railroad…when he worked at all. And my mother…well, let’s just say she did whatever he told her.” A cricket chirped, the air smelling of summer wheat. “She got herself pregnant right after high school. My father had no problem messin’ around with her. Big problem marryin’ her.” A faint smile graced his lips. “Then grandpappy got ’hold of him. Threatened to gut him like a carp if he didn’t buy her a ring. Needless to say, he did.” He flipped a bottle cap, waiting for the plink of metal on water. It never came.