The Journalist (10 page)

Zack sniffed the air. He thought he smelled
something burning, sniffed again. “Is that something burning?”

She nodded. “Guy behind you, cigar. Nice try.
It’s not that complicated. Just choose.”

“I have, too late, too meekly.”

“When did you ever do anything meekly?”

“I’m doing one now.”

“What?”

“You.”

She fluffed her hair and smiled. “And the
meek shall inherit the earth.”

“And that’s another thing I doubt. Look
around.” Zack sucked his front teeth. “So, enough of the past, but
why me?”

“Cause I’m a widow, and I’m so depressed, and
I’m going to commit suicide

”

“Mary

”

“And you own a newspaper, are filthy rich,
can buy me clothes, take me to faraway places, dine me in elegant
restaurants, know maitre d’s around the world, get the best tables,
suites, but most of all

most of
all

” She threw a quarter in his drink and
looked into his eyes. “You own a boat.”

Chapter Ten

Over more drinks, this and that conversations
about tennis, the up coming elections, Beno, Armstrong, the evening
moved along, Mary suggested stop at a super market, buy a couple
T-bones, go to her place, cook on her new patio hibachi, make a
Caesar salad, serve wine, get high, more wine, “Get close.”

Zack insisted it was too hot.

After another round of drinks they
compromised.

In a corner booth at the Pulp Fiction Grill
for a shared southwestern omelette, coffee and bagels, Mary said,
“What is it with you and booths?”

“Privacy.”

Chapter Eleven

The next
day

10:00 a.m.
EST

Friday, August 29,
2020

The morning thermometer on Miami Beach nudged
ninety degrees; the Friday before the long Labor Day weekend looked
like a sure bet to break all temperature records.

Two miles inland, the temperature ninety-two,
Russ Parker slowed his car and stopped next to a drive-up
audio-only pay phone on North River Road. As he lowered the
driver’s side window, thick humid air greeted him. Five-five, two
hundred pounds, dressed in leafy green Hawaiian shirt, blue
Bermudas and gray flip-flops, Russ ran a hand through the thick
hair of his black wig then checked his fake mustache in the
rearview mirror. His wide-set brown eyes calm, he flicked beads of
sweat from his stunted brow as he scanned the area around him.
Nothing unusual.

Cell phone off, satisfied he was untraceable
and prepared, he placed a notepad on the dash, took a prepaid debit
card from his shirt pocket and inserted it into the phone’s slot.
The ten digits written across the top of his pad would connect him
to a local Miami television station, WSUN-TV, Channel 10.

He stuck his head half out the car window,
spoke the digits, and waited.

After three rings a pleasant female voice
answered. “Thank you for calling the SUN of Miami, Channel 10. How
may I help you?”

“Morning, ma’am, News Department, Doug
Hoffman, please,” Russ said in a rehearsed drawl.

“One moment, please.”

After a few seconds, another female voice,
with less pleasantness: “Mr. Hoffman’s office.”

“Good morning, ma’am. Is he in? Mr. Hoffman,
I mean.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Ah, a news source. I have a
video

”

“You’re not at a video phone?”

“No, ah, pay, voice only, ma’am.”

“One moment.”

A minute passed.

Come on, Hoffman, come on
, Russ said
to himself.

Fifteen seconds later the less-pleasant
female voice was back. “Sir, whom did you say you were with?”

“Ah, rather not say, ma’am, a news source. I
have this here video, something Doug oughta see. Shot it last
night.” Russ wiped sweat from the fat under his double chin.

“One minute.”

Thirty seconds ticked off Russ’s silver
Rolex. He felt moisture trickle under his arms.

After another fifteen seconds, a sharp male
voice answered. “News, Hoffman.”

“Hiya, Doug, this is Russ Parker, how ya
doing?”

“I’m doing fine. What can I do for you?”

“You don’t know me but I

”

“You’re right, I don’t know you. Secretary
said you’re from a news source. Which one?”

“Ah,” Russ wiped his lips. “Listen, I got
this video you gotta see.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Yessir, it’s plumb something else.”

“Something else, huh?”

“Yessir, I couldn’t believe it.”

“Of what?”

“Whattaya mean?”

“The video, what’s on it?” Hoffman said.

“I gotta show you. Can I come on over, only
take a

”

“I’m very busy. What is the video of?”

“It’s really something. I never seen anything
like it. Last night, was out on Key Largo—my pickup camper. About
three in the morning heard some dern funny noises—screaming,
laughing. Looked outside. Cops, two of ‘em, white dudes, and a
lady.”

“Lady?”

“Yessir, tall negra beauty.”

“Negra, huh?”

“The lady, yeah.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s on the video?”

“Ya gotta see this video, two
cops

”

“What cops? City cops?”

“Miami.”

“Okay, so, whattaya got on two Miami cops?”
Hoffman said.

“Rather not talk about it on the phone. You
won’t believe it

have ta see it.”

“Look, ah, Ralph

”

“Russ, Russ Parker.”

“Yeah, look, Russ, I’m really very busy,
unless this is something

are you looking to
sell it?”

“Shucks, no, no, not at all. It’s
just

it’s something ya gotta
see

the news, this morning’s
news

”

“Morning news, huh?”

“Yessir.”

“You’re not looking to smear the Miami cops
are you, maybe a relative of Tina Taylor?”

“Tina Taylor?”

“You don’t know Tina?”

“Ah, no, sir.”

“Ex Miami Police department Deputy Chief,
fired by Chief Manny six months ago?”

“Oh, shucks, no. Don’t know her. Not up on
that stuff.”

“Uh-huh

look, Russ, I
don’t have all day to screw around. What is it that you just have
to show me?”

“I think you oughta see it, sir. I’m almost
afraid to have possession of the video.”

“I’m waiting to hear what the video is of,
but not much longer.”

Russ cleared his throat. “Ah, Doug, I’m sorry
to have bothered ya. I’ll just call Channel 6, maybe they’d like to
see the video. I didn’t mean to bother

”

“Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll just call on over there
and

”

“Wait a minute. Okay, what did you say the
video is of?”

“Two cops stopped a lady negra driver,
and

you ain’t going to believe this
one.”

“Okay, okay. Look, you’re not far, North
River Road, pay phone, right?”

“How’d ya know that?”

“Come on, Parker, this is a television news
room. Who you trying to flim-flam?”

“Oh, yeah. Can I bring the video down?”

“By the by, why are you at a pay phone?”

“Ah

I was going to
just drop by your station, earlier, on my way to work, but I kinda
choked at the last minute, know what I mean? If the cops knew I had
this

I’m afraid I’d be bait.” Russ held his
breath.

“But why a pay phone?”

“I’m a short-order cook, on my way to work,
can’t call from work.”

“Why not from home?”

“Like I told you

was
going to stop at your station

chickened
out, I guess.”

“Right.” Hoffman paused. “Okay, I’ll see you
after lunch, say, one-thirty.”

“Yes sir, okay.”

Hoffman, suspicion in his voice, said, “What
about work

can you get off work?”

“Oh, sure, sure, no problem.”

“Right.”

“Hey, Doug, thanks, see ya then,
one-thirty.”

“Right, but, ah, Russ, listen, I’m only
interested in exclusive stuff. Other stations have it, I’m not your
man.”

“Oh, yessir, I know what you mean. I didn’t
tell nobody else. You’re the first.”

“See you at one-thirty.”

Chapter Twelve

1:45 p.m.
EST

In his cramped Channel 10 News Director’s
office, Doug Hoffman inserted the SD card Russ Parker had handed
him into the side of a large television monitor. The monitor
dominated eight other smaller monitors that flickered with a glut
of video offerings from local, cable and national sources. The
cluttered office had cinder block walls painted beige, a green
polyester sofa and Hoffman’s gray metal desk. Setting on top of the
desk a computer-phone’s monitor pulsed in screen saver
red-white-and-blue stars. Two orange upholstered chairs faced the
desk.

Standing with clicker in hand in right hand,
after some glitches, the video Parker promised began to unfold. As
they watched, Parker said, “Lotsa TV’s ya got here, Mr.
Hoffman.”

“Lots of news—information age, son.” Hoffman,
not seeing much action so far on Parker’s video, sucked his front
teeth. “This better get better—fast.”

“It will, just watch.” Parker studied Hoffman
scrutinizing the video playing on the TV.

Hoffman did not resemble the photo Parker had
been shown of him, and he didn’t look at all like the thin phone
voice he had projected. Parker had imagined a tall, skinny pencil
of a person. This guy was young, around twenty-five.
Built like
a shoe box with holes cut out for head, arms and legs
, he
thought.
And those black bebop bifocal granny glasses are a bit
much.

Hoffman bit his puffy lower lip and stuck his
left hand in a front pockets of his brown corduroy trousers. “No
sound, huh?”

“No, sir. Was inside, shot it
through

”

“A camper window, you said that.” Hoffman
shook his head, rubbed the side of his porous nose with his TV
remote as he watched the dim video of a fat cop standing beside the
driver’s side of a four-door white car on a deserted beach road.
Another cop, a skinny one, stepped into the frame. In one quick
movement, the fat cop jerked the driver’s door open and pulled an
African-American female out of the car.

Hoffman’s mind clicked off her features—tall,
stacked, miniskirt, spike heels, nice ass.

The fat cop slammed the female against her
car.

“What is this?” Hoffman said, casting Parker
a beady look.

“Bad, huh?”

“Bad?” Hoffman continued to watch the
video.

The fat cop demonstrated that he wanted the
female to extend her arms.

She tried to comply but staggered
forward.

“Looks like a drunk hooker.” Hoffman tucked
his arms over his chest.

“Did ya ever.” Parker chuckled.

“Ha.” Hoffman grunted.

The fat cop drew a line in the sand and
pointed to it. The female began walking the line, staggered, kicked
her shoes off. The skinny cop pushed her against her car. The fat
cop began to grope her body. The skinny cop joined in.

“Wait a minute

Hoffman pointed his remote, pressed replay then forward, watched
again, said. “Come on, people, what is this?”

The video tilted sideways for a moment then
righted.

“What happened?” Hoffman bit a
fingernail.

“I ran into the coffee table, shootin’
through the window.” Parker said.

Hoffman smirked. “Sure you did.”

The video blurred, cleared for a moment then
blurred again.

Hoffman tilted his head. “Don’t tell me—you
don’t know where the focus is, either.”

Parker chuckled. “Ah, Mr. Hoffman, you’re
joshing me.”

Hoffman shook his head. “Where’d you get
this?”

“Like I said, last night

was out on Key Largo, I have a camper on my pickup, go
out there a lot, crab at night. I heard these noises around three
a.m., saw this patrol car and the white car there, cop’s red and
blues flashing, so I thought, what the heck, started shootin’
video.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hoffman watched.

The fat cop spun the female around and cuffed
her hands behind her back.

Hoffman yawned. “Okay, so the chief’s boys
play a little rough. They got a hooker, probably on drugs, drunk,
whatever.”

“But catch this.”

Hoffman watched.

The fat cop opened the rear door of the
female’s car, forced her inside and climbed in on top of her.

“What the fuck? Wait a minute

” Hoffman’s mouth hung open. “What the fuck are those
clowns doing?”

He put his hands on his hips and leaned
closer to the television set.

The video zoomed in.

Hoffman said, “Jesus Christ, he’s

he’s

he’s

”

The video glitched, and scrambled lines
appeared on the screen.

Hoffman threw his hands up. “What happened
now?”

“Ran out of battery, changed it, it’ll come
back.”

“Sure, sure, right, probably jerking off.”
Hoffman continued to watch the video.

The picture cleared as the fat cop backed out
of the car and pulled his pants up. The lady began to emerge but
the skinny cop shoved her back.

Hoffman’s jaw dropped. “I can’t fucking
believe this

”

The skinny cop climbed into the car with the
lady. The camera zoomed out. The fat cop lit a cigarette and walked
to the squad car that displayed Miami-Dade Police markings. After
talking on the two-way radio, he retrieved a bottle from the under
the front seat, took a gulp and, bottle in hand, returned to the
stopped driver’s car.