The Journalist (11 page)

Hoffman pointed his remote to the TV screen.
“This is fucking unbelievable.” He stepped back.
“Un-fucking-believable.”

“Sure is. That’s why I called ya.”

“Awesome video.” He stroked a small pimple on
his chin and continued to watch.

The skinny cop emerged from the car, pulled
the female out, forced her to her knees and shoved his penis in her
mouth.

Hoffman cupped his face with his right hand.
“Oh, my Jesus God

I
look at that. He’s

she’s

I can’t fucking believe
this.” His eyes growing the size of cue balls, he continued to
watch.

After a minute the fat cop snapped his
revolver from its holster and jammed the barrel to the woman’s
head. She stood. He screamed something in her ear, uncuffed her and
pushed her into the the car behind the steering wheel. His
revolver’s barrel still pressed to her head, a second passed; then
her head exploded in a showering mist.

Hoffman froze. A morning news item jolted
him. “Jesus Christ, he just blew her brains out

that’s the drug story

the body
they found in a car

”

His mouth hanging open, he paused the video,
stared at the screen for a few seconds, then pressed play. Both
cops began scattering small white packets in the back and front
seat of the victim’s car, shared the bottle of liquor, returned to
the squad car

and the TV screen went
blank.

Hoffman stood silent for several moments,
pressed reverse on his remote, then turned to Parker. “Has anybody
else seen this video?”

“No, sir. Just me and you.”

Hoffman said, “You see this morning’s
news?”

“No, sir

”

“That’s the body the Monroe Country sheriff’s
deputy found this morning, out on Key Largo, same car everything,
called it a drug-related incident.”

“I didn’t know, I just

”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Hoffman took the
tiny SD card from the TV and held it tightly in his hand. “What do
you want for it?”

“I don’t want nothing. I’m just doing it as a
citizen.”

Hoffman made a sour face. “Fuck
you

a citizen. Who you trying to flim-flam?
I’m buying it exclusively, hundred bucks.”

“Mr. Hoffman—”

“Two hundred—here’s a voucher.” Hoffman
scribbled his initials on a pink form. “Take this to the front
desk, they’ll get you a check.” He handed Parker another form.
“Also, sign this. It’s a release—put your name, phone number, all
that stuff down.”

He threw a page toward Parker. It landed on
the floor. Parker picked it up and began to read.

Watching him labor with the verbiage, Hoffman
became impatient. “It just says I got exclusivity, nobody else will
get the video, pictures, nothing, unless I approve.” Hoffman tapped
the SD card with his left index finger. “This is the only copy of
this, right?”

“Yessir, only one, but I

”

“But what?”

“I’d just as soon not be identified—I mean on
TV and all, my name

”

“What’s a matter, you on the lam?”

“No, well, child support

and

Miami cops see this,
they’ll be on my ass like white on rice.”

“Not a problem, just sign, I’ll take care of
it.”

“How you do that?” Parker said.

“You just became a confidential source,”
Hoffman said.

“That’s what I prefer, yes sir,
confidential.”

“Okay, I have to run this past our general
manager

get your money at the front desk.”
He stopped at the door. “Parker, we got a deal now, no reneging, no
interviews, no newspapers, no nothing unless I give the okay. If
you do, I’ll put your name all over the air. This is mine.
Understand?”

“Yessir, I understand.” Parker stepped to the
door.

Hoffman turned and ran down the hall. “Talk
to you later, Pal. That way out.”

Chapter Thirteen

2:15 p.m.
EST

“Lucy, baby, buckle your seatbelt

” Hoffman bulldozed into the office of TV 10’s
Executive Vice President and General Manager, Lucy Lockman. “Lucy,
you’re not going to believe this one

”

Slouched behind her slick glass-and-chrome
desk, Lucy, like a bored Persian cat, moved her aqua eyes up from
the latest issue of Variety. She had many things on her mind. The
most important right now—keeping her job. Hoffman’s enthusiasm
induced thoughts of a good vomit. She forced a response.

“Hoffman, don’t you ever fucking knock?”

“Lucy, you have to see this video

This is our ticket home, baby. We’re gonna bury those
pricks at Channel 6 with this one.” He rushed across twenty feet of
thick white carpet to Lucy’s six-monitor, high definition TV video
center. “Wait till you see this. Un-fucking-believable

”

“It better be.” Lucy leaned back in her
maroon executive chair and stroked the yellow-and-red polka dot tie
that hung between her lemon-sized breasts. She wasn’t in the mood
for another of Hoffman’s unbelievable news stories.
Jerk is a
looser
, she thought. She caressed her pointed chin while she
scrutinized him playing with her video center.
This dick head
and his news department are the reason I’m in hot water
, she
thought.

As she watched him configure a TV to play the
video, the shrew’s voice of her broadcast division boss played back
in her mind like a recurring punk rock commercial.

“Revenue is down for the quarter,
Lucy

down for the quarter. You know, Lucy,
your news ratings suck

news ratings
suck

news ratings suck. Lucy, your
operating expenses are way out of line

way
out of line. Lucy, your news ratings are totally
unacceptable

unacceptable. Ms. Lockman, you
have six months to turn it around

turn it
around

”

Lucy looked at Hoffman and thought,
This
jerk will be history, too.

She tossed the
Variety
to one side and
remembered she had to call that West Coast headhunter she had
talked to last week. Has to be something better back home in L.A.
She massaged her left earlobe.
Miami sucks. Everything is better
on the West Coast: men, women, dicks, everything.

“Lucy, you’re not going to believe this
video. Wait till you see this.” Hoffman pressed start on a remote
he held.

“This better be good.” Lucy moistened her
purple lip-gloss with the tip of her diamond-studded tongue and
watched the dim video unfold on the sixty-inch screen. “Great, just
great. What asshole shot this?” She sneered. “Night guard at
Pinkerton security? You can’t even see the damn video

”

“I know, I know, it gets better, just watch
the action.”

She yawned at yet another police cruiser then
became more interested as an African-American female was jerked
from her car.

“What is this, another cop story?” Lucy
leaned forward then moved from behind her desk, whisking her
slender, unpolished fingernails along the textured wall that
dripped with autographed pictures of network television stars she
had, in her words, “broken bread with.”

“Who shot this?” She stepped next to Hoffman,
hands jabbed in the front pockets of her loose-fitting Bill Blass
designer slacks.

“Some redneck.”

She watched. “He said what? What is this?”
She jammed her hands through her short ink-black hair, took the
remote from Hoffman. “Where did you say you got this?”

“Some redneck shot it, last night, on Key
Largo—he crabs, fishes out there.”

“What is that idiot cop doing?” Lucy put her
hands on her thin Body-by-Jake hips.

“Guess.” Hoffman pinched his lower lip.

Watching, Lucy said, “I can’t believe
this

What? No

No

” She stared. “I can’t believe
this.”

“That’s what I said.”

Lucy, hating it when anybody said

that’s what I said,

scowled.

The video glitched.

“What happened?” Lucy said.

“Redneck ran out of battery. It’ll come
back.”

“Sure, probably jerking off.”

“That’s what I said.”

Lucy daggered a glance at Hoffman then folded
her arms and addressed the video. “Now what the fuck is that cop
doing?” she said.

“Looks like a double dip.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” She scrutinized the video.
“This some kind of joke?

Now where’s
limp-dick going?”

“Back to the squad car. Watch this.”

“What the

? That’s a
bottle of booze

”

“Sure is. Look at this.”

“What is that?” Lucy shrieked.

“Just watch.”

“Oh, my God.” She smacked her forehead. “Look
at that. He’s

she’s

a blow job

I cannot fucking
believe this.”

“That’s exactly what I—” Hoffman caught his
mistaken remark and stole a mousy glance at Lucy.

Lucy dropped her hands to her sides, turned
and put a long, cold stare between his beady eyes.

He went back to the video. After a long
moment, Lucy turned to watch the final scene.

“Jesus Christ

He
just blew her brains—this is crazy

” Lucy
pressed pause and shook her head. “This is not real, is it? Some
kind of stunt—you’re screwing around with me?” She glared at
Hoffman. “I’m not in the mood for games, Hoffman.”

“Lucy, did you see the news this morning?
This explains it. Monroe County Sheriff found the body, homicide,
white Lincoln, cocaine in the car

fits the
whole thing. One caveat—it ain’t no drug deal, it was the Miami
cops.”

Lucy pressed replay for a second look.

Again they watched.

“Un-fucking-unbelievable,” Lucy said.

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s it

” Lucy
jabbed stop with her fist and turned to Hoffman. “Quit your goddamn
saying ‘That’s what I said

’ You never, on
your best-ever Sunday school dick-head day ever thought what I
thought.”

“Sorry.”

She stroked her hair, jabbed start and
watched, uninterrupted, the video again. When it finished, she
pitched Hoffman the remote, shoved her hands into the pockets of
her slacks, said, “Un-fucking-unbelievable.” She yanked her hands
from her pockets, crammed her fingers through her hair, squeezed
her scalp and turned to Hoffman. “So, what are you going to do with
it?”

He flashed her a smug smile.

“Don’t just stand there with that shit-eating
grin on your face. Say something.” She darted behind her desk and
began drumming her fingers on the glass. “I’m waiting.”

Beaming with pride, Hoffman took the SD card
from the TV. Holding it in the air: “I’m going to blow the top off
the Nielsen ratings in this town, that’s what I’m going to
do

”

She stared at her desktop, thinking You lucky
bitch you, Lucy, then said, “Where did you say you got that
video?”

“I told you, some redneck, called this
morning—”

“He sign a release?”

“Yes.”

“Un-fucking-believable. That the only
copy?”

“Yes, it’s ours, exclusive.”

“Did you check it out?”

“What’s to check out? Here’s the video.” He
held up the SD card. “Seeing is believing.”

“What’s to check out?” She slapped her
forehead. “The news director asks the general manager what’s to
check out. How about Chief Manny’s office, for starters? Did you
try to contact him?”

“Contact him, with this? Are you kidding me?
They kill the messenger in this town.”

“We have to at least offer to show him the
fucking thing.”

“Lucy, baby, this is not something for a
local two-bit police chief to approve. Besides, even if I showed it
to him, what’s he gonna say? ‘Oh, sure, that’s us okay, sure is, we
did it.’” He pressed the bridge of his glasses. “Come on, Lucy,
they acknowledge this, they’re dead meat.”

Lucy noodleing, “That’s one of their squad
cars, alright

”

“Sure is, and it’s them, but if we wait
around getting approval while they get a story together, somebody
else is going to get wind of it, break it, and we get a royal
screwing.”

Lucy rubbed her chin. “Did you make a backup
copy?”

“Ah, no, I wanted to let you see it
first.”

“Dumb dick head

What
if that SD card

Jesus Christ, Hoffman.”

“Okay, okay.” He let her cool for a minute
then leaned over her desk. “Lucy, I want to break it—now. This is
stuff you dream of. And we got it, exclusive. Jesus H.
Christ

I can’t believe it

”

“Talk to me. Talk to me.” Lucy lit a yellow
Eve cigarette.

“This is the kind of story that can bust a
market wide open, turn the ratings on their head

” he snapped his fingers. “

just like that.”

She pulled the short hair on top of her head
and paced to a large window overlooking a tropical palm patio one
story below. “Where’s the redneck fit in?”

Hoffman didn’t want to cloud the issue with
Russ Parker’s identity problem so he shrugged it off. “Who needs
him? We got the video. Something like ‘Channel 10 has obtained
exclusive video from a confidential source,’ and go from
there.”

“Did you get your confidential source’s name,
number?”