The Journalist (19 page)

“‘Bout what?”

“Us.”

“I don’ know.”

“I think you do.”

“I think I do, too.” His eyes closing. “I
have t’ get some sleep.”

“Why don’t I come to
Veracity
, nurse
your booboo?”

“Stay there, use my office couch.”

“Ted’s got it.”

“Kick ‘im out.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“See y’ t’morra, be carefu’ drivin’
‘ome.”

“Don’t drown.”

Chapter Twenty Six

11:59 p.m.
EST

Moving in and out of fanciful
images—
Veracity’s
gleaming mahogany, the feel of her wheel,
the song of her engines, the smell of her cabin, the ocean slapping
her sides—Zackary lay back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and
dreamed.


a noise, he looked up, Mary stood in the
cabin entrance. A cut-off white T-shirt revealed her navel, faded
blue denim shorts revealed her slender thighs. Barefoot, she held a
basket of large purple grapes.

What are you doing? Zack sat up and looked at
her.

Hanging around. Did you doze off?

Just taking a catnap.

How’s that ear? She came to him and sat. Want
some grapes? I’ll peel them for you.

I don’t think so.

She ate a grape, put one in his mouth, said,
Let’s go for a swim.

You have a suit?

No. She smiled and stepped to the cabin door,
her back turned to him she pulled off her T-shirt and dropped her
denim shorts, then turned to him. Come on, chicken.

The ocean became Mary.

Zack swam free with fleeting glimpses of
her soft lips smothering his face. Swimming in her saltwater
warmth, her skin white satin, he touched it, pressed it, caressed
it. Riding dolphins, Mary raced ahead and around him, they fell
back in the water, diving, sunlight rippled through the water
surface, he reached to touch her watery hair and it all became a
clanging buoy


Zack opened his eyes to his video phone
ringing. He sat up and looked at his wristwatch—9:15 A.M.

Yawning, he maneuvered to the ringing phone
and flipped it on.

Mary, much awake, perky, asked, “Nice
dream?”

Paused, he was about to say
how did you
know?
but stopped. “Good morning.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Hung over.”

“Your ear?”

“Fine.”

“We still on for eleven?”

“I’m certain.”

“See our special edition?”

“Not yet, I

”

“Get a copy, it’s good.”

“Before or after coffee?”

“Before. Did you put iodine on that ear?”

“Bye.”

Potent images of the spent dream still in
him, he sat at the bar. Fogged thoughts moved through yesterday,
last night, the news. His weekend plans shot, he pushed the port
window’s orange drape aside and—sure enough—sun, green water, blue
sky, puffy white clouds.

“Nuts

” he said.

Since christening
Veracity
three years
before, his cherished Saturday routine had been to rise early, pack
ham-and-cheese sandwiches, ice a case of Bohemia, get out on the
water, fish, drink, think, commune, talk, write anything down that
made sense. Come in around five, hot shower, shave, dinner at The
Bimini Road, talk with Joe Case—even that was now gone. The Tea
Company was okay but just not the same.

And this particular weekend, this special
Labor Day weekend, he had planned to think a thing through. Namely,
his relationship with Ms. O’Brien—past, present and/or future.

“But

some things are
not to be,” he said.

He sighed, stepped to the galley, started the
coffee maker, picked up his TV remote and clicked on the TV.

Same news channel still on from last night—he
watched video of a reporter standing in front of the Miami Beach
Ocean Resort. He turned up the sound.

A petite Latino lady reported “

a homicide at the Miami Beach Ocean Resort. Victim is
a male Caucasian, found by house cleaners this morning. It appears
he was murdered sometime last evening. The police are investigating
what they called ‘peculiar circumstances.’ Back to you

”

He click to another channel—Road Runner
cartoon.

“It’s all a cartoon, makes more sense that
way.” He surfed while stripping his clothes off: [Click]
“FOX—General Motors, Gary, Indiana, nice fire.” [Click] “NBC—L.A.,
good crowd control.” [Click] “CBS—Philadelphia, what’s going on
there? Fire somewhere.” [Click] “MSNBC—there’s that Channel 10 tape
again.” [Click] PBS—Sesame Street.

He clicked off.

Nude, silence strong, wiping his face with
his palm, he felt that uncanniness he had experienced last night,
driving home. The morbid feeling moved over him like a giant hump
back whale at the water’s surface, eclipsing sunlight below.
Strange how reality ends, fear begins
, he thought. He caught
a whiff of that familiar dank smell that associated itself with the
anxiety.

“You

You magnificent
bastard, you.” He looked around, paused, sniffed. Nothing. “It’s
all in your mind,” he said.

He retrieved a mug of coffee, sipped, thought
about taking a shower and shaving but chucked the idea and pulled
on a fresh outfit—black T-shirt and Wrangler jeans—and slipped into
his deck shoes.

At the “head’s” mirror, he pulled the
Band-Aid off his ear and studied the nick.
I heal quick
, he
thought, and decided to let the world see his badge of


Of what?
he wondered. “Courage? Close,
but no cigar.”

Leaving, he caressed the mahogany of
Veracity
. “Don’t blame me for not going out today.”

He ambled up the three steps that led to the
quarterdeck, went aft and sniffed the balmy, humid air.
Deceivingly serene
, he thought then looked out at the
green-blue water of the bay.

The calm surface reflected the sun in a
million directions; further out the sea breathed. He paused then
stepped to the dock and made the familiar trek to the end of the
wharf and the metal newspaper dispensers. He kicked
The Boca
machine just below the money slot. The front dropped and he
retrieved a paper. My
paper
, he rationalized. No guilt
whatsoever.

He scanned
The Boca’s
front page
headline: CHIEF DENIES IT


“Not bad, Jimbo, not bad, Mary even liked
it.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

Saturday, 9:45 a.m.
EST

In the Pompano Marina parking lot, Zack did a
quick walk-around of his Subaru, inspected where the rear window
once was, felt violated, got in and headed north toward
The
Boca
offices. The muggy outside air sucking at the back of his
head, maxed air-conditioner screaming, he lit a Camel and snapped
on the radio. A familiar female talk show host’s voice shrilled
through the turbulent air.

Zack turned the sound up.

Talk show host: “Ah, you toilet-head liberals
are all alike. The cops were doing their job, stopping that dope
head broad.”

Male caller: “All I’m saying is they didn’t
have a right to stop her in the first place.”

Talk show host: “She was drunk as a skunk,
you could see that, staggering all over the place, whatta ya want
them to do?”

Male caller: “You’re a fat, dumb, bigoted
jerk.”

Talk show host: “What

You dip head, next time you get in trouble call a
drug dealer.”

Male caller: “I was just asking why the
police had stopped that driver in the first place, if they had
sufficient cause, no matter what.”

Talk show host: “You dumb dip head, if they
had sufficient cause, what was that dumb bimbo doing, what if she
started to pull a gun on ‘em

”

Zack snapped the radio off and glanced up.
“They call it the Bill of Rights down here, freedom of speech,
press. Censorship might have a chilling effect on thought.” He
paused. “But You knew that, right?”

Weaving thru traffic, he pursued on a thought
he had been contemplating for some time, possibly an essay, maybe
that never ending editorial:
The colors black and white—white
being the presence of all color, black being the absence of all
color—why black awaiting the light

a candle in blackness? Why not light instead of
the blackness

winding up rather
than down

progress rather than
degeneration?

He heard
But look how far we have
come

the progress we have
made

where we are
today

evolved from beasts into
these caring, compassionate creatures.

He rubbed his sprouting beard. “Hummm.”

A verse from his prior life’s training
occurred to him.
Buy the truth and sell it not.

Proverbs 23-something. What is truth?” he mumbled.
“What is a lie? Do the concepts go only for we finely developed
higher-ups?” He paused. “But of course

lying is a fine art reserved to more eclectic
thinkers

truth, eh.”

He thought of Joe Case, and something came to
mind from somewhere:
Freedom to choose is reserved in the
universe but to you.

Then the words of Lewis Carrol’s Tweedledee
came to him: “Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it
were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”

He wiped his brow. “Right, Jocko, keep that
thought. I don’t have time to mess with you right now.”

He pulled to the familiar newsstand where he
got his
New York Times
and rolled down his window. “Morning,
Gus.”

“Morning, Mr. Zackary, beautiful morning.”
Gus handed him the
Times
. “How are you this fine
morning?”

“Confused.”

“Everybody is confused these days,” Gus
said.

“You can say that again.” He paid for the
newspaper and read the headline: PRESIDENT GUARANTEES LAW AND
ORDER. He looked at Gus.

“Wonder if Benny will sign that guarantee.”
Zack smiled.

“Ah, that Benny, Mr. Zackary.” Gus smiled
back.

“Have a good day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more about truth
than I, Benny and the U.N. put together.”

He turned the radio on again. Same station,
same shrill host, different caller.

Talk show host: “Ah, you’re a dumb, puke head
jack-off. The only mistake the cops made is they should have dumped
the evidence in Biscayne Bay.”

Female caller: “You complete
imbecile

”

Talk show host: “What

You air head. Get a job. Probably on welfare.”

Female caller: “I’m tellin’ you, you better
watch yourself, ‘cause we’re gonna get you, baby.”

Talk show host: “You dumb scumbag, you just
try. I’ll have the cops on you like stink on the homeless.”

Female: “Oh, yeah, you—”

Zack snapped the radio off.

Chapter Twenty Eight

10:00 a.m.
EST

After calling to see if Chief Manny was in,
he was, asking if he would see her, Mary turned at the next street.
In seconds, she pulled into the parking lot of Miami Police
Department headquarters. She had landed an interview with the
Chief.

Chapter Twenty Nine

10:35 a.m.
EST

Contemplating what he had been listening to
on the radio, Zack kicked open the door to his office.

“Morons

” He slammed
the
Times
and
The Boca
on his desk. “Idiots.” He
looked at Ted sprawled on the couch. “You sleeping?”

“Was.” Ted sat up.

“It’s unbelievable.”

“What now?” Ted, still dressed in yesterday’s
basic brown, yawned.

“I can’t believe these radio talk show jerks.
They thrive on stirring it up.”

“Which one now?”

“That what’s-her-name

WOW-AM.”

“Rhoda Ray. ”

“She’s challenging a caller who asked if the
police had sufficient cause to stop that driver.”

“What driver?”

“What driver? The video. The female that
Miami’s finest allegedly

”

“Oh.”

Zack mimicked the talk show host. “‘What if
she started to pull a gun

?’” He kicked his
desk. “What if a cow had nuts?”

“She’s just hyping her show, ratings,
everybody does it.”

“‘Everybody does it.’” He sat behind his
desk. “I hate that line.”

“Twenty-first century, way it is.”

“Way it is—can’t smoke; have to use a
seatbelt; mandatory helmet to grocery shop; can’t eat a rare steak,
raw eggs, bacon fat; sunshine is taboo; can’t say girl/boy but you
can mainline geeks biting foreskin on YouTube. See Tommy Lee and
what’s-her-name’s hole-in-one on demand from the cyber marvels of
communication anytime you wish, day or night, for a hoot and a
holler

what is that?”

“How you know about Tommy Lee’s
hole-in-one?”

“Research.”

“Oh.”

“So what is it?”

“Freedom of speech. ‘Congress shall make no
law abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press

’”

“Blah, blah, blah. You think Jefferson and
the boys thought about TV, Internet, when, with quill in hand, they
penned that press thing?” He straightened a few items on his
desk.