The Journalist (23 page)

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at
all,” Jim said wide-eyed.

“What is it, exactly, that you don’t like?”
Zack said as he took a drink of Ted’s iced tea.

“The whole cockeyed thing.”

“Like I said, seeing is believing,” Zack
said.

The bartender arrived, said, “Who broke that
glass?”

“I did, it slipped,” Zack said. “Check,
please, for Mr. Roberts here, and add the glass.”

“What?” Jim said.

“You picked this swell establishment, you
pay.”

“Discrimination.” Jim pushed his plate of
half-eaten eggs away.

“Anyway, where do we go from here?” Ted
smacked his lips and dropped his napkin on his empty platter.

“I can’t believe you ate all of those
gizzards.” Jim said.

“Yep-purr.”

“We better get back to
The Boca
.” Zack
stood, and out of nowhere, that anxiety thing was back. He recalled
his reputation with the Armstrong administration.
In the last
three years, at least three times a month, your editorials have
nailed Armstrong’s billionaire supporters, corporate takeovers,
layoffs, fat-cat executives’ million-dollar bonuses—what else?
Called Benny delusional, manic-depressive, disturbed, senile, an
insane lunatic, mien master, stupid jackass.
He swallowed.
That’s a whole bunch of nails.

He wondered, with all the other intrigue
going on–wire taps, drone surveillance, electronic monitoring–if
someone might be listening to this conversation.
That’s
paranoia. No, that’s nuts.
Another voice chimed in.
Is
it?
He said, “Nevertheless, something’s up and it pays to be
cautious.”

He noticed Ted and Jim staring at him, said,
“Ted, you go back to the office with Jimbo. I’m going to call Mary
from that chartreuse phone booth over there. That is, if I don’t
get mugged by it first. Meet you two back at the office.”

“You might get mugged, but it won’t be from
the phone, it’ll be over the phone.” Jim winked.

“Why don’t you call her from your cell
phone?” Ted asked.

“Let’s just say, reasonable
cautiousness.”

Jim exchanged glances with Ted. “Did we miss
something?”

The check placed in front of him, Zack pushed
it to Jim. “Just pay the check, Jimbo. Like I said, this dump was
your idea.”

“Can I put it on my expense account?”

“You don’t have an expense account. Neither
do I. See you in a bit.”

Zack went to the pay phone and pressed Mary’s
office number. As he listened to the ringing, he found himself
realizing that in all probability
The Boca
phones were
bugged, thought, Scary thing, fear.

Mary’s recorded voice answered: “Thank you
for calling
The Boca
. We’re out right now but please do
leave your name and number so we can be sure to get back to
you.”

“Mary, you there? Pick up.” Zack scanned the
bar patrons buzzing around, some with fire in their eyes. “Mary,
you there? Pick up.” He waited. He looked at his watch. She has to
be there. “Mary, I’m on my way to the office, talk to you later,
ignore Ted’s message, don’t go to the Jabberwocky, repeat, do not
go to the Jabberwocky.”

He hung up, called her iphone, got call
forwarding, left the same message.

Chapter Thirty Two

1:45 p.m.
EST

In an elbow-race up the stairs to Zack’s
office, Jim took two steps at a time, Ted three. At the top,
stepping to Zack’s office entrance, they were stopped cold at the
sight inside–Mary lounged in Zack’s desk chair. Her bare feet
propped up on his desk, she nursed Zack’s coffee stein. The TV
blared a replay of Armstrong’s most recent proclamation.

Mary muted the TV, said, “Where’s Zack?”

Jim stepped inside, said, “Gang of lady
cheerleaders attacked him in the parking lot of the
Jabberwocky.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” Mary sipped coffee.

“That’s Zack’s stein,” Ted said as he sat on
the sofa and stretched out his legs.

“I know.”

Picking his teeth with a toothpick, Ted said,
“You get my note?”

“I got it. Also got Zackary’s phone messages
about the Jabberwocky.”

Jim studied Mary’s unpainted toenails. “Who’s
your pedicurist, O’Brien?”

“The Dalai Lama, who’s yours?”

“Ted.” Jim sat on the sofa arm away from
Ted.

“So, where’s Zackary?” Mary sat up.

Jim yawned. “Probably tied up
somewhere

basement, closet. Those
cheerleaders looked hungry.”

“Too bad they didn’t take you,” Mary
said.

They heard the steps creaking and looked
toward the door. Zack entered, paused at the sight of Mary at his
desk, noticed the coffeepot full, studied the coffee’s color then
said to Mary, “You have lunch?”

“Just coffee. I made a fresh pot.” She held
his stein up.

Zack, pretending not to be surprised: “You
make it right?”

“Asphalt.”

“Good.” Zack retrieved a mug from his file
cabinet, poured a cup and tasted it. “Not bad. You get our
messages?”

She imitated Ted. “Yep-purr.”

Zack walked behind his desk and looked down
at her.

Hair slicked back on the sides, she wore a
white-gold polo shirt tucked into beltless jeans.
Smells like
orange blossoms wet with rain, and her eyes, ever more brilliantly
blue
, Zack thought and said, “Would you mind putting your shoes
on?”

“Why?”

“Anyway, do you mind if I sit at my desk?” He
set his mug down and lit a Camel.

Ted chucked his toothpick in the wastebasket
and stood. “I’m gonna check AP, the fax machine, be right
back.”

Mary stood and held her right hand up.
“Before you go, Oz-man, listen to this. The reason I was
out-a-pocket

” She tipped her head. “I been
by Chief Manny’s office, and guess what?”

Zack, Jim and Ted displayed similar raised
brow expressions.

Basking, Mary went on. “Seems there was a
gruesome homicide last night at the Miami Beach Ocean Resort.”

“That’s ancient history.” Jim waved his
hand.

“Not so fast,” she said. “Seems the
homicidee—white male, Russ Parker—they opened his hotel safe
deposit box_turns out he’s got phony ID. Russ Parker was a David
Taylor from Arlington, Virginia.” She pointed her right index
finger between Jim’s eyes. “And guess what else, Mr. Jim?”

Jim said, “He was a transvestite drug
dealer.”

Ted scratched an ear. “What?”

Zack, in amazed wonderment, slowly shook his
head.

She continued, “The white Lincoln sedan of
infamous Channel 10 video fame, a Hertz, was rented to a Mr. Russ
Parker in Arlington.”

Zack, Jim, and Ted exchanged glances, Zack
said, “Jim got that.”

“Bet he didn’t get this.” Mary paused to
savor the moment then said, “The chief said that the dead guy,
Taylor, alias Parker, is a, no pun intended, dead ringer for the
little fat guy on said Channel 10’s infamous video.”

Like a church at 3:00 AM., silence filled the
room.

Ted said, “I gotta go, be right back.”

“Don’t take your time.” Mary sat and leaned
back in Zack’s chair.

Jim sat up. “Okay, so it all confirms my
theory

some kind of out-of-state drug deal
gone sour.”

Zack lit a Camel and blew smoke in the air.
“We got riots, anarchy, martial law, terrorists, dead aliases, cops
dressed up as alleged cops, President Benny smack in the middle of
it all

and ace reporter Jim Roberts thinks
it’s a drug deal gone south

hummm.”

Jim stood and walked to the window. “Zackary,
I’m concerned you’re forcing the facts to fit a larger conspiracy
theory.” He paused. “Whether the truth is there or not.”

“Mary, do you mind if I sit at my desk?” Zack
asked again.

Chapter Thirty Three

2:10 p.m.
EST

Five minute after he had left, Ted ambled
back into Zack’s office with a puzzled look on his face, “Okay,
folks, look at this little ditty that sat in the fax machine all by
its lonesome.” He handed the message to Zack. “Think it’s for
you.”

Zack read the fax aloud: “‘Champ

The up is down. First to know. One Bohemia coming up.
Call for J.C. at T. T. C.’”

After thirty seconds of pondering, reading
the fax a third time, Zack handed the message to Jim.

Jim read it then said, “I don’t get it.” He
handed the fax to Mary.

Mary read the message and dropped her hands
to her side. “‘Call for J.C. at T.T.C.’ What is that—somebody found
Jesus Christ?”

Ted smiled.

Jim shook his head.

Preoccupied, Zack closed his eyes, opened
them, turned to his video phone, thought a minute, began to press a
number then stopped. Joe Case’s presence strong, he turned the
phone off.

“What’s the matter? Who were you going to
call?” Jim asked.

Zack paused. “Well, let’s just think about
this.” He hesitated and thought,
Okay, I’m paranoid, but is this
office bugged?
He looked around.
Could be.
He picked up
a pencil and printed large letters on a yellow pad: COULD THIS
OFFICE BE BUGGED? He showed it to the group.

Ted rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

Mary tilted her eyes in disbelief. “What did
you boys drink for lunch?”

Jim smiled. “Zackary, come on.”

Left index finger to his lips, right index
pointing to Jim then the door, Zack signaled that he and Jim would
leave. He indicated that Ted and Mary were to stay. His eyes asked
for acknowledgment.

Amid a mix of confused, amused, amazed and
concern-for-your-health glances, they all nodded agreement.

Zack spoke. “Well, lady and gentlemen, this
fax is obviously from some crackpot who wants to sell us an
exclusive eyewitness account of something. I think we have lost a
lead somewhere.” He looked out the window at the growing columns of
black smoke on the horizon. “Mary, how about seeing if you can get
some reaction from one of our dear Florida senators. They’ve been
very quiet.” He turned to Ted. “And Ted, why don’t you track down
the mayor.”

Ted said, “She’s on her way back from
Rome.”

Zack, ignoring him, said, “See what she has
to say about this latest development.” He cued Jim. “Jim, let’s go
downstairs and check on that extra.”

“But I

”

“Let’s just go.” Zack pushed him through the
door.

Jim, stumbling: “But Zackary, I

”

“Just go.” They walked down the rickety
stairs, past the pressroom, past the receptionist desk, through the
front door and outside.

Chapter Thirty Four

2:20 p.m.
EST

General MacCallister reported to Dr. Lande
that his southeast office had intercepted a fax message to “that
Miami rag,
The Boca
.” Mac’s people were attempting to trace
the overseas source, decipher the code and would continue
monitoring “the defrocked jerk.”

Chapter Thirty
Five

2:30 p.m.
EST

At the San Luis Mall water fountain, Zack
said to Jim, “Wait here, I gotta go make a phone call.”

Jim said, “Are you okay?”

“Be right back.”

Zack went to an audio pay phone next to a
McDonald’s, dropped fifty cents in and dialed The Tea Company.

The thin voice of the owner answered. “The
Tea Company.”

“Is this the Bimini Road?”

“No longer Bimini Road, The Tea Company.”

“Is Mr. Joe Case, there?”

“Joe Case no longer here, nope.”

“Oh. Well, this is Carl at AT&T. We have
a special on business pay phones this month. You do have a pay
phone?”

“Who is this? I’m busy here, Jessa
Chriss.”

“This could earn you credit on your phone
bill. You do have a pay phone, don’t you?” Zack asked again.

“Yes, by the entrance, but I’m not interest
in monkeying around with you right now—busy as one-arm man in
ass-kicking contest.”

Zack thought,
He has that mixed up.
He
said, “I understand, but just so I can complete my research, what
is that number?”

“What number?”

“The pay phone number.”

“Jesus Christ

555-3552.”

“Thank you.”

Zack hung up and dialed the pay phone
number.

After ten rings, the same voice answered.
“Ha-low.”

“Hi, Jay, this is Zack Stearn, editor of
The Boca
, remember me?”

“How could forget?”

“I got a fax from Joe Case, the former
owner

”

“You just call me? Telephone man?”

“Yes, your business phone is probably bugged.
Mine probably is, too.”

“Pinko basteeds.”

“What’s with the Champ fax I got, up is down,
first to know, Bohemia coming up, call for J.C. at T. T. C.”

“Somebody was in, you know, a Pi friend of
Joe Case. Said you would be calling, said Joe need to see you. Have
some kind of up-down, down-up, I don’t know, proof—he need to show
you.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You’re kidding—from a big journalist? What
is that?”

“I

but what
did

what’s up?”

“What’s up? How do I know? Joe fucking crazy,
you know Joe. He need see you, something. That’s all I know. You
better go. Pi guy said if you call, give you message. I don’t know
nothing. You think my business phone is bugged, huh?”

“I think.”