The Journalist (31 page)

“Can’t reveal that, confidential, Shield Law,
we’re protected.”

“I’ll reveal mine.”

“So, reveal it.”

Hesitating, Zack said softly, “Joe
Case

used to run The Bimini
Road

”

“What? Who did you say? Did you say Joe Case?
The fuck fake freak agitator, arrested, in and out of
jail

used to run that Bimini Road shit
hole

is that what you said?”

After a moment: “Yes.”

Hoffman, in deep belly laughter, leaned over
his desk: “I’m not fucking believing this. Ha-ha-ha, Joe Case,
ha-ha-ha, Jesus Christ.”

“Believe it.”

“Let me get this straight. This Joe Case guy,
used to run that Bimini Road shit hole restaurant, gave you this
recording, right?”

“Yes.”

“And there is a coup d'état underway?”

“Yes.”

Hoffman pounded his desk. “I can’t fucking
believe you. Get the fuck out of here, you fucking nut you.
Now

”

Zack stood, leaned over the desk. “Hoffman, I
haven’t slept in many hours. I’m hungry. I need a shower, a shave,
my teeth need brushing, I need caffeine, and I am beginning to
confirm a deep dislike for you.”

“Bow-wow-wow, is that like some kind of
fucking threat?”

Looking upward, Zack walked around Hoffman’s
desk.

“He’s one of Yours but he’s mine for the
moment.” With a quick right, he swept Hoffman’s sunglasses to the
floor.

Hoffman’s eyes bulged in surprise.

“Don’t you know it’s not polite to wear
sunglasses when you’re talking to a guest.” Zack took Hoffman’s
throat in his left hand and began to squeeze.

Eyes popping, Hoffman gagged. “Okay,
okay.”

Zack released and stepped back.

Hoffman fell back in his chair. “You broke my
sunglasses. I’m calling security.” He punched a button on his
computer phone.

Zack smashed his hand away from the
keyboard.

“Ouch, Jesus Christ.” Hoffman curled up in
his chair. “Okay, okay. Look, even if I wanted to put this on the
air, I’d have to clear it with my general manager, and she’s out of
town for the weekend.”

“Call her, we’ll play it for her.”

“Ha, call her. Do you know Lucy Lockman?”

“Not personally.”

“Okay, but even if we get her, Feds got the
restrictions on

”

“Call her.”

“You made me do it.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Okay, but personally, I think you’re on the
funny stuff.”

Zack started to reach for him again.

“Okay, okay.”

“Do it.” He pointed to the phone. “Call your
boss.”

“Okay, okay, but if you think you’re going to
get this broadcast you’re out of your mind. Babs Lande, the White
House, the FCC

they all put out directives.
We have to clear everything.”

“Doesn’t that in itself tell you something?”
Zack riveted a stare into Hoffman’s eyes.

“Not really

national
security requirements, terrorists, rioting

”

“Don’t you see

”

Hoffman’s office door crashed open and two
beefy security officers, revolvers drawn, entered.

The shouts of Hoffman echoed through the
office into the hallway. “Get him the fuck out of here

Get him out

He’s crazy,
attacked me

”

While being dragged by the arms to the exit
Zack shouted, “‘And they shall be blinded by the truth.’”

The bigger guard said, “Shut the fuck up,
freak.”

“Second Corinthians three-something.” Zack
smiled.

The other guard gouged him in the ribs. “He
said shut up, sweetheart.”

The guards tossed Zack, headfirst onto the
asphalt parking lot.

Chapter Forty Eight

2:00 p.m.
EST

Humiliated, elbows scratched, a red bruise on
his chin, knowing he could have taken those bozo guards if they had
been unarmed, Zack entered the small first-floor storage area of
The Boca
where Jim sat on a wooden box.

Zack nodded to him, surveyed a battered card
table and three folding chairs, said, “Nice job, Jimbo. Maybe you
did have another calling–office design.”

“What happened to you?”

“You still got that coat and tie on.”

“What happened to you?”

“I stopped a truck.”

“Oh.”

“You call the mayor?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know where to begin.”

Zack said, “I don’t, either. I see my car is
here, you talk to Ted?”

“He talked to me.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“No, I wanted to see

how did it go with Channel 10?”

“Where is he?”

“Went home.”

Zack looked around the room, thought a moment
then winked. “How about a soda? Let’s walk down to McDonald’s.”

“I just had a soda.”

“Come on, do you good.”

Outside, the sky gray, the clouds menacing,
the threat of an isolated afternoon thunderstorm, they strolled the
sidewalk.

“So, how did it go?” Jim said.

“It didn’t.” Zack wiped his chin.

“What’s that mean?”

“Something must be done about idiots running
major-market television station. It’s like Proverbs
twenty-six-something

dogs eating their own
puke.”

“Not so good, huh?”

“And they call it freedom of
speech

the press.”

“So, Hoffman wouldn’t broadcast Case’s audio
recording, huh?” Jim said.

“Said he couldn’t verify it. Even if he
could, he had to get permission from the general manager,” he wiped
his face, “who happens to be out of town. And even if he could
reach her he had to run it by the honorable Dr. Lande’s office. You
believe that? With a straight face he tells me, ‘Even if I can get
evidence that the recording is not a fake I can’t put it on the
air. The directive from Lande’s office would prohibit it.’” He
looked at Jim. “Don’t the lights, at some point, go on?”

“So what happened?”

“You don’t want to know.”

They entered the McDonald’s, approached the
counter and ordered Cokes. As they were served, Zack said to Jim,
“You want an order of fries?”

“I had some earlier.”

Zack looked at him for a moment, then turned
back to the smiling clerk. “A large fry too, please.”

Served, Zack loaded up on ketchup and led Jim
to a booth by a window.

“So what happened?” Jim said.

“Hoffman wanted to know where I got the
recording. I told him I’d tell him my source if he told me the
source for that killer video he broadcast.”

“What’d he say?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

“So?”

“I told him mine.”

“What’d he say?”

“He laughed me off the planet.”

“What did you expect? If somebody told you
they had a secret recording from a former Miami bistro owner,
living on Bimini Island with a harem of twenty-year-old fillies,
preaching that the world was ending, what would you do?”

“F-minus.” Zack dipped a fry in ketchup and
ate it. “Want one?”

Jim took one. “Maybe just one.” Dipping some
of Zack’s ketchup, he said, “So, bottom line?”

“Hoffman wouldn’t do it. I threatened to kill
him but he bluffed me.”

“Bluffed you?”

“Whatever. You know, I seldom use God’s name
in vain, but goddamn it, this is unbelievable

An honest-to-God real coup, and this guy wants some
verification of my source. What about his video? The phony stuff.
Their source. It’s the Catch-22 of all time.” Zack smacked the
table.

People looked.

Jim said, “Like I said, would you believe
your source if you were not there in person?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.” Jim took another
fry.

“Oh?” Zack lowered his chin and looked at Jim
with mild surprise. “What have you heard?”

“Ted said Mary talked to Chief Manny
again.”

“Why is it she gets to talk to Manny all the
time, you get only to talk to Deputy Chief Glenda?”

“Charisma, speaking of which, you better snap
that Mary O’Brien up, Bwana. Twenty guys are in line as we
speak.”

“That’s out of line, Mr. Roberts.” Zack ate a
fry. “So, what did Ted say Mary found out?”

“Get this. Manny said they found out the
identity of the female victim.” He paused and dipped his half-eaten
fry in Zack’s ketchup.

Waiting, Zack said, “Is there a commercial
break in here someplace, coming up next, or do I have to order
something from an eight-hundred number?”

“Seems she’s the famous porno star, Margo
Cue, from
Margo and the Nineteen Elves
, a movie, in case you
didn’t see it.”

Zack thought a moment. “Is this a movie
you’ve seen?”

“Research.” Jim took a bite of fry. “And get
this, they’ve enhanced that Channel 10 video. The little fat cop
appears to be the same guy that got his throat slashed at the Miami
Beach Ocean Resort last Thursday. Manny says it looks like they’re
one and the same

he’s checking it out.”

Truth cooking between them, Zack munched a
fry. “Did Manny release this?”

“No.” Jim took some more ketchup on his
almost-eaten fry.

“Do you mind?” Zack paused.

“What?”

“You bit that fry

double dip

nothing. So, why
didn’t Manny release this stuff to the press

tell Mary?”

“Ted says Mary said Manny was giving it to
her, Ms. Mary, because he likes her, quote, ‘she’s so refreshingly
bright and honest.’”

“Mary said that?”

“Ted said she said that, and you know
Ted.”

“Ted never told a lie in his life.”

Jim said, “Manny doesn’t want more phony
charges that he’s withholding, distorting the news

he wants to confirm the little fat guy.”

“What about the Ms. Margo porno star
thing?”

“Gave it to everybody.”

“And?”

“Lande’s office, remember? Clamped a hold on
the media, everything, remember?”

“I keep forgetting.”

Jim took another fry.

“I thought you had some fries earlier.”

“I did, Big Mac, too. Still hungry.”

Zack studied him. “Go get an order of
fries.”

“I like these ones.” Jim took another gob of
ketchup. “Maybe we should call that what’s-his-name, cable news
anchor, said they weren’t going to be pushed around, censored.”

“Fat chance.” Zack shook his head. “And even
so, we’ll go through the same thing we did with that dolt head at
Channel 10

confirm my recording, hah.”

“I called AP, told them who I was

why is it everybody thinks
The Boca
is a
joke?”

“I think it’s the charismatic employees.”

Jim took another fry and ate it. “That
settles it. You have to contact Beno. She’ll see you.” He took
another fry.

“That’s five.”

“What?”

“Fries.”

“You been counting?”

“Yes.”

“Palm Bank has a video phone at their ATM
machine

you think they have Beno bugged?”
Jim said.

“Is a cat curious? Think about it. Bet they
have Beno’s every move bugged.”

“Yours, too.”

“Blackguards. Doesn’t matter where I call
from

maybe I should use one of your many
credit cards at that ATM pay phone, just in case.”

Jim stood. “Forget it

and by the way, whatever you do, bathe soon.”

“You should smell that Hoffman guy, card
please, and stay here, keep checking around, remember phones are
bugged.”

Chapter Forty Nine

2:30 p.m.
EST

Leaving Jim in the make shift office, the sky
a reflected ashen yellow, black clouds ominously low, the air thick
with humidity, Zack approached the Palm ATM machine. He lit a
Camel, stripped Jim’s credit card through a slot and accessed the
Washington DC white pages. Thinking, what will I tell the Senator,
how will I explain this? I’ll sound like a

a what? A fruitcake. So what else is new? He typed in
Beno’s name and hit enter.

Waiting, he recalled Jim’s admonition about
Mary. “Twenty guys waiting in line.”

He looked at the video lettering popping up
on the screen—SENATOR NANCY BENO. He listened to a recorded
message.

“Thank you for calling the office of Senator
Nancy Beno. The Senator is not in right now. If you must speak to
someone please enter 555-BENO.”

Zack entered the number. It rang twice and
the Senator’s name and number appeared on the screen.

A pleasant male voice: “This is Senator
Beno’s office.”

“Hello, this is Zackary Stearn, editor of
The Boca
, Miami. What, no video at the Senator’s
office?”

“Not on weekends, holidays, and now the
emergency. This is a special VIP answering service.”

“That’s refreshing. Listen, I must speak to
Senator Beno.”

“Sir, it is holiday recess, and with the
emergency, DC is shut down. The Senator is not available.”

“You don’t seem to understand, I’m Zackary
Stearn, editor of
The Boca
.”

“Sir, forgive me, but even if you are who you
say you are, how do I know you are who you say you are?”

“What is this verification nicety every place
I call the past few days? I’m Zackary Stearn, I must talk to the
Senator.”

“Sir

”

“Please, she’ll know who I am.”

Pause. “Well, all right, I will relay the
info to the Senator. If she is available. If she can be reached. As
you must know, all phone service is being monitored for terrorist
activities

”