The Journalist (8 page)

“Oh, and did you say that?”

“What?”

“You smoke too much.”

She rolled her eyes.

“So, what did our dear Ms. Lande have to
say?”

“The White House must be reading your
editorials.”

“At least we have two readers.”

“Who’s the other one?” Mary raised an
eyebrow.

“You.”

“And you, that’s three.”

“So what did Lande say?”

“Says you’re bordering on malice—actual
malice, she said.”

“Is that all?”

“Quoted some
New York Times
versus
Sullivan. Court held that a public person, celebrity,
politician—Armstrong—who alleges libel, as by a newspaper—you—and
can prove that the statement was made with ‘actual
malice’—knowledge that it was false or done with reckless disregard
of whether it was false or not—can sue for damages

and you,
The Boca
, is and they’re not above
suing.”

He shook his head. “She really said all
that?”

“Yes, Boca, she did.”

“You know I don’t like that.”

“What?”

“Being called Boca.”

“Fits.”

“On what grounds?”

“Your mouth?”

“I meant Lande.”

“I think it’s maybe because you keep writing
that our dear President is paranoid with delusions of
grandeur—megalomania, narcissistic I think you wrote ‘marked by
infantile feelings of omnipotence, grandeur, delusional,
manic-depressive, they call it bipolar now, disturbed, senile, an
insane lunatic mien master, stupid jackass’ or something like
that.”

“Well, let him prove he’s not.”

“Zack, come on, you have to admit you are a
little excessive. Like Lande said, you’d think the old fart, you,
was a licensed shrink.”

“She called me that?”

“Yes.”

“Huh, imagine. Anyway, I have had
considerable training in mind games.”

“You keep reminding me.”

“Anything else?”

“She said you’re dead wrong on that military
para-something, global unit whatever editorial, and they want a
retraction.”

“Ten billion U.S. smackers went
somewhere.”

“Zack, it’s a dangerous world. Benny is
counteracting terrorism.”

“Why do you defend that moron?”

“No need to get edgy.”

“I’m not edgy.”

“Sound edgy.”

“He’s insane.” Zack crushed his cigarette
out.

“He’s a politician.”

“D-minus. He’s a mole-brained idiot
zealot.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Plain and simple—nuts.”

“You said that.” Mary stood, stepped to the
coffeepot and poured herself a cup. “Political rhetoric.”

“C-plus.”

“Thank you.” She tasted the coffee. “Ugh,
this is unusually rotten.”

Zack ignored her and mimicked Armstrong’s
Southern drawl. “The time is much more momentous than Hannibal’s
decision to cross the Alps. Beyond Columbus’s discovery of a new
land. Eclipses Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. This is more akin
to those days immediately before

” He
looked at her. “Tell me that’s not nuts

”

“Why are you getting so worked up? It’s just
me.”

“You do understand that we—you, I,
humanity—we are all, all of us, in the hands of an accidentally
placed idiot who thinks Jesus Christ sleeps in the Lincoln
Bedroom

”

“Boca, Boca, Boca, how you tend to
exaggerate.” Mary sat on the arm of the sofa and nursed her
coffee.

“I do not exaggerate

”

“Well, anyway, Armstrong must be putting the
heat on Lande to shut you up.”

“He’ll have to change a few words in the
Constitution

”

“Lande might show him how.”

“Or God.” Zack lit a MORE.

“Maybe he does talk to God.” She looked at
him. “Some people say they do.”

“Who?”

“Don’t you?”

“Difference is, I know I’m crazy, and
besides, the Big Guy isn’t talking back.”

“How objective we are.” Mary walked to the
office window and looked out. “Boca, when can we have dinner?”

Her question, like a surprise jab, hit him
between the eyes. Fifteen seconds passed.

“Take your time. When?”

“Mary, we’ve been through that umpteen
times.”

“Just dinner, for cripes sake.” She tasted
her coffee. “Ugh, I will never understand how you can drink this
tar.”

“I like to think asphalt.” He exhaled.

She shook her head. “So, when can we have
dinner?”

“I feel like I’m being pressured.”

“You feel right.”

“Mary, you know this could be construed as
sexual harassment.”

“What do you mean ‘construed?’ It
is
.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“You don’t know?”

“Let’s see, four years

”

“Four years and three months—I followed you
here after Florida State, remember?”

“Journalism student, right, tennis
scholarship, Sarasota High, State high school singles’ champ, three
siblings—Kate, Kelly, Jim—father is a coach

”

“Oh, stuff it and quit changing the
subject.”

Zack picked up a
Sports Illustrated
invoice from his desk. “By the way, this came for you, third
notice.”

She took it, glanced at the total and threw
it back on his desk. “That’s yours, remember? That and free
parking, half my incentive package.”

“What was the other half?”

“A ride on your boat.” She tilted her head.
“Remember?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“When you get my age you forget some
things.”

“Only what you want to.”

Zack looked at his watch—5:05. “How about a
drink?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Just one.”

“You have one, I’ll have two.”

Chapter Nine

A full house this evening, The Tea Company’s
linoleum floor shone from what smelled like a recent Lysol mopping.
The flyspecked fluorescent lights dispersed their familiar yellow
glow over everything, and the odor of cigarette smoke and peanut
cooking oil hung heavy in the air.

Mindy, the female half of the new owner team,
looking very Native American (an eighteen-inch eagle feather stuck
from her shiny black hair), stood at the cash register inside the
front door. She nodded to Mary and smiled at Zack.

A step behind Mary, Zack said to Mindy, “Hear
anything from Joe Case lately?”

Mindy looked to the bar, touched her feather,
cast a quick glance around then said, “No, I don’t know” and
shrugged like she couldn’t talk about it.

Wondering what all that meant, Zack looked to
his favorite booth at the end of the establishment. Empty. He
nudged Mary toward it.

“Watch it,” Mary said.

Zack said to Mindy, “If you hear from Joe,
tell him I said hello.”

Mindy, stone-faced, nodded.

Zack nudged Mary’s shoulder. “That last booth
on the end, get it.”

“Quit pushing me.”

“Sorry.”

One step toward the booth, Mary turned.
“What’s that smell?”

“Barbecue ji ji.”

“What’s that?”

“Monkey.”

“You’re a riot.”

Settling into Zackary’s favorite booth, Mary
sniffed the air. “So, what is that smell?”

“I’m serious. Have you never heard of the
Chinese Monkey King?
Journey to West
, classical Chinese
novel, dates back four hundred years, there were three

”

“That’s okay, professor, I’ll catch it next
semester.”

“Monkey King was the true story of a Chinese
monk, Xuan Zang, around 602 to 664.”

“Is this going to be a monkey food joke?”

“After many years of trials and tribulations,
the monk traveled to India to seek the Sutra, the Buddhist holy
book.”

“No.”

“When he returned to China, he translated the
Sutra into Chinese.”

“That makes sense.”

“Some say the monk symbolizes a rebellious
spirit.”

“Sounds like some newspaper guy I know.”

“A rock gave birth to the Monkey King. He
became extremely smart and capable. He can transform himself into
seventy-two different images—tree, bird, beast of prey, can travel
one hundred-eighty thousand miles in a single somersault.”

“He is definitely some newspaper guy I
know.”

“With Neptune’s iron bar, he went down into
hell and threatened Satan himself.”

“How big was that bar?”

“In a nutshell, Monkey is a rebel fighting
against meaningless rules and regulations, hypocrisy and
sanctimonious pretense in the world.”

“I now think I know what that smell is.”

“What?”

“Your bullshit.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

“That’s because you smoke too much.”

“Oh.” Zack threw a pack of Camels on the
table.

“Why do you like this dump so much?”

“Nostalgia.” He lit a Camel. “Memories of The
Bimini Road, ahhh, the arroz con camarones, and the sopa de
frijoles negros, and the piccadillo

”

“Are you showing off?”

“Frijoles negros was heaven

”

“This place stinks.”

“Careful, the owner is sensitive.”

“Who, the lady with the feather?”

“Her other half, Jay Xzing.”

“So why do you like this dump so much?”

“No plastic, the glasses are just right for
Glenlivet and—”

“Don’t tell me—chopsticks.”

Zack lit a Camel.

A very tall Teutonic male waiter in black
pajamas came to the table. He smiled and said, “My name is Troy
Allen, I’m from Phoenix, my real job is acting, this is part-time,
I’ll be your server for this evening.”

Mary rolled her eyes and ordered a
Bohemia.

Zack shook his head no.

“What’s that mean?” Mary said.

“They don’t have Bohemia.”

“And you come here?”

“Try the Tsingtao draft—excellent.” He smiled
at the server. “ Tsingtao draft for the lady, and I’ll have a
Glenlivet on the rocks.”

The waiter left, and Mary said, “You’re so
chivalrous.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, but why?”

“Why?”

“Why do you like this place?”

“The former owner, Joe Case. I knew him, this
place got to feel like home, still does. Joe’s ghost, he’s still
here.”

She rolled her eyes. “I knew Joe Case, too.
No ghost would be seen with him.”

“You knew Joe Case?”

She pursed her lips. “You know, sometimes you
piss me off.”

“I can’t figure out why he left
so

”

“Thought he was still here.”

“You woulda thought he would call

you know, say leaving town, something. I was in a week
before

we talked, then just like
that

gone, poof.” He snapped his
fingers.

“Maybe he’s a reincarnation of the Monkey
King, went down to hell with Neptune’s bar.”

“Joe? No. Never. He was

”

“Looney tunes.”

The waiter served the drinks.

“Run a tab.” Zack said.

“No tabs no more, new policy, cash only,
ten-twenty-five.”

Mary raised an eyebrow.

Zack reached deep and laid a twenty dollar
bill on the table and some coins.

The server made change and left.

“You skipping out on tabs again?” Mary tipped
her head.

“I think it’s some of the Pi guys that hang
around here

”

“Please.” She sipped. “You know, I heard the
Feds had this place under surveillance.”

“Now where did you hear a thing like
that?”

“Oh, stuff it.” She put the mug of Tsingtao
down. “So, tell me again, why do you like this place so much. I
mean, you know, look at this tabletop. It’s rank with

what is that?”

“Stewed puree of cicadas, part of the
ambience.”

“You’re so full of it.” Mary said.

“So, what are you going to tell Dr. Lande
tomorrow when you call her back?”

“I’ll tell her that Boca is going to call her
personally.”

“Mary

”

“Why do I have to take all those calls? She’s
calling for you.”

“Mary

” Zack noticed
the television over the bar flash up video of Senator Beno. He
pointed to the set. “There’s Beno, her Labor Day speech to the
AFL-CIO, Detroit.”

Mary called to a heavyset bartender. “Hey,
sumo, turn that up

”

Sumo snarled something under his breath.

“Hurry up

” Mary
half-stood.

“Will you sit down?” Zack said.

She did and their attention went to the TV
video of Beno standing at an outdoor lectern. Her short black hair
buffeted by the wind, the sun bronzed her dark African-American
skin. She waved to a large applauding crowd then, as the applause
died down, began.

“I don’t understand. Why does one individual
receive a million dollars in stock options and the next day the
company lays off a thousand workers? I don’t understand?”

Cheers and applause from the labor day crowd
broke out.

“Why is one person paid fifty million a year
to run a media conglomerate and the employees have to work two jobs
to make a house payment? I don’t understand.”

Cheers.

“And for what, these millions? To tool around
in a Rolls Royce, drive up to the takeout window for fries and a
Coke? I don’t understand.”

Cheers.

“You can get fries and a Coke on a bicycle.
Four wheels and a two-cycle engine can get you to Wendy’s just
fine. I don’t understand

”

Cheers and applause.

“Let me tell you this, dear friends. History
is replete with societies toppled because they ended up with a
privileged class aristocracy perched at the top of the pile. It
simply doesn’t work. Sooner or later, the masses get tired of cheap
seats, broken promises, and ten-dollar beer.”