The Starving Years (36 page)

Since even the queer activist crowd didn’t know Tim was the Voice of Reason, he erased the browser’s history and cleared the cookies before he took a deep breath and pulled up the site live, online. “Hey, Joni?” he called. “Come take a look at this.”

***

“Did a pair of sunglasses happen to come with that groovy outfit?” Nelson asked Marianne as they walked past the guard station in the lobby toward the revolving doors, all brass and glass and glare. “Cos it’s bright enough out there to give me a nosebleed.”

“Nothing in the pockets but one of those little packs of tissues and a starlight mint.”

“I’d take the mint.”

“It’s probably older than you are.”

“Anything to distract me from the feeling of my head splitting open like a pistachio…” which Marianne had probably never seen. Nelson knew it was bad when he started making uber-geeky food science references. “Never mind.”

Javier caught Nelson by the sleeve, and said, “Wait.” They all stopped. “Something’s going on outside.”

“I’ll have to trust you on that. All I see is sunlight bouncing off chrome.”

“You’re right,” Marianne said. “It was crowded outside when we got here, but now everyone’s facing the building.” She looked at Javier. “You don’t think they’re here for us. Do you?”

“We’re the only ones willing to stand up to Canaan Products.”

Nelson took a few steps forward and squinted out through the glass, but the bright white glare outside washed out any detail that would hint at what was going on. “Don’t be drama queens. That interview in there bombed. You know it, and I know it. And anyone who saw it probably thinks I’m jonesing to get home to my tinfoil hat. It’s crowded outside because it’s Manhattan, and three million people live here.”

Javier caught him by the elbow again and squeezed. “If a reporter tries to talk to you, don’t say anything. Don’t let them bait you. You need time to regroup, and if they don’t have any choice, they’ll wait. We can prepare a stateme—”

A radio squall. Behind them, the guard’s two-way sparked to life. “Yeah, Frank, the cops are on line three. Did anyone named Tim Foster sign in at your desk?”

 
Javier’s fingers dug into Nelson’s arm. Hard.

The guard paged through his clipboard. “Nope.”

“Buzz me if he does. They say he’s here somewhere. We’re supposed to detain him.”

“Dangerous?”

“They didn’t say.”

The guard shook his head. “Will do.”

“Holy crap,” Nelson whispered, “what’re we gonna—” and Marianne took off at a run, clomping and skidding across the polished marble floor in her red sequined slippers.
 

“Marianne,” Javier barked, but she ignored him and flung herself out through the revolving door. He glanced at Nelson—who realized he shouldn’t have found it amusing, not at all. Still, he couldn’t help but smile as he cocked his head toward the blinding glare of the entryway, and together, they made a dash for it.

Nelson had a sense of people—lots of people, jockeying for position, yelling things that all blended together—but all he saw was bright white light. “Stairs,” Javier said—and Nelson might have thought something about the blind leading the blind—only the cliché jar had been blown to bits…and besides, Javier saw plenty.

“…can you explain about leptin…?”

“…what proof do you have on this formula…?”

“…when did the reformulation take place…?”

“Give me your card,” Javier said, “and he’ll call you when he has a statement.”

“Doctor Oliver?”
 

Doctor?
No one ever called Nelson “Doctor” in person. On the phone, looking for some hole in his résumé so they could reject his job application? Maybe. But not once they’d taken a look at him in all his rough-edged, longhaired glory. Even the Manhattan Minute bimbo hadn’t called him “Doctor.” This reporter had done her homework. “Is there a cure?”

Although Javier was attempting to drag him down the stairs, Nelson paused and squinted in the direction of the question. He didn’t watch the news as a rule, but he recognized the reporter who’d called him “Doctor,” a striking black woman with the cool, composed attitude of a pro…plus her microphone had an ABC logo on it. Nelson paused, and said, “Stop eating manna.”

The reporters went silent for the space of a breath, and then it was pandemonium. Pushing, shoving, shouting. Nelson did his best to block out the commotion along with the searing brightness of the sun, and focus in on the reporter’s calm face.

“Just until it’s tested,” he said. “Just until you can figure out where it’s been made. Most manna’s still fine to eat—and it’ll have manufacturing information stamped on the packaging. But Canaan Products ships the base ingredients for other brands, like Park Avenue, so you’ll need to sort out where the manna came from before you can say it hasn’t been reformulated. The stuff in your cupboard, especially. Just toss it all out. They’ve been trying to pull it from the shelves, but you don’t want to take a chance that you get an older batch.”

“What are the specific dates?”

“I have no idea. But a good rule of thumb—if you’ve had a sudden, unexplained weight gain,” or if your kid was trying to
consume
you, “then chances are, your usual brand is no good, and you need to lay off the manna.”

The reporter said, “Then what should people eat?” and tilted her mike toward Nelson again.

“Anything high in protein and fat should help ameliorate the hunger until your hormones even out again.” Even the clever reporter looked blank in response to that explanation, and no wonder. It ranked up there with the pistachio joke in terms of obscurity. “Anything made with dairy or eggs. Nuts. Peanut butter.”

“That would cost a fortune,” one of the reporters deep in the group called out.

“Then some of the soy manna-alternatives should work. And if you can’t afford that—even the pre-packaged veg mixes will be better than nothing. They’re mostly water and fiber, but at least they’ll fill you up while your leptin receptors recover.”

Someone pushed into Nelson’s side as he got the final words out and shoved a Fox News microphone in his face. “How long have you been trying to get a job at Canaan Products, and how many times have you been rejected?”

“That’s it,” Javier snapped. “This interview is over.” And when it seemed as if the reporters and the cameramen would physically prevent them from leaving, he gave one of them a good shove, and another a searing, one-eyed glare, and grudgingly, the media stepped aside and let Nelson and Javier make their way down the marble stairs—albeit through a gauntlet of insulting questions.

“Did you see,” Nelson said in Javier’s ear. “That was ABC.”

“That was live,” Javier said. Oh yes, he saw plenty. “You’re lucky it was Melinda Jackson and not Rob Hewitt.”

“I know I went against orders,
Sir
, but come on. I couldn’t just say nothing.”

“Shut up,” Javier said affectionately. He slid his arm around Nelson’s waist and shoved through a tenacious group of newspaper reporters with his shoulder. “There’s Marianne—I see her hair. And that ridiculous coat. And…Tim.”

Tim? Nelson gave Javier a shove of his own. “Then get a move on.”

His eyes began to grudgingly adjust to the light as they shoved and hustled, and the farther away from the forefront of the reporters they got, the dicier the credentials became—and the more willing Javier was to smack someone with an elbow or stomp on their foot to make some room. No doubt Nelson would find a fresh crop of bruises on himself—it was almost as bad as the riot—or maybe he could entice Javier and Tim into taking a look, too. Tim—there he was, towering above the mega-political-looking dykes all around him, face lighting up as he caught Nelson’s eye. Almost there now, just a few more ranks of reporters to push through. Closer still, and yes, there was Marianne in that funky old coat. One more row of guys with digital recorders, and there was Tim, opening his arms wide…

…and gesturing, beside him, to Bobby.

Nelson broke away from Javier and rushed to gather Bobby in his arms. The kid smelled like smoke and B.O. and vomit—and who cared? Nelson squeezed him hard enough to lift him off the ground, and swung him around and around until he fell into someone—Randy—laughing and crying and saying his boy’s name, over and over, as if it was impossible to comprehend he was really, truly here.

“I love you, kiddo,” Nelson said as he pressed kisses into Bobby’s reeking hair. “I love you so much.”

“Can’t…breathe…” Bobby said.

Nelson laughed, and eased up on the squeezing. Slightly.

He was so giddy with relief to have his son in his arms, he didn’t notice the security guards closing in until one of them jammed a bullhorn in his face, and out thundered the words that nearly split his head in two: “Which one of you is Tim Foster?”

Chapter 33

It was amazing, really, how quickly elation could turn to horror. One moment, Tim was watching Nelson whirling Bobby around, and he was bursting with pride—pride that
he’d
done that, him, the guy who’d thought he could only make a difference through pixels and bandwidth, but instead he’d delved into the belly of the beast, and come out the hero.

The next moment, Tim thought he might wet his pants—because they’d been onto him from the moment he hit the “upload” button—and now he was completely, and utterly, screwed.

One of the security guards shoved Tim out of the way, raised the bullhorn to his mouth, and shouted at the NPR van, “Where is Tim Foster?” The van. Somehow, the 4G connection had been traced. And fast. Tim closed the netbook and slid it into a trash can. He scanned the crowd. It was thinning all around them as news crews backed up and trained their cameras on the security guards in case the situation turned newsworthy. Maybe he could slip away. There—a path was opening up. If he was casual about it, security might never notice one guy in the crowd walking the opposite way.

And then they converged on Joni and the NPR sound engineer she’d been networking with.

Tim’s heart sank.

The guard lowered his bullhorn. His eyes darted nervously as he shouted over the crowd noise, “Tim Foster. Which one is he?”

Without missing a beat, without so much as glancing in Tim’s direction, Joni said, “Who?”

“Tim Foster.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Gratitude surged through Tim. He’d never think that Joni had a big nose again. As far as he was concerned, her nose was perfect. All noses were perfect. On everyone. Everywhere.

“I need to see some I.D.,” the other guard, an older guy with graying stubble, told the sound tech. The tech shrugged, unclipped a press pass from the hem of his shirt, and held it up for the guard to read.
 

An NPR reporter climbed out of the van and said, “What’s this all about?” but since she was female, the guards ignored her. They sized up the crowd, then the nervous one pointed to the guy with the wooden stretcher plugs, who’d just returned from the port-a-potty. “You.” And to Randy. “You. All of you in that group. Get over here.”

Tim backed up a few steps, and the guard looked him in the eye and said, “You, too.” He flanked them, with one hand on his pepper spray, and said, “Look, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. Get your I.D. out and—”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Javier argued, and Randy, who’d been reaching for his wallet, changed his mind and planted his hands on his hips.

“We can do this the easy way,” the older guard said, “or the hard way. We check your I.D.s, or we just hold all of you until the cops get here.”

 
“Hold us?” Javier demanded, “on what grounds?” If it were just the older guard Javier was talking to, Tim wouldn’t have been concerned. “This street is public property. You have no authority here.” That guard looked like he could deal with a rash of vandalism, a bomb threat and a missing baby—all before breakfast—without even breaking a sweat.
 

But the guard with the bullhorn might decide his pepper spray needed a little target practice.
 

Tim marshaled his courage, took a deep breath and said, “I’m—” just as Randy hollered, “Hey, dickhead, over here. Chill the fuck out. I’m Tim Foster.”

Everyone turned to face Randy, who held up his empty hands as if to dare someone to pull a weapon on him, unarmed, in front of a dozen cameras. The guards converged on Randy, and the calm one said, “Okay, bigmouth. Come with us.”

They each took one of his elbows and began leading him toward the Manhattan Minute studio, when Marianne pulled on a bizarre lime green hat with a pom-pom on top, darted out in front of them, and shrieked, “He’s not Tim Foster…I am.”

Both of the guards stopped, and stared.

Marianne stared right back at them and said, “Oh, that’s me, all right. It’s my pen name. Tim Foster.” She crossed her arms, threw her shoulders back, and said, “I’m the Voice of Reason.”

The guards looked at each other and shook their heads. The older guard rolled his eyes and said, “All right, all of you. Get inside.”
 

He caught Marianne by the upper arm, and she started to struggle. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“Look, lady, calm down.”

“I’ll sue you! I will! You can’t push me around like that! I have a medical condition! I’m
pregnant
.”

The guards locked eyes, and the nervous one said, “Why do all the wackos show up on my shift?”

“Just put her in the green room with the other crazy chick. Maybe they’re from the same planet.”

“I’m Tim Foster,” Randy said reasonably. “Not her. That’s my blog. Check and see. I just posted a picture of a bunch of bloody kids tied up in The Tombs.”

“Right. You’re coming with us.” The older guard scanned the crowd and said, “Anyone else here go by the name of Tim Foster?”

Tim could still try to slip away—but what good would it do? If the cops were looking for him, no doubt they were monitoring his apartment. Why give them any reason to come in and seize all his equipment? Besides, the most incriminating things he owned—his netbook, and all his printouts—were stashed in the truck. The truck would be better off where it was now, parked on a side street between a pair of SUVs. “I’m Tim Foster,” he said—and his own name sounded strange as it left his mouth.