Hack, p.18
Hack, page 18
“We could do some nudes,” she suggested.
“This is business, Ginny.”
“Business?”
“Yes, business. You think I was going to give you guys the story for free? We have to talk to your boss. I’m your new partner—except I deserve a big signing bonus as the newest star at the Daily Press.”
“What?”
“Don’t freak out. You’ll have a byline, too,” I told her. Our story will be “By F.X. Shepherd and Virginia McElhone.”
“In your dreams, Sheppie. My name goes first.”
“Call me Sheppie one more time and the deal is off.” Her mouth opened but shut without a word. I rang for the nurse. Time to go.
46.
It took another seventeen hours to sign discharge papers and escape from my hospital room the next morning. I was sore, limping, and exhausted—the painkillers wearing off.
Before she stormed out, Jane had brought my house keys and clothes: a loose-fitting short-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans because my bloody clothes had been taken as evidence. I took a shower and put on the outfit, along with a pair of brown cowhide Topsiders. Only the bandages on my left arm were visible, along with the cuts and bruises on my face, now added to my collection. My wallet was stained with blood but the credit cards were undamaged. The bills were mush from the lake.
I was unable to reach Izzy or Mary Catherine by phone from the hospital room so I took a cab home. Skippy wasn’t there but a note from Jane, obviously old, informed me she had taken him to her place, which I already knew. My first order of business was a three-hour nap on the couch. It felt great.
Without a cell phone, I tried Izzy and Mary Catherine again on my landline and again got their voicemails. The clock was ticking so I took my antibiotic pill but not the painkiller. I needed to be sharp. I located my souvenir NEW YORK MAIL baseball cap, went out and hailed another cab with my pitching arm.
Jane would not come out to the front desk at the animal hospital. Her assistant Xana said Skippy was at Jane’s place and was okay for another day. Xana’s t-shirt read FUR IS MURDER.
“Any message for Dr. Jane?” Xana asked me.
“Just tell her Shepherd needs to see her, thanks.”
“Okay,” Xana said, eyeing me suspiciously, the steel pin through one of her eyebrows twitching. “So, what’s going on?”
Obviously my fan had read the lies about me in the Mail. I gave her the short version of what had happened.
“You’re one lucky guy,” she told me.
“Don’t believe what you read in the Mail,” I told her.
“I don’t,” she said, showing a nice smile and a flash of a silvery knob through her tongue. “Hey, if Dr. Jane isn’t interested anymore, call me.”
She handed me a card. I took it and muttered something pleasant as I left. The pincushion was hitting on me.
I got more cash from an ATM machine on the street and took another cab to Izzy’s precinct. I had to wait half an hour before he came down and coldly ushered me out the front door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shepherd, but I am no longer on the case,” he said in a loud voice. “Or, rather, I am still on the task force but I am no longer in charge. Someone else will be contacting you for an interview shortly. Here is your cell phone, which we already discussed.”
He handed me my iPhone, which I took with my good hand and clipped onto my belt. He made me sign a receipt.
“You’re kidding, right, Izzy?”
“No, sir, best of luck to you,” Izzy said, like a real asshole.
He extended his hand. I didn’t take it. His hand stayed in midair. I shook his hand. He gripped me firmly, making a show of a hearty handclasp, not letting go for several seconds. It hurt. When it was over, I put my hand in my pocket and dropped the small plastic object he had given me.
“Let me guess. Orders from headquarters. I’m now a suspect.”
“Sorry, sir, I’m not authorized to discuss the case,” Izzy replied, with a Joker smile. “Have a nice day.”
He turned and walked back into the precinct. I glanced up at the building’s surveillance camera that had captured the whole charade and smiled. Izzy was doing what he had to do.
I found a Web Crawler café, bought two memory sticks and used one of their machines to copy the data from the memory stick Izzy had given me onto them, sipping a latte. It was a good latte and time well spent. Then I took my phone from my belt. There was still half a charge on it. I called Mary Catherine’s cell.
“Hello?”
“It’s Shepherd.”
“Oh, Mr. Shepherd, thanks for calling. I wanted to tell you that I’m no longer investigating anything that involves you and… the various cases. I’ve been reassigned.”
“What a surprise,” I said.
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“There’s a lot of this going around. So who is now assigned to investigate me?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anyone was assigned to investigate you.”
“Oh, okay. Have a nice day. I’m late for choir practice.”
“Okay, Mr. Shepherd. God bless you.”
One hour later, in a middle pew of the cavernous, echoing, gothic St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a really pissed off Mary Catherine was waiting.
“I’m glad you remembered our emergency crash meeting protocol,” she said. “Obviously the landscape has changed.”
“That’s why Lucky Tal and Badger nuked me before we could nuke them,” I observed.
“Well, he who nukes last nukes best,” she said.
“Any weapons of mass destruction on you?” I wondered.
“Not one,” she admitted.
“Mary Catherine, I need the loan of a little piece of equipment today. As soon as possible. Anonymously.”
She asked me what I needed. I told her. She made a call and told me it would arrive in fifteen minutes. She asked what it was for.
“I’m going fishing.”
In ten minutes, a young lady arrived with my item in a Starbucks bag and showed me how to use it before she left. She asked no questions.
“Thanks, Mary Catherine. Check this out and we can talk later,” I said, handing her one of the memory sticks I had bought at the web café.
“What’s on this?” she asked.
“Several nukes.”
“Is this from the New York Mail computers? I thought the NYPD was closed down on this.”
“Yes and yes,” I replied. “I have to go. I have another meeting before I go back to work.”
“How did you get it?” she demanded.
“In this town, it’s all a matter of who you shake hands with,” I explained.
“You can’t tell me. Okay. Be careful. What am I supposed to do with this? I’m off the case.”
“Don’t look a gift nuke in the face,” I told her.
47.
If they had voided my ID card, this would be a short mission. I stopped in the bustling marble lobby of the New York Mail building to pick up some mints at the newsstand, as the lunch crowd hurried past me—buzzed but unwilling—back to their desks. I did a recon and didn’t spot any new goons waiting to tackle me. My ID card opened the Plexiglas starting gate at the turnstiles and I was in. That’s the thing about big organizations like a media company or an oil tanker; it takes a while for orders to filter down from the bridge to the engine room. I snugged my NEW YORK MAIL baseball cap onto my aching head and strode to the elevators before anybody stopped me. I used my ID card again on the thirteenth floor to open the glass doors bearing the NEW YORK MAIL logo and waved to the receptionist behind the counter. She gave a friendly wave back; obviously not someone who actually read the paper. I opened the second door and walked into the City Room. Several people froze when they saw me, literally stopped in their tracks, mouths agape. Nigel what’s-his-name—Bantock—was getting yelled at by Badger at the City Desk. Badger’s back was to me and he was the last to turn. I gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up and walked quickly toward Tal Edgar’s glass office. I could see his hulking shape hunched over his desk, slurring loudly into his phone. He saw me and stopped in mid-slur. He slammed down the phone and sat back in his chair, watching me approach, giving me that same I’m-going-to-kill-you glare. I ignored his assistant, shoved his glass door open and took a seat in front of him, scanning the room and desk, cataloguing the objects, rating them as possible weapons and ranking them according to utility.
“I’m back from sick leave, boss. Just thought I’d check in. I’ve got a juicy new exclusive for you I think is going to be big. Care for a mint?”
I held out a small metal tin of Altoids. I flipped it open to reveal scores of tiny, circular candies with a little letter ‘A’ impressed into one side.
“Sure you won’t have one? Peppermint. Just the thing after a meal. That way, the boss can’t tell you’ve been boozing at lunch.”
Lucky Tal did not react.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Badger yelled behind me. “You must be barking mad.”
“I work here,” I protested. “How about you? Mint? You know you love Altoids.”
“You’re sacked. Fired, fuckwit,” Badger countered.
“Really? No one told me that. My ID still works. I thought all was forgiven.”
Tal just watched me and said nothing. You could tell Lucky Tal was pissed that I got in because no one had thought to cancel my ID. It probably never occurred to them I would drop by for an informal chat. I ignored Badger and addressed the Editor.
“Am I fired?”
“You know you are,” he said quietly.
“Not until you tell me, Lucky Tal.”
“You no longer work here. And I do not like that nickname.”
“Why am I fired?” I asked, not breaking eye contact. “What nickname?”
“You know why you’re fired,” Badger sputtered, moving to my left. “You’re a fucking serial killer!”
“Everyone in this room knows that is not true,” I said. “You guys are the worst liars on the eastern seaboard. What’s amazing to me is you guys have been lying so long you think if you can print it first, it’s true. Don’t you want to hear my big exclusive before you confiscate my coffee mug?”
“We don’t want to hear anything you have to say—” said Badger.
“Yes,” said Tal, his voice quiet. Badger stopped talking instantly.
I told them. I started with what Jack Leslie and Matt Molloy had done, what they had probably done—I guessed they at least killed poor Pookie, possibly Neil and Cash Cushing too—all sacrificed on the altar of circulation. Then I touched on the Joyce case, how they had browbeaten a desperate man into an exclusive interview by blackmail and caused his suicide. Tal sat there like a bullfrog, unmoving, unblinking, getting redder in the face. Then I began mentioning other cases, other deaths in New York and in California. I gave no details.
“Well, you boys get the idea. I’m going to hoist you by your own petards—is that the right word? No. Dicks. I’m going to hoist you both by your dicks. Thought you would like first crack at the cosmic exclusive. Least I can do. You guys just did a nice, big story about me. Time for me to do the same. Whataya say?”
“You have no proof, wanker,” Badger said.
“So, it’s true there is evidence but you don’t think I have it?” I asked, still looking directly at Lucky Tal. “You think you’ve shut down the investigation but you’re wrong, guys. I have proof.”
Lucky Tal blinked. I took out a memory stick and tossed it at the Editor. It landed in front of him. He shot a glance at Badger, who snatched it up and inserted it into a laptop on the desk. Tal never took his eyes from me and I never took my eyes off him.
“Fuck!” Badger spat. “How did he get this? That cunting chief promised me this would never see the light of day! Christ! He’s got all the Sean Joyce memos and texts, the video of the threat about his kids. Somebody is going to hang for this! Shit! He’s got the First Lady recordings, the mayor’s videos, he’s got everything! This can’t be happening. If this gets out we’re all going to jail,” he moaned.
“Badger, shut your hole,” Lucky Tal told him.
He shut his hole. The Editor stood up. I stood up. He smiled at me. I returned the smile.
“If any of this ever gets out, any of it, anywhere, you’re a dead man,” Lucky Tal told me. “We will have you killed and we’ll sleep like babies. You are fucking with the wrong mob, mate. No cop in this town, no fed, is your friend. I warned them off. You have no friends. You think some other news organization will go against us? Think again. They know better.”
“You’re not denying any of it.”
“What of it?”
“So you can libel people, blackmail them, kill them, and get away with it? What makes you think you can do that in this country?”
“Freedom of the press, mate. A license to print money and run governments. Also useful for squashing bugs. Now get the fuck out of here. I’m not done with you. Our exclusive for tomorrow is the fact that the NYPD and the feds are now investigating you. Apparently we hired a psycho who committed war crimes and is a serial killer.”
“By the way, I think you need new Human Resources people,” I said, heading for the door.
“It should come as no surprise that your parents are sixties radicals, who raised you as a communist,” Tal Edgar said.
“Democrat,” I corrected him.
Three large, uniformed security guards were waiting for me outside the office, two in front, one behind, blocking my exit. They were all dark-skinned, in blue fake cop uniforms with square silver badges, and appeared to be from the Indian subcontinent. They all had their right hands on their hips, like they were about to pull pistols, but I didn’t see any.
I looked around and took stock. I was stuck in an aisle, a flat table piled high with newspapers and magazines to my left, a row of heavy, waist-high metal filing cabinets on my right. The only thing on one of the cabinets was a black Hewlett Packard fax machine, screeching out a page. City Room staffers were peeking over and around their beige cubicle walls, like townspeople before a western gunfight.
“I am injured and just got out of the hospital,” I told the guards, loudly. “I will give you no trouble, gentlemen. I’m walking to the elevator and out the front door. But, if you touch me, I’ll have to hurt you. In self-defense.”
They all smiled and pulled out matching telescoping black clubs and looked at Badger.
“He’s a thief and he attacked us,” Badger said. “Teach him a lesson.”
I snugged my cap on tight. The security guys hesitated, so I made a decision. I grabbed the fax machine with both hands and yanked it hard, spinning in place and ripping out the cords. I spun a full circle and used the motion to launch the machine at one of the rent-a-cops in front of me, straight-arming the fax like a basketball at his upper chest.
“Here ya go!”
He fumbled with his baton and tried to catch the machine but went over with it backwards, hard, into a side aisle with a crash and a descending wail. His shaken partner took his eyes off me to watch his buddy go down, so I turned toward the one behind me, as that guy’s club hit me across the back, burning like a bullwhip. Fortunately, he wasn’t smart enough to hit me over the head. Yet. I spun, yelling like a motherfucker, and stomped his shin sideways, just below the knee, before he could wind up and do it again. He folded down onto the snapped kneecap, dropping his stick. I clipped his jaw with my right fist on his way to the floor. I turned back to the last man, as he rushed me from the front, his club high over his head. He brought it down hard, going for my skull. I met him and blocked with my left forearm, sliding my hand down his arm to grab his wrist. I stepped left, inside his swing, pivoting, locking my right elbow inside his right elbow. As he bumped into my hips, I used his momentum to lift and twist him with a shoulder throw.
He trashed a computer station with his back and head and didn’t get up.
“You next?” I asked an astounded Badger.
He ran away. Fast. I heard a smattering of secret applause from the cubicles. I tipped my hat to the crowd and walked quickly from the area. I ducked into the stairwell and caught an elevator to the lobby from one floor down. As I hit the sidewalk, a blue-and-white screeched to the curb. I did not offer the two cops who got out any of my Altoid mints but I popped a few into my mouth. I turned the corner and kept walking west, toward my next appointment, my breath getting fresher with each step.
48.
I was cool with Ginny getting her name first on the byline but, after a brief negotiation with Daily Press editors over my signing bonus, they insisted my name go first on the front page. I had the goods—which I showed them on a laptop—not Ginny. Case closed. I apologized to her and fortunately she came up with her own exclusive to add to the package.
After a long night of work, with the help of many other new faces, I left my new job, went home, hit the arak, and collapsed on my bed, the aches from my injuries temporarily subdued. I set my alarm early, for another busy day.
In the morning, fresh copies of the Daily Press and the New York Mail were outside my door but this time delivered by a kid in a Daily Press t-shirt.
The Mail was a real collector’s item. My former paper had more stories slamming me, claiming I forced my way onto the Hacker story with coverage “in hindsight, just too good to be true,” an article smearing my parents as possible domestic terrorists, one predicting my arrest, and a real beauty calling for mob action and including my home address and apartment number. With the HR twins gone, Lucky Tal was openly recruiting thugs from among his readership. Time to go. I showered fast, grabbed the newspapers and left. I hailed a cab and scanned the Daily Press in the back seat.
The main story, “BAIL FOR THE MAIL?” featured a grainy color photo from my baseball cap videocam, provided anonymously by Mary Catherine and U.S. taxpayers, of a snarling Lucky Tal Edgar at his desk. The caption underneath was sweet. “We Will Have You Killed and We’ll Sleep Like Babies. Mail editor ‘Lucky’ Tal Edgar threatens Daily Press reporter if he reveals alleged criminal activity by New York Mail employees now being investigated by police.”
