The Journalist (2 page)

The New York
Times

April 26,
2020

Paris — The Eiffel
Tower Toppled

Over 5,000 people lost their lives when an explosive
device was detonated in the French capital. An Internet message
from the terrorist group UR2 claimed responsibility. Saying
violence only begets more violence, France officially remains
committed to nonviolence. A government spokesperson blamed the
policies of Israel and America’s nuclear support of the Jewish
state for the world’s chaos.

The Washington
Post

May 1,
2020

Washington, D.C. — Vermont’s pugnacious in-your-face
Senator Nancy Beno is making a strong November run at incumbent
Benjamin P. Armstrong for the Presidency. Beno, the World Socialism
candidate, pledges to open a dialog with Islamic States and, while
guaranteeing Israel’s security, dismantling Israel’s nuclear
threat.

The
Boca

May 6,
2020

Miami — Johnny-come-lately politician President
Benjamin Armstrong has reacquired the historic presidential yacht,
U.S.S. Sequoia
. In re-naming the storied vessel
Benny
I
, the former ABC sit-com star and converted television
evangelist said, “It’s time America got back to her bedrock
Christian roots.”Some say Benny should get back to his South
Carolina roots too, and for good.

Zack sipped his Glenlivet and smiled. Partial
to his own writing, he liked the last article best. The others,
every time he read them, conjured wonder about words, reality and
fiction.

His cell phone began to ring. Checking caller
ID, he saw it was Mary O’Brien, thought about answering, decided
not to and, the phone still ringing, left for a cold Bohemia beer
and his favorite torrid Mexican food at the Bimini Road Café.

Chapter Two

Two weeks
later

5:30 p.m.
EST

Sunday, June 15,
2020

The White
House

In his book-lined West Wing office, Leo
Novak—in blue Polo shirt, tan Dockers slacks and black Gucci
loafers—stood beside a twenty-five-inch floor-stand globe of the
Earth. Sipping a cocktail, turning the orb slowly, he continued a
conversation with Dr. Barbara Lande.

“Our quest, Babs, is essential for the
elevation of the human species on Planet Earth.”

Lande, in red blazer, white silk slacks and
red pumps, lounging in a maroon wingback chair, rolled her eyes,
held up her cocktail, “The sweet vermouth helps, don’t you
think?”

She referred to her special brew of Long
Island Iced Tea they both drank from blue White House goblet.

Ignoring her remark, Novak, engrossed in his
lofty thoughts, said with some distaste, “Beno, all those people,
the unwashed, they don’t get it, never will.”

Taking a cigar from her jacket pocket, Lande
said, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.”

She lit up anyway.

Novak paused then continued his thought,
“Freedom is not absolute and equality is not true of everyone.”

“I can attest to that

been in the Patriots’ locker rooms many times.”

Novak looked down his nose. “You do
understand the magnitude

the
implications

our place in the chronicle of
world history, don’t you?”

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

Resigned, Novak sat behind his spindle-legged
Renaissance desk. “The President simply loved your idea.”

“How could he not? It’s genius, if I do say
so myself.”

Ignoring her, or not hearing her, Novak
leaned back. “So, how is this going to work?”

Hearing the door open, Novak and Lande
watched as MacCallister, flushed and disheveled, entered. He wore
weekend khaki fatigues.

“Where you been, Mac?” Novak said.

“Tied up.” He teetered.

“Who was she?” Lande said with a smile.

MacCallister ignored her as he sat on a
ten-foot white tufted sofa that faced Novak’s desk.

Novak held up his White House goblet. “Have
some Long Island Tea?” He indicated a shiny chrome tumbler sitting
in the center of a narrow coffee table in front of the sofa.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Mac leaned forward and
poured a goblet of the potent mixture. He took a drink and
frowned.

Novak said, “That’s the sweet vermouth.” He
looked at Lande. “To Doctor Lande’s liking.”

“Figures,” Mac said.

Lande saluted with her goblet. “Saludo.”

Novak said, “We were just chatting, Mac. Ah,
did you see this morning’s
Post
?”

“I didn’t get to it yet.”

“Ha,” Lande said.

Novak continued, “Shows Beno ahead of the
President by fifteen percentage points.” He shook his head. “The
attention span of the American people is truly amazing.”

Lande crossed her legs and puffed on her
cigar. “You’d think Beno was servicing those network TV news jerks.
Can’t believe those weenies. Every week the same lick-it-up
crapola—Senator Beno offers new plan to reduce taxes; Senator Beno
asks for cap on business profits; Senator Beno demands list of the
President Armstrong’s corporate supporters; Senator Beno promises
negotiation with terrorists

” She formed a
zero with her index finger and thumb. “Facking losers.”

Mac took a long drink, set his glass down,
gripped his knees with his hands and mocked Beno’s campaign slogan.
“I’m tired of trickle-down economics. I want to percolate it up.”
He stared at Novak through narrowed, tank-slit eyes. “I could
arrange an accident for that bitch in a second.”

Novak shook his head down to the neat peak of
his chin like a wet Labrador retriever shedding water. “No, no,
no

” He sat up and leaned over his desk.
“Any action of that character would give the media boobs a field
day. Many problems, many problems—remember the sixties with all
those asinine assassinations, dippy songs. Besides, if Beno were
removed there’d be ten nincompoops standing in line to take her
place. It is not Beno, it is the insanity of her position, that
left-wing socialist position, that must be purged from our
thinking, all thinking.” He took a drink of Tea, propped his feet
up and said, “No, no, no accidents.”

Novak studied the ceiling for a moment then
said to Mac, “Suppose you didn’t see the
Times
, either?”

“I heard about it on the radio. Those French
wee-wee’s are smoking something, always have been.”

Novak replied, “After they lose their
national phallic symbol, five thousand little Pierres, they’re
blaming everything on us and Israel.”

Lande said, “Guilt complex

ever since all those heads were lopped off in the
Reign of Terror.”

“Too many sauces.” Novak shook his head.
“
Post
also reported that gas could be nine dollars a gallon
by Labor Day.”

Mac frowned. “And Beno wants to negotiate
with those laundry head jockeys

that
goddamn oil money is supporting those guys

doesn’t that jungle bunny get it?”

Lande dragged on her cigar and blew smoke
from the side of her funnel-shaped mouth. “You have such a way with
words, Bill.”

The general frowned at being called Bill by
this female version of Peter O’Toole. He squared his peaked crew
cut head toward Lande, said, “Lande, I got satellite pictures of
you squatting in the reflecting pool, so don’t get too damn
uppity.” He extended his meaty lower jaw as if inviting a hit.

“Which time?” Lande said.

“Smart ass.” MacCallister twisted his thick
bulldog neck. “One of these day’s somebody’s gonna lick that smart
ass of yours.”

“Ya mean ‘kick,’ don’t ya, Bill?” Lande
smiled.

Mac started to stand. “I’ll just show you
what I mean

”

“Sit down

” Novak
blinked; memories of shallowness that had brought down dynasties
flashed through his mind. He glared at Mac. “What were you going to
do, spank her?”

Mac leaned back, “Not even with your
hand.”

Lande shook her head in disbelief.

Novak cast dubious glances at his colleagues’
pettiness. I wonder if they realize the depth of the moment at
hand, he thought. Probably not.

He despised dealing with inferior intellects
but, as he often told himself, to accomplish certain goals the end
justifies the means, requires it, and the higher good is ultimately
served. He leaned over his desk and smiled at Lande, “So, Babs, how
is this media plan of yours proceeding?”

“Maavaalaas, on track, shooting in two weeks,
unload everything to the TV guys Labor Day weekend.”

Mac sat up and folded his arms across his
chest. “I gotta tell ya, I still think this pissing with the
television people could blow up in our faces.”

“Relax, General, relax.” Lande smiled. “Just
be sure the Internet satellites go out Friday before Labor Day, the
TV sats go out Monday, Labor Day.”

“They’ll be out, but I’m skitty.”

“Have some more Long Island Tea,” Lande
said.

Novak ogled Lande’s cockiness. “Like I said
before, you understand, Ms. Babs, if this doesn’t work we will all
be hanged.”

MacCallister unfolded his arms. “And like I
said, by the nuts.”

Lande smiled. “Maybe you guys.”

They chuckled.

Chapter Three

Three weeks
later

4:45 p.m
EST

Sunday, July
6

Biscayne Bay,
Florida

Gripping the mahogany wheel of
Veracity
, Zack steered past the north point of Elliot Key
heading west toward Fender Point’s Pompano Marina. A black T-shirt
hanging loose over his khaki shorts, he held the throbbing Chris
Craft at ten knots. With a weekend of boating coming to an end, he
moved thoughts around, over and ahead to the upcoming evening and
future things in general.

First comes a Bohemia at the Bimini Road ,
maybe two, then dinner, then, seven o’clock this very night, earth
time and beyond, Armstrong’s TV speech

w
ho knows what little green ET’s might be watching
Ben’s much ballyhooed definitive solution to Planet Earth’s
rendition of turning the other cheek—International terrorism, world
democracy, goat milk and gout, in that order.
Zack shuddered at
what Armstrong’s concoction of political thinking and evangelical
rhetoric might be.

Moving to the other things, he checked in at
an item the world seemed preoccupied with—messianic predictions of
the Second Coming. Then again, he wasn’t sure if that was simply a
past world myth or a present-world phenomenon. The past world, at
least a few thousand years of it, had been waiting for a chosen
one, never-ending story, he thought.

Moving on to future things in general, he had
to get
Veracity
’s engines tuned soon. Then there was that
editorial he could never get finished, and, like a splinter in his
thumb, there was that personal Mary O’Brien thing. He had to pull
the switch on that, like, yesterday.
Old enough to be her
grandfather
, he thought.

An urge to turn around, chart a slow trip to
Australia, somewhere, anywhere, moved the moment like a giant manta
ray swimming in the wake of
Veracity
. But, the moment
fleeting, as usual when moment were such, he contemplated his
former life in what had become a continuing ghost-draft
autobiography:

After twenty years as a Jesuit Priest, (how
do you explain that delicately, work on it) owner, editor, general
manager of The Boca, Zackary Stearn has presided for the past five
years over publication of what he hoped to be, albeit small, a
toothy bite at journalism in the truest sense of the word, i.e.,
that public enlightenment is the forerunner of justice, the
foundation of democracy and, Stearn believes vehemently that, no
matter where it might leads or the consequences, the duty of the
journalist is to seek truth and provide a fair, comprehensive
record of event and honest account of events and issues.

Published twice weekly, with special editions
when events warranted, the little gazette enjoys a loyal
readership. Vendor distributed throughout the Miami area, the usual
run is fifty thousand, with a three-thousand-copy Spanish
edition.

“Have to get that to five thousand,” he
mumbled and continued:

The publication has become like a person to
Zackary—a companion, a necessity. After a day’s work, he can be
found in The Bimini Road cafe lecturing his small staff on the why
of The Boca: “Words you can touch, reality, truth, facts.” After a
third Glenlivet, amid widening yawns, when he segues into
Cervantes’ Don Quixote—idealism in a cynical world—he finds himself
alone.

“Which is okay

sometimes,” he smiled:

An incurable teacher/coach, fifty-second
birthday a month ago, despite nearly forty years of on-again,
off-again smoking, Zackary still maintains the undergraduate weight
he carried as a middleweight boxer at Notre Dame. His slate-gray
eyes, when first meeting, look through you. In less than a minute
you sense he knows the inner workings of you.

“That last line might have to go,” he said
and went on:

His nose, flattened by many left hooks, rests
a quarter-inch off-center. His full head of short-cropped
salt-and-pepper hair enhances a brown boater’s tan that resembles
the glow of natural leaf tobacco. Muscle solid, stomach flat,
shoulders squared, neck void of sagging flesh, he projects his
prior life’s authority.