The Whisper: Chapter 4
The Conspiracy Beat
Every Sunday morning, Farnsworth and his old lady attended the 10:30 service at St. Mark’s United Methodist up off of Wisconsin. I shuffled in the cold across the street under a funeral parlor overhang and waited for church to let out. I wasn’t presentable – hell, I was still picking glass out of my coat sleeves – but mainly I hadn’t felt comfortable going to church ever since I got back from the war. Somewhere in Korea, me and God parted ways. I’d seen God’s so-called plan in action, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
Folded in my pocket (the one that didn’t have Hugo’s tape) were the pages I’d typed on the Aranjuez story. It was some of my worst writing and full of holes, but I wanted to get as much as possible on the record and into someone else’s hands before the next time someone tried to put a bullet in me. I was thumbing the sheets, obsessively double checking to make sure they were there, when some guy in an overcoat passed by and gave me two quarters. I took them without thinking, then only realized what had happened after the guy turned the corner.
Great. I was now officially a bum.
I stubbed out my cigarette and crossed the road when the congregation filed out around 11:45. Mrs. Farnsworth spent a minute holding the pastor’s hand and congratulating him on his fine sermon as he greeted them on the way out. I could tell that George was anxious to get home to his Sunday pot roast, or maybe there was a game coming on the radio from the way he kept checking his watch.
I finally caught his eye and tipped my hat. I could see him mouth the word “Jesus” when he got a load of my appearance, then he pointed his thumb at a leaf-covered walkway to the side of the church, next to a small cemetery. I nodded and shuffled through the herd of parishioners to wait for him.
“What in the name of all the Disciples happened to you?” he asked. “You spend the night in a dumpster?”
“More or less. My building blew up after a guy with a machine gun tried to kill me in my apartment. And how was your evening?”
He scowled as if I was taking too long to answer him seriously, then his face melted a little when he realized I already did.
“Oh god, Jonesy. Thank Jesus you’re alive. Seriously, I mean that. If I had any idea this kind of thing would’ve happened I’d never let you on the case.”
“Well, we’re in it now.” I handed him my pages. “Leslie’s contact gave up a tip on Bordani. He’s involved with an outfit called Kestrel Security. I’m going to pay them a visit when their office opens tomorrow. And I’ve got an angle on Aranjuez. Someone told me to ‘follow the money’ to figure out who would benefit from his death. That got me thinking about those new banking regulations he’s put in place. San Magin’s got a rep as a tax haven, kind of a poor man’s Switzerland. He might have irritated some powerful people if he asked them to start paying rent for all their golden goose eggs. I want to call Roxy and have her look up—”
“Hold it right there. I don’t want any more hit men coming after you, and I certainly don’t want them after Roxy. I’m killing the story.”
“The hell you are. This is too big, Georgie. It’ll finally put the Street on the map. Hell, it’ll put me on the map. You, me, Leslie, if we bust open this thing, we’ll finally get the respect—”
“Jones. Stop.” There was a tightness to Farnsworth’s face that I usually associated with ‘Do not disturb, I’m writing an editorial.’ “First, never call me Georgie again. ‘Mr. Editor, Sir,’ will do nicely. And second, I’ve got plenty of respect, apparently from everyone except you. Now I’ve told you this before and I’ll tell you again until you drill it into your skull. The Street is not, I repeat, NOT a scandal rag. We’re not looking for that ‘one big story’ that’ll make us famous. Our magazine is reliable, professional, and trustworthy. That’s where our strength is, not in the big headline scoops. You can’t count on scoops to pay the bills. At best, they put a target on your head. Haven’t you figured that out?”
I could feel myself boiling under Farnsworth’s barrage, and my control was slipping from too little sleep. To my surprise, I had to fight the urge to punch him.
“Look,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not backing down from this. People have died, and more definitely will if we don’t sort this out.”
“So go to the cops!” Farnsworth’s voice went up a whole register. “Fine, we don’t trust those NSA goons, but there’s got to be someone we can take it to. I got an in with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’ll call ‘em as soon as I get home, get this thing out in the open.”
“Fine,” I said, “but I can’t leave it alone. Whoever you talk to has got to know that we’re not going to drop this. Sweeping this under the rug can’t be an option. It’s too big for that.”
“No, you’re right,” Farnsworth said. “And I hate it that you’re right. And I hate that of all the people under me, it’s you whose lap this fell in.”
That stung. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re too eager. You’re too desperate to prove yourself. It’s like you want to atone for the fact that you used to write for that trashy L.A. paper. And I could tell you a million times that a paying job is nothing to be ashamed of, and I know damned well you wouldn’t listen.”
I turned to look at the graveyard. Farnsworth was right, of course. I was ashamed of how I’d wasted five years in Los Angeles, and I was desperate to accomplish something important to make up for it. I was sick of Allan “Smithee” getting all the ink; I wanted Allan Jones to do something worth remembering before he ended up in the ground.
“Look, I’ll be careful, okay? I’ve got a… friend who’s helping me out. He pulled my ass out of the fire last night, and I’m lying low while I work the rest of this. I’m watching my back.”
“Fair enough, but I’m still calling my guy at the Attorney’s Office. And Allan… When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“Lunch yesterday?” I honestly wasn’t sure.
Farnsworth pulled out his wallet and gave me a fiver. “Don’t stick your neck out too far. We’re not at war. No one expects you to lay down your life.”
“Maybe someone should,” I said. “Maybe people ought to do that more often.”
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I took the trolley back down Wisconsin and got off on Pennsylvania. There was a hot dog joint open for lunch on weekends, and I meant to put those quarters that fellow had given me to good use. The streetcar was almost empty, so I noticed when a guy in a dark green overcoat got off right behind me. In storefront windows I could watch his reflection as he followed me down the block to the diner, and when I slipped inside I swear he turned to face me as he walked by.
I took note of everyone in the diner before I sat down. There was one waitress and four customers, all of whom were black. I relaxed. I doubted that power-hungry conspirators were hip on racial integration. I ordered two dogs and a coffee, and kept a look-out for any white people who might follow me in.
On the way to a phone booth, I wondered if I was being paranoid. Or maybe, inappropriately paranoid. After all, with all the scientific devices JANUS had, there could be twenty guys watching me and I’d never know it. Odds were that anyone I could actually see wasn’t a genuine threat. Still, it would be stupid to let down my guard.
Roxy’s phone rang five times before she picked up.
“Hello?” she said in the middle of a yawn.
“Hey, kid. It’s Smithee.”
“Allan!” She turned my name into a shriek. “What are you doing? Your apartment burned down!”
“You heard that, huh? Yeah, I’m calling from a phone on—”
“Don’t tell me! For Pete’s sake, is someone after you? Are you safe? Should you get out of town?”
“Slow down, slow down,” I said. “I’ve got a place to stay, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Are you up to running an errand or two today?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Just let me get dressed. I’ll do anything you need.”
“That’s great. You got a pen and paper?”
Roxy already had the answer to one of my questions. Aranjuez was landing at noon on Tuesday at Friendship International just outside of Baltimore. Instead of using the main terminal he was going to disembark at the hanger for privately-owned airplanes on the far side of the field. I asked her to find any details I might use to finagle my way inside, or even a plan of the airport in case I had to sneak in. I’d have to figure a way to get to Baltimore without my car if I wanted to be there in person.
The next stop was the Street. It never really shut down, not even on Sunday. The weekend receptionist buzzed me in without looking up from her crochet. In the newsroom there was the cleaning service, a couple of sports writers typing up Saturday’s college games, and a guy on the financial beat getting a jump on the next day’s starting numbers for the stock market. Lucky him, that’s the guy I wanted.
“Hey,” I said, “Robinson, right?”
“Nelson.” He rubbed his knuckles when he put down his pen. “Robinson’s out on medical. What’s it to ya?”
“I’m working a story on this island called San Magin, supposed to be hot in the banking business. Where would I look up which banks are down there, and who owns them?”
“We got a Bank Directory down in archives, but it’s about five years old. If these are offshore banks, they might not be listed unless they’ve also got branches in the U.S. Most likely they don’t, but they’re probably owned by board members and shareholders from a bunch of banks in the States. Give me a week and fifty dollars and I can map it all out for you. After hours, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “Should’ve got started on this sooner, huh?”
“All else fails, you could always call someone down there.”
Yeah, right. I doubted San Magin even had phone service, unless it was to a military base. But that got me thinking. Farnsworth’s office wasn’t locked, and I knew where he stashed his little black book of contacts. After an hour of phone calls from Roxy’s desk (and lying through my teeth about my credentials) an editor at the Miami Herald gave me the number for an investment broker who specialized in companies doing business in the Caribbean. One call later, and I had a list of ten banks in San Magin and a couple of known U.S. affiliations. I offered many thanks. Now I had something to work with when business opened in the morning.
I spent another hour going through my desk. It was the first chance I’d had since the NSA rifled through it on Friday, and I wanted to see if they’d taken anything. Sure enough, my papers on Representative Crawthorn were gone. That kind of thing was outside the NSA’s purview, but it would be interesting to see if anything came of it. I wouldn’t be writing my story thanks to my deal with DeFranco, but I couldn’t help what someone else might make of my notes.
It got dark early that time of year, and since I’d spent most of a day without getting shot at, I didn’t want to press my luck by walking the streets at night. I rode the trolley as close to my dive as it would take me, popping into the single open grocery I could find for a loaf of bread, some beans, a pint of milk, and a can opener. I tried not to picture everyone else I knew, snuggled warm at home with their pot roast, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Christ, I would have killed just for a beer, but this was Sunday and there wasn’t any helping it, not unless I wanted to track all the way across town to Uncle Pepe’s “bottle club.”
I looked at my new dwellings from under the marquis across the street and asked myself what the hell I was doing. Farnsworth wasn’t the only one to question the cost of this story. Hear I was, having schlepped across town to a flea-trap hotel that catered to fugitives and prostitutes, about to have a healthy repast of cold bean sandwiches. And for what… the scoop? Fame? Respect? I couldn’t even respect myself in the state I was in now.
And three stories up, the light was on in my room.
There were three rooms lit up on my floor, and I counted the windows – twice – to make sure one was mine. Fifth from the right, no doubt about it.
I sighed. What were my options? Did I have any? The weight of my groceries pulled down on my arm. I could go sleep under a bridge, I supposed. Find some lucky hobo to share my bounty with in exchange for a few hours of undisturbed shelter. Maybe I could get a room at the YMCA. Did they even have one in Washington? And did they have rooms? There was no one to ask on U Street on Sunday night, that was for damn sure. Maybe I should go to a church and ask for sanctuary. Did they still do that, or did that die out in the Middle Ages?
I had a gun. It was still there, stuffed in the back of my pants. The weight had been there all day, so much that I’d pretty much forgotten about it, except as a pain in my ass. But it was a gun, with at least a dozen bullets if the Whisper hadn’t been lying about its clip size, and it was sure to be untraceable to me, short of being caught red handed with it.
Screw it. Whoever wanted to push me tonight, they’d find me ready to push back.
There was a fire escape on the south side of the building. I left my groceries behind a trash can and jumped several times until my fingers caught the bottom rung and I pulled the ladder down. Unlike in my apartment, the window to the landing wasn’t stuck, though it did take some pushing to get it open. Just as I did, I saw someone open one of the doors down the hall. I crouched below the sill and listened, hoping I’d be able to tell if they were coming my way.
Eventually I had to peek over the edge. No time to play chicken. I took off my hat first so I wouldn’t make too obvious a target.
The hall was empty. I pulled myself through the gap and trod as quietly as I could. The floorboards were anything but tight, so I set each foot down gingerly, keeping as close to the wall as possible. The gun was in my hand, and I was ready to blow someone’s head off.
I made it to my door without incident. There was light from underneath and through the open vent above. My heart pounded clean through my ribcage, and the reality of how crazy I was acting sank on my shoulders like a straightjacket. What was my plan – to run in and start shooting?
I caught two voices before I could answer that question.
“I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.”
“Shut up.”
“Bored, man. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Bored isn’t a thing. It’s an adjective.”
“Well, look at you, fancy-ass college boy.”
“My god, I’m going to beat you so hard your mother’s going to feel it.”
“If I wanted to be on a stake out, I wouldn’t have left the force.”
“You were thrown off the force, asshole. What was it, incompetence?”
“Excessive force, if you really want to know. God damn it, how long ‘til this guy gets home?”
Two things were obvious. One, my paranoia had been justified. Two, these guys weren’t JANUS. At best they were a couple of low-rent thugs. If they’d been half as good as the guy who’d come after me the night before, I’d never have made it down the hallway alive. That didn’t make me want to shoot these bozos any less.
Time to see which of us was dumber. I knocked on the door, then stood to the side.
“The hell?” I could hear one of them say. There were two steps, then the door cracked open and the guy said, “What is it?”
I kicked the door open the rest of the way and leveled my gun at his face. I could’ve shot out one of his eyes right there, I was so excited, but I held firm to the notion that if I wanted to get some sleep that night, I shouldn’t blow someone’s brains all over my room.
“Hands up,” I said. The man complied. His hands went up, showing yellow stains under the armpits of his shirt. He was older and heavier than I’d guessed from his voice. His face turned bright red and his eyes went as round as teacups. His tie was cheap, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and I didn’t see a holster or a gun on him.
The other man in the room cleared his throat. I risked taking my eyes off of the first one. His companion was thinner, younger, and much better dressed, in a pinstripe suit and a tasteful green tie. He wore round glasses and, like his companion, didn’t seem to be carrying a firearm. He too raised his hands, but spoke only with a tone of caution, not fear.
“Mr. Jones, I presume?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Burke; the fellow sweating through his pants is McCreary. We’re employees of Kestrel Security.”
“Bordani’s outfit?”
“Just so. I see you’re aware of our employer, so I’ll dispense with unnecessary explanations. I’m told your previous residence met with an unfortunate accident last night, Mr. Jones. Let me offer my sympathies to the difficulty you must be experiencing.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“Hardly.” His demeanor had completely changed from what I’d heard out in the hall. “Please, Mr. Jones, lower the gun. Neither of us is armed, and I would hate for any further accidents to happen. You might find it hard to live with yourself.”
I waved for McCreary to step away, then pointed the gun at the floor.
“Fine,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Our employer,” said Burke, “recognizes the position you find yourself in, and would like to offer assistance. It is a generous offer. I hope you consider it.”
“Go on.”
Burke pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it next to my typewriter. “This is a cashier’s check for enough money to cover a nicer hotel than this…” He waved at our surroundings. “…and a train ticket.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere, Mr. Jones. Your choice. You can go anywhere you want. New York, Chicago, Atlanta, New Orleans. We don’t care. Mr. Bordani acknowledges your situation and is offering you an out, free and clear. I suggest you take it.”
“In exchange for what?”
He shrugged. “Leave Washington and never come back. You don’t have to turn over your notes. You don’t even have to give us the tape. All we want you to do is disappear and start over somewhere else. Neither our organization nor its clients will bother you again. Ever.”
He touched the envelope again to square it with the edge of the desk, then waved for McCreary to follow him. He walked around me to the exit without even looking at my gun.
“Consider the offer, Mr. Jones. The money is yours to keep. Sleep on it if you have to. I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision. If you cash the check, that will signal to Mr. Bordani that you have accepted and agreed to his terms. Good evening.”
He closed the door as he left. I locked the deadbolt and sank down on the bed. The envelope, unopened, stared at me. I could just walk away. I could get a nicer room. I could start over somewhere else, somewhere I could just fade into the woodwork.
I slipped the envelope open, just to see how much my life was worth. Burke had understated their offer. In my hand was a crisp, clean money order made out for one thousand dollars, mine for the taking.
My dinner was still outside, behind a garbage can in the alley.
So my life was worth a thousand bucks. How much for my integrity? I wasn’t a journalist for the money. Sure, I had to admit that I was in it for the recognition, but a big part of it was that it gave me a chance to do the right thing. If I started over, would I ever get that chance again?
I looked at the cashier’s check more closely. The signature was illegible. The name of the bank was not. “Howlett & Moore.” It rang a bell. Howlett & Moore was one of the stateside trading partners my Miami financier had mentioned in relation to the Banco Central de San Magin.
Gotcha.
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***First thing Monday morning I took my last $20 to the nearest department store and bought a new outfit and some basic toiletries. I paid for the clothes, changed in the dressing room, and stuffed the hobo’s get-up I’d been wearing in the trash. I spruced up in the men’s room, then headed to work a solid hour late.
I ran into Roxy on the steps. She was on the way out, and in kind of a hurry, a bunch of folded papers stuck out of her handbag.
“Hey, kid,” I said. “What’s the rush?”
“Allan, hey! Sudden emergency. I’ve got a thing. Call me later? And can you tell Georgie I’m taking a sick day. Thanks!”
“Sick, what… Hey, you didn’t tell him yourself? Who’s on the switchboard?”
She mimed a telephone with her free hand and shouted, “Call me!” before running down the street.
Inside, I heard the noise from the newsroom before I’d even got past the foyer. Every reporter on the payroll seemed to be present for once. They’d all congregated in circles around each other’s desks and were jabbering hot and fast. Leslie saw me come in and broke off from his group to grab my arm.
“Hey, what gives?” I said. “The commies launch another Sputnik?”
“We’ve been bought out,” he said.
“What!” I know I shouted, but the room was so loud no one noticed.
“It’s like it happened overnight. No one had any idea this was in the works. Some new fat cat moving in on the media business made the publisher an offer over the weekend, and it was a done deal as soon as the lawyers woke up this morning.”
“Christ, I saw Farnsworth yesterday, and he didn’t say anything. What happens now?”
“Now, you meet the new boss,” Leslie whispered in my ear. “He asked to see you personally.”
He what? One scenario reared itself in my head: the Street had been sold to Bordani, and Kestrel Security goons would swoop in any minute and break my arms for not leaving town. Leslie led me to Farnsworth’s office, where I could see several silhouettes through the door’s frosted glass. It was with a mountain of trepidation that I stepped inside.
Who I found there stopped me dead with surprise. Chatting with my editor was newsreel star and ace reporter Lane Young and her commandeering gentleman friend whose name must have fallen out of my head when my jaw hit the floor.
“Ah, Jones,” he said. “Good to see you again. What a strange coincidence, us bumping into each other over the weekend. I trust you’re doing well?”
I put myself back together and took a moment too long to answer. “Well? Sure, fine, I guess. I don’t under— I’m sorry, but I’ve completely…”
“Canton Marlston,” he filled in the blank. “Come now, Mr. Jones, a reporter ought to be better with names, don’t you think? Or maybe you’re just out of your element without your notepad. Should I wait while you collect it?”
Lane slapped the back of Marlston’s hand. “Don’t be rude, darling. You can see he’s put out. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, I know you’ve had a lot to absorb in a short time this morning.”
“You can say that again.” I turned to Farnsworth. “Boss, what’s up?”
“What’s up is you were right,” he said. “This Aranjuez story is going to put the Street on the map. If this thing blows big enough, we could even take the magazine national.”
I needed to sit down. I wondered if Farnsworth would mind if I poured myself a drink. “Go on?”
“Your editor has been filling us in on this ‘death threat’ story,” said Marlston. “It’s all very exciting. I’m going to fund a full investigation, and I’ve made an offer to the State Department to personally host President Aranjuez on his visit. He’ll be under my protection for the duration of his stay.”
“Wait,” I said, putting a few things together. “You’re buying the Street because of my story?”
Marlston laughed. “Hardly. The timing is merely fortuitous. And it’s not ‘buying,’ it’s ‘bought.’ There’s nothing left but formalities.”
“Okay, then.” I still couldn’t figure if this was a good thing or bad. “I’ve had a few more developments on the case. I guess I’d better type them up.”
“Do that,” said Farnsworth. “You can share them with Ms. Young.”
“I can… what?”
“Lane is going to partner with you on this piece,” said Marlston. “She’ll be the public face of the investigation, to take some of the spotlight off of you in this matter. I understand it’s been pretty difficult for you. Besides, I think we can arrange for Lane to interview Mr. Aranjuez on the evening news. I can pull some strings.”
I looked Lane Young in the eyes. “You’re taking my story?”
“We’ll share the byline,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of taking that away from you. But this is getting into national security matters. It’s bigger than any one reporter, no matter how intrepid.” She smiled with a little dimple that for some odd reason reminded me of George Reeves condescending to Phyllis Coates, but if shewas Clark Kent, that made me Lois Lane.
Son of a bitch. My hero, my idol, the person who’d inspired me to be a reporter in the first place, was poaching my story.
“Boss,” I said to Farnsworth, “I think I need to clear my head. You mind?”
“Go ahead,” he said. I nodded to Marlston and Young, then left.
I sat on the bench in front of the building and pulled out my last cigarette. What the hell had just happened? Suddenly, being shot at by assassins who could walk through walls and rescued by an invisible man didn’t seem half as unusual as it should have. This, the sale of the paper and the deal with Lane Young, that completely pulled the rug out from under me.
And now my god damned lighter wouldn’t work. A black man walked up to me, I assumed to offer me a shoe shine.
“Not now, thanks,” I said. “But say, could I borrow a light?”
“Allan Jones?” the man said, pulling out a government badge. “Special Agent Powell, FBI. You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Hugo Harvey.”
To Be Continued
***
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Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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Every Sunday morning, Farnsworth and his old lady attended the 10:30 service at St. Mark’s United Methodist up off of Wisconsin. I shuffled in the cold across the street under a funeral parlor overhang and waited for church to let out. I wasn’t presentable – hell, I was still picking glass out of my coat sleeves – but mainly I hadn’t felt comfortable going to church ever since I got back from the war. Somewhere in Korea, me and God parted ways. I’d seen God’s so-called plan in action, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
Folded in my pocket (the one that didn’t have Hugo’s tape) were the pages I’d typed on the Aranjuez story. It was some of my worst writing and full of holes, but I wanted to get as much as possible on the record and into someone else’s hands before the next time someone tried to put a bullet in me. I was thumbing the sheets, obsessively double checking to make sure they were there, when some guy in an overcoat passed by and gave me two quarters. I took them without thinking, then only realized what had happened after the guy turned the corner.
Great. I was now officially a bum.
I stubbed out my cigarette and crossed the road when the congregation filed out around 11:45. Mrs. Farnsworth spent a minute holding the pastor’s hand and congratulating him on his fine sermon as he greeted them on the way out. I could tell that George was anxious to get home to his Sunday pot roast, or maybe there was a game coming on the radio from the way he kept checking his watch.
I finally caught his eye and tipped my hat. I could see him mouth the word “Jesus” when he got a load of my appearance, then he pointed his thumb at a leaf-covered walkway to the side of the church, next to a small cemetery. I nodded and shuffled through the herd of parishioners to wait for him.
“What in the name of all the Disciples happened to you?” he asked. “You spend the night in a dumpster?”
“More or less. My building blew up after a guy with a machine gun tried to kill me in my apartment. And how was your evening?”
He scowled as if I was taking too long to answer him seriously, then his face melted a little when he realized I already did.
“Oh god, Jonesy. Thank Jesus you’re alive. Seriously, I mean that. If I had any idea this kind of thing would’ve happened I’d never let you on the case.”
“Well, we’re in it now.” I handed him my pages. “Leslie’s contact gave up a tip on Bordani. He’s involved with an outfit called Kestrel Security. I’m going to pay them a visit when their office opens tomorrow. And I’ve got an angle on Aranjuez. Someone told me to ‘follow the money’ to figure out who would benefit from his death. That got me thinking about those new banking regulations he’s put in place. San Magin’s got a rep as a tax haven, kind of a poor man’s Switzerland. He might have irritated some powerful people if he asked them to start paying rent for all their golden goose eggs. I want to call Roxy and have her look up—”
“Hold it right there. I don’t want any more hit men coming after you, and I certainly don’t want them after Roxy. I’m killing the story.”
“The hell you are. This is too big, Georgie. It’ll finally put the Street on the map. Hell, it’ll put me on the map. You, me, Leslie, if we bust open this thing, we’ll finally get the respect—”
“Jones. Stop.” There was a tightness to Farnsworth’s face that I usually associated with ‘Do not disturb, I’m writing an editorial.’ “First, never call me Georgie again. ‘Mr. Editor, Sir,’ will do nicely. And second, I’ve got plenty of respect, apparently from everyone except you. Now I’ve told you this before and I’ll tell you again until you drill it into your skull. The Street is not, I repeat, NOT a scandal rag. We’re not looking for that ‘one big story’ that’ll make us famous. Our magazine is reliable, professional, and trustworthy. That’s where our strength is, not in the big headline scoops. You can’t count on scoops to pay the bills. At best, they put a target on your head. Haven’t you figured that out?”
I could feel myself boiling under Farnsworth’s barrage, and my control was slipping from too little sleep. To my surprise, I had to fight the urge to punch him.
“Look,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not backing down from this. People have died, and more definitely will if we don’t sort this out.”
“So go to the cops!” Farnsworth’s voice went up a whole register. “Fine, we don’t trust those NSA goons, but there’s got to be someone we can take it to. I got an in with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’ll call ‘em as soon as I get home, get this thing out in the open.”
“Fine,” I said, “but I can’t leave it alone. Whoever you talk to has got to know that we’re not going to drop this. Sweeping this under the rug can’t be an option. It’s too big for that.”
“No, you’re right,” Farnsworth said. “And I hate it that you’re right. And I hate that of all the people under me, it’s you whose lap this fell in.”
That stung. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re too eager. You’re too desperate to prove yourself. It’s like you want to atone for the fact that you used to write for that trashy L.A. paper. And I could tell you a million times that a paying job is nothing to be ashamed of, and I know damned well you wouldn’t listen.”
I turned to look at the graveyard. Farnsworth was right, of course. I was ashamed of how I’d wasted five years in Los Angeles, and I was desperate to accomplish something important to make up for it. I was sick of Allan “Smithee” getting all the ink; I wanted Allan Jones to do something worth remembering before he ended up in the ground.
“Look, I’ll be careful, okay? I’ve got a… friend who’s helping me out. He pulled my ass out of the fire last night, and I’m lying low while I work the rest of this. I’m watching my back.”
“Fair enough, but I’m still calling my guy at the Attorney’s Office. And Allan… When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“Lunch yesterday?” I honestly wasn’t sure.
Farnsworth pulled out his wallet and gave me a fiver. “Don’t stick your neck out too far. We’re not at war. No one expects you to lay down your life.”
“Maybe someone should,” I said. “Maybe people ought to do that more often.”
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I took the trolley back down Wisconsin and got off on Pennsylvania. There was a hot dog joint open for lunch on weekends, and I meant to put those quarters that fellow had given me to good use. The streetcar was almost empty, so I noticed when a guy in a dark green overcoat got off right behind me. In storefront windows I could watch his reflection as he followed me down the block to the diner, and when I slipped inside I swear he turned to face me as he walked by.
I took note of everyone in the diner before I sat down. There was one waitress and four customers, all of whom were black. I relaxed. I doubted that power-hungry conspirators were hip on racial integration. I ordered two dogs and a coffee, and kept a look-out for any white people who might follow me in.
On the way to a phone booth, I wondered if I was being paranoid. Or maybe, inappropriately paranoid. After all, with all the scientific devices JANUS had, there could be twenty guys watching me and I’d never know it. Odds were that anyone I could actually see wasn’t a genuine threat. Still, it would be stupid to let down my guard.
Roxy’s phone rang five times before she picked up.
“Hello?” she said in the middle of a yawn.
“Hey, kid. It’s Smithee.”
“Allan!” She turned my name into a shriek. “What are you doing? Your apartment burned down!”
“You heard that, huh? Yeah, I’m calling from a phone on—”
“Don’t tell me! For Pete’s sake, is someone after you? Are you safe? Should you get out of town?”
“Slow down, slow down,” I said. “I’ve got a place to stay, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Are you up to running an errand or two today?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Just let me get dressed. I’ll do anything you need.”
“That’s great. You got a pen and paper?”
Roxy already had the answer to one of my questions. Aranjuez was landing at noon on Tuesday at Friendship International just outside of Baltimore. Instead of using the main terminal he was going to disembark at the hanger for privately-owned airplanes on the far side of the field. I asked her to find any details I might use to finagle my way inside, or even a plan of the airport in case I had to sneak in. I’d have to figure a way to get to Baltimore without my car if I wanted to be there in person.
The next stop was the Street. It never really shut down, not even on Sunday. The weekend receptionist buzzed me in without looking up from her crochet. In the newsroom there was the cleaning service, a couple of sports writers typing up Saturday’s college games, and a guy on the financial beat getting a jump on the next day’s starting numbers for the stock market. Lucky him, that’s the guy I wanted.
“Hey,” I said, “Robinson, right?”
“Nelson.” He rubbed his knuckles when he put down his pen. “Robinson’s out on medical. What’s it to ya?”
“I’m working a story on this island called San Magin, supposed to be hot in the banking business. Where would I look up which banks are down there, and who owns them?”
“We got a Bank Directory down in archives, but it’s about five years old. If these are offshore banks, they might not be listed unless they’ve also got branches in the U.S. Most likely they don’t, but they’re probably owned by board members and shareholders from a bunch of banks in the States. Give me a week and fifty dollars and I can map it all out for you. After hours, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “Should’ve got started on this sooner, huh?”
“All else fails, you could always call someone down there.”
Yeah, right. I doubted San Magin even had phone service, unless it was to a military base. But that got me thinking. Farnsworth’s office wasn’t locked, and I knew where he stashed his little black book of contacts. After an hour of phone calls from Roxy’s desk (and lying through my teeth about my credentials) an editor at the Miami Herald gave me the number for an investment broker who specialized in companies doing business in the Caribbean. One call later, and I had a list of ten banks in San Magin and a couple of known U.S. affiliations. I offered many thanks. Now I had something to work with when business opened in the morning.
I spent another hour going through my desk. It was the first chance I’d had since the NSA rifled through it on Friday, and I wanted to see if they’d taken anything. Sure enough, my papers on Representative Crawthorn were gone. That kind of thing was outside the NSA’s purview, but it would be interesting to see if anything came of it. I wouldn’t be writing my story thanks to my deal with DeFranco, but I couldn’t help what someone else might make of my notes.
It got dark early that time of year, and since I’d spent most of a day without getting shot at, I didn’t want to press my luck by walking the streets at night. I rode the trolley as close to my dive as it would take me, popping into the single open grocery I could find for a loaf of bread, some beans, a pint of milk, and a can opener. I tried not to picture everyone else I knew, snuggled warm at home with their pot roast, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Christ, I would have killed just for a beer, but this was Sunday and there wasn’t any helping it, not unless I wanted to track all the way across town to Uncle Pepe’s “bottle club.”
I looked at my new dwellings from under the marquis across the street and asked myself what the hell I was doing. Farnsworth wasn’t the only one to question the cost of this story. Hear I was, having schlepped across town to a flea-trap hotel that catered to fugitives and prostitutes, about to have a healthy repast of cold bean sandwiches. And for what… the scoop? Fame? Respect? I couldn’t even respect myself in the state I was in now.
And three stories up, the light was on in my room.
There were three rooms lit up on my floor, and I counted the windows – twice – to make sure one was mine. Fifth from the right, no doubt about it.
I sighed. What were my options? Did I have any? The weight of my groceries pulled down on my arm. I could go sleep under a bridge, I supposed. Find some lucky hobo to share my bounty with in exchange for a few hours of undisturbed shelter. Maybe I could get a room at the YMCA. Did they even have one in Washington? And did they have rooms? There was no one to ask on U Street on Sunday night, that was for damn sure. Maybe I should go to a church and ask for sanctuary. Did they still do that, or did that die out in the Middle Ages?
I had a gun. It was still there, stuffed in the back of my pants. The weight had been there all day, so much that I’d pretty much forgotten about it, except as a pain in my ass. But it was a gun, with at least a dozen bullets if the Whisper hadn’t been lying about its clip size, and it was sure to be untraceable to me, short of being caught red handed with it.
Screw it. Whoever wanted to push me tonight, they’d find me ready to push back.
There was a fire escape on the south side of the building. I left my groceries behind a trash can and jumped several times until my fingers caught the bottom rung and I pulled the ladder down. Unlike in my apartment, the window to the landing wasn’t stuck, though it did take some pushing to get it open. Just as I did, I saw someone open one of the doors down the hall. I crouched below the sill and listened, hoping I’d be able to tell if they were coming my way.
Eventually I had to peek over the edge. No time to play chicken. I took off my hat first so I wouldn’t make too obvious a target.
The hall was empty. I pulled myself through the gap and trod as quietly as I could. The floorboards were anything but tight, so I set each foot down gingerly, keeping as close to the wall as possible. The gun was in my hand, and I was ready to blow someone’s head off.
I made it to my door without incident. There was light from underneath and through the open vent above. My heart pounded clean through my ribcage, and the reality of how crazy I was acting sank on my shoulders like a straightjacket. What was my plan – to run in and start shooting?
I caught two voices before I could answer that question.
“I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.”
“Shut up.”
“Bored, man. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Bored isn’t a thing. It’s an adjective.”
“Well, look at you, fancy-ass college boy.”
“My god, I’m going to beat you so hard your mother’s going to feel it.”
“If I wanted to be on a stake out, I wouldn’t have left the force.”
“You were thrown off the force, asshole. What was it, incompetence?”
“Excessive force, if you really want to know. God damn it, how long ‘til this guy gets home?”
Two things were obvious. One, my paranoia had been justified. Two, these guys weren’t JANUS. At best they were a couple of low-rent thugs. If they’d been half as good as the guy who’d come after me the night before, I’d never have made it down the hallway alive. That didn’t make me want to shoot these bozos any less.
Time to see which of us was dumber. I knocked on the door, then stood to the side.
“The hell?” I could hear one of them say. There were two steps, then the door cracked open and the guy said, “What is it?”
I kicked the door open the rest of the way and leveled my gun at his face. I could’ve shot out one of his eyes right there, I was so excited, but I held firm to the notion that if I wanted to get some sleep that night, I shouldn’t blow someone’s brains all over my room.
“Hands up,” I said. The man complied. His hands went up, showing yellow stains under the armpits of his shirt. He was older and heavier than I’d guessed from his voice. His face turned bright red and his eyes went as round as teacups. His tie was cheap, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and I didn’t see a holster or a gun on him.
The other man in the room cleared his throat. I risked taking my eyes off of the first one. His companion was thinner, younger, and much better dressed, in a pinstripe suit and a tasteful green tie. He wore round glasses and, like his companion, didn’t seem to be carrying a firearm. He too raised his hands, but spoke only with a tone of caution, not fear.
“Mr. Jones, I presume?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Burke; the fellow sweating through his pants is McCreary. We’re employees of Kestrel Security.”
“Bordani’s outfit?”
“Just so. I see you’re aware of our employer, so I’ll dispense with unnecessary explanations. I’m told your previous residence met with an unfortunate accident last night, Mr. Jones. Let me offer my sympathies to the difficulty you must be experiencing.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“Hardly.” His demeanor had completely changed from what I’d heard out in the hall. “Please, Mr. Jones, lower the gun. Neither of us is armed, and I would hate for any further accidents to happen. You might find it hard to live with yourself.”
I waved for McCreary to step away, then pointed the gun at the floor.
“Fine,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Our employer,” said Burke, “recognizes the position you find yourself in, and would like to offer assistance. It is a generous offer. I hope you consider it.”
“Go on.”
Burke pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it next to my typewriter. “This is a cashier’s check for enough money to cover a nicer hotel than this…” He waved at our surroundings. “…and a train ticket.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere, Mr. Jones. Your choice. You can go anywhere you want. New York, Chicago, Atlanta, New Orleans. We don’t care. Mr. Bordani acknowledges your situation and is offering you an out, free and clear. I suggest you take it.”
“In exchange for what?”
He shrugged. “Leave Washington and never come back. You don’t have to turn over your notes. You don’t even have to give us the tape. All we want you to do is disappear and start over somewhere else. Neither our organization nor its clients will bother you again. Ever.”
He touched the envelope again to square it with the edge of the desk, then waved for McCreary to follow him. He walked around me to the exit without even looking at my gun.
“Consider the offer, Mr. Jones. The money is yours to keep. Sleep on it if you have to. I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision. If you cash the check, that will signal to Mr. Bordani that you have accepted and agreed to his terms. Good evening.”
He closed the door as he left. I locked the deadbolt and sank down on the bed. The envelope, unopened, stared at me. I could just walk away. I could get a nicer room. I could start over somewhere else, somewhere I could just fade into the woodwork.
I slipped the envelope open, just to see how much my life was worth. Burke had understated their offer. In my hand was a crisp, clean money order made out for one thousand dollars, mine for the taking.
My dinner was still outside, behind a garbage can in the alley.
So my life was worth a thousand bucks. How much for my integrity? I wasn’t a journalist for the money. Sure, I had to admit that I was in it for the recognition, but a big part of it was that it gave me a chance to do the right thing. If I started over, would I ever get that chance again?
I looked at the cashier’s check more closely. The signature was illegible. The name of the bank was not. “Howlett & Moore.” It rang a bell. Howlett & Moore was one of the stateside trading partners my Miami financier had mentioned in relation to the Banco Central de San Magin.
Gotcha.
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***First thing Monday morning I took my last $20 to the nearest department store and bought a new outfit and some basic toiletries. I paid for the clothes, changed in the dressing room, and stuffed the hobo’s get-up I’d been wearing in the trash. I spruced up in the men’s room, then headed to work a solid hour late.
I ran into Roxy on the steps. She was on the way out, and in kind of a hurry, a bunch of folded papers stuck out of her handbag.
“Hey, kid,” I said. “What’s the rush?”
“Allan, hey! Sudden emergency. I’ve got a thing. Call me later? And can you tell Georgie I’m taking a sick day. Thanks!”
“Sick, what… Hey, you didn’t tell him yourself? Who’s on the switchboard?”
She mimed a telephone with her free hand and shouted, “Call me!” before running down the street.
Inside, I heard the noise from the newsroom before I’d even got past the foyer. Every reporter on the payroll seemed to be present for once. They’d all congregated in circles around each other’s desks and were jabbering hot and fast. Leslie saw me come in and broke off from his group to grab my arm.
“Hey, what gives?” I said. “The commies launch another Sputnik?”
“We’ve been bought out,” he said.
“What!” I know I shouted, but the room was so loud no one noticed.
“It’s like it happened overnight. No one had any idea this was in the works. Some new fat cat moving in on the media business made the publisher an offer over the weekend, and it was a done deal as soon as the lawyers woke up this morning.”
“Christ, I saw Farnsworth yesterday, and he didn’t say anything. What happens now?”
“Now, you meet the new boss,” Leslie whispered in my ear. “He asked to see you personally.”
He what? One scenario reared itself in my head: the Street had been sold to Bordani, and Kestrel Security goons would swoop in any minute and break my arms for not leaving town. Leslie led me to Farnsworth’s office, where I could see several silhouettes through the door’s frosted glass. It was with a mountain of trepidation that I stepped inside.
Who I found there stopped me dead with surprise. Chatting with my editor was newsreel star and ace reporter Lane Young and her commandeering gentleman friend whose name must have fallen out of my head when my jaw hit the floor.
“Ah, Jones,” he said. “Good to see you again. What a strange coincidence, us bumping into each other over the weekend. I trust you’re doing well?”
I put myself back together and took a moment too long to answer. “Well? Sure, fine, I guess. I don’t under— I’m sorry, but I’ve completely…”
“Canton Marlston,” he filled in the blank. “Come now, Mr. Jones, a reporter ought to be better with names, don’t you think? Or maybe you’re just out of your element without your notepad. Should I wait while you collect it?”
Lane slapped the back of Marlston’s hand. “Don’t be rude, darling. You can see he’s put out. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, I know you’ve had a lot to absorb in a short time this morning.”
“You can say that again.” I turned to Farnsworth. “Boss, what’s up?”
“What’s up is you were right,” he said. “This Aranjuez story is going to put the Street on the map. If this thing blows big enough, we could even take the magazine national.”
I needed to sit down. I wondered if Farnsworth would mind if I poured myself a drink. “Go on?”
“Your editor has been filling us in on this ‘death threat’ story,” said Marlston. “It’s all very exciting. I’m going to fund a full investigation, and I’ve made an offer to the State Department to personally host President Aranjuez on his visit. He’ll be under my protection for the duration of his stay.”
“Wait,” I said, putting a few things together. “You’re buying the Street because of my story?”
Marlston laughed. “Hardly. The timing is merely fortuitous. And it’s not ‘buying,’ it’s ‘bought.’ There’s nothing left but formalities.”
“Okay, then.” I still couldn’t figure if this was a good thing or bad. “I’ve had a few more developments on the case. I guess I’d better type them up.”
“Do that,” said Farnsworth. “You can share them with Ms. Young.”
“I can… what?”
“Lane is going to partner with you on this piece,” said Marlston. “She’ll be the public face of the investigation, to take some of the spotlight off of you in this matter. I understand it’s been pretty difficult for you. Besides, I think we can arrange for Lane to interview Mr. Aranjuez on the evening news. I can pull some strings.”
I looked Lane Young in the eyes. “You’re taking my story?”
“We’ll share the byline,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of taking that away from you. But this is getting into national security matters. It’s bigger than any one reporter, no matter how intrepid.” She smiled with a little dimple that for some odd reason reminded me of George Reeves condescending to Phyllis Coates, but if shewas Clark Kent, that made me Lois Lane.
Son of a bitch. My hero, my idol, the person who’d inspired me to be a reporter in the first place, was poaching my story.
“Boss,” I said to Farnsworth, “I think I need to clear my head. You mind?”
“Go ahead,” he said. I nodded to Marlston and Young, then left.
I sat on the bench in front of the building and pulled out my last cigarette. What the hell had just happened? Suddenly, being shot at by assassins who could walk through walls and rescued by an invisible man didn’t seem half as unusual as it should have. This, the sale of the paper and the deal with Lane Young, that completely pulled the rug out from under me.
And now my god damned lighter wouldn’t work. A black man walked up to me, I assumed to offer me a shoe shine.
“Not now, thanks,” I said. “But say, could I borrow a light?”
“Allan Jones?” the man said, pulling out a government badge. “Special Agent Powell, FBI. You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Hugo Harvey.”
To Be Continued
***
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The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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