“Do you know I never went to a football game in all my years of high school and college because I was afraid I’d want more, want it bad! And I thought I could never get it. Maybe I wasn’t cool enough to have a guy like Brad, or you! But, I overcame that to see you play. No, that’s a lie; I came solely to see you. You know, I had to go out to dinner with the jerk who sold the tickets just to get close to mid-field so I could see you!”
“You never told me that!”
“It wasn’t important. We went Dutch actually; I didn’t want to owe that sleaze anything.”
“So, I guess we both sacrificed for each other,” Hiccock summed up the last few minutes and was ready to move on. Janice however, was still processing.
“Wait,” she retorted, “Are you taking the position that not going to a slut infested, mass groupie suck and fuck-fest with sexually transmitting diseased tramps was somehow a sacrifice? On second thought, don’t answer that! So, how was your day at the office, dear?”
The evening’s conversation continued, focused on his day at the office, that being the office of the president’s science advisor.
“So you think the FBI’s theory is wrong?”
“First off, they’d kill me if they knew I was discussing this with you. And, yes, when any part of an assumption doesn’t test true to the operational model of the proposition, it must be deemed false.”
“Well, that may be true in a purely scientific sense, but I know of cases where eleven-year-old boys have the intellect and adaptive skills to do great tasks.”
“Are you suggesting that I am not considering the human factor?”
“You pretty much live your whole life ignoring the human factor.” She smiled to take the point off the little dagger she just inserted, but Hiccock felt it all the same.
“Is this going to turn into the ‘soulless’ argument again?”
“Am I getting too predictable for you? Listen, artificial intelligence is half the package. Without a conscience or other mediated value structure, it has no more potential to be useful than a, a … serial killer.” She dug a little more pasta out of the serving bowl.
“AI can be the tool that helps man crack the biggest mysteries of life and the universe, unfettered by human bias. It can help us reach beyond the limits of three-dimensional thinking.”
“That’s what I am afraid of. Without all those messy, sloppy biases or without some moral or spiritual guidance package, it will never be intelligent, just belligerent.”
Hiccock was lost. Tyler seemed distracted by something on TV.
“Well, at least they can’t blame this one on hip-hop,” she said, still looking at the TV.
He looked over his shoulder to see what she was watching. Geraldo displayed a mug shot of Martha Krummel, the gardening grandmother who derailed the freight train.
“Grandma Martha didn’t hang with the homies around the beat box.”
“You know, having an ex with a Ph.D. in behavioral sciences might be an advantage after all. At least we’ll …” He stopped when he saw a video clip, taken with a telephoto lens, of himself as he had left the White House today.
“Once again, ladies and gentlemen,” Geraldo said, “I have a confirmed report from an inside White House source close to the president that this man—can we slow that tape down?” The video image on the screen strobed and flickered as it slowed down to catch Hiccock walking from the side door of the East Wing to a waiting car. Geraldo continued to speak over what in the business is called a “package,” a pre-produced piece featuring old footage and stills of Hiccock in his college days. “William Hiccock, the former Heisman Trophy–winning quarterback who abandoned what everyone agreed would have been a brilliant career in the pros to follow his love of science”—the picture switched to footage of Bill among a group of administration appointees—“has now been named as independent investigator of these same terrorist attacks. This despite the objections of the FBI and the Office of Homeland Security. It seems, ladies and gentlemen, as we sit here tonight, that a classic old-fashioned turf war is heating up within the administration.
“Forgive me for saying this, but have we not learned anything from the other attacks? As you recall, there had been ample warnings, but each held tight by various government agencies leaving us vulnerable, while bureaucrats protected their precious areas of autonomy. In this latest round of more random, more sporadic but unrelenting attacks, we still have no idea who or for what purpose Americans are losing their lives. Let’s hope the squabbling ends soon so we can catch the people who are doing these horrific deeds. I am being told right now from the control room that my producers are trying to get Dr. William Hiccock on the phone. We’ll try to get him on the air and see if he can provide further insight into this segment, which we’re calling ‘The Quarterback Gets in the Game.’ We’ll be back after this break. Stay tuned, lots of news to come.”
The telephone started to ring.
“Over the objection of the FBI?” Janice said.
“It pays to have enemies in high places.” The telephone kept ringing. “And I am not going to answer that. I am actually under orders not to.”
“Then you’ll have time to do the dishes.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Meetings
Nobody steals clothes anymore, right? Carly asked herself as she looked out the diner window at the harsh green tinted fluorescent spill from the laundromat across the street. As her private unmentionables tumbled in the public dryer, she sat sipping hot tea with lemon from her “sick tray” before her. No cross-dressing transvestite or out of work Victoria’s Secret model was going to steal her intimate garments and get away with it. This is ridiculous! She thought, yet she still couldn’t get herself to deposit them in the hotel laundry service bag. Why can’t I ever remember if it’s cold or hot water that gets blood out?
As if she were instantly cast into one of her worst nightmares, she recognized the face of a man she knew, entering the diner. In her particular version of the common nightmare, she would find herself naked in front of a laughing and snickering 6th grade assembly. In the dream she would nearly die of embarrassment, although she always awoke, in a cold sweat, before meeting the grim reaper, naked. Tonight, she was bloated, retaining water. Her hair unceremoniously lobbed on top of her head, she was in the old ripped sweatshirt with, Oh God, old spaghetti sauce stains on her chest. The warm-up pants she wore were a wonderland of lint balls and, on her face, the last remnants of a day’s make-up had, at this point, been reduced to an echo of eyeliner. Her lipstick had long since dissolved away from her normally accented lips.
Although he wasn’t laughing at her yet, her heart stopped when she realized he was someone from the White House, the press corps, somebody from cable. Please don’t let him see me. She buried her face in the cup and mentally tried to be smaller than her 5’10 frame. Although at that moment, she was in the middle of a little real life nightmare, later, upon reflection, she would come to appreciate the evening as the night that changed her life in ways she could never have dreamt possible.
“Hello there; Carly isn’t it?” the voice said.
Shit. “Yes, Carly Simone,” she said. Then waited for him to fill in the blank look she wasn’t trying very hard to conceal. He was on the far side of fifty, and could have been Regis Philbin’s brother. There was a warmth in his eyes, but a perpetual sneer to his mouth. She wondered which one was dominant.
“Wallace Smith, MSNBC. May I join you?” He flashed a winning smile.
Carly was surprised. “Well, actually, I was just leaving.”
“Actually this will only take a few minutes.”
“What will?”
He smiled as he invited himself into the booth sitting across the table from her. “I have an idea. Do you watch MSNBC?”
“Sometimes, not lately. I haven’t had time to watch anything lately.”
“Are you permanent here now?”
“No, I am on assignment.” Why didn’t I comb my goddamn
hair?
“Do you like it here in Washington?”
“It’s got a personality all its own... more than any other place in America. The buildings and what they represent are old and stationary, but the people in them are always new and constantly changing. Even New York has natives. Here in D.C. if you find a native, there’s a good chance they are not involved in the only business in this town.”
“Well, I can see you are not opinionated.”
“I do objectivity for a living, I live subjectively.”
Wallace, who 25 years ago started out as a copy boy at the New York Post instead of going to college, recognized the journalism school jargon. “What school did you come out of?”
“Andover, then NYU Journalism for post grad.”
“Well, Carly, I’ll get right to the point. How would you like to work at MSNBC?”
“I wouldn’t know how to write for television.”
“No, Carly, I mean, go on camera, become a reporter.”
“Me? I have always done print. I am used to hundreds of words; you guys deal in hundredths of seconds.”
“Look, we have producers like me who handle all that. TV requires someone who can speak extemporaneously about an issue only when the earpiece falls out of their ears. You know Brian Williams, or Scott Pelley?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes I am reading the script right into their ear, two words ahead of what they are speaking. It’s called audio prompting. We of course only do it when things are happening so fast that there isn’t enough time to even teleprompt it to them.”
“So, are you saying you will put the words into my mouth?”
“Only if we are live and you couldn’t possibly know everything that’s going on.”
“But if I don’t know, why would I be talking about it?”
He held up his hands in a “no-contest” gesture, “Okay, so that’s a deal breaker right there, Carly. If you are going to spew forth journalistic ethics to me, then maybe you should stay in the virginal, unadulterated, pristine world of magazine writing. So you can be as God intended, one girl, talking to a few readers with nothing between you and them but a pencil and notebook.”
Carly let the “girl” remark go. But she grabbed onto the magazine slam. “So if I remember correctly, the top shows any network actually produces themselves with consistent top ratings are the ones they laughingly call ‘Magazine Shows.’ Tell me, is that just a way of buying credibility, ‘print’ credibility, the credibility won by those reporters who apply pencil to notebook?”
Wallace was amazed at the moxie this girl had. Maybe she didn’t know who he was. “You know as the head of the Washington news operations I would love to debate this all night, but you look like you got other things to do tonight and so do I. I’ll just leave it at this. I would like you to come work for us and cover the science beat. Since we deal in hundredths of a second in my business, I’ll give you a few hundred thousand to decide. Here’s my card. Or you can always find me around the press room.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
As he stood looking down at her, he began negotiations. “You haven’t asked me how much we pay.”
“You haven’t asked me how much I want.”
Wally used his poker face and smiled, then turned away, thinking She is some piece of work. She’ll probably be great on camera.
Carly tried not to watch him leave. She sat still for a minute or two reviewing the conversation. Hundredths, hundreds. Girl. Print. Ask me what I want. Credibility. Then it hit her, this wasn’t a chance meeting. He must have had her followed. He didn’t even order a coffee to go. Besides, he wouldn’t be in this neighborhood at night. So he came after me… That was a good point from which to start her negotiation for salary and benefits. As she sat there the echoes of another nocturnal fantasy started resounding within her. She always thought about being on TV. Reaching millions. Gaining the trust of millions. Making millions. She plopped down a ten, more than enough to cover the tab for tea and dry toast plus tip. She walked out of the diner and headed for the hotel. As she walked her head slowly rose from looking down at the cherry blossoms, which were falling like a gentle spring snow onto the sidewalks of Washington, D.C. Their unmistakable scent that filled the soft warm breeze, and the realization that what just happened was a good thing, lifted her head and spirit. The Washington Monument, brilliantly lit against the inky black sky, became an exclamation point to the evening that had started out with a period.
She was a block from the hotel when she stopped to retrace her steps, realizing she left her panties in the laundromat.
∞§∞
“Bill, are you sure you want to keep this small?” Reynolds said.
“Ray, if it gets too big, I’ll wind up filling out forms and running a bureaucracy instead of trying to figure out what the hell’s going on. Thank you, but no thank you. I don’t want to move into the Department of the Interior. I’ll work out of my office. I don’t want a staff of 300. I don’t want to do anything but get started.”
“It’s your show, Bill. Do you at least want a car and driver?”
“I’ll manage on my own, thanks.”
“Hey, that makes my job easier. Anything else?”
“No, I just need the one gov-ops person to handle the forms. Which reminds me, what’s the story with Cheryl?”
“She’s bright and she’s a self-starter, why?”
“How about her?”
“You want one of my assistants to be your gov-ops?”
“Especially one of your assistants, one who knows how things work around here. Besides, she can spy on you for me.”
Spying being a two-way street, Reynolds shook his head. “Okay, Cheryl will be assigned to your group.”
The intercom beeped and Reynolds picked up the receiver. “Ah, yes. Send him right in.” He hung up the phone. “When I called Tate to do the vetting on Janice, he hit the ceiling and said he’d be right over.”
On cue, FBI Director Tate entered. “This is preposterous.”
Hiccock concealed his slight delight at Tate’s rage and remained focused on the chief of staff.
“Just run the usual background check on her, please,” Reynolds said calmly.
“Sure, why not? I am sure the president wholeheartedly supports Hiccock’s efforts to rekindle his marriage.”
“Forget the fact that she’s my ex-wife,” Hiccock said brusquely. “She’s the best on anyone’s list.”
Tate rolled his eyes. Reynolds looked Hiccock deeply in his. “Bill, I think the question is whether both of you can forget the fact that you are exes?”
“Are you kidding? We’re like the best of friends. We still have dinner once a week. There isn’t anything we wouldn’t do for each other …”
∞§∞
“Fuck you! No way!” Janice said resolutely. “I’ve got a practice, a funded study, and a neurotic, type-A personality male with a great talent for finding superior wines with whom I am trying to wash you out of my hair. No!”
“The lawyer?” Hiccock asked incredulously.
“He’s an arbitrator.”
“He’s arbitrary, all right. I thought that was over.”
“It was under review.”
“See, it’s not even a relationship, it’s a - a - a thing! Under review.”
“If you remember, we agreed not to talk about our other relationships.”
“What do you mean, we?”
“Listen, Bill, we would still be a we if you didn’t throw yourself so totally into that artificial intelligence thing and now this White House job. Christ, even the president gets time off!”
“Would you have liked it better if I sold out and took that Defense Department job with Robert Parnes right out of college, in a think tank, trying to figure out how to get more fucking mega-death from atomic weapons?”
“Or signed with the Giants! First off, what’s so goddamn wrong with money? And yes, a little more bringing home the bacon and a littl
e less worrying about the pig would have been nice!”
“Wait, I’m lost again,” he said in exasperation, fingers splayed out on his forehead.
He could see she was trying to conceal a little smile. “Forget it, that analogy didn’t test well to the operational model so it must be deemed false. Here’s a better postulate, buckaroo! You got a degree in engineering, your first Master’s was in physics, your second Master’s in scientific methods. You are not a Bachelor of Science, you are a goddamn husband of science and you cannot have two wives.”
“Give me a fucking break. You’re jealous of my work?”
“Angry! I’m angry at it because it took you away from me. So I am out there,” her arm shot out pointing toward the window, “and if you haven’t gotten the message yet and you haven’t been dating anyone, don’t shit on my good luck!”
“Good luck! He’s old enough to be your father’s … younger brother.” He squeezed his eyes as soon as he said it, knowing he crossed a line—a receding hairline—with that remark.
“End it here and now.” Her face was daring him. “Not one step further,” she said, wagging her finger.
Hiccock felt he landed some good shots and received the TKO, so his mind reverted to his original reason for all this. “You’re right. I am not handling this well. I’ll try to do better. But Janice, this investigation is the most important thing in America. I need you. The president needs you. Your country needs you.”
“Two strikes out of three, Bill. I didn’t vote for him and I divorced you.”
“I know that face. You are going to help me, aren’t you?”
“You got me on the country thing.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Terror Firma
Carly adjusted herself in the chair as Wally finished a phone call in the little office afforded MSNBC in the cramped quarters of the surprisingly small White House. Its initial design never considered the exponential growth of journalism outlets that would clamor for representation in the longest running story in American history, the office of the chief executive. Carly had played out the way she imagined this meeting was going to go at least 20 times in her head.
The Eighth Day Page 9
