Parked for a moment on the street, she reasoned that if she went upstairs without fear she could accomplish two things: get her dignity back and her desk.
A tall order, she thought. Simple but mathematically impossible given the circumstances of her ejection.
She had been found drunk in the same elevator she would now take. She had puked all over herself and fouled that whole sixth floor with her mess. Embarrassed beyond description, Rob Cohen had almost fired her.
She was too good to lose, he said. So he placed her on compulsory furlough.
But now Olivia was onto something big, she could feel it in every fiber of her being. She wanted to tell Cohen about it. She needed her desk back.
—
After making sure that her face was alright in the rearview mirror, she stepped into the street. She had decided against dark shades. There was no need to make the department suspicious of another spell.
Up in the elevator she went, out into the hall she came.
The murmur of the hub hit her. It was an emotional moment. She missed the energy here. The adrenaline of being able to do to the public what only a journalist can: make them feel whatever emotions they could.
Furtive glances in the cubicles from co-workers. She walked straight towards Rob Cohen’s office. The door was open as usual. Cohen’s face was on his computer.
He was a handsome man. Almost bald, but attractive. Baby-faced, he never aged. He had greyed around his ears, though.
He raised his face and saw Olivia coming. He smiled.
Olivia walked into the spacious office.
“Shut the door, please,” he ordered.
Olivia did. “Good morning.”
Cohen pushed his computer out of the way; a steaming cup of coffee appeared in its place.
“Good morning, Olivia.” He stood up to look at her. He nodded. “Have a seat.”
Olivia sat. Her temples pulsated with nervousness. Outwardly she was calm. She equaled Rob Cohen’s stare.
“How have you been, Olivia, how’re you holding up?”
“You never even called, Rob,” she snapped.
Rob Cohen frowned. He spread his hands. “I sent you an email, and I got no reply, Olivia. Look Olivia, I know—we know—you have been through so much. Enough to make anyone else cave in, but not you. You are strong, you are fierce, and you are the best I know in this line of work. But corporate was hounding me in account of your, you know—”
“Drinking habits,” Olivia supplied.
He leaned forward. “I couldn’t bear to watch you do what you were doing to yourself, Olivia—”
“So you let me go.”
“—what happened to John wasn’t your fault but you took it hard. Too hard.”
Olivia glared at Cohen.
“Now you blame me for letting you go,” he added.
“I needed help, Rob. I needed someone to help me get through that time. My job was important to me—”
Rob Cohen opened a drawer near him and brought out a newspaper. He tossed it across the table at her.
“What is this?”
She picked it up.
“Page six,” Cohen whispered.
She found the page. It was mostly paid announcements, an obituary, and somewhere below there was a small column. It was titled:
“Ace Journalist Took a Plunge After Lover’s Death.”
The column began with the words, “Renowned journalist-turned-alcoholic may have her recent behavior blamed on the death of her lover in a failed drug bust…”
All the fight left Olivia. A new hole opened up inside her and she felt her heart fall through it. Weak and disgusted with the paper first, then herself second, she folded it slowly and put it on the table.
“I stopped it from going on the stands, it was close. Marybeth Norton wrote it, she failed to run it by me before sending it down to print. She claimed it was a small column. You know Marybeth, she got into Gossip shortly before the bust?”
Olivia nodded. She remembered the fast-talking girl, big assed and pretty, with a closed mind and very open legs. Olivia had heard that even Cohen had been between those long legs. No wonder she could run a column without letting her boss know of it.
“Where is she now?” Olivia asked.
Cohen pointed at the glass. Olivia turned and saw Marybeth, bustling about, giving orders. She wore a dark plaid suit and skirt. The skirt was short. Olivia imagined, all the better so she could easily lift it up for Cohen’s dick.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “Thanks, Rob.”
“You’re welcome.”
“When can I come back, Rob?”
“I'll have to consult with them in corporate. I’ll let you know what’s up.”
Olivia said, “Please do, thank you.”
And she walked out of the building.
—
There was nothing Peter Williams could have done about Ted Cooper’s presence. If a body can be wished away into nothingness, Peter would do it as he walked towards the conference room of the facility.
First, Ted Cooper had singlehandedly moved the meeting venue from the spacious conference room up top to the smaller ones in the basement. The conference room in the basement was for students, and for all things non-academic.
Second, the man had taken the presentation that Peter had hurriedly put together the previous day and distorted the contents.
Peter Williams almost did not get his wish to have a meeting.
Ted Cooper was making Peter know what he thought of his request before even attending the meeting. It was Ted’s style.
Peter took the stairs. Ted could be in the elevator this moment. Better to avoid the asshole before the asshole holed you. Such random meaningless thoughts on a day such as this.
He was sweating when he opened the conference room door.
The lighting down here was poor and the air was dank. Three faculty heavies were seated already. Dean of the faculty, Barry Dutch, sat at the head of the table, his face glued to the screen of his cellphone.
There was Silva Goodall at the table too, a relative of the Kennedys. He looked bored already, his tie loosened, his face shiny with sweat. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. That’s a bad sign, thought Peter. Beside him was Craig Bozeman. The only black guy on the team of influencers. Craig was talking on his phone and smiling, and at the same time looking like he’d rather be in bed with whoever was on the other side of the phone.
Ted Cooper was missing.
Peter was not sure if he should be relieved or not.
“Hey, Peter,” Barry said
Peter pulled out a seat and filled it.
“Where’s Ted?” he asked the room.
Craig kept on talking on the phone. The rest looked at each other. Barry volunteered, “He should be here any minute. Said he’d be late.”
Peter checked his watch, 7:12 pm. He undid his tie and tried on a poker face.
Craig finished talking on the phone and beamed at Peter. His face was very black and his teeth very white. He wore a grey-colored suit.
“What’s up, Peter.” Craig spread his arms. “What’s this about, you wanna go to Antarctica, looking for Hitler’s body?”
“Not Hitler’s body, Craig,” Silva Goodall corrected.
Barry Dutch snickered. He placed his phone on the table and rubbed his square chin. He stared at Peter.
Just then Ted Cooper breezed in.
“Hey y’all, what’d I miss?” he hollered.
Peter said, “We were waiting for you, Ted.”
“Oh, really?”
Barry Dutch folded his hands on the table. He looked at Peter.
“Peter, you wanted to discuss something of utmost importance to this faculty with us. Come on, let’s hear it,” he said.
Peter brought out a folder from inside his coat. “Well, yes. I’m sure you all have read the presentation I sent to your offices. I’m privy to information that shows that the Germans of World War Two left something for us to find—”
He glanced at the faces, for effect. “—right under the ice in Antarctica.”
Ted Cooper started drumming his thick fingers on the table then. It made an annoying thrumming that exacerbated the heat and discomfort in the room. Peter watched him.
“Now I have here”—he passed a piece of print to Craig who was closest to him—“documents written in German, and what I believe are coordinates, leading to the belief that we may be looking at one of the most important discoveries of science, yet.”
He waited for the file to go around. When it got to Ted Cooper it stopped. Barry Dutch waited his turn but Ted was taking his time with it.
Seconds later Ted passed the paper to Barry Dutch. The dean wet his lips.
Ted cast a dubious stare at Peter.
“Let's say for a minute that we believe this, what do I call it, this claim is true. Just how much cost are we looking at?” Ted asked.
“It is not just a claim, Ted,” Peter said.
Barry Dutch raised a hand; he had finished reading. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Before we talk about cost, we should consider the veracity of these claims—”
“My point, exactly,” Ted added.
“There should at least be a preliminary study of the claim, have someone go check it out.” Craig Bozeman pointed.
Ted Cooper rolled his eyes. “Preliminary what? I think that’s like going around the subject. I mean the documents could be forged, anyone with average proficiency in German could do it. This could be another Hansel Chip.”
Cooper looked around at them. “You all remember the Hansel Chip case, five years ago?”
Each of the men—except Peter, of course—nodded his agreement. The Hansel Chip case could never leave their memory in a hurry.
Peter recalled it too. It had happened in his doctorate year. A certain professor Milton Michael had stumbled upon information about a superchip on the surface of the 100 dollar bill. At the time, a quaint notion, Michael Milton had dragged the faculty into his pursuit of the superchip case. Thousands of dollars wasted in research and time wasted chasing a spurious chip. It turned out to be an authentic hoax and a monumental disgrace to the entire university. The papers had called the professor Hansel in its report.
But Peter Williams suspected that this time, Cooper was more eager to prove Peter wrong than show why the faculty must avoid another Hansel case.
Silence followed. It was Silva Goodall who broke it. A quiet man by nature and a stooge for Cooper.
“No, we don’t want another Hansel,” he said tightly, rubbing off sweat from his forehead, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t look into this. Perhaps we have one of us follow closely every detail of Peter’s research in this new case.”
Ted Cooper glared at Goodall.
But the rest seemed to be in support of Goodall’s recommendation. Peter breathed a sigh. Ted colored fiercely.
“This is a huge risk.” Cooper shrugged. “I mean, guys, consider it. Peter Williams here had never made a real contribution to the academics of this school—”
“And this is my chance to!” Peter said.
“—and him being a ladies’ man, his antecedents aren’t very sterling if they were anything to go by. What are we going to have the papers saying, 'Philandering Professor Discovers Hitler’s Secret Laboratory in the Snow'?”
Peter Williams made a fist under the table. Someone snickered again. It was Barry Dutch. Peter had dated two of his students, the university had found out. But the girls had turned out to be consenting adults. And his romps had been in hotels outside the university. Folks like Ted Cooper had turned it to mud, and had also made sure it stuck to Peter.
“Besides, we don’t have the sort of money required for such an expedition. And I sincerely believe we’d be throwing such monies away.” Ted pointed at Peter. “You don’t have the reputation for supporting such a noble thing—if it were to be called that.”
Peter Williams felt the dam of his anger bust open. It was blistering.
“You supercilious prick, you’d rather die than see someone else get past you, Ted,” Peter snapped.
The dean, aware of his duty for once, raised his hand. “Oh come on, Peter, no need for that language.”
“You’d screw your students too if you had the chance. I know you, Ted,” Peter raged on. “And in fact, you won’t let one of your students go right now 'cos she won’t sleep with you, you dumb fuck!”
This piece of information Peter got from Goodall who now buried his head on the table.
Ted had turned crimson but since the lighting in the room was bad, he could smile weakly and get away with it. But he was shaking.
Trembling a little, Ted spat, “You don’t know what you’re doing, Peter, you’re losing it. This is all hogwash. A laboratory in Antarctica? Come on, what are you getting high on these days? There can’t be anything out there but products of your own imagination. Is that what you want this institution to spend money on?”
Peter rose. “You don’t own this faculty, Ted, and you don’t own me or anyone else for that matter. All you got is your ego, your small dick, and that shitty car of yours you bought with faculty money—”
Barry Dutch’s mouth dropped open.
“You’re making allegations now, man.”
“Oh yeah, I am. I sure am. And if you want you can take it anywhere you want to. I’ll come with you, lying son of a bitch!”
“This meeting is over!” Barry Dutch declared.
Peter stormed out of the place.
“It’s hot in here anyway,” he shouted as he left. “Fuck you Ted.”
12
Olivia Newton called three times that night and four more times in the morning. Peter sat in the gloom of his room, a bottle of Bud Light attached to his hands. Four empty ones spread on the floor. The only clothing on him were white shorts and blacks socks on his feet.
He hadn’t had much sleep either. Goodall called a few minutes ago, right after Olivia. He left a message.
“Hey, man. Er, that was something last night. Have never seen you so off the hook.” He laughed; it sounded like scraping against a rough surface. Peter imagined Goodall rubbing his forehead in embarrassment. Goodall was always the all conscience kind of guy.
“You shouldn’t have let Ted get to you. You know him, man. And that bit about him sleeping with a girl for grades, that was low, man. You stepped out of line, you know how much weight Ted pulls with the guys up in establishment. Well, um, I hope you’re doing okay…call me, man.”
Click.
It was 8:00 am. He ought to be attending to a couple of theses and students. They’d come to his office, find it locked, and loiter around the place. Ted Cooper, that rat—no, Ted is worse than a rat, he thought— would stalk the floors of the facility to see if Peter made it through the night, and if he did, whether he was functional enough to attend to his students.
Ted would find adrift students around his office. He will be elated. He had won.
Peter swallowed the last ounce of beer and dropped the bottle. His eyelids felt like pins and sand were under them. He belched. The phone started ringing again. Peter made no effort to rise from his couch.
It stopped ringing; the recording followed.
“Hey Professor, this is Olivia Newton, you know, the journalist from Miami Daily. I called last night. How did your conference go? I hope we are going to get the funding. Are you drinking? Hahaha, just messing with you. Call me. Please.”
Peter raised his head up and closed his eyes.
Of all the people on Earth, God had to put Ted Cooper in his life. That scum. And old mistakes never stay gone, they always had a way of sneaking up on you from behind. Dating his students had been a mistake. But people like Ted Cooper had to remind you of that every time.
Peter managed to drag himself into the bathroom.
He ran hot water into the tub and sank into it up to his neck.
The shrill sound of the phone ringing interrupted the quietness again.
<
br /> —
Olivia paced Tom’s office.
“Calm down, Olivia,” Tom Garcia said.
But Tom was enjoying this new Olivia. It was one he had always known, who brought her energy to everything she does. But it was also an Olivia Newton he had never seen before. This was an Olivia that had been through a tough time, was recovering, and getting back to routine.
He had never seen Olivia getting back to work before. It was interesting to behold.
“The professor probably had a late night—”
Olivia glanced at him sharply.
“Come on, you know what I mean. Don’t those guys have all those books they have to read all the time, and research?” Tom explained.
Olivia dropped into the chair opposite Tom. The sheriff tapped his fingers on the table.
“I’m gonna call him again,” said Olivia, “then I’m gonna go over to his office.”
“Maybe they are not going to give him the funding…” Tom shrugged. “I mean, who knows, he feels so bad about it and doesn’t know how to tell you.”
Olivia pouted.
“Think about it—”
Olivia’s cellphone started ringing in her bag. She looked at Tom. She started rummaging in her bag.
“Hello.”
“Olivia, it is me, Peter.”
“Yeah, I called last night. Are you alright? How did it go?”
“Let's meet,” Peter said and hung up.
Olivia looked at Tom.
“This is not good.”
—
The name of the diner was Dina’s Diner. Peter picked it because somehow the alliterative name quelled the turmoil inside of him. And there were plants in the windows.
It wasn’t crowded either.
He bought two coffees. Olivia had rolls with hers.
Peter was even more depressed about the afternoon when he went by his office. There was a letter waiting for him. It had been left with his secretary. Funding was being denied, it said simply.
Nothing more.
Peter pushed the letter across the table towards her. Olivia read it twice.
“It doesn’t say why,” she said.
“Usually, it doesn’t. And it doesn’t have to.”
Hunt for the Holy Grail Page 6
