Cogar's Despair (Cogar Adventure Series)

by Nate Granzow

  Cover art designed by Kevin Granzow

  Cover and author photo provided by Trenton Wayne Photography

  Copyright © 2012 by Nate Granzow

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—

  electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise—without the written prior permission of the author.

  ISBN 10: 1481160397

  ISBN 13: 9781481160391

  Note: This is a work of fiction. While the names of some public figures, locations, and actual world events are real,

  the characters in these pages and their exploits are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  "Newspaper writers have learned to color everyday events so well that to read them will give posterity a truer picture than the historic or descriptive novel could do."—Jules Verne

  1

  Preface to Pain

  Shanghai, November 2010

  You know those days where everything goes so well, you begin to get suspicious? This was one of those days. Despite a soft rain and an overcast sky, my morning had started out well, both comfortable and quiet. I enjoyed a strong cup of coffee at my hotel, hot water in the shower, and for the preceding eight hours, my editor had resisted the temptation to call me and ask when I thought the story would be ready.

  But the stench of mold and fecal matter emanating from the walls of the warehouse basement where I now sat strapped to a chair, and the bamboo skewer running the length of my fingernail had both done an excellent job of dampening my otherwise good mood.

  I'd been captured by a band of Chinese drug smugglers. One, a fat little bastard named Mongkut, had become one of my few regular visitors. Every few hours, he'd come stomping through the doorway like the Neanderthal he was to question me in broken English. Clearly he'd mistaken my blubbering and pleading as disingenuous, because his violent inquiry had only grown in severity with each visit. In fact, I was beginning to think his questions were just a formality standing between him and another round of torture, or as he saw it, amusement.

  During his absence, his goons kept themselves entertained by beating me about the shins with braided steel cables and burning the bottoms of my feet with lit candles. I can think of few things as frustrating as trying to proclaim one's innocence when no one in the room speaks your language, and the binding of one's hands and feet precludes a game of charades.

  My name is Grant Cogar, and I’m a journalist. Specifically, the kind who gets sent to places no one else of sound mind would voluntarily travel, for money most fast-food workers wouldn't stop to pick up off the sidewalk. That said, I suppose you might be curious how anyone could get into a situation like the one I just described. My answer is simple: It's a lot easier than you think.

  2

  Mother Diplomacy

  Like so many of my trips out of the country, my journey into that basement actually began with an assignment to somewhere else entirely: Seoul, South Korea.

  The entire ordeal was initiated with a phone call from Kailas Raahi, the editor-in-chief of the Chicago Herald, my mentor, and sometimes-employer. He must have been expecting me to be asleep, but the man had always possessed an innate knack for catching me at inopportune moments. This particular moment involved passionate throes with Jennifer Sedgewick, one of the most prominent magazine publishers in the state and a former runway model. We had been introduced at a cocktail party earlier that night, and after she’d enjoyed more than a modest quantity of cosmopolitans, her intentions became perfectly clear, and far from professional. While her mind was set on getting me home, mine became focused on getting in on the top-dollar commissions her company paid to their elitist crew of freelance writers. Though ten years my elder, the woman had such a superbly athletic figure, I struggled to match her energy and was forced to wrestle my way to the phone before its final ring.

  "Hello?"

  "Cogar?"

  "Shit. Kailas? Hold on a minute."

  Prying her hands from my thigh, I scurried to the bathroom.

  "Kailas, if you're calling about your sister, she'll be dressed and home soon."

  "Very funny. Pack your shit—I've got an assignment for you."

  Locking the door behind me, I said, "Well I’m not going to write you another article just to have you pull it in exchange for a women’s underwear ad like last time."

  "It was a full-color spread, Cogar. And you know damn well how much we’re hurting for ad revenue right now."

  "Sounds an awful lot like an excuse."

  "You still got paid, didn’t you? Jesus, you sound like a fucking teenager waiting for their first professional clip to run."

  "Hey, I’m just thinking of my fans, here. I’m beholden to my readers," I said, pinching the phone against my shoulder as I reached into the medicine cabinet for a bottle of cologne. "So this assignment, usual rate?"

  "Don't you want to know where you're going, first?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "To you? Probably not. But if you get yourself killed because you were ill-prepared, I'm out a story."

  This was about as close as Kailas would ever come to displaying fondness or concern for my wellbeing. The Indian-American was often inconsiderate, emotionally detached, and easily angered. But in spite of all that, I liked him. He was honest, and through the years had taught me more about journalism and life than anyone else I'd known.

  "That'd be a shame," I said, touching the cologne to my neck and wrists.

  "You're going to Korea."

  From the other side of the bathroom door, Jennifer meowed and clawed the molding with her nails.

  "When?"

  "I want you on a plane tomorrow."

  "It'll have to be late tomorrow. I've got a speaking engagement at a university journalism class at ten."

  "Which school?"

  "DePauw, I think."

  "DePauw's in Indiana. You mean DePaul?"

  "Sure, that sounds right."

  "Pssht. Really? They want you teaching the youth of today how to become journalists? Lord, help them." Kailas snickered. "Actually, Lord help us. The next five years of interns around here will be Cogar clones. I'll be forced to retire."

  "With four kids to put through college? Naw, you'll kick over at your desk for sure. So what's our angle for the article?"

  The door handle shook as Jennifer began picking at the lock with a hairpin. Kailas grumbled something obscene under his breath in response to my assertion about his retirement; then continued, "You heard about the sinking of the South Korean warship, Cheonan, a few months back?"

  "Yeah, but I thought even the South Koreans were writing that off as an accident. They said it ran aground on a reef."

  "Doesn't matter what they said. It put everyone on edge and slapped Mother Diplomacy in the face. Any talks of peace between the North and South have turned into cries for blood. The entire region has been a tinderbox since it happened, and it's about to go up in flames. We just heard through the AP that there's been fire exchanged on an island off the coast. The North Koreans are barraging it with rockets and artillery, civilians have been killed, and they're evacuating the island. This could be big."

  "Damn. Really?"

  "Yes, Cogar. For fuck's sake, do you live in a closet?"

  "I've been a little preoccupied lately," I said, jamming my foot against the base of the door and sitting on the edge of the toilet seat.

  "Well here's the deal: Kim Jong-il is a sickly old bastard, and he's preparing his son for succession by letting him play general. He wants to make sure his boy is as insan
e as he is before giving him the keys to the palace. That being said, this could explode into full-blown war at any time. I want you there when it does."

  "Don't you have a reporter there already?" I asked, my elbow bumping the toilet's flush lever.

  "Malaria. He's been down for weeks…did you just flush the toilet? Are you talking to me in the goddamn bathroom, Cogar?"

  "Must just be bad reception, Kailas. You know, you should really stress to your people the importance of taking their Chloroquine when they travel to a mosquito haven like Korea."

  "He said it was giving him headaches and nightmares."

  "Malaria's worse."

  "Doesn't matter. Just go do your thing. I want a damn good, inside story as soon as you can get it done. Your airline tickets are here at the office."

  As his final words reached me, the door swung open, and Jennifer, wearing only a black negligee and stilettos, tackled me into the bathtub.

  3

  A Bracing Wakeup

  The following morning, I woke to a pounding at my apartment door that matched the rhythm and intensity of the champagne-induced hangover pulsing in my skull. Blinking away the sleep, I sat up in bed—then immediately collapsed back to my pillow as the vice crushing my temples tightened.

  "Mr. Cogar? Mr. Cogar! Someone is stealing your car!"

  The voice belonged to my landlord, Hasan. A lanky, introverted Bosnian, he rarely ventured out from his dingy, dust-coated office on the first floor. In fact, this was the first time he had spoken to me since I moved in. We had an arrangement that worked well for both of us: I dropped cash in his box every month, and he let me live there. No questions asked, no forced conversation in the hallway.

  Knowing that, if Hasan was willing to force himself from reclusion to warn me of someone stealing my car, someone probably was, in fact, stealing my car.

  Achingly slipping a shirt and pants on, I opened the door. Wiry hands grabbed both of my shoulders and yanked me into the hallway; then shoved me toward a window.

  "See? That's your car, right?"

  What Hasan had only somewhat misidentified as car thieves were, instead, collection agents. I watched as they backed their truck up to my rusted Honda—a used car dealer's special I'd neglected to make payments on since I first drove it off the lot—and slid the jack beneath its rear bumper. Spending so little time in one place had made owning a car something of an unnecessary luxury for me, and this one was often more of an embarrassment than a convenience.

  Walking back to my room, I stuck my head through the doorway and plucked my keychain from its place on the wall. Hasan watched me the way an entomologist with an allergy to bee stings examines an undiscovered but aggressive species: with a cross between fascination and fear.

  Slowly, laboriously, I cranked open the window overlooking the parking lot.

  "Hey! You!"

  One of the collection agents, a burly man sporting a bulletproof vest, sunglasses, and a spider web tattoo on his neck, jumped and reached for a stun gun at his hip.

  "If you want the car, take it."

  The keys whistled through the open window and skidded on the pavement at the agent's feet. The car’s value wouldn't even begin to approach how much I owed them, whoever they were. I could think of more than a few institutions that were due to come calling for payment.

  "Sometimes you just have to let things go, Hasan," I said, slapping him on the back and shuffling back to bed.

  Hours later, the insistent horn honking of an impatient driver in the street roused me from a deep, open-mouthed, drooling-on-the-pillow sleep. Cupping my hand over the alarm clock's dim digital readout, I started out of bed, grabbing blindly for a pair of pants and a shirt. I was due to give a speech at the university in ten minutes.

  I lived twenty minutes away.

  And my car had been repossessed.

  Plunging down the cracked-linoleum stairway, I made for the bus stop with the expedience and grace of a man whose lover's convicted criminal husband got released from prison early.

  Not that I'd have any idea how one would react in such a situation.

  Gesturing wildly, I managed to flag down a bus just as it pulled away from the sidewalk. Leaping aboard, I swung myself into a vinyl seat with a lightning-bolt-like split across its width, took a deep, calming breath, and assessed my condition.

  I had managed to select a shirt without any apparent stains and a pair of pants without holes.

  Good.

  The shoes on my feet not only matched, they were a nice set of loafers.

  Classy.

  Praising myself for my quick thinking, I had even remembered to hook my sunglasses onto my shirt collar. I slipped them on and smiled.

  Everything else was excusable. No one would be close enough to smell my breath, and my careless, messy hair could pass for a sought-after look on a college campus. Settling into my seat, I propped my head against the bus window and rested my bloodshot eyes.

  "Look at you, poor dear."

  Bewildered, I looked around for the unfortunate soul the elderly woman across from me was speaking to.

  "This darned economy. You look like you've been out of work for some time."

  Lifting my sunglasses to get a better look at her, I pointed at my chest questioningly.

  "Who, me?"

  "Of course, dear. These are very hard times. You look as though you're just wasting away. When was the last time you had a proper meal?" she said, fishing in her purse and withdrawing a granola bar. Offering it to me across the aisle, I took it graciously, thanking her.

  Now, before you begin condemning me for deceiving this well-intentioned humanitarian, consider how uncomfortable it would have made her if I had informed her I was fully employed, had regular access to a refrigerator and shower, and still looked and smelled the way I did. Besides, I hadn't had time to eat breakfast, and I wasn't about to turn down a free meal.

  "My daughter spent four years going to veterinary school, and when that cheating liar of a husband left her, she was forced to drop out. It costs too much to support two children while paying student loans. And now they've moved in with me in my little apartment. Can you believe such a thing?" She plunged her arm back into her handbag and recovered a photograph of an attractive, middle-aged woman.

  "Tragic," I said, leaning over as I tried to open the bar's wrapper with my fingernail.

  "What did you do for a living before you lost your job?" she asked gently.

  "Journalist," I said, tearing the wrapper lengthwise with my teeth. "Publishing is an ugly, cutthroat business."

  She raised the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically.

  "Deplorable. Just dreadful that such a promising young man should be cast out in the street like some kind of junkie." She suddenly grew solemn and whispered, "You're not a junkie, are you?"

  "No ma'am," I said between mouthfuls.

  A relieved smile passed her lips.

  "Thank goodness."

  I looked out the window at the passing brick buildings as I crunched on the granola. Though I'd had more than enough time to plan ahead, I'd yet to come up with a topic for my lecture at the university. But the speakers I'd seen who embraced spontaneity were always more interesting than those who stuck to a formal script, so I dismissed any concern and focused instead on breaking free the cereal trapped between my teeth.

  I was sure I'd think of something interesting when the time arrived.

  "So, young man, where are you off to?"

  "Hmm? Oh, the university."

  "Which one?"

  "DePaul, I think." I said cautiously, suddenly aware that I still wasn't certain where I was going.

  "What do you plan on doing there? Are you bettering yourself at the library? Or perhaps you're encouraging the students not to lose hope. They could certainly use the inspiration from your story of adversity."

  "Actually, yes. The latter. I've got a speaking engagement with a journalism class there in a few minutes," I said, folding my wrapper i
n two and looking around for a place to discard it.

  She held her purse open in the aisle and nodded at the foil as the bus came to a stop.

  "Keep the world a better place, dispose properly of your waste," she recited proudly.

  With the bag held prominently in the open, and the doors of the bus ajar and promising an easy escape, it didn't surprise me when a teenager—jeans hanging mid-thigh and twenty pounds of gold-plated jewelry hanging from his neck and wrists—leapt forward and ripped the bag from her hands. Instinctively shoving the top of my foot just above his shoe, I locked my leg and watched as the momentum of the thief's body carried him swiftly to the floor, his chin smacking loudly against the rubber aisle. Recovering the woman's handbag, I paused; then reached over the kid's shoulder and removed the flat-billed hat cocked sideways on his head. Curving the bill with the palm of my hand as though it was a well-worn ball cap, I returned it to his head, bill forward.

  "There, that looks better."

  Tucking the wrapper of my granola bar into the purse's side pocket, I handed it back to my elderly friend and said, "Thanks for breakfast, ma'am. And here's my card—I'd love to take your daughter out for coffee sometime."

  4

  The King’s Speech

  "Mr. Cogar, welcome. The alumni advisory board assured me that you were an excellent candidate for delivering a lecture to my class of first-year students."

  The university professor shook my hand with an almost maliciously firm grip that seemed to tighten when he noticed me cringing. My skull still felt as big as a basketball, yet simultaneously several sizes too small to fit my swollen brain.

  "I'm flattered they thought I'd be a good fit."

  "Yes, well, I advocated on behalf of a visiting producer from the BBC. But with this year's budgetary constraints, well, everyone had to make certain…sacrifices. Anyhow, feel free to begin your lecture at any time."

  "Thanks." Asshole.

  Even as a discount alternative to a legitimate speaker, I was going to give him a speech he wouldn’t forget—in spades.