“Well...” She took a deep breath. “You still know as much about the Disappearances as anyone we have access to. Even the journalists who usually play ball seem to be so worried about fighting for scraps that they’re...cagey. I mean...I assume that’s why. It’s kind of hard to tell why they won’t talk to us if they won’t talk to us. Y’know?”
“Yeah. That does make sense, though; particularly in the Big Apple – ”
“ – Don’t...call it that,” Meg insisted. “I hate when people call it that.”
“Whatever, crazy.” I rolled my eyes. Clearly that was one of her ‘things’. “I’m just saying; with New York in particular...there are never not too many journalists, relative to the stories worth publishing. And...realistically, journalism anywhere can be a pretty dog-eat-dog profession. Pretty cut-throat.”
“You seem to have avoided the worst of it.” Meg observed.
“Can you blame me?” I laughed.
“Not at all. I guess I just didn’t realise how far behind the front lines you actually were. I assumed that the way you were approaching it was fairly consistent with the way everyone would be. Y’know? Do the initial leg-work and then...hang back until something real comes up. But apparently not.” I realised she was fishing. I felt bad that I didn’t have any fish for her. Frankly, I was running on a bit of a ‘fish deficit’ myself, to massively over-tax the analogy. If I didn’t have some new stuff written fairly soon, there was a possibility I’d have to start answering some pretty uncomfortable questions. Questions that would probably be mostly to do with exactly how long it would take me to get my free-loading ass on a plane back to Melbourne, where I’d be looking for whatever work I could get at short notice.
I decided to throw Meg a bone. It wasn’t a fish, but it was all I – at that point in time – had. Maybe a little context would help her understand the situation better.
“Look. It’s obvious. It’s about the ‘three P’s’: Promotion, Plaudits, and Prestige.” That had been my theory, anyway. “Or, as Darren puts it: Power, Pussy, and Pulitzers.”
“Eww.” the bridge of Meg’s nose wrinkled up with disdain, like I’d just held a bowl of sewage out for her to smell.
“It’s true though. Any time you’ve got competition for finite resources in an overpopulated ecology, it brings out the alpha-personalities. So not only is there not enough to go around, but there are a bunch of power-hungry dicks trying to hoard as much of whatever resources are available for themselves. I have a monopoly on the Ambrose case. I’m the only reporter working exclusively on it. But with the other, bigger, more competitive hotspots? Even if it was just American journalists, it’d be a rough gig...but the whole world is here for this.”
“There are always big stories, though.” Meg reasoned.
“That’s true. But...shit...the amount of public attention this story has drawn? The number of different potential flash-points there are to cover? And it keeps ramping up – ”
“ – Why though? Nothing’s actually happened in ages.” It was, again, a fair point.
“Rule the first of journalism: the public are, in fact, idiots. Now...I don’t mean that this statement is necessarily true...” She snickered.
“But you, personally, think that it is.” I nodded and shrugged.
“I do. But that isn’t the point. See, whether or not people are, in general, stupid...journalists are required to act as though they are. Professionally. Usually we find less offensive ways to say it...but getting right down to it, that’s how it works. It’s why we write the way that we do. Regardless of the reality, we assume that the audience are busy, and stupid. Small words; simple sentences; tight paragraphs. Easy to follow. The problem with this, is that we’re not giving them a reason to stop caring. We’re not reassuring them, or evaluating, or rationalising...which leaves a story like this sitting there like a perpetual cliff-hanger. Okay?”
“Okay...” She followed.
“Rule the second of journalism: if no one gives a shit, then don’t write it. Usually we’d say something less...abrupt, like: ‘the story has to be topical and newsworthy’. But, again: at the heart of it, it’s simple. You don’t write things if no one gives a shit. If everyone gives a shit? That’s a story you want to work on. And it remains one – that can be ‘changed up’ and refocussed – for as many news cycles as everyone continues to give a shit. The inverse, unfortunately, is how the rule is usually interpreted.”
“If anyone gives a shit, do write about it.” She verified. I nodded.
“Exactly. Which is annoying. ‘Cause mix that up with bias, conjecture, and shoddy source-work? That’s the definition of tabloid journalism.”
“And the point?” I shrugged.
“The public aren’t getting bored. They just...aren’t. Until either that happens, or the story breaks properly, there’s not a chance in hell that things’re going to calm down. Not in the slightest.”
“So it’s a perfect storm, is...basically what you’re saying to me, here?”
“Pretty much, yeah. I’m sure a lot of the cases are dead ends. They have to be, really. But when it breaks...if it breaks...anyone at the forefront of one of the stories relating to that break is gonna be on the list of anointed. Period.”
“Anointed for what?”
“Promotion...plaudits...prestige...”
“Right. ‘Pussy and Pulitzers’.” She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t judge too harshly: I mean...if I wasn’t with Naithe, I’d be the exact same way.” She raised an eyebrow. And then, for good measure, she raised another. “Not like that.” I scoffed. “You know what I’m saying: that I’d be playing the game, too. I was ambitious, once upon a time.” It seemed like a very, very long time ago, though. Another life, in a manner of speaking.
“So...my take-home from this...” She paused, a wry, nasty little smirk winding it’s way across the whole-bottom-half of her face: “...Is that I need to be careful getting changed around you from now on?”
“Eat me.” I snarked. She snickered a juvenile little snicker. “Gross. You’re gross, Meg. I’m going to go find a rock...and I’m going to hit you with it in the head.” I informed her matter-of-factly.
“Sure you are. Careful not to Freudian-slip-over while you’re finding one.” I flicked my cigarette out into the parking lot, staring daggers at her and flipping her off. I couldn’t hold onto the expression, though; her quiet mocking laughter was infectious. I started laughing as I rustled around for another cigarette in my purse.
“Fuck...you...” She coughed, still laughing:
“You know I’d still love you just the same if you did like girls, right?”
“You wouldn’t need to be careful getting changed around me, you mean?” I murmured distractedly. She shrugged, smiling lasciviously.
“Sure. Might even be fun.”
“Wow. You’re fucked up. That’s fucked up,” I laughed, lighting the new cigarette. “I’m married to your nephew.” She shrugged again, still smiling. Joking though we were, the conversation was moving down a strange path. A path that, in my experience, was likely to lead to an awkward pause at some point. I wasn’t a fan of awkward pauses, so I diverted:
“On a serious note? I’m so glad I’m not working one of the hot-spots. One of the guys that the Sydney Morning Herald has working on The Disappearances in Chicago: he had a nervous breakdown a few weeks back. He’s back in Sydney now on indefinite leave. Sobering.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not really.” I shook my head. “I met him at a work thing once. Very serious guy: not much of a sense of humour. Nice, though, from what I could tell. He probably wasn’t cut out for the rough stuff. He was a name; not a big name, but a name, if you know what I mean? The paper probably sent him over here to cut his teeth on something genuinely big. I doubt it was even just the competition that got to him in the end.”
“What else would it have been?” I tipped my head to the left and then to the right, evaluating how best to e
xpress what I was thinking.
“Well...can you imagine working so hard on something so big, and knowing you might not even get to be on the sidelines when it all came together? ‘Cause, like I said...a lot of these have to be dead ends. The vast majority of people who’re out here for this...they’re gonna be going home empty-handed, and they all know it. So...for the ones who are genuinely ambitious, it’s a case of doubling down – again and again – on the bet that they’ll be there, in the right place, when the ‘end-game’ starts. But they know they might not be. They know that...y’know...they probably won’t be.” I sighed.
It actually depressed me. More than I was willing to admit. It was hard: both imagining myself winding up so close, and yet so far away from a win that I wanted...and the fact that I, personally, had put myself out of the running for this particular win. At the start...I’d wanted it. I preferred not to admit it, but I’d definitely wanted it. And I hadn’t honed in on Ambrose’ story solely because it was convenient and easy, if I’m honest...at least a part of me had done it because something about that story – about Ambrose, specifically – made me feel as if I was the right girl for the job.
Because...my first impression had been that he – Ambrose, that is – was like me. Isolated, but not lonely; driven inexplicably forward; broken, but functional. I’d thought that I could relate to him, and that – maybe – that would be the edge I needed. And, in a way, I guess, I’d been right about that. Unfortunately...relating to people is kind of like loving people. It makes you weak. It makes you hide from unwelcome realities. It makes you vulnerable to sentiment.
So I did what I did, and the world – my world – kept on turning without me. The stories kept being written; the public kept on reading them. And yeah...on some level, I missed it. Not that I was willing to admit it.
So...maybe I was being arrogant about it, but...when I’d heard about what happened to Steven – the Herald reporter who’d had the breakdown – it hadn’t been ‘sobering’. It had, actually, pissed me off. A lot. I’d thought: ‘if that’d been me, I would have held it together. I would have stayed the course’. Professionally speaking, it was a fair call. I’d always been stronger in a fight. At my paper, back home in Melbourne, I’d built myself a reputation as being the wrong person to play chicken with. It wasn’t that I didn’t lose: it was that I didn’t back down. If I was gonna take a dive, I tended to make a point of taking everyone who hadn’t fought to stop it happening down with me.
But I’d made my choices. And I had to stand by the choices I’d made.
“So is your case a dead end, or...?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged: even sort of believing it. “Hard to say. But regardless, it’s...outlying. Pretty well every hot-spot in the U.S. has more – and more interesting – cases than Pueblo. Ambrose Portokolos was just this guy, y’know? He had a troubled childhood and an obsession with old planes. He liked stars and played around with a telescope that used to be his adoptive father’s. That’s about it. Against the bigger picture, he just...fades away. He’s barely a blip.”
“Why is it even getting covered?”
“Well, people tend to have a soft-spot for local news. There’s been enough continuing interest in Ambrose to keep me in business, so to speak. But in the grand scheme of things, he’s about as small as the potatoes get. There’ve been hundreds of Disappearances, now; thousands. There are world famous physicists, powerful corporate executives...ranking personnel from the CIA, FBI, NSA, CDC...I think there was someone from the IRS, which provoked a lot of seriously un-funny ‘death and taxes’ jokes...and the list goes on. This thing is bigger than The Beatles. But I’m here because Pueblo is quiet...and the case is simple...and I get to be close to Naithe. If I wanted sleepless nights, backstabbing, intrigue, and the joy of being head-fucked on a daily basis by career-minded sociopaths and egomaniacal assholes...then I’d be in Chicago, or Washington, or one of the other significant hot-spots. Now...If I wanted to see blood in the fucking streets...” I raised an eyebrow pointedly, meeting Meg’s eyes: “It’d be Silicon Valley or the worst of them all...New York.”
“I’m definitely getting that impression.” Meg affirmed. I paused, considering.
“Here’s an idea: Lilum is a mega-zillionaire, right?” Meg nodded despondently. “Just hire them. A few of the big names. Offer them more than their bosses can.”
“We thought of that. But Lilum started out this investigation by accusing the U.S. Government of kidnapping, conspiracy, extraordinary rendition, detainment without due process, and pretty much everything else he could think of.”
“Kind of a loud-mouthed dick, isn’t he?” Meg rolled her eyes, making it clear that this evaluation was, if anything, an understatement.
“It all came to nothing. So now it’s The Government’s turn to throw everything they’ve got at us.
“I’m guessing they have quite a bit to throw?” She nodded, her eyes wide, tired saucers.
“Lots. And because it’s The Government, it’s a rigged game. But I guess that’d be true of anywhere.”
“‘The House’ does have a reputation for coming out on top.” I agreed.
“A little while ago, it all started getting very serious. When word got out that there were IRS and FBI people going after Lilum staff and...pretty much anyone working with the company? The only consultants we’ve been able to pull in have been the ones that The Government won’t touch. Which I don’t know enough about to go into; which is mostly...shady, off-the-books stuff, anyway.” I raised an eyebrow. Meg sighed.
“You’re clean, right?” She gave me a look, like: ’how could you even ask me that?’.
“Squeaky. You know me: I don’t even risk parking fines.”
“Cause you don’t have a car.” I reminded her. “Because you live in New York.” I added. “And because you flirt with cops like it’s going out of fashion.”
“I do not...” She scoffed. I raised an eyebrow.
“Remember Los Angeles? Last January?” She blushed, looking skywards and shrugging one shoulder in a highly debateable physical display of unworldly innocence.
“Okay, whatever. But yes. I’ve got no skeletons; I’ve got no closet. It’s been surprising, though: finding out how many people aren’t clean. The Government aren’t doing anything illegal, as such...they’re just putting us under a microscope. You’d be surprised how many people, under that kind of scrutiny, have...” She trailed off, looking for an appropriate word. She raised the hand she was using to hold her cigarette, making suggestive quotation marks: “‘stuff’.”
“Oh?” I inquired, curious. She was, of course, wrong. I wouldn’t have been surprised. She might have been, though.
“It’s not all...incriminating. Some of it’s just...” She trailed off.
“Salacious?” I offered. She nodded.
“The kind of things that you wouldn’t want your parents knowing; your husband or wife.”
“They can’t get away with that.” I shook my head. She looked at me as if I were deeply, deeply naïve. “No, I don’t mean morally: fuck ‘morally’. I mean...legally, they literally can’t get away with it.”
“They don’t have to. It’s not out in the open. They’re just...making sure that certain people find out about certain things.”
“How do you even know it’s The Government then?” The thought occurred to me that it could have been almost anyone. Many people lack an understanding of just how simple it actually is to invade the privacy of normal, everyday individuals.
See...finding detailed and specific information isn’t identity theft: it’s a few hours – or less – a little bit of intuition, and an internet-enabled computer. And once you have that? Finding dirt is usually as simple as knowing where to sit...with a camera...and wait. Because...believe it or not? There are very, very few people out there not doing at least something that they don’t want their friends and family knowing about.
So yes. If it wasn’t specifically and obviously The Government,
it could have been almost anyone. Especially if Lilum Multi. were doing ‘shady’ deals with ‘former Intelligence’ people; a cohort who tended to have an above-average level of ability when it came to violating privacy. Meg shrugged.
“Well, the FBI and IRS are definitely investigating people. We know that much. Most of us have had them come and talk to us. Y’know...at our homes...to make sure that we know that they’re watching and looking. A lot of people have gotten into serious – and official – trouble, but...the others: the ones who haven’t done anything illegal...”
“Right. So it’s just too convenient not to be.” She nodded. It was, so far as I was concerned, a fair call.
“And anyway...after the Neo-non thing, everyone knows what The Government are capable of.” Again: a completely reasonable argument.
“Sounds like you’re kind of...fucked, really.” She nodded again.
“Yeah. That’s a fair summary.” She paused, thinking. “Kayla?” It was that face again. That pout.
“Yes, Auntie Meg?” I mocked sweetly.
“Exactly how difficult would it be for you to make a few calls for me?”
“What makes you think they’ll talk to me any more than they’ll talk to you?” I teased, assuming she was talking about the other journalists. “You’re a flack, sweetie...but I’m their competition.”
“Right.” She looked past me into the dark, wearing a mask of affected, nihilistic defeat. I was aware that it was part of the game. She knew that I could at least try. She knew that I would...at least try.
“I guess I could make a couple of calls. I do know a few people who might talk to me.” She grinned a wide, infectious grin. I dropped the spent cigarette on the ground. I had to actually hoist up the dress and pinpoint the glowing final ember with the long, unwieldy heel of one of my shoes to stamp it out. For Meg, wearing that clingy little knee-length dress, it was much easier. I had no idea how she wasn’t shaking with the cold. She fished into her jacket pocket, pulling out her cigarettes: offering me another. I nodded a wordless ‘yes’. She placed both of them between her lips, lighting them simultaneously. As she passed one to me I noted the remnant lines of lipstick on the filter with a raised eyebrow. She rolled her eyes, smiling.
Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) Page 10
