Actually, that was almost true. That was the problem with Ginny. Her stories were always almost true. And she would do anything for a story. Anything. She was a good reporter but if she didn’t have the story, she would create, beg, borrow or steal it. As usual, she was dressed to kill, in a flouncy turquoise halter dress thing that only came to mid-thigh, the top open to distract every man in sight— including the senator. In fact, I suspected she was dressing for him these days but, so far, he had declined to be lured to further doom. From what I saw of the two young ladies who slipped into the trade entrance, Ginny was way too uptown for Hardstein’s downtown tastes.
“So, Shepherd, how’s your veterinarian?” Ginny asked in a flirty voice, petting Skippy, who annoyed me by enjoying it.
“Jane is fine, thanks. Why did you jump to the Mail—just when we were on the same side?”
“We’ll never be on the same side,” Ginny said, confirming my suspicion that she changed papers because she was more comfortable competing with me than playing second fiddle at the same paper. Even when we were both at the Daily Press, Ginny spied on me, followed me and stabbed me in the back. If you’re going to do that anyway, I guess it looks better if you’re on opposite sides of the “newspaper war” in New York.
That phrase always annoys me. After ten years of bombs, ambushes and firefights, I came home and found everyone calling everything a war—except the actual wars we were fighting. The tube was filled with shows that had names like Mustache Wars, Dance Wars, Food Wars, Song Wars, Coupon Wars, Storage Wars. Give me a break. I only had two big resolutions when I got my life back: I was done with guns and I was done with taking orders. That’s as far as I’ve got.
“What have you got on Hard-On today?” Ginny asked casually, like we were buddies and I was as dumb as dirt. Now I knew why she was on her best behavior. She was trying to pump me.
“I told you, I’m not on the story,” I told her, truthfully.
“Make sure it stays that way,” she warned, walking away.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said to her back.
Coming or going, she was impossible to ignore and every conversation with Ginny Mac was a declaration of war.
8
“Were those two girls hookers?” Sparky asked.
“Judging from the clothes, either that or high-school girls,” I replied. “But my guess would be hookers because they didn’t giggle. Also, they went in the service entrance. I think they were coordinating with Hardstein, an end-run. He’s got brass balls.”
“But we don’t know for sure they were going up to meet Hard-On?”
“No, but I’d say it’s a good bet.”
He called his desk and told them to send another photographer, telling his editor we got word that Hard-On might sneak out a second entrance and we had to cover both. No mention that two hookers were inside, possibly with Hardstein—or that we were the only ones who knew. That could change. Besides, any reporter or photographer who told their boss that they might get an exclusive was very new at this line of work or just plain stupid. It was a scientific fact that editors did not hear certain words. Words like “may” or “might” or “possibly.” If you did not produce the exclusive—which, in five minutes your editor will have exaggerated and taken total credit for—you were dead.
The other photographer was there in five minutes and Sparky made a show in front of our colleagues that this was his relief and he was leaving. If Sparky and I left together, Ginny Mac or another competitor might follow us, assuming we had a hot lead, which we did. Sparky told me where to meet him and wandered off. I slowly cut Orlando out of the herd and we casually strolled out of earshot and faced away, pretending to be talking on our cellphones.
“What’s up?” Orlando asked.
I told him about the two young ladies and he almost blew it.
“What!”
Ginny’s head turned toward us. I calmed Orlando down and told him to call the desk and get another reporter to the scene to distract our loyal opposition and cover the front. He seemed confused. Ginny turned away.
“Meanwhile, you watch the other entrance for when they come out,” I told Orlando. “But don’t jump on them right away. If you do, everyone else will be all over them. Follow them discreetly, until you’re out of sight of these guys, and call Sparky before you talk to the ladies. He’ll want photos.”
“Where will you be?” Orlando demanded, still suspicious.
“With Sparky. Then I’m leaving. I just happened to notice the girls. I’m not on this story.”
He didn’t believe a word of it but agreed because he couldn’t figure out how I was going to screw him. Skippy and I casually said goodbye to everyone. Ginny scratched Skippy’s head and made baby noises at him, calling him Sparky. He wagged his tail and licked her hand. No judge of character at all.
“Skippy,” I corrected her. “Sparky is the photographer.”
“Really?” Ginny asked in a fake mistake voice. “I get confused. They sound alike and they both bark.”
There was nasty laughter from the ladies and gentlemen of the media.
“That’s not nice, Ginny. Sparky can’t help having Tourette’s syndrome. But I guess you can’t help being the way you are, either.”
“Fuck off!” was her elegant reply.
9
I did as Ginny Mac ordered. Skippy and I met Sparky out of sight in the park, in a rocky clearing surrounded by trees. He looked like a space cadet, wearing goggles with a curved piece of plastic over the face. At his foot was an object with two offset black metalwork squares, each about two feet square. At each of four of the eight corners of the metal star was a vertically-mounted model airplane propeller. In the center was an undercarriage platform with a combination video and still digital camera, secured in a swivel and gimbal-mounted sphere. Skippy sniffed it and backed away.
“You have got to be kidding me, Sparky. You are such a geardo. A helicopter drone?”
“My own little air force. Fuck’s a geardo?”
“A weirdo who loves gadgets,” I explained.
“Oh. Didn’t you use these things in Afghanistan?”
“Not like this one,” I told him. “Bigger. Mostly big model airplanes. They were great, once we learned not to have them fly back to us, give away our position and draw RPG or mortar fire.”
I asked him what he was going to do. He said Hard-On had a penthouse with big picture windows and a patio overlooking the park.
“Let’s see what Hard-On and his hookers are up to.”
“Is this legal?” I asked.
“Up to four hundred feet. I can run it for a mile at thirty miles an hour. The batteries last about half an hour. I get live wireless feed back to my laptop from all three cameras but it’s better to retrieve the drone and download the higher megapixels.”
“That little camera is going to get something useable?” I scoffed.
The classified optics on our stealthy army drones were larger and state of the art. This looked like a home video camera strapped to a futuristic milk box with little propellers. Something a hobbyist would put together.
“This Sony videocam has fifty power optical zoom, which is great, and the still camera has twenty power digital zoom, which is not as good. The megapixels on the CCDs is thirty—which means I get every hair on everybody’s ass. Also, an image stabilization system compensates for movement, which is amazing. Check it out!”
He picked up a remote control. The whacky whirligig buzzed to life and hummed straight up into the sky. Skippy barked until I told him to be still. At thirty feet, the sound of the tiny props went away. At a hundred feet, I realized why the craft was constructed as an open framework. The thing, mostly space, vanished from sight. Cheap stealth. Sparky was getting real-time video from his airship projected onto the inside of his goggle screen. He pointed to a flat, protruding rock nearby, where his laptop computer lay open. I sat down with Skippy and watched the screen. There were two video boxes on the top and bottom of the le
ft side of the onscreen display, for down-pointing and forward-aimed cameras, so Sparky could navigate by sight. The right side of the screen also had a larger, forward-looking view, for the still and video camera and a fourth box for a GPS map view.
I watched the bird’s eye view as the drone rose. It climbed until it was the same height as the top of Hardstein’s building, dead ahead. Sparky kept approaching until a shielded water tower on top was clearly visible. The drone dropped slowly until a penthouse balcony patio and windows were in view. It looked like the device was hovering just over the balcony ledge, as if you could step off onto the landscaped rooftop and take a seat at the dining table.
“I thought they would be out on the terrace,” Sparky said, disappointed.
“I’m actually relieved this isn’t going to work,” I told Sparky, turning away from the screen. “We’re not spying on the T-Men or al-Qaeda. He’s a member of Congress.”
“What’s the fuckin’ difference?” Sparky snorted. “Wait… Hello! Whadda we got here? Holy fucking dickshit!”
I turned back to the screen. It took me a few seconds to understand what I was seeing. It was Hardstein and the two girls. Oh, man. They were naked and going at it on a large bed.
“Wow! Giggity!” Sparky said. “Mother-humpin’ butt bucket! They weren’t kidding about the fucking Viagra, amigo. Look at the flesh flagpole on the senior senator! Go baby! I could dub the National Anthem over this.”
Hardstein was on his back, the darker girl bouncing like a hurdling equestrienne on his hips, her pal straddling the honorable gentleman’s face. Clear as day. The one above Hardstein’s head was smoking a joint. She had a teddy bear tattoo above one boob. Her friend had a tat on her ass.
“Duck-fuck and upchuck me!” Sparky laughed. “This thing just paid for itself. And a lot more! Shepherd, I love you man! You are the ball-banging bitch best!”
Freelancers got to keep resale money from their photographs. Sparky would make a fortune. The silent trio in the penthouse switched off, changing positions, and went back to work. I turned away.
“Fuck you going, Shepherd?” he asked.
“I have to look for a story.”
“What the hell is this?”
“Gossip. I’m starting that other thing tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”
“You gotta be kidding me. Listen. I owe you big-time, man. You need anything on that other job, whatever it is, it’s all free, okay?”
“Okay, thanks. Have fun.”
“You bet. I hope his hard-on doesn’t last more than four hours. My battery can’t handle that. When they see these… whoa! What the hell was that? Hold it, Shepherd. Look at the screen. Something’s happening… Seriously. Now!”
I did. Hardstein was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching his left shoulder and grimacing. He was still visibly aroused and rocking back and forth. One hooker was still puffing on her spliff. The other one was backing away from the bed, clearly afraid. Hardstein stood up, erect as a toy soldier. Now both hands were grabbing at his chest. He fell over backwards. Both girls poked him and shook him. The black girl straddled him again, pounding on his chest, apparently shouting instructions to her friend, who pinched his nose and blew air into his lungs.
“Holy cock-fucking, mother-bumping cunt fuzz!” Sparky yelled next to me, startling Skippy, who barked again. “I didn’t know hookers knew CPR. That’s handy.”
After a minute or two, the girls stopped, exhausted, and looked at each other. Then they began furiously throwing on their clothes.
“Shit tits! Monkey licks!” Skippy said, zooming in on Hardstein’s chest.
It wasn’t moving.
The panicked girls, now more or less dressed, ran from the room. I made a quick call on my cell.
“Hello? 911? I would like to report a sixty-seven-year-old man having a heart attack. He may have taken Viagra. We need an ambulance at Fifth Avenue and Sixty-Ninth Street. Top floor penthouse. He appears not to be breathing.”
“Shepherd, whatchya doing?”
“I’m just a concerned citizen,” I told the emergency operator. “I’m not actually there. I’m not in the building. Well… it doesn’t matter. Just get him some help. No, sorry, thanks.”
I hung up.
“Did you say his name?” Sparky asked.
“No and I didn’t give the actual address but we both know it doesn’t matter. The photo editors will hear the call over the radios and they’ll go bananas. I can’t just let him die, Sparky.”
“He’s dead already but I know. You’re right. I won’t tell the desk you called the cops. What about Orlando?”
I made another quick call. “Orlando? It’s Shepherd. Listen to me. Those two girls are probably going to come flying out of there any second. Yes. Repeat after me. Hardstein just had a heart attack upstairs.”
Orlando did that, but in a hushed voice.
“Hardstein just had a heart attack upstairs? How do you know that? Wow, is that true?” Orlando whispered.
“Yes it is. But I meant repeat it loudly—like you’re fucking up by letting out a secret. If anyone asks you— deny it. Then, when the shit hits the fan, chase those girls with your shooter so no one else sees them. If you’re lucky, everyone else will be too busy covering the heart attack to notice where you went. Okay, yell. Do it now.”
I heard him yell “Hardstein had a heart attack upstairs?” Then I heard a lot of other voices, followed by sirens and screeching tires. I hung up.
“Is this legal?” I asked.
“Sure,” Sparky answered. “Hard-On is out of the picture and I’m taking pictures from a public area.”
“That’s a stretch,” I laughed. “Better withdraw your air force before the NYPD get upstairs, Sparky.”
“Not until I get some shots of cops inside with the body,” Sparky insisted. “Jeezus squeeze-us, look at that. Poor horny bastard is still at attention. You gotta give it up for Viagra, man. Chubby hubby forever.”
The cops and EMS paramedics arrived and swarmed the penthouse. Sparky got his video and stills. I knew I had to call Mel. I told my boss what had happened. It sounded like he was jumping up and down on the other end.
“The sex stuff is folking amazing but are you sure he’s dead?” Mel demanded.
“Sparky has the video that shows the ladies doing CPR. He zoomed in and his chest wasn’t moving. I’d say he’s dead. The paramedics couldn’t do anything, either. Maybe they’ll revive him at the hospital.”
“No, I hear they’re not transporting him,” Mel said. “It’s a flagging crime scene. Great fogging job, Shepherd.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I told him. “I’m not even on the story.”
I waved goodbye to Sparky. Skippy and I walked toward the park exit. Dirty clouds were coming in low and fast, from the Hudson. Skippy’s head was busy, snapping toward every bird and squirrel. My cheek and temple throbbed softly, my scars responding to the falling barometer. I called Jane at work. Lots of barking in the background. She was too busy to talk, so I said I would see her later at home.
Hell of a day. A friendly chat with my boss, Mel. Stalked by a chameleon lady private eye. A job offer. Stumbling over a story, the charge of beating the competition, beating Ginny Mac. That was all new and not unwelcome. But the secret surveillance mission, the stealthy drone, the death— that was too familiar.
Inescapable.
I took out my phone.
“Siri, am I a pathetic adrenaline junkie?”
After a pause and a double beep, she replied with her usual good breeding.
“I would prefer not to say, Shepherd.”
10
I was done but the day wasn’t done with me yet. I tried to goof off but it didn’t work. Back at Jane’s place, I grabbed a beer. Jane’s refrigerator only contained designer beers. I wondered if she was gently trying to steer me away from my high-octane arak liquor and onto an unending series of fancy pumpkin ales and wheat stouts or whatever overpriced brew the Manhattan suds snobs w
ere pushing this month. I was channel surfing the fifty-inch on her living room couch and sipping something called Honey Meade Malt when my father’s face appeared on CNN.
“Holy crap!”
I turned the sound up. The banner underneath his image read POLITICAL SCIENTIST PROF. JAMES B. SHEPHERD. He looked good, kind of like Santa Claus gone corporate. His silver hair and beard were as long as ever, the chin whiskers almost covering the top of his blue silk tie, Kansas cornflower blue eyes sparkling, his mouth crinkled in amusement. On the table in front of him was his latest book, with a picture of the Statue of Liberty being auctioned off in what looked like a slave market for green goddesses.
SOLD! Wall Street’s Coup d’État.
My dad was doing what he always did—railing against the powers that be. He was calmly saying something about the Tea Party being neo-secessionists intent on imposing neo-slavery. He had no clue that most people had no idea what coup d’état or neo meant. He was rudely interrupted by a nasty voice.
“Shut up!” said the voice, as the camera switched to the famous hawk face of TV pundit Bob O’Malley. “Keep your commie crap to yourself!”
O’Malley routinely invited liberals onto his show, Free Speech Zone, to prove how even-handed he was, but usually cut off their mikes and called them names. The show should be called The Bully Zone.
“America’s economy is run by predatory capitalism but our sacred government is based upon one person, one vote— until now!” my father fought back. “You and your corporate-owned supreme court have officially switched our form of government from democracy to capitalism—we are now a cash-based oligarchy, with a stock market and an army.”
“Cut off this clown’s mike,” O’Malley shouted. “My audience doesn’t have to hear this Marxist malarkey.”
“Between buying elections and suppressing minority voters, that is the only way you can win the…” My father’s measured voice was cut off.
“Go back to Moscow!” O’Malley sneered.
“I’m from Kansas!” my father said in an even but very loud voice, still audible over the air.
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