In Plain View

by J. Wachowski

  Jenny sat right up in the center of the bed with the rolling table pulled across her lap. There was a bunch of balloons tied to the water pitcher and a curly haired teddy bear leaning on her pillow. A “Get Well” card from some of the hospital people her mother had known was on the bedside table.

  “Did you bring us food?” Jenny asked. She was concentrating hard, trying to bridge-shuffle a deck of playing cards.

  “No food.”

  “Darn.”

  “What’s wrong?” Tonya leaned toward me, her body alert. She’d pulled her braids behind her back and tied them with a piece of silver curling ribbon cut from the balloon streamers. Jenny wore a head band of the same ribbon. It looked like they were having a little party.

  “I got lost. And I stopped to talk to someone. Remember Dr. Graham? The one I interviewed the other day. She said she’ll come down and talk to Jenny later.”

  “She a social worker?” Tonya asked.

  “No. The other kind.”

  Psychologist. Psychiatrist. Headshrinker. Whatever. At least I knew her somewhat. She seemed normal, given her profession and all. I’d certainly trust Jenny with her, better than a stranger.

  “No wonder you look a little worse for the wear,” Tonya said.

  It hadn’t taken long to attract someone’s attention and break out of the chapel lockup. It took longer to convince the guy we didn’t need to call security. Afterward, I’d wandered the halls in a daze of muddy thinking.

  When I recognized Dr. Graham’s offices it seemed like fate. Here was a problem I could solve. I sat in her waiting area and gathered my thoughts until she was free. “How would you like to study the effect of small families on self-actualization?” I bantered as my lead. She waited for me to come clean with the real story. It wasn’t easy. She turned those shrewd eyes on me and saw the things I didn’t headline, like admitting I’d only been on the job with Jenny four months and I’d already crashed and burned.

  Everywhere I turned, I was tanking on my own ignorance.

  Pat-the-paramedic knew my sister. From the hospital maybe?

  You smell like her.

  More than just the hospital.

  Part of me wanted to call Curzon and get the asshole arrested immediately. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t get me what I wanted even more. Information.

  They both died?

  Turn Pat in and the sheriff would lock him up where I couldn’t talk to him. End of story.

  “Your boy called,” T said. “He’s going to stop in to see Jenny in a few minutes.” She did a slide of the eyes over the shuffling cards. “You giving that boy a hard time?”

  College interviewed Pat yesterday at the firehouse. I couldn’t help salivating at the thought. What the hell did he say to my boy? I needed to see that interview.

  Too bad I’d quit.

  “Me?”

  “I’m hungry,” Jenny said again. She bounced as she waited for Tonya to finish passing out the cards. “Really hungry.”

  “How many people you planning on putting in the hospital today, Ms. Maddy?” Tonya asked. She turned over her first card and cackled.

  “Keep it up. I’m sure they got room for one more,” I answered. The second bed looked good. I stretched out flat and could feel the ghost of Pat’s body behind me. Pressing. “Have I mentioned that I’m tired, really tired?”

  Jenny’s tongue poked out in concentration. She took another card from the deck and discarded slowly.

  “What do you know?” T mumbled.

  The question sunk into my silence.

  Not much.

  My guess was Tom Jost killed himself because he discovered Mr. Vegas scheming and scamming something big-time. They fought about it. Tom couldn’t stop him and couldn’t keep the secret inside.

  Pat tried to ensure no one would believe Tom if-or when-he spilled the beans, by setting Tom up with a trunk full of porno. And the men at station six turned on Tom.

  When Tom reached out for the girl he’d hung the last of his dreams on, he found himself more alone than ever and raging with despair. He phoned his father, the fire station, and the fourth estate to witness his death. He went gunning for both Pat and his daddy, with his elaborate suicide set up-calls, binoculars, trust funds.

  Tom wasn’t a suicide victim. He was a suicide vigilante. This was para-misery of the sacrificial type.

  And Rachel? Maybe Tom meant to give her choices by leaving Rachel all his savings. Maybe he meant to say sorry for the episode in the car, or worse, split her from her father forever.

  Bits and pieces of conversations tumbled around in my head.

  Number no longer in service.

  Old phone’s gone, I’d heard Pat say to the man behind the curtain.

  Had Pat ditched his cell phone to try and cover for Tom’s suicide calls? The first time we met, Pat seemed genuinely unhappy about Tom’s death. Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt Tom as badly as he did. For an extroverted loose-screw like Pat, a trunkload of magazines was probably the kindest way he could imagine to ruin a man’s reputation. That weird scenario in the chapel was all the proof I needed-in the planning department, Pat was an idiot.

  That worried me most of all. Idiots could be tricky.

  Was Pat the Player driving the silver car that College saw parked at the Jost farm, the silver car that had been following me?

  What if Mr. Jost was right about Rachel having a gentleman caller?

  They both died.

  I traced the timeline in my head again. Pat knew my sister. She died. Player moved on. If Pat started seeing Rachel next, Tom would have been in quite a twist.

  Rachel hadn’t said anything about another guy. But that girl was half clam. If she was seeing Pat, she would certainly know how to keep it to herself.

  Had my story gotten between Pat and his girl?

  “Anybody want a bagel?” Ainsley knocked once as he came through the door with a wave for Tonya and a full-blast smile for Jenny. He’d changed into clean clothes and his hands were freshly bandaged.

  “Hallelujah and pass the bag,” Tonya said. “Welcome to the real world, where people eat food. They don’t just talk about it.”

  “You talking to me? I’ve seen the shoes you wear on Saturday night. You live nowhere near reality.”

  “And it ain’t heaven either. Just look at these cards.” She discarded a queen. Jenny snatched it, tucked it into her hand and threw down all of her cards.

  Tonya shrieked and stamped her feet to Jenny’s obvious delight.

  “Want to play?” Jenny asked. “Four people are just right. It’s crazy eights.”

  “Sure,” College said. He dragged another uncomfortable chair to the side of the bed where Tonya was sitting. It took some arranging but he finally got his legs situated under the bed. What is it about long-legged boys? My legs are almost that long and you don’t see me fussing like a debutante in a ball gown.

  “What’s your plan for today?” Ainsley asked.

  “We’re hanging out here.”

  “Jenny can’t go home ’til tomorrow,” Tonya said.

  Ainsley looked at me.

  “For observation,” I said.

  “My turn to deal.” Jenny reached for the cards. The dark hair bordering her face exaggerated the shadows under her eyes. I wanted to carry her out into the sun and tell her every knock-knock joke I knew.

  “Heard you quit,” Ainsley said.

  “Yeah.”

  Jenny froze, mid-deal. “I’ll figure something out,” I told her, gently pulling the card from her fingers. “Keep dealing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Uncle Rich anything about-the circumstances?”

  “I was pressed for time.” I gave Ainsley the shut-the-hell-up eyeball. “We’re playing cards here, College. You in or you out?”

  “In.” His cheeks darkened with the flush of self-conscious emotion. “Somebody told me the only way to survive the bad days is to get back in the game.”

  Tonya snorted. I don’t think it was the cards s
he was holding.

  “I’ve got all our raw footage with me. And a monitor and some other stuff.”

  That would include Pat’s interview at the firehouse. I wanted to throw my arms around him. I shifted my cards around.

  “Other stuff? Editing equipment?”

  “Enough to do a rough-cut. We could set it up in here. Maybe fiddle around a little.”

  “Did your uncle send you?”

  “No.” He sighed. “This morning, maybe I misunderstood where you were coming from, you know?”

  Tonya stared at me. Jenny stared at me. Ainsley stared at his feet.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

  “Uncle Rich said you promised him a story.” Ainsley sounded hopeful.

  “Did I? Maybe after I kick your butt in crazy eights, we’ll get the tapes and give these two a private showing.”

  He held up his bandaged hands. His fingers were exposed from the second knuckle down. He demonstrated button pushing and dial twisting abilities. “Ready, boss.”

  “Finish the deal, Jen,” I told her.

  “Eat-your-ownies round.”

  Something changed in her face as she tossed cards at all of us. A shadow passed.

  Finally, I’d done something right.

  Uplink Telestar 2 10:59CST. 00:05:51 (“Suicide Vigilante” O’Hara/Prescott. Chicago West. Blurb: “Mystery of an Amish firefighter’s death.” No promo incl.)

  WEDNESDAY

  8:49:16 a.m.

  “You been at it all night?” Mick popped his head through the door of edit bay one. He had a cup of coffee in one hand. With the other, he pat himself down for cigarettes and lighter.

  The fresh light sliced through our privacy. It made me wince. The editing bay is a cave, no telling day or night, sun or rain, when you’re inside. Time is counted in hundredths of a second and passes without notice.

  “Clock?” Ainsley asked.

  “Almost nine-A,” Mick told us. “The troops are gathering. I’ve been on since midnight. Headed out. There’s a call for O’Hara on line three.”

  Jenny. The fear hit me hard as I realized how completely I’d been sucked into the work. “Yeah?”

  “‘Hello’ is the way the rest of the world starts a phone conversation, O’Hara.”

  Curzon and relief didn’t normally combine in my head. At least five seconds of dead airtime passed while my nerves settled.

  I cleared my throat with, “Ha. Thanks for the tip, Sheriff. I love a public servant who provides good service for my tax dollars.”

  “How’s Jenny?”

  “Better,” I said. “She’s getting out this morning. I’m headed to the hospital as soon as I send this feed.”

  “And what will you be driving?”

  “Holy shit! Quick, tell me. How’s my other girl?”

  Curzon clucked. “Motorcycle like that is not a girl. That one is all woman. And every guy in this place has a hard-on for her, judging from the requests I’ve been getting.”

  “Keep those animals away from Peg.”

  “I might be able to work something out for you in that regard,” he agreed, his voice dripping the promise of slippery compromises. “With appropriate reciprocity.”

  What was I doing with a guy like Curzon? Apparently, my hormonal coup had put a figurehead Maddy in charge. She appeared to be a bit of a hussy. I shifted back in my chair. Bounced out a little rhythm. Had one of those stomach-crunching after flashes that a good kiss will set off.

  “Reciprocity, huh? What exactly are you looking for, Sheriff?”

  “Seen any SUVs lately?”

  Talk about the cold shower effect. “No. Not me.”

  “What is it?” Ainsley whispered. His radar was up.

  I clapped a hand over the mouth piece. “Curzon wants a report on the SUV driver. You told the guys at the fire, right?”

  “I told them,” Ainsley mumbled. “For all the good it did.”

  “O’Hara? You still with me?” Curzon asked.

  “I’m here.” Too much at stake. Time to come clean. And the story was in the can. “You might be right, Sheriff. Maybe we should make out a report.”

  “We?”

  “Me and my college boy. There was another possible sighting last night, out at the Jost farm? Not sure it’s related, but my new motto is take no chances.” I filled the sheriff in on what Ainsley had seen. And told him my theory on Jenny’s shiny car as well. “If I’m paranoid, you’ve got only yourself to blame, Sheriff. You’re the one that keeps nagging me about SUVs.”

  “Not paranoid enough I’d say,” Curzon said. “I’ll send a car to pick up your man Pat. See what he has to say. I still need you to come in and make a report.”

  “Can you give me the forms in a handy takeout bag? I could make a quick stop on the way home from the hospital. Make sure my poor Peg isn’t subject to further harassment.”

  “It ain’t harassment if she likes it. Tell you what? How about I run the paperwork out to your house later? I’ll bring a pizza and give you and Jenny a lift back to the station afterward to get the bike?”

  The cold shower of disappointment did a quick reversal. If it was only work, why invite himself over?

  “Sounds good,” I said. “We’ll handle the pizza though. Jenny may want to eat as soon as they spring her from the joint. Come after five.”

  “You got it.” Mr. Phone Manners didn’t offer any goodbyes.

  I shagged my fingers back through my hair, stretching and shaking off the work intoxication with the juice of Curzon’s interest.

  Mick appeared at the door of the edit bay again. “You all done in here? I need to check a discrepancy.”

  “We’re done.” I hit the rewind.

  “Can I see it?”

  I glanced at the clock. “There’s time before the feed. But I’ve got to run. Want to watch while we check the last dissolve?”

  “Sure.” Mick settled against the dark egg-crate foam.

  Ainsley rolled his chair away from the counter to stretch his legs straight out in front of him and hit Play.

  The piece timed out at nine seconds under the six-minute mark. Good thing a picture’s worth a thousand words. How else could you tally the cost of isolated innocence against the price of emancipation in three hundred fifty-one seconds?

  “Who wrote the copy on the voice-over?” Mick asked.

  “I did.”

  “Different, but it works. You done that before?”

  “No. Seen it done here and there.”

  Instead of the usual omniscient voice-over, I’d gone for a narrating voice that had an identity, an “I” voice-part Rod Steiger and part Laura Ingalls Wilder. Maddy O’Hara’s alter-ego.

  On screen, the house melted in reverse from flame to smoke. I matched the gray-whites to a close up-zoom out we’d gathered of the Jost farm that first morning. Billowing sheets danced on a laundry line, the children weaving between. Magically, the house was restored.

  Somehow the college boy had managed a racked-zoom centered on the old oak, with the children disappearing into the billowing laundry. It’s a tricky maneuver with the camera on a track-almost impossible freehand. The camera moves away from the subject at the same rate the zoom magnifies the subject closer. The picture looks as if the world behind the subject shifts, while the subject remains still.

  “Nice rack.” Mick gave Ainsley a shot of praise, fist to top of the left biceps.

  Ainsley mugged aw shucks and rubbed his arm with his bandaged hand.

  The voice-over came in again.

  “Tom Jost lost himself in that middle distance between good and evil, simple and worldly. His life served the fireman’s motto Prevent and Protect. His death did the same, a sign post at the middle distance, where some mystery always remains.”

  As the children disappeared, the house and barn came into view, then the road and finally, the great old oak spreading its branches across the horizon line. Still standing.

  “I didn’t think that last shot was gonna wo
rk,” Ainsley admitted. “Cutting back to the kids? But you were right. Sadder, but less depressing.”

  “Yeah.” I punched the save button. “Send it.”

  I tried to make it out of the building before anyone noticed me. No such luck. The wide-eyed kid from the mail room came running up behind me as I walked out the dock exit.

  “Mr. Gatt wants to see you.”

  “Tell him I left.”

  “He said if I don’t bring you back he’ll fire me and-”

  “-you’ll never work in this business again. Yeah, yeah.” I turned around. “You should take the deal, kid.”

  When I passed Barbara’s desk on my way to Gatt’s inner office, she was typing ninety words a minute from dictation. Without turning her head, she pushed a folded napkin across the desk toward me. Four ibuprofen and a stack of soda crackers.

  Breakfast and absolution.

  “You are the effing best,” I told her sincerely.

  Barbara never stopped typing, but the smug expression on her face was one of the friendliest I’d seen.

  Gatt spewed a string of common and colorful obscenities as soon as I opened the door. He summed up, “Are you insane?”

  “I had no idea you were in this early, Gatt. Satellites don’t wait.”

  “Bullshit! Nothing gets sent unless I approve it.” He waved the remote in the direction of the largest monitor. The screen was paused over the last few seconds of my piece. It must be running on the in-house channel. Without Gatt doing anything the image suddenly reversed and played again. He clicked on the audio.

  “…where some mystery always remains.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Where’s the auto-shit? Where’s the erotic stuff? All I see are a bunch of kids playing with the wash.”

  “Did you watch the piece from the beginning?” I propped my butt on the arm of a chair. Two all-nighters in a row; I was trashed. If I sat down now, I might not get up again.

  “No, I haven’t watched the piece. Because you didn’t bother to show it to me. But I know this is not what we discussed.”

  “It’s good stuff.”

  “Not for pre-prime, it isn’t. Not against game shows.”