In a daze, he wandered the streets, considering his next move, and he found himself at the Sixteenth Street Mall. He barely noticed the crowds, watching the street performers and meandering from shop to shop. The regular panhandlers approached him, looking for handouts, and although he was usually good for a few dollars, he barely acknowledged their existence today. He had planned to meet Tina at the mall for dinner at a popular Irish pub, but that was hours away. Alternating between sitting on a bench lost in thought and pacing up and down the mall, he tried to make sense of his situation and his next course of action. His anger and resentment told him to strike back at Jay and the station owner. But how? Since he was already on suspension, quitting wouldn’t solve anything and going to another station in the current climate didn’t seem viable.
“Ungrateful bastards,” he said to no one in particular, not even aware he was speaking out loud.
A young panhandler dressed in torn jeans and a t-shirt heard him and responded. “What the fuck’s your problem, dude? I wasn’t asking you for nothing.”
Jackson didn’t respond at first, lost in his own thoughts.
“I asked you, what the fuck’s your problem?” the kid repeated.
“Huh? What?”
“You calling me names, dickhead?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Ain’t nobody else here.”
Jackson glanced around and confirmed that the only person close enough to hear him was the kid. “I must have been talking to myself. Sorry.”
“Fucking weirdo,” the kid said, shaking his head as he walked away.
Let it go, Jackson told himself. Fighting with a kid at the mall and making a scene where everyone would see him would only add more fuel to the theories about him being unhinged and a danger to the community. The press would destroy what was left of him. He watched the kid walk away and could still hear him shouting obscenities. Distracted and a little shaken by the encounter, Jackson turned to walk in the opposite direction, and, fortunately for him, the driver of the mall bus honked, warning him just in time—or he would have been headline news of another sort.
The near-miss sent Jackson’s heart pounding so hard, he thought it might explode.
How had things deteriorated so quickly? One minute, he was on top of the world; his career was soaring; the show’s ratings had hit an all-time high; his love life was in full swing. And then, almost without warning, he hit rock bottom. If he left the show now, what would he do? The show had become his life, his identity. He had been devoted to the show and protecting the people of Denver for so long, he had no idea how to do anything else. All the sacrifices over the years had come with significant rewards, both monetarily and for his ego.
Now, all he could think was that Denver was full of ungrateful pigs.
After his encounter with the street kid and the bus, he continued to wander up and down the mall with no destination in mind. No epiphanies came to him, but after a couple of hours, he realized his legs were sore, and he was getting tired. He needed to stop and have a drink or two. Maybe that would calm his nerves. A couple drinks at the bar and taking in a soccer match would kill time until Tina she got there.
It was still early, and the pub wasn’t crowded when he entered. There were plenty of unoccupied seats at the bar. The maître d’, whom he had often spoke to and was friendly with in the past, now treated him coolly.
“You’re early, Mr. Jackson,” said the maître d’, raising his eyebrow.
“Yeah.” Jackson ignored the tone. “I’ll just grab a few drinks until my date arrives, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” he replied. “You know where the bar is, of course.”
“Thanks.”
A few days earlier, Jackson had been greeted like a welcome celebrity. Now, not so much.
“Good news travels fast,” he mumbled under his breath as he started toward the bar.
“Sir?” asked the maître d’.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself,” Jackson replied.
As he made his way to the bar, he could feel the stares of other patrons and could almost hear the hushed whispers. Most of them looked at him but quickly turned away, afraid to make eye contact. The bartender was a particularly friendly guy and always had a good word to say about everyone. He either didn’t know about the current scandal or didn’t care. He smiled at Jackson and greeted him warmly. Without waiting for Jackson to order, he brought him his favorite beer.
“Thanks, Eric. You have a good memory.”
“No problem, Bob. Let me know if you need anything.”
He took a long draw on the beer, finishing half of it in one gulp. “Probably another one of these, please.”
Eric smiled and brought him another beer.
As he expected, there was a soccer game in full swing on the TV above the bar. Halfway through the second beer, Jackson was starting to relax. Soccer wasn’t his favorite sport, but he enjoyed the action. He’d played a little in high school and college, but he had excelled at baseball, football, and basketball. He thought about asking Eric to look for a baseball game but thought better of it when he saw that a few patrons at the bar seemed to be engrossed in the game. Across the bar from where Jackson was sitting were three men, taking notice of him. They looked vaguely familiar but for someone like Jackson, who met dozens of new people each week, that wasn’t particularly strange. They were probably regulars at the bar whom he had seen but never interacted with. What was of concern, though, was that they appeared to be openly staring at him and whispering back and forth. Jackson stared back, but rather than look away—as most people would have done in that situation—they stared more intently at him. And although Jackson couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, they weren’t trying to hide their comments behind hushed whispers.
The men—dressed like construction workers in jeans, flannel shirts, and heavy boots—were probably there after work, looking to blow off a little steam. The man in the middle of their group—a large man with muscles typical of a guy who worked out regularly—raised his voice loudly enough for Jackson to hear. “Careful, guys; that’s Bob Jackson. The Consumer Champion.” He said the word champion with particular emphasis. “Don’t want to piss him off, or you might end up dead.”
Barely able to hold his tongue, Jackson looked away from the man and tried to focus on the soccer game. Over the years, Jackson had learned to control his anger—most of the time, by focusing on something and controlling his breathing. It was his own form of meditation. It was clear the man was trying to provoke Jackson into a fight, either verbal or physical. Jackson wasn’t afraid to fight either type of battle, but he had learned the hard way to pick your battles and your battlegrounds. This wasn’t the place, and, considering the issues at the station, this definitely wasn’t the time. He sized up the man, and, even though he looked like a bruiser, Jackson felt confident he could take him in a physical fight. Intellectually, Jackson was confident he would always come out on top. The knowledge that he could take this man, physically or verbally, gave him some satisfaction. A smile formed on his face as he imagined pummeling the big brute.
“What are you laughing at, Bob? Or should I call you Mr. Revenger?” He nudged the guy next to him. They both chuckled.
Jackson ignored them. He could leave, but the beer tasted good, and he had nowhere to go until Tina arrived.
“Who’s next to go?”
Jackson continued to ignore him.
“Do you actually kill the people yourself? Or do you have some code words on your show that signals who’s next?”
The bartender could see this wasn’t going to end well unless he stepped in. “Listen, Sam, lay off the guy; we don’t want any trouble in here.”
“Are you kidding me?” replied Sam, incredulous that anyone would object to his banter. “One of his victims…” He pointed at Jackson. “…was a friend of mine. I’m not sure you should let people like him in here. This bar used to be for good folks.”
“Tell that to Stan. This asshole talked about him like he was a thief. And now, he’s dead. Bob, you do that yourself? Or do you bring in a real man to do your dirty work?”
Jackson still kept quiet but now struggled to maintain his composure. The vise grip he had on his beer bottle was turning his knuckles white, and he could see himself smashing the bottle over the guy’s head. The image might have been satisfying, but it didn’t calm him down.
“Sam, seriously, that’s enough. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Me? You let that fuckhead in here, but you want to throw me out? The guy has blood on his hands. He should be locked up.”
“Please, Sam,” pleaded Eric. “I’ll comp you the beer if you leave now.”
“Look… Sam, is it?” said Jackson, calmly but with a death stare. “I came here for a quiet drink and a nice dinner. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t know who’s responsible for these murders, so I’ll ask you to keep your stupid theories to yourself.”
“Well, my theory is, I think you killed Stan.”
“You think?” Jackson said as he cocked his head mockingly. “I wasn’t sure if you were capable of cogent thought. Still not sure, actually. But, I’ll tell you this: If your buddy, Stan, was unlucky enough to find his way onto my show, he probably was a crook. We only get calls about the scumbags.” That was probably a mistake, he thought after he said it, but it was too late to take it back and too late to back down. “If you and Stan were such good buddies, maybe you’re a crook, too.” Now, that was over the top, but the beer had loosened his tongue.
Sam bolted up out of his stool and took an aggressive stance.
Eric moved around the bar and stood between Sam and Jackson.
“Sam, please don’t make me call the police.”
Sam looked over Eric’s shoulder. “How about you and me step outside and discuss this?”
“First of all, I’m meeting someone here, and secondly…” Jackson sized him up and shook his head. “…I wouldn’t waste my time on you.”
“Yeah, just as I thought. You’re a coward. Act all tough on the radio, but you’re just a chickenshit asshole.”
“Coward” and “chickenshit asshole” weren’t names usually associated with Jackson. Quite the opposite. Whether it was on the basketball court or his radio show, Jackson would be more than willing to take the guy on. He was athletic and had enough martial arts training and experience to be dangerous. One-on-one, Sam would be no match for Jackson. He was confident in that. But with Tina due to arrive any moment—and the awareness of how a street fight would look in the press right now—Jackson held his temper in check and turned away.
Sam turned to his buddies. “Told you he was a chickenshit coward.” He made his way back to his bar stool. The men clinked their beers together and laughed.
The bartender sighed in relief. The thought of a barfight had worried him, and he felt he had done what he could to defuse the situation. He considered sticking to his guns and telling Sam and his buddies to leave, but now that things seemed to be calm, he let it go and went back behind the bar.
“Sam, I told you he wouldn’t mess with you,” said the man to Sam’s left. “You owe me a beer.”
“No shit, Sherlock. The guy’s all talk.” He signaled Eric for another round of beers.
Eric rolled his eyes, but when he saw that Jackson was letting the insult go, he got the beers and set them in front of Sam and his cohorts. “Here you go,” he said meekly as he set them down.
Jackson was still seething but tried to look calm. He had second thoughts about letting the insults go, but ultimately, he realized it was the right decision. The guy might have deserved a whooping, and there was no doubt that Jackson could have delivered one, but what would he gain? The satisfaction of seeing Sam with a broken and bloody nose? That was appealing, but it would still be a shitty day.
A few minutes later, Tina entered the bar and spotted Jackson sitting alone, watching the soccer game. She came up behind him and whispered in his ear. “Hey, handsome. Buy a girl a drink?”
Jackson got up, hugged her, and pulled up a stool at the bar for her. He was pleased to see her but wasn’t able to hide his sour mood.
“Bob. You okay? You look a little tense.”
“Shitty day. I’ll tell you about it at dinner. Would you like a drink first?”
“Sure,” she said as she sat down. Across the bar from them, the three men stared at her. They were awestruck by her beauty. She stood five-foot-ten in heels, with flowing blonde hair and blue eyes. She wore a tight black skirt and a white blouse that emphasized her flawless figure.
“How does a shit like him get a girl like that?” commented Sam.
Tina heard the comment and looked at Jackson questioningly.
“Maybe we should get our table now,” said Jackson, looking over toward Eric, so he could settle up the bar tab.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Just some guys trying to pick a fight with me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“You’ve been gone and haven’t heard the news, I’m guessing. Let’s get to our table, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
He paid the bar tab and guided her toward the maître d’ to get their table. As they were being seated, he started to bring Tina up-to-date. “The press—and, it seems, everyone else in town—is convinced that I’m involved in the murders. Either I’m the murderer, or some kind conduit for them to pick their victims.”
“Oh, geez, Bob. That’s terrible.” She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Is that why those guys want to pick a fight with you?”
“Something like that. I guess they were friends with one of the victims. But, it gets worse. The station owner and Jay shut down the show this morning. They say it’s temporary, but it doesn’t feel that way. Advertisers were threatening to pull ads from the program. I guess I’m bad for business now,” he said despondently.
“I’m sorry.” She took his hand in hers. “I’m glad you didn’t fight, though. Maybe we should just leave.”
“Let’s have our dinner and leave when we’re ready.”
The look on Tina’s face told Jackson she didn’t think that was such a good idea.
“It will be fine. Those guys are done making trouble. Besides, I’m not running out of here with my tail between my legs.”
“Okay. If you’re sure,” she replied, unconvinced. “Or,” she continued, “we could just go home, order some Chinese food, and hang out together.” She winked. “Maybe I could cheer you up.”
Jackson considered the proposal. It did have a certain appeal, but his sense of pride got in the way. They would leave when he was ready—and not because some guys tried to intimidate him.
“I tell you what, let’s get a couple of drinks and some appetizers, and then leave.”
“Done,” she replied but quietly wished they would leave right away. She could tell others in the restaurant were staring at them.
Their waiter came by quickly and handed them menus with a brief description of the specials. Then, he hurried off to fill their drink orders. When he returned with their drinks, they ordered a plate of nachos, even though Jackson had lost his appetite. It was a matter of pride for him.
Tina Greene was easily the most beautiful girl in the building. She knew she was attractive and often endured leers and comments from men—and even stares from women—but today, it felt different. It was obvious that people were whispering about them, and although they were more discreet than the men at the bar, it was clear that Jackson’s presence was making people uncomfortable.
“Tell me what happened today,” she said.
Jackson lowered his voice, so only Tina could hear. “The police visited the station today. I’m a suspect in the murders. I have to provide them with my whereabouts for ea
ch murder, and I can tell one of the detectives wants to take it further. I’m going to call my attorney and see what I should do. It’s hard to tell if Jay really thinks I’m involved, or he’s just acting out of fear and pressure. He didn’t seem that upset about shutting down the show, either. Acted like it was just business. I know he and I were never the best of friends, but I thought he was more loyal than that, considering all I’ve done for the station. He says he’s taking action because of the owners, but…” He paused. “…I’m not so sure.”
“I never liked Jay,” she admitted.
Jackson smiled. He loved how loyal Tina was.
“Well, the owner likes him, and that’s all that matters. I can’t believe after all these years, these guys turned on me so quickly.”
“Maybe we should take a vacation. Let’s leave town. I can get time off. Maybe by the time we get back, this will have all blown over.”
“I’m not running away,” Jackson snapped back.
“Hey,” she replied softly. “I’m on your side, remember? I’m not saying you should run away. You’ve worked so hard for so long. You deserve some time away. We can make it a romantic getaway. I’m serious.”
Jackson glanced at the guys at the bar. From their table, he could just make out that they were still staring at him. Glaring might have been a better description.
“Bob, look at me. Focus. This would be good for you. To get away.”
He turned back to her and nodded but seemed unconvinced. “I don’t know. Let me think about it, okay? This thing is not my fault. I need to sort things out. If I run, people will be convinced I’m involved.”
All In A Day's Work Page 19
