by S. W. Capps
“Bill Stacy joins us live with the first of two Great 8 team coverage reports. Bill, this has all the makings of a scandal.”
It sure as hell does!
After a shaky breath, Stacy somehow managed to respond.
***
He pulled to a stop and checked the address—406 Wewoka Street. This was it. Grabbing the twelve-pack, Stacy climbed out of the car and headed for the house. The street was black, but for the soft glow of lamplight on the melting snow.
As he reached the step, he paused, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He rang the bell anyway. A minute later, the door opened.
“What do you want?” Julius yipped like a terrier.
“I was…in the neighborhood…” Stacy stepped back, pointing to the basketball court up the street. “Can a guy get a game down there?”
“Black guy can. You can’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Welcome to Oklahoma.”
Stacy looked down, remembering their conversation —the one that forced him to see himself differently. He looked back up. “Thought you might want to share a twelver.”
Julius glared at the cans. “Schlitz Malt Liquor? Let me guess, that’s what all the brothers drink!”
Stacy felt more uncomfortable than ever. Yes, he’d seen a commercial with black partygoers enjoying Schlitz, but that wasn’t why he bought it. Okay…that was part of it. More importantly, “They were on sale.”
Julius stared, light framing him like a stained-glass saint. “I’ll say one thing. You got balls comin’ here at night.”
“You think this is bad? You should see the neighborhoods I grew up in.” No reaction. “Look, I didn’t come here to compare upbringings, but I’m not going to have any balls if I stand out in this cold much longer. Are you going to let me in or not?”
Julius eased the door back, Stacy stepping inside. The room was surprisingly warm, a row of candles burning on the mantel. In the corner, a thirty-five-inch TV offered nothing but static, an overstuffed couch pushed against the wall. Stacy took it all in, having no idea what to do next. He’d only thought of dropping by, not what the hell he was going to say.
“Nice place,” he managed, clutching the twelve-pack to his chest.
Julius killed the TV, Stacy noticing a signed 8 X 10 of Jacques Cousteau.
“Cousteau, huh?” No response—this was much harder than expected. No wonder he’d never bothered to cultivate a friendship.
“We gonna drink that beer or not?”
“Absolutely!” Stacy pulled two cans from the box, handing one to Julius. As they drank, they looked at each other, Stacy mustering another, “Nice place.”
“You said that.”
“Well, I’m saying it again.” He walked to the couch and sat, hearing for the first time music playing—Robert Cray’s Strong Persuader. “You like jazz?”
“It’s blues, man. And why would I listen if I didn’t like it?”
Stacy looked to the turntable, wires leading to a nice stereo and speakers. From the looks of things, Julius—bad neighborhood or not—had money. He also had a guitar. “You play?”
Julius stared, Stacy seeing the first hint of a smile on his lips. “Not as good as my man, Robert, but I play a little. You?”
“No, I’m not musical at all.” He paused to drink. “My mom signed me up for accordion lessons once.”
“Accordion?”
“I’m half-Polish!” he defended himself. “She thought it would help me get in touch with my roots.” Stacy shook his head in disgust. “Never could figure out how to play the keys with one hand and those damn little buttons with the other. I don’t know how Lawrence Welk does it?”
“Lawrence Welk? Dude, you are white!”
“Well, what about you? A black man listening to blues? Not exactly a stretch!”
They stared at each other, then laughed. “Anyway…” Stacy took another drink. “…after the accordion, I gave up all hope of a music career.”
“Looks like you made the right choice.” Julius grabbed the paper. “You see the article in the Herald? ‘Rowdywear Chief Caught With His Pants Down’. Even gave you credit for breakin’ the story.”
“Yeah, well…” Stacy stared at the headline. “…I’m not exactly proud. The guy skipped town and now three hundred people are out of work. Besides, did you see the interview with Bub at the end of my package? If anyone finds out—”
“They won’t. Toole’s good at coverin’ his tracks.”
“Maybe. I just wish he’d keep his tracks off my stories.”
Julius nodded, taking another drink.
“So…” Stacy stood, making his way to the guitar. “…you going to play this thing or not?” Julius picked it up, grinding out an impressive riff that rivaled the Persuader’s. As Cray sang More Than I Can Stand, Stacy shook his head. “You’re a lot better than you say you are.” The cameraman smiled, breaking into the first few notes of Foul Play. “But I don’t know why that surprises me. Anyone who can come up with his own chip camera—”
“Hey…” He stopped playing. “…I didn’t steal that camera!”
“I didn’t say you stole it,” Stacy backpedaled. “And besides, even if you did, you think I’d tell the cops…the same guys who turned the KKK onto me?”
“Don’t matter if you do. I didn’t take none of those things.”
“Things?” Stacy raised an eyebrow. “You got more than a chip camera in here?”
Julius downed his beer. “I got a lot more!” He put the guitar down and walked to the bedroom, Stacy grabbing two more cold ones. Inside the closet, Julius removed a piece of drywall, revealing an entire ‘electronics store’. The DXC-3000 was surrounded by lights, batteries, an underwater 35MM, and the piece de resistance—an infrared video camera. “An ‘associate’ of mine calls when he finds somethin’ up my alley.” He picked up the infrared. “Like this baby—military issue, years ahead of the consumer stuff. You should see what I’ve shot.”
Stacy grinned, the beer taking affect. “What are we waiting for?”
Julius grabbed a tape marked NIGHTTIME FUN and walked back to the living room. As Stacy sat, he hit PLAY.
A green image filled the screen. “Is that Banks Park?”
“Just keep watchin’.” Strange shapes began to identify themselves. A pair of slides. A park bench. Two people.
“Hey, they’re screwing!”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” As they drained the twelver, they watched six couples use the bench for everything from oral sex to S & M. One man came alone, climbing to the top of a slide and masturbating. The camera zoomed.
“My God, that’s Raul!”
“You know the dude?”
“He worked at Channel 8!” Stacy shook his head. “Seemed so normal. A little arrogant maybe…” The man on TV was flapping his free arm and howling at the moon.
“Guess you never really know anyone.”
The screen changed to a close-up of a cow. “What’s this?” Before Julius could answer, two teens knocked the heifer on its backside. “Is that cow tipping?” Julius nodded. “I always thought it was bullshit…no pun intended.”
“Ain’t bullshit, dude. Just hard as hell to find one in the dark.” As Julius tossed his empty, Stacy stared at him, grin widening. “What are you thinkin’?”
***
They crouched in the snowy field, Julius holding the infrared, Stacy drinking Seagram’s. They’d picked up a bottle on their way to the ranch. Both were drunk.
“Dude, I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
“Shhhhhh,” Stacy warned, shoving the pint in his pocket. “You’re gonna scare ’em away.”
“Scare what away?” Julius lowered the camera. “We been here half-an-hour and I ain’t seen one cow.”
“Truss me…they’re here.” The drive to Sulphur took more than an hour—they hadn’t exactly traveled in a straight line. “I shot a story in this field. Wilhelm’s got a thousand h
ead. We juss gotta find ’em, thass all.” Stacy stood. “Here, bossie, bossie!”
Julius yanked him back down. “Are you crazy? If Wilhelm catches us on his property…” He shook his head. “You’ll just get fired. I’ll go to jail!”
“Oh…sorry…” Stacy cupped both hands over his mouth. “Here, bossie, bossie!” he whispered, both men giggling till their sides hurt.
“Dude, we’re gonna freeze to death out here!” Julius snatched the bottle, polishing it off. “Cow tippin’ don’t work ’less you got a cow…” The drunken fools started laughing again. “…and right now, I wouldn’t know one if it bit me on the ass!”
“Lemme see that thing.” Stacy grabbed the camera, sweeping the lens from left to right. Wilhelm’s ranch was the only one for miles. Nestled between rocky bluffs and the Washita River, it was completely hidden from the outside world. “Hey, thass it!” Stacy pointed—in the distance, a line of trees marked the end of the field. “If I was a cow, thass where I’d go. Wilhelm’s got five hundred acres, only half cleared. Cows are bound to take cover at night. I mean, they don’t wanna get hit by lightning or something!” He jumped to his feet. “Thass where they’re at. Right back in those woods!”
“Dude, you’re crazy if—”
Mooooo. Both men jerked to the sound. It came from the left, a hundred yards off in the direction of the house. They looked at each other, teeth chattering. “Less doooo this!” The punchy dolts took out in a sprint, screaming like maniacs.
Even a deaf cow would’ve heard them coming!
“There!” Stacy hollered, pointing to a wide-awake calf near the barn.
As they drew a bead on it, the porch light blazed, both men skidding to a stop. In one fluid motion, Wilhelm stepped onto the porch, raising his shotgun. “Less get outta here!” Stacy rasped.
“Took the words right outta my—” An explosion lit the night, both men diving for cover. As the shooter reloaded, they leaped to their feet.
“Show yourselves, you sons of bitches!” Wilhelm roared.
He scanned the night, firing again and again.
But the terrified intruders were long gone.
***
Stacy knocked on the door, head pounding. He couldn’t believe his bloodshot eyes when he read the note—Mr. Wilhelm wants to see you. He knocked again, the sound hammering his eardrums.
“Come in!” Holding his breath, he turned the knob. This was it. The end of a promising news career. Six months of hard work, four years of Journalism school—all ruined by one drunken evening. His mother was going to kill him! With the confidence of a lamb at slaughter, he stepped into the office. “Have a seat.” The G.M. sprinkled food in a fishbowl, his expression unreadable.
Stacy skulked to a chair, the air so thick he needed a machete. A tone sounded, “Mr. Wilhelm, Mort Taylor from—”
“I’ll call back.” Stacy gulped—this wasn’t good. The man placed the food on the shelf, label out. “And Cindy, hold my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilhelm sat. “I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about.”
Stacy had a pretty good idea.
“When I hired Larry, I hoped his philosophy—our philosophy—would germinate quickly. But I must confess, I didn’t expect you to lead the way.” Stacy looked like he’d fielded a question on live TV, a question he wasn’t prepared for.
“First, your little skirmish with the Klan. Brilliant idea, goading them into an on-air confrontation.” The dazed reporter thought about interrupting but didn’t. “And now this whole Rowdywear mess. Hell, I’ve known Ike Rowdy for twenty years and never suspected a thing. But you nailed his ass to the wall!” As Stacy’s stomach turned, Wilhelm stood, circling the desk. “I’ve been watching you, Zwardowski. And so has Larry. You’ve got the potential, not only to make it in this business, but to be great.”
“I…” Stacy was in shock. “…thank you, sir.”
“No, thank you.” He crossed his arms, eyes still black but glowing. “And to show we mean business, starting next week I’m raising your pay to $6.25 an hour.”
Stacy knew he was dreaming now. Fifty-cent raises didn’t happen at Channel 8. He reached down to pinch himself, but nothing happened. “Wow…I mean…thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it.” The G.M. uncrossed his arms, moving to the file cabinet. “I’ve got a good feeling about you, young man. Keep doing what you’re doing, and there’ll be more rewards to come.” He cut his eyes to the door. “You can go now.”
***
“If it pleases the court, we’d like to call Viola Dern.”
Stacy and Katie sat in the courtroom. They didn’t come up to Clarion often. For one thing, it was an hour-and-a-half away. For another, it was KPXZ country, home of the rival station’s headquarters.
As the accused, a woman of eighty, shuffled to the stand, District Attorney Ross Barton salivated. His reputation as a vicious prosecutor was legendary. “If you get charged with a crime,” he once said, “I’ll exact the payment!”
Dern was accused of killing her husband, but her lawyer argued suicide. Toole expected a verdict today. That’s why he sent both reporters, Stacy to cover the trial, Katie the related spousal abuse angle. It was Channel 8’s tenth ‘team coverage’ report.
Their boss had promised a dogfight. The competition was getting one.
“Congratulations on your raise,” Katie whispered.
“But how—?”
“It’s all over the station.” The accused killer fielded questions from her lawyer, both reporters waiting for the cross-examination. “’Course, I would’ve preferred hearing it from my boyfriend.”
She’d never used that term before. He wondered why she hadn’t brought it up earlier. They’d just spent an hour together, sharing ribs at the café next door. “Katie—”
“Cross,” the judge growled, Barton walking to the podium. All eyes—the reporters’ included—turned to the D.A. He wore a black tie and suspenders, his expression grim.
“Mrs. Dern, do you know how a bolt-action .22 works?”
“No, sir.” She was a frail little thing, hair thin, voice shaky.
“As our weapons expert pointed out, with a bolt-action rifle, you have to expel the cartridge manually.” He turned to the gallery. “And we’ve heard testimony that when investigators discovered the body, they found a casing on the rug.”
“M’husband fiddled with guns all the time. They’s prob’ly bullets everywhere.”
“According to investigators…” He strolled to the jury box. “…the chamber of the gun was empty.”
“’Course it was empty. Jimmy Lee’d just shot himself.”
The courtroom door wheezed open, Bub rushing in. “Katie,” he whispered, “we gotta go!” She glanced at her watch. “Toole just radioed. They found a body near Cottonwood. They think it’s that convenience store clerk.”
She grabbed her things. “Bye, sweetie.”
Stacy nodded, still focused on the testimony.
“If your husband shot himself, how did the casing get from the chamber to the floor?” Barton stroked his mustache. “In all my years, I’ve never known a suicide victim to eject a cartridge. After he’s pulled the trigger.”
“Your honor…” The court-appointed attorney shot to his feet—he should’ve seen it coming, but public defenders rarely did. “…I’d like a recess!”
Stacy scribbled notes, one thought filling his head—God help him if he was ever on the wrong end of a Ross Barton prosecution!
Outside the courtroom, Katie waved Bub on, stepping into the restroom. After securing the door, she stuck two fingers down her throat and vomited. With a thousand ‘extra calories’ in the bowl, she flushed the toilet and hurried off to meet her cameraman.
***
A dark figure moved up the tracks. If one listened, he could hear the sound of crunching gravel. But no one listened. The people of Avalon were sleeping.
Navigating the grade, he made his way to the ware
house, a pole in one hand, a paper bag in the other. Stopping at a long-forgotten delivery door, he set the bag down and produced a Kelly Tool. He slipped the blade between the lock and jam, splintering the wood.
There was no movement. No alarm. He’d expected as much. The place had been empty for a decade. Grabbing the bag, he pushed his way inside. The structure was still largely intact. It featured two massive floors. He was interested in neither.
Entering a stairwell, he climbed to the attic, using the pole to separate cobwebs. With one swift kick, he broke down the door, the room mineshaft-black. He clicked a switch on his glasses, two rays of light illuminating the darkness. As long-trapped dust danced in the beams, rodents fled for cover.
It wasn’t a full-size attic, more like a sectioned cockloft. Dropping to his knees, he crept over the floor, setting the pole down and opening the bag. Inside was a Styrofoam cup filled with gasoline, a sheet of Saran Wrap securing it.
The simplest tools caused the greatest devastation.
He reached in his pocket, pulling out packing peanuts, a cigarette, and match. After pouring the gas out, he placed the peanuts in the cup, then grabbed the pole and rammed it through the floor. Six holes, six more in the wall.
More than enough to help the fire to spread.
Striking the match, he lit the cigarette, smoke filling his lungs. He expelled it. With great care, he wedged the cigarette down in the peanuts, its tip in position to ignite the contents, the gasoline—the whole damn warehouse!
As smoke wafted past his nose, he grabbed the pole and clicked off his glasses. In the darkness, a rat scurried over the floor—or maybe it was the fleeing arsonist.
Moments later, there was only silence.
And the red glowing tip of the fuse.
***
Stacy stepped down from the truck, clothes covered in soot. Channel 8 had done it again, arriving on scene before the competition. As usual, Toole had rousted Stacy from slumber—did the man ever sleep? —and Julius, surprisingly energetic himself at four in the morning, had delivered more amazing footage.
