by S. W. Capps
Neglected for years, the old warehouse went up like kindling, the foundation all that remained. Stacy walked to the CAUTION tape, motioning to Roy Maghee. He’d already sent his package for noon, Julius slamming it together before leaving with new reporter Mike Bartell.
“Five minutes!” Brannuck yelled.
“Where’s my new—?”
“Right here!” A man in red Sansabelts hurried up the street, hair plastered with gel. “Sorry, I got turned around in the traffic circle.”
Stacy stared at him—he looked like Bob of Big Boy fame. “What was your name again?” With all the employees coming and going, it was hard to keep names—on-air or otherwise—straight.
“Rrrrrich Martin.” He spoke as if auditioning for a radio spot.
“Why do you say your name like that?”
“I took this job ’cause I need the money. What I really want is a career in sports. And every sports guy’s got his own schtick, right? I mean, Chett’s got the finger pistols. I’m gonna say my name like a rrrreving engine.”
Maghee cleared his throat, both men turning. “Still not sure about this.” But he was sure—the man never did anything without careful consideration.
Stacy led him to his mark. “We’re the lead, so a little Q and A after the story is all.” He’d warned Toole about Maghee’s brevity, but his boss insisted on the chief investigator. Stacy handed him an earpiece, Rich staring at the camera. “Arson again?”
“Too early to tell.” Maghee shoved the IFB in his ear, then lit a cigarette.
“Must be tough when things are a total loss.”
“Every fire tells a story.”
“Two minutes.”
“If it is arson, what then?”
“In extreme cases, we call in the ATF.” He blew smoke. “But we’re a long way from there. So I caution you and your staff to report this story professionally.”
“How the heck do I zoom this thing?” Rich was totally lost.
Stacy excused himself, walking over to focus.
“Stand by,” Brannuck hollered. As Stacy rejoined his guest, a promo aired on the live truck monitor—Bill Stacy at the Rowdywear plant. “Don’t Gamble With Your Future. Watch the Great 8 News Team at Six and Ten.”
Maghee stomped out his cigarette.
“Is the Texomaland Torch on a rampage?” Stacy tugged at his collar, his lead-in rewritten again. “I’m Larry Toole.”
Maghee watched the ensuing package, eyes glued to the screen. When the story ended, Toole tossed it to Stacy.
“Roy Maghee of the Avalon Fire Department joins us. Investigator, is this incident connected to the mill fire in December?”
“I can’t answer that.”
Toole jumped in. “Would you at least concede it’s a possibility?”
Maghee turned to the monitor. “It’s possible.”
“Then are we talking ‘serial arsonist’ here? And if so, what’s the profile?”
The man acted like he didn’t want to answer, but Toole wasn’t the only one manipulating the interview. “Serial arsonists are responsible for very few fires. But to answer your question, the serial arsonist is typically male. A loner. Employed but with a dismal personal life. He’s cunning with a desperate need for control. And sets fires to take revenge on a world that’s wronged him. But like any addict, he needs a bigger fix every time. That’s why he’s so dangerous.” He turned back to Stacy. “But remember, we’ve yet to determine a cause in this fire.”
“Thank you, sir.” Stacy paused—so much for brevity! —reciting Toole’s outro, “As new information breaks, the Great 8 News Team will bring it to you. Live from the scene. And faster than anyone else.”
“Great stuff, Bill.”
“Clear.”
Stacy lowered the mic. “Sorry about that.”
Maghee sparked another cig. “It behooves us to work together. I’ll need a copy of your video. From both fires.”
“So you do think they’re connected?”
“Again, I can’t answer. But I’d like to review the tapes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Stacy passed the request onto his boss, Toole offering a curt, “Fuck no!”
“But Larry—”
“Channel 8’s footage belongs to Channel 8. If he—or anyone else—wants it, they can get a court order!”
Chapter 8
March 1988
(NEWSWIRE): EX-SENATOR GARY HART WITHDRAWS FROM PRESIDENTIAL RACE AFTER ‘INFIDELITY’ REPORTS ... IRAQI TROOPS ATTACK KURDISH TOWN, KILLING THOUSANDS WITH CHEMICAL WEAPONS ... EXPERTS SAY AIDS VIRUS SPREADS VIA KISSING, DINING OUT, AND TOILET SEATS
“Beertender, three more frosties!”
Chip Hale slapped Stacy on the back, gyrating to Def Leppard’s Hysteria. Julius, nursing a twelve-ounce stein, was doing his best to keep a low profile—he was the only black man in the bar. Another ratings month had come and gone, and Chip insisted they go out to celebrate. All three had worked a twelve-hour day, Bud’s Fillin’ Station the last place Stacy wanted to be.
“I need to make a phone call.” He promised Katie he’d meet her at eleven. It was pushing midnight.
“Suit yourself.” Chip, who didn’t own a watch, raised his glass and drank.
Making his way through the crowd, Stacy passed a line of occupied barstools. Laborers drinking their paychecks. Roughnecks drowning their sorrows. And Terrance Meeks.
“Terrance?”
The ex-news director swiveled, cigarette in hand. He looked ten years older than the last time Stacy had seen him. “Hiya, kid.”
Stacy wasn’t sure what to say. “Sorry,” was what came out.
The man waved him off, smoke following. “Bad things happen sometimes.” He lifted his half-empty glass. “Looks like you’re doing okay. I’ve been watching.”
Stacy glanced at the clock. “Where are you working now, Terrance?”
“Texoma’s got three stations. One fired me. The other two already have news directors.” He scratched his whiskered cheek. “I applied for my old job at KAVN. But they never called back.”
“What about outside Texoma? I mean, you’re an experienced—”
“This is my home, Stacy. We own a house here. My kids go to school here. This is all they know.” He paused as the jukebox transitioned to INXS’s Devil Inside. “It’s all I know.”
The man’s expression turned dark, Stacy stepping away. “Well…good luck…and if there’s anything I can—”
“There is something, Stacy.” Meeks seized his arm, breath stinking of liquor and smoke. “Don’t sell out!”
They stared at one another, Stacy’s arm throbbing. “Okay, Terrance…okay!”
Meeks let go. As the music built to a crescendo, he grabbed his coat and walked away. What the hell was that all about? Stacy wasn’t the one handing out assignments. He was just doing what he was told—same as he did when Meeks was in charge. Maybe the man was just bitter, a little jealous even.
Either way, Stacy couldn’t afford to worry about it now.
His girlfriend was waiting.
***
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Stacy keyed the handset.
“I’m not kidding,” Toole answered. “And I suggest you change your tone.”
Stacy shook his head, a million responses swirling. He chose one— “Mobil 4 out.” Still shaking his head, he climbed out of the car. It was a beautiful day, the sky a brilliant sapphire, the air surprisingly warm. Rich Martin stood in the shade of a redbud tree, camera ready.
Stacy made his way over, State Senator Dale Rigginns waiting. The man wore an expensive suit, his back to the façade of Rigginns & Clarke, Attorneys at Law. “Good morning, Bill.”
“’Morning, Senator.” Stacy took the microphone from Rich. “I apologize for the delay. I had to check something with my boss.”
“Quite all right. I’m always happy to make myself available to the hard-working members of the media. And may I say that Channel 8 does an outstanding job kee
ping my constituents informed.” He paused, adjusting his hundred-dollar tie. “By the way, have you and Rob—”
“Rrrrrrrich,” the cameraman interjected.
“—taken time to vote?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, make sure you do. And remember, it’s Rigginns. Two g’s. Two n’s.” He attempted Chett’s famous finger pistols, mistaking Stacy for the sportscaster.
“Sir…” Stacy felt queasy. “…I have something to ask…and it’s embarrassing.” The man smoothed his Ginsu-like lapels. “As you know, it’s Super Tuesday and we’ve got reporters all over Texoma. We’ve even got salespeople doing interviews today.” He paused, wondering how to say this without looking like an idiot. “Our live truck can only be in one place at one time, so our news director…he…” God, this was humiliating! “I need to get a reaction from you as if you’d won the election. And another as if you’d lost.” Stacy’s face matched the man’s crimson tie. “Then we’ll air the one that makes sense…and pretend it’s a live interview.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“That’s what I said.”
The friendly politician was gone, replaced by the testy lawyer. “Well, let’s get on with it then!”
Stacy faced the camera. “Rich, this has to look like nighttime, so you’ll need to change filters.” Rich twisted a knob, offering an astonished thumbs-up. “Joining us now live is a happy State Senator Dale Rigginns…” Two minutes later, the verbiage changed from “happy” to “disappointed”, the politician making a weak attempt at humility—he wasn’t much of an actor.
Stacy thanked him for his understanding. As the man walked off, he offered one last comment. “I hope to hell you use the first one!”
***
He set the jack, his tire having blown when he turned up Main. As Stacy pumped the handle, a car stopped next to him. “Get in.”
He turned to see Dick Wilhelm at the wheel of a black Lincoln. “But—”
“I’ll call my service.” The man leaned over and opened the door, Stacy climbing inside. Gunning the accelerator, Wilhelm reached for his newly-installed phone. “It’s at the corner of Oak and Main,” he explained. “Fit it for a new set of radials.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. “But, sir, I can’t—”
“It’s on me. Just keep up the good work.” He turned into the lot. “And do me a favor.” Stacy wondered what he could do for Dick Wilhelm. “Tell Larry I’ll be down in five minutes.”
Uh-oh. This had all the makings of another meeting. Stacy wondered how many heads would roll this time. Katie’s was the first he saw. She was pouring coffee, hands shaking. Across the way, Julius tinkered with a cable, Chip leafing through a magazine.
Toole snapped his fingers to nix the chatter. “I’ve got some announcements.” The room fell silent—even Thad stopped talking. “First off, by now you’ve noticed that Lisa Lynn is no longer with us.” Stacy made eye-contact with Katie, his smile saying, ‘I told you so.’ “I’m proud to announce that Lisa’s hiring on with the ABC affiliate in Denver. That’s a hundred-and-fifty-market jump, folks. And it just goes to show what can happen with a little hard work.” Hard work? The woman spent more time under the knife than at a typewriter!
“Obviously, her departure leaves us with a hole to fill. This time, I’ve decided to hire within.” He walked over to Katie. “Starting tonight, Miss Powers will take over as my six and ten co-anchor.” The crowd gasped, Katie’s jaw dropping. “And we’re not going to miss a beat.” Toole put his arm around her, Stacy tensing with jealousy. “We’re going to give viewers the same quality newscasts they’ve been getting since I arrived in October—better even—which brings me to my next point of business.”
Wilhelm stepped into the room, Toole nodding. “I met with your G.M. yesterday to go over last month’s ratings results.” He reached in his pocket for a cigarette. “For the first time in almost three years, we finished second in the ratings.” A huge cheer rocked the newsroom, accompanied by hugs and high-fives. Everyone was whooping it up.
Everyone but Toole.
“Quiet, goddammit!” A nervous hush fell over the troops. “I said, we finished second.” He scanned the faces, the newfound silence deafening. “Second place isn’t good enough. Second place is for fucking losers!” He walked to the center of the room. “When I agreed to return here, I did so to be number one in this market. As long as I’m in charge, we’ll never settle for second place. Do you understand me?”
Everyone nodded, cigarettes blazing.
Toole lit his own. “From now on, we treat every month like ratings month. The road to number one is paved with hard work. And believe me, you’re going to work your asses off!” Stacy looked to Katie—isn’t that what we’ve been doing? “Come May, there’s going to be a new ratings king in Texomaland. The Great Channel 8!” He blew smoke, his red-rimmed eyes sweeping the room. “Your assignments are posted.”
As everyone swarmed Katie, a tone sounded. “Bill, you have a call on line two.”
Stacy grabbed the phone.
As he listened, his expression changed, Julius watching. When Stacy dropped the receiver, the camera op rushed over. “Dude, what is it?”
A few feet away, the crowd toasted Katie, the new anchor laughing like a high school cheerleader. “My… mother…” Stacy sagged to a chair, Julius steadying him. “…she just…had a stroke.”
***
Helen O’Roarke was born on the Oregon coast, at the end of World War II. Her mother suffered two miscarriages before giving birth to a baby girl, her father—4F due to a heart condition—beaming with pride.
Helen grew into a bonny child with eyes that held the depths of the sea. Bright and stubborn, she outperformed her classmates in every subject, holding her own on the athletic field as well—at least till she fell ill in the winter of ’53. What started as a nagging cough led to pneumonia, forcing her to spend weeks in the hospital. But her illness was a blessing in disguise. While conducting tests, doctors discovered a congenital heart defect. The disorder was treatable, they explained, but the risk of “future events” would always be there.
Fiercely independent—a trait she’d one day pass on to her son—Helen refused to acknowledge her condition. She went back to school, working even harder to separate herself from the pack, her newfound goal to become a physician.
But a year before high school graduation, an Alaskan crab boat pulled into town, William Zwardowski on board. She was working in the infirmary when he came in for stitches, the injured fisherman the most ruggedly-handsome man she’d ever seen—broad shoulders, piercing eyes, and a crooked smile. The attraction was palpable, but Helen wasn’t looking for love. And her father had warned her about dating “men at sea”.
Over the next few weeks, William sent eloquent notes. He was different, she told herself. He made her feel special—wonderful—like no one ever had. As time went on, she let her guard down, sleeping with him the night he returned to Alaska. She wasn’t coerced. She loved William Zwardowski and was ready to give herself to him—body and soul. He, she was certain, felt the same.
A month later, the family doctor confirmed what she already knew. Helen was pregnant. Her father refused to speak to her. Her mother couldn’t stop crying. It took three months to locate William, the news hitting him hard. But he agreed to ‘do the right thing’. Two weeks later, the young couple married. Helen quit school. William took a job at the cannery. And they found a shabby apartment near the wharf, where Helen gave birth to an eight-pound baby boy.
It was the happiest day of her life.
Stacy William Zwardowski was a carbon copy of his father—same piercing eyes, same crooked smile. His mother fell in love with him the moment she saw him. So did his father—just not enough to make him stay. William left his wife and son a year-and-a-half later, Stacy becoming the only ‘man’ in Helen’s life. She loved her boy like no other and would do anything to make him happy, even if it meant sacrificing her own dreams for his.
She never made it to medical school, but she did work her way through nursing college, graduating at the top of her class. It was the second happiest day of her life, and Stacy, a spray of pink carnations in hand, was there to share it with her.
“Sir?”
Stacy’s eyes moved from the window. “I’m sorry…did you—?”
“I asked if you wanted coffee.” The flight attendant smiled.
He shook his head, the woman moving on. The last few hours were a blur. When the shock wore off, Stacy phoned the hospital. His mother had suffered a “massive stroke”, driving herself to the E.R. before “collapsing in the foyer”. She was in intensive care, the rep explained, having lost the “use of her right side” and the “ability to speak”.
Stacy closed his eyes, praying it was a dream. But when he opened them, he was still on the plane, barreling toward home. Wilhelm had booked the flight, even picked up the tab, Stacy having just enough time to pack a bag and drive to the airport.
“Tray tables up.” The attendant winked as she passed, the aircraft beginning its slow descent into Portland. Stacy looked to the distant lights, wondering what waited for him there. His mother could no longer speak. No longer use her arms to hug him.
Tears pooled in his eyes, but he willed them away. He needed to be strong. Now more than ever. Gathering that strength, he reached down and buckled his seatbelt.
***
Room 305. The door was white and daunting. The air smelled like gauze. Stacy hesitated, hands shaking as he clutched the pink carnations. After a breath, he grabbed the knob and pushed his way inside.
The room was empty.
