The Journalist by G.L. Rockey Read Free Book Online Page A

thought about answering. After
the fifth ring he picked up. “ Boca , Zack.”
    Toying with her hair, Mary appeared on his
screen. “Zackary, I’ve been trying to call you all over the
place.”
    “I—”
    “Did you get my message at the Bimini
Road?”
    “No.”
    “You didn’t go there? You always go
there.”
    “Yes.”
    “Which one?”
    “I was there.”
    “You were there?”
    “Yes, ah, later, after you called—”
    “I called twice, when were you there?”
    “After you called, Case told—”
    “You’re lying.”
    “I  ”
    “Did you get the note I left on the office
front desk?”
    “Yes, the email too, and the—”
    “I saw your reply—breathtaking. Where did you
take off to Friday?”
    “I went out fishing.”
    “Something new, huh  how was it?”
    “Okay, I  ”
    “So, what’s the answer?”
    “About what?”
    “You know what?”
    “Mary, I  ”
    “I’m coming down there.”
    “Don’t do that. I’m going to catch the
President’s speech, do some homework.”
    “Work, work, work—what time you think you’ll
be going back to Veracity ?”
    “I have a lot to do.”
    “I could meet you there.”
    “I’ll be here all night.”
    “Bull. So when are we going for a ride on
that boat of yours?”
    “One of these days.”
    “What did you eat for dinner?”
    “Mary, I  ”
    “I know, you have to work. What are you doing
later?”
    “I’ll take notes on Armstrong’s speech,
then...”
    “Okay. Let’s go over them tonight, your
boat.”
    “Bye.”
     
     
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Mary’s presence persisting, Zack refilled his
coffee stein, sat, sipped, tried to think but O’Brien thoughts
wouldn’t go away.
    “We’ve been over this, Jocko, damn
it  ”
    He shook it off, picked up a stubby
number-two wood pencil and flipped the pages of a yellow legal pad
to that draft editorial he had begun last Friday for Wednesday’s Boca . He read:
    To listen to President Armstrong, the Second
Coming already happened and somehow we all—or most of us, anyway
(not him)—missed it. Turns out, J.C. is back and residing as a
guest at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
    Two things about Armstrong that must be
flushed out. One, his subtle references to innate racial behavioral
patterns in the world’s gene pool and what he calls,  their relation to the spreading
violence that is hemorrhaging America to death.  The other thing, most troubling, is his
references to a Divine  hallowed
voice” that he alone is privy to.
    He made a note between lines— more on this
after tonight’s speech —and continued to read.
    Benny should spend more time talking to a
psychiatrist and less to God. Start a grassroots fund for his
mental treatment. Of course, being so close to the Almighty, he
could skip the latter. Nothing is an accident with this President,
especially when it comes to the media. Count on it, he plays
television news like a Stradivarius, smiling all the way to the
next election. Mary O’Brien .
    He stopped. How the hell did she get in
there? He put his pencil down. Concentration lost, thoughts of Mary
bouncing like dropped ping-pong balls on a cement floor, he had
learned over many years that when the concentration was lost to do
something else. It was that time. He looked at his watch—6:50 p.m.
Ten minutes to Armstrong’s speech.
    He thought he might as well get a head start
on Monday’s desk cleaning. He pushed around a pile of overdue
invoices, read a dozen letters-to-the-editor, threw away gobs of
junk mail, looked at his confused date book, savored the pictures
of palmas and blunts in an old cigar catalog and generally arranged
things into different mounds on top of his desk.
    Nearing the end of his procrastination
rituals, he glanced at his watch—6:59 p.m. “The divined moment is
upon us.”
    He picked up his remote, turned the TV on
and, to avoid the commercial network’s gibberish, clicked to
cable’s C-SPAN 4.
    Seeing a wide shot of Armstrong