May 2
Gilligan’s Soho Grand Hotel
310 West Broadway
New York City
6:22 P.M. EDT
Room service had come and gone, as had Tavah Duhahi. After the latter, Denny Littrell had badly needed the former.
She had been a wildly enthusiastic participant, energetic and inventive and more than demanding enough so that Denny—no stranger to sheet-tangling passion—had felt challenged to keep up. Certainly, there had been no sweet surrender: It had felt like a battle, with no quarter asked nor given on either side.
But the combatants had been equally matched and—as they shared a postcoital cigarette, Denny’s first tobacco in more than a decade—both equally content with declaring the contest a more than satisfactory draw.
“That certainly helped bring our two countries closer,” Denny said, passing the cigarette back to his companion. “I’m feeling a definite fondness for the Promised Land right now.”
“Perhaps it should be an official part of our ‘special relationship’ with America,” Tavah said.
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
Denny waved off the return offer of the cigarette; instead, he twisted away to the room-service cart he earlier had positioned strategically within reach of the bed. Tavah rolled in the opposite direction, stubbing out her smoke in a pewter coaster she had strategically positioned for her own favored vice.
He poured a hefty measure of the light-amber liquid into the glass, glanced at Tavah’s bare back, reconsidered. Then he poured more, filling it to the brim.
“Can I interest you in refreshments? I mean, while we wait to restart diplomatic relations again.”
Tavah chuckled, and swung her legs from the bed. She rose and looked down at Denny’s supine figure.
“Sadly, I cannot. My duty calls. I must return to the world outside this very pleasant interlude. I wish it were otherwise.”
“Sure I can’t persuade you? They serve a very good prime rib here.” He winked. “Or maybe we should have oysters instead. A lot of oysters.”
“You should not tempt women, Denny. Especially women like me.”
“And what kind of woman are you?”
“The kind who would accept your invitation. But later, you understand?”
“Where can I call you? Later, I mean. Like maybe later tonight?”
“Perhaps. In any event, I will find you. You are a famous television personality, so I will always know where to look.”
• • •
After she had dressed and left, Denny lay for a quarter hour, recovering. The room felt decidedly empty.
By reflex, Denny groped for the TV remote and punched up NBC. He slumped against the bunched pillows, half-listened to the predictable mix of assassination speculation, D.C. search-and-recovery, video-clip statements from the new President. Mostly filler, nothing new…
The network cut to segment-break, dissolved up to what he recognized as a black-and-white freeze-frame of a much younger Dennis Littrell…
Not bad, he nodded judiciously. Just the right touch … experience in the trenches—oh, crap. They left out my juicy little confrontation with Putin back in his first term; gotta remember to tell Todd to re-cut the promo, put it in … still, nice first effort … overall, a pretty good mix of scrappy-veteran newshound and present-day ‘respectable’ newsman…
By habit, he fumbled on the nightstand for his network-issued Blackberry; also by habit, but mostly in consideration for the ambiance of the moment, he had powered down the device as they had undressed. He turned it back on.
Six messages: all from Todd Lieberman, all within the past two hours, each within an increasingly frequent interval. He tapped “RETURN CALL” on the most recent.
“Where the hell have you been, Denny?” the producer demanded.
“Meeting with a potential source,” Denny said, glad that Lieberman could see neither the grin on his face nor his still-unclothed body.
“Screw it, never mind—listen, Denny: we may have hit gold on the promo spot. Two hours ago—two and a half now—we had a cold call from a guy in Texas.”
“Texas? What, he thinks some of his cows are terrorists? C’mon, Todd; the first show’s got to focus on the real news. Breaking stuff, not—”
“Denny, shut up for a minute, okay? This guy in Texas, he says he’s a manager at that refinery that blew up yesterday.”
Denny was blank for a moment.
“Oh yeah, right—sure, some kind of industrial accident that—”
“He says it was no accident, Denny. And according to this guy, the government is in it up to their necks. Says there’s a cover-up underway of what really happened.”
“Cover-up? What kind of cover-up? What’s he claim ‘really’ happened? Hell, have you even checked to see if he’s some whacked-out nut-job?”
He heard what might have been an exasperated growl.
“We checked the number he gave us; guy called from what may be the last public phone booth in Texas. It’s a Greyhound station in Vidor, just north of Port Arthur. Where the refinery is. The guy sounded either paranoid or scared stiff—okay, I know, maybe both, but I called him back a couple of minutes ago and he picked up, okay? He says he’ll wait there until six thirty our time—fuck, only eight more minutes! Then he says he’s gone, says maybe Greta at Fox News might give enough of a damn to listen—”
“Shit,” Denny breathed. “Okay, what does he want from us?”
“That’s why I’ve been calling you all fuckin’ afternoon. He says he’ll talk, but only on his terms. And he says he talks only to you, Denny.”
• • •
You’re a goddamn idiot, Shane Yerkey told himself, alternately glancing nervously at his supposed fellow travelers and glaring at the pay phone.
Todd Lieberman had been wrong: there was a bank of three in the bus depot—though wall-hanging, since enclosed phone booths were today as defunct as George Reeves.
Since his initial call, his selected telephone had rung three times. All three were from the New York producer to whom he had been transferred, and all three were a) apologetic at not being Dennis Littrell and b) increasingly insistent on the need for additional information from Shane.
The last, mere minutes ago, had ended abruptly when Shane had slammed down the receiver after making what might have, upon a more calm analysis, been an empty threat to take his business elsewhere.
If the government can turn two of the biggest oil companies in the world into its stooges, Shane told himself, what are the chances it can’t keep its secrets off a goddamn television show? I’m counting on ‘free speech’ and the fuckin’ First Amendment, for cryin’ out loud?
Yeah, right. I’m a goddamn genius…
What the hell do I think I am doing, anyway?
He glanced at the oversized wall clock; it was rapidly nearing three hours since his first phone call. Three hours sitting in a plastic chair, three hours wasted on a possibly quixotic, probably futile, and decidedly illegal one-man campaign that flew in the face of reason, logic, and self-interest…
Around him, the migrating population of the aged, the low-income, or the non-driving segments of society had already cycled through a dozen or more arrivals and departures.
He had identified the various sub-species—grandmothers, often carrying oversized bags; students, invariably sporting earbuds and a faux-bored expression; a surprising number of uniformed military personnel; and random others—who pulsed through the terminal at regular intervals. Few used the pay phones, and he had only had to ward off one of those with a murmured “waiting for a call” to enforce his own claim.
Well, I’ve had my calls now, and I’m through waiting. This thing is a train wreck, a goddamn circus…
Shane had jerked loose his necktie and collar button long before; now he fretted, tapping his foot with an unconscious restlessness, sweating profusely despite the disinfectant-scented exhalation of the air conditioning.
Enough, he argued, still seated but trying to convince himself. This was a dumbshit idea from the get-go. I’m done, damn it. Somebody else can play the hero in this fuckin’ comic book. Me, I’m getting the hell out of here right goddamn now…
Or so Shane had conclusively decided, when two events simultaneously occurred.
The first: the telephone rang.
The second: Shane felt himself jerked upward from his chair, then thrust with violence, face-first to the floor. He felt a knee press hard on the back of his neck, felt his arms levered behind his back, felt the cold pinch of handcuffs around his wrists.
They hustled Shane Yerkey from the terminal, three men in suits as dark as the sunglasses they wore, and into a waiting SUV double-parked at the curb.
Before the door even slammed shut, he was plunged into darkness from the bag pulled tight over his head.
• • •
The phone rang a dozen times more, until the Blackberry held by Dennis Littrell in a New York hotel room automatically disconnected.
Crap, Denny mentally snarled. He thought for a moment, then pressed 411.
“Vidor, Texas,” Denny said. “I want the Greyhound bus station. If you can connect me directly, do it.”
Within a minute, he was talking to a dispatcher at the bus terminal.
“Sergeant Pepper, New York City Police,” Denny said, blithe about the felony impersonation, equally unconcerned about any royalty fees due to Paul McCartney.
“Who?” a confused voice replied. “You’re … what do you want?”
“This is a police emergency. Can you see the pay phones from where you are? There’s a man who’s been there for—”
“You callin’ ’bout all the excitement, huh?”
“I need you to tell me what happened, sir.”
“It’s not goddamn ‘sir,’ buddy.” The voice was annoyed now. “My name is Lori Hays.”
Denny made his own voice more authoritative, more urgent.
“I need you to tell me what happened, now. Miss.”
“And it’s ‘Missus,’ Officer, thank you very much. What happened is that some guy just got hauled outta here by three cops—I guess they was cops, plainclothes ones, y’know? Put ’im in cuffs and flat-out dragged his sorry butt right outta the door.” The voice grew interested. “He rob some bank in Noo Yawk or sumptim’?”
“When? I mean, how long ago?”
“Minute, maybe two. He kill somebody up there?”
Denny hung up. He dialed 411 again, again got a direct connection—this time, to the Vidor Police Department.
“Arrest at the bus station? Not ours. Not the Sheriff’s Deputies neither, ’else we’d a’been notified. Bus station’s our jurisdiction, not Orange County’s. Maybe could’a been Rangers … lemme look—nope. We got no advisories, no radio traffic at all on any—say, you wanna tell me who you are again, Sergeant?”
Denny clicked “disconnect,” immediately punched in three speed-dial digits.
“No go, Todd. Nobody answered at the bus station.”
“Damn, Denny. Well … like you said, maybe it was just a crackpot who—”
“Yeah. Here’s what I want from you, Todd. I want everything—and I mean every damn thing!—we can find out about that refinery explosion. Better still, pull somebody from Research for that. You start working the phone. Dig out the name and number—office and home, their goddamn cell phones—of the CEO, the VPs, the whole damn management there, and work down the list.”
“They’ll just tell us to call their PR flack…”
“Fuck that. You say you’re with NBC News, and tell them your first question is ‘Why are you lying about what caused the explosion?’ No pleasantries; don’t try to fucking chit-chat with them. Hit each one of them with it—bang!—before they can hang up on you. Get what you can, regardless. Then go to the next name down, and do it again.”
“Denny, what do you think they’re going to do? Confess to something to a guy on the telephone?”
Denny laughed out loud.
“I think it will light one helluva fire, a real mind-fucking. They’ll be calling each other like crazy, wondering what the hell we know and how we know it. Some of ’em lower in the pecking order will start wondering how they can protect their own ass, and with a little luck that’s what they’ll be thinking when you get down to them.”
“I dunno, Denny. Sounds like a hell of a stretch, based on some tip from a guy we don’t even know—”
“Just do it. If nothing else, I want unequivocal official denials that it was anything other than an accident. But try to get more, understand? Get ’em on the phone, get ’em on the record, and get ’em recorded. That’s important, Todd; I want to hear every damn syllable between the time the phone rings and the phone getting ripped out of the wall. Push them; shove them into a corner. Hell, piss them off if you can. Get them to tell you to go fuck yourself. But get it all on tape.”
“Without telling them we’re recording the call? That’s kind of illegal in this state, and we can’t use it on air.”
“We’ll see. That’s something for the lawyers to work out. Record the calls, Todd.”
“Uh … okay. I ought to be able to get some of the names from the SEC filings, the annual reports … maybe even out of news stories, on a Nexis search. Got to be a company directory someplace too. Won’t be easy or fast, though, ’specially their cell phones or if they have unlisted home phone numbers…”
“I’ve got a guy in AT&T that you can use to—”
“Jesus Christ.” Todd’s tone was that of a man insulted. “I know how to get a damn unlisted number, okay? I’m just saying it will take some time to call them all. In the meanwhile, Denny, what are you going to be doing?”
Denny smiled, but no observant onlooker would have mistaken it as a pleasant expression.
“I’m going to be twisting some arms, my boy. Arms that are attached to some very well-informed people. We’re going to shake this tree hard, and see just what falls out of it.”