Chapter Three

Three weeks later

4:45 p.m EST

Sunday, July 6

Biscayne Bay, Florida

 

Gripping the mahogany wheel of Veracity, Zack steered past the north point of Elliot Key heading west toward Fender Point’s Pompano Marina. A black T-shirt hanging loose over his khaki shorts, he held the throbbing Chris Craft at ten knots. With a weekend of boating coming to an end, he moved thoughts around, over and ahead to the upcoming evening and future things in general.

First comes a Bohemia at the Bimini Road , maybe two, then dinner, then, seven o’clock this very night, earth time and beyond, Armstrong’s TV speechwho knows what little green ET’s might be watching Ben’s much ballyhooed definitive solution to Planet Earth’s rendition of turning the other cheek—International terrorism, world democracy, goat milk and gout, in that order. Zack shuddered at what Armstrong’s concoction of political thinking and evangelical rhetoric might be.

Moving to the other things, he checked in at an item the world seemed preoccupied with—messianic predictions of the Second Coming. Then again, he wasn’t sure if that was simply a past world myth or a present-world phenomenon. The past world, at least a few thousand years of it, had been waiting for a chosen one, never-ending story, he thought.

Moving on to future things in general, he had to get Veracity’s engines tuned soon. Then there was that editorial he could never get finished, and, like a splinter in his thumb, there was that personal Mary O’Brien thing. He had to pull the switch on that, like, yesterday. Old enough to be her grandfather, he thought.

An urge to turn around, chart a slow trip to Australia, somewhere, anywhere, moved the moment like a giant manta ray swimming in the wake of Veracity. But, the moment fleeting, as usual when moment were such, he contemplated his former life in what had become a continuing ghost-draft autobiography:

After twenty years as a Jesuit Priest, (how do you explain that delicately, work on it) owner, editor, general manager of The Boca, Zackary Stearn has presided for the past five years over publication of what he hoped to be, albeit small, a toothy bite at journalism in the truest sense of the word, i.e., that public enlightenment is the forerunner of justice, the foundation of democracy and, Stearn believes vehemently that, no matter where it might leads or the consequences, the duty of the journalist is to seek truth and provide a fair, comprehensive record of event and honest account of events and issues.

Published twice weekly, with special editions when events warranted, the little gazette enjoys a loyal readership. Vendor distributed throughout the Miami area, the usual run is fifty thousand, with a three-thousand-copy Spanish edition.

“Have to get that to five thousand,” he mumbled and continued:

The publication has become like a person to Zackary—a companion, a necessity. After a day’s work, he can be found in The Bimini Road cafe lecturing his small staff on the why of The Boca: “Words you can touch, reality, truth, facts.” After a third Glenlivet, amid widening yawns, when he segues into Cervantes’ Don Quixote—idealism in a cynical world—he finds himself alone.

“Which is okaysometimes,” he smiled:

An incurable teacher/coach, fifty-second birthday a month ago, despite nearly forty years of on-again, off-again smoking, Zackary still maintains the undergraduate weight he carried as a middleweight boxer at Notre Dame. His slate-gray eyes, when first meeting, look through you. In less than a minute you sense he knows the inner workings of you.

“That last line might have to go,” he said and went on:

His nose, flattened by many left hooks, rests a quarter-inch off-center. His full head of short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair enhances a brown boater’s tan that resembles the glow of natural leaf tobacco. Muscle solid, stomach flat, shoulders squared, neck void of sagging flesh, he projects his prior life’s authority.

“Put all that in past tense and it would be a nice obit,” he muttered. “And two dollars and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. End of bio.”

Easing Veracity toward her mooring, a yard from the wharf’s pilings he reversed the engines then slipped them to neutral. She touched like a feather. Pleased, he turned the engines off, stepped to the dock and, tying off, began sparring with his dinner palate. Lemon chicken at Gum Do, or arroz con camarones at The Bimini Road? It took only seconds. Rice and shrimp it was, at his favorite spot, The Bimini Road.

After hosing salt water from Veracity’s decks, stowing gear, a shower, a shave, he pulled on a pair of faded Wrangler jeans, a clean black T-shirt and his dine-out brown deck shoes. Walking the narrow dock’s weathered planks to the marina, he stopped to note the stillness in the late afternoon air. Cirrus clouds hung high in the winsome sky. A feeling of anxiety came over him. He shook that off and, at the end of the wharf, stopped at a row of metal dispensers that offered various local Florida publications. Noticing that The Boca had sold out, he smiled and ambled across the white crushed-shell parking lot to his sun-faded 2010 silver Subaru. The windows left down a quarter-inch to dissipate heat, he got in, cranked the rebuilt engine to life, turned the air to max and headed, just north of Little Haiti, to The Bimini Road cafe.

Weaving in and out of traffic, he worked on that endless draft-editorial in his head:

Analogous to the famous falling tree that supposedly makes no sound in a peopleless forest, would time cease if Homo sapiens were not around to notice? That is, the evidence seems to suggest that the sons and daughters of Adam, Eve, Noah’s three sons or a monkey’s uncle are in deep doo-dah-day. That is, the human race is prepared to become extinct over religion, sex, oil and lines on a map. Some incestuous hate seems loosed in the world, and where did that come from? Gene pool regressing. Evolution in reverse. Entropy full tilt. Stuff is making us nuts.

He tapped his steering wheel and made a mental note: Do an Internet search. Animal kingdom, species, territorial, lines on a map, territorial something, some urinate a line on or something. What species kill for love? There’s mating season. Hummm. Do they hate? That’s more sophisticated, requires a higher awareness. What about religion? I think we homo sapiens have a corner on that. How far we have come.

His cell phone began to ring. Ninety percent certain who it was, he didn’t look see or answer. After around twenty rings it stopped. His editorial thoughts hopelessly scrambled, he concentrated on the upcoming week: Wednesday, finish that editorial on Benny’s E.I.C. ; Boca’s advertising revenue could be better, always could be betterhis thoughts went to this evening, the speech by President Armstrong at seven o’clockthis whole week promises to be cockeyed. Anything else?

“O’Brien,” he said aloud as he pulled to a familiar newsstand, lowered his window and spoke to a Miami icon, “Afternoon, Gus.”

“Mr. Zackary, beautiful Sunday.” Gus handed him The New York Times and, familiar with Zack’s weekend routine, asked, “Catch anything?”

“Naw.” He paid for the paper. “Gonna listen to the President tonight?”

“Ah, that Benny, Mr. Zackary.” Gus smiled. “Ah, that Benny.”

“Have a good day.”

“Yessir.”

Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more than he lets on.”