Hard News (10 page)

Randy Boggs squinted across the gym and could see the loping figure of Severn Washington, two hundred thirty pounds’ worth, a broad face in between a scalp of tight cornrows and a neck thick as Boggs’s thigh.

Washington had laughed and told Boggs not long after they met that he’d never had a white friend in all of his forty-three years. He’d missed Nam because of his eyesight and always stayed pretty close to home, which in his family’s case had been a Hundred and Thirty-seventh Street, where there were not many whites at all, let alone any that he’d befriend.

That’s why Washington had been uncomfortable when, one day in the yard, Boggs began talking to him, just bullshitting in that soft, shy voice he had. At first, Washington later told him, he thought Boggs wanted to be his maytag, his loverboy, then Washington had decided Boggs was just another white-ass crazy, maybe method or angel-dusted out. But when Boggs kept it up, talking away, funny, making more sense than most people Inside, Washington and Boggs became friends.

Boggs told him that he’d been through Raleigh and Durham a bunch of times and learned that Washington’s family had come from North Carolina, though he’d never been there. Washington wanted to hear all about the state and Boggs was glad to tell him. From there, they talked about Sylvia’s, Harlem, Dizzy Gillespie, Dexter Gordon, Eddie Murphy, Denzel Washington (no relation), Class D felonies, beer, traveling around, hitchhiking . . . But there was another foundation for the friendship between the two. One day Washington had sought Boggs out in the yard and said, “Know why you

come up and talked to me?” “Nope, Severn, I sure don’t. Why was that?” “Allah.” “What’s that again?” Boggs asked. The huge man explained that Allah had come to Washington in a dream and told him

it was his job to befriend Boggs and eventually convert him. He told all this to Boggs, who felt himself blushing and said, “Damn, if that’s not the

craziest thing I ever heard.” “No, man, that’s the way it is. Your ass’s safe. Me and Allah gonna watch out for you.” Which Boggs thought was even crazier, the Allah part at least, but perfectly fine with him.

From the start, though Washington’s job wasn’t easy. Boggs was animal feed in Harrison prison. Scrawny, shy, quiet, a loner. He didn’t deal, he didn’t fuck, he didn’t side. Instantly unpopular. The sort that ends up “accidentally” dead - like not paying attention and driving a ¾-inch drill press bit through his neck then bleeding to death before somebody notices the blood.

Or the sort that does it himself. They may take your belt away from you but if you want to get dead in prison you can get yourself dead, no problem.

But Severn Washington did his job. And when it became clear that Boggs was under the wing of one of the most devout Muslims in all of Harrison (who also happened to be one of the largest, when that news made the rounds of the cell blocks, Randy Boggs was left pretty much alone. “Pretty much,” however, didn’t mean “completely.” Washington, disposing of the fast Muslim greeting, “Marhaba, sardeek,” now

frowned as he whispered, “Yo, man, you got trouble.” “What?” Boggs asked, feeling his heart sink. “Word up they gonna move on you again. Serious, this time. I axed a moneygrip o’

mine from the home block and he say he heard it for fucking certain.” Randy Boggs frowned. “Why, man? That’s what I don’t get. You hear anything?” Washington shrugged. “Make no sense to me.” “Okay.” Boggs’s face twisted a little. “Shit.” “I’m putting out some inquiries,” Washington said, emphasizing the second syllable

of the word. “We’ll find ourselves out what the fuck’s going on.” Boggs considered this. He didn’t go out of his way to look for trouble. He didn’t give steely killer eyes to blacks, he didn’t eye anybody’s dick in the shower, he didn’t get cartons of Marlboros from the guards, didn’t look sideways at the Aryan Brotherhood. There was no reason he could think of that somebody’d want to move on him. “I don’t know what I did. I don’t think-“ “Hey, be cool, man.” Washington grinned. “Hey, you walk in what? Twenty-four

months. Shouldn’t be too hard to keep yo ass intact that long.” “This place, man, I hate it so much . . .” Severn Washington laughed the way he always did when somebody expressed the

obvious. “Got the antidote. Less play us some ball.” And Randy Boggs said, “Sure.” Thinking, as he saw his reflection in a chicken-wirelaced window, that what he was looking at with the red-socketed eyes wasn’t his living body at all, but something else - something horrible, lying cold and dead, as his blood fled from the flesh.

Thinking that, despite this huge man’s reassurance, the only hope he now had was that slip of girl with the ponytail and the big camera.

11 This city was a playground you never got tired of. Once you took the element of fear out of it (and there wasn’t anything Jack Nestor

feared) New York was the biggest playground in the world. He felt the excitement the instant he stepped out of the Port Authority bus terminal. The feeling of electricity. And for a moment he thought: What was he doing wasting his time in pissant Florida?

He smelled: fishy river, charcoal smoke from pretzel vendors, shit, exhaust. Then he got a whiff of some gross incense three black guys dressed up like Arabs were selling from a folding table. He’d never seen this before. He walked up to them. There were pictures of men from ancient times it looked like, dressed the same. The twelve true tribes of Israel. Only they were all black. Black rabbis . . . What a crazy town this was! Neslor walked along Forty-second Street, stopped in a couple peep shows. He left and wandered some more, looking at the old movie theaters, the play theaters, the angry drivers, the suicidal pedestrians. Horns blared like mad, as if everybody driving a car had a wife in labor in the backseat. Already the energy was exhausting him but he knew he’d be up to speed in a day or two.

He stopped and bought a hot dog and ate it in three bites. At the next street corner he bought another one. This time he asked for onions too. On the third counter he bought two more hot dogs, without onions, and stood eating them and drinking a Sprite, which wasn’t a Sprite at all, which he’d asked for, but some brand of lemon-lime soda he’d never heard of. It tasted like medicine. As the vendor split a sausage to fill with sauerkraut, Nestor asked him where there was a hotel in the area. The man shrugged. “Donoe.” “Huh?” “Donoe.” “That’s a hotel?” “I donoe.” “Why don’t you try learning fucking English?” Nestor walked off. Two blocks later he saw a sign,
King’s Court Hotel.
Which was the same name as a motel he’d been to in Miami Beach once and which wasn’t a bad place. He remembered it being clean and cheap. It must have been a chain, Nestor walked up to the door, which opened suddenly. He hadn’t noticed a tall young man, dressed in black, standing inside. The man said, “Hello, sir, take your bag?” The Miami branch didn’t, Nestor recalled, have a doorman. “Just wanted to ask the desk guy a question.” She wasn’t a guy but a young blonde

woman with a French accent and teeth that were absolutely perfect. She smiled at him. “Yessir?” “Uh . . .” He looked around him. Bizarre. It looked like a warehouse with a low ceiling. Stone and metal furniture everywhere. And a lot of the furniture was wrapped up in white cloth.

“Uh, I was wondering, you have a room?” “Certainly, sir. How long will you be staying?” “Uh,’how much would that be? For a single?” A computer was consulted. “Four hundred forty.” For a
week?
Are these people fucking insane? The question now was how to get out of here without

the blonde with the ruler-straight teeth thinking he was a complete asshole. “I mean by the night.” A moment’s pause. “Actually, that
is
the daily rate, sir.”

“Sure. I was joking.” Nestor grinned, saw no way to salvage the situation and simply walked out.

Only one block away he found the Royalton Arms, which he knew was okay because there were a couple of dirty-looking tourists standing out in front, looking at a Michelin guide to New York City. The desk clerk here didn’t even have straight teeth, let alone white ones, and he was behind a Plexiglas bulletproof divider. Nestor checked into a $39.95 room and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. The room was okay. He felt good as soon as he walked inside. It didn’t overlook any oceans or expressways or anything else except an air shaft but that didn’t bother Nestor. He lowered the window blinds then lay down on the bed and listened to the argument his stomach was having with the hot dogs.

He clicked on the TV and watched some
Miami Vice
rerun for a while, flipped through the channels once then shut off the set. It was irritating not to have a remote control. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and sleeveless T-shirt, brushed his teeth powerfully and got into bed. He closed his eyes.
Snap.
The pictures began. Nestor often had trouble sleeping. He’d thought, a long time ago, it was something

physical. Well,
hoped
more than
thought.
But he knew now that wasn’t the case at all. The reason for his insomnia was the pictures. The minute his head hit the pillow (unless there was someone next to him, distracting him or at least promising distraction), the minute he was prepared to sleep, the pictures began. He supposed he could call them memories because they really were nothing more than scenes from his past. But memories were different. Memories were like the impressions he had of his family or his childhood. His first car. His first fuck. Maybe they were accurate. Probably not. But the pictures . . . Man. Every detail perfect. A Philippine revolutionary he picked off at three hundred yards using an M16 with

metal sights, the man just dropping like a sack . . . A black South African who thought he was safely across the border in Botswana . . . A coat hanger binding the hands of a Salvadorian, Nestor thinking, Why bother to tie

him up? He’ll have a bullet in his head in sixty seconds anyway . . . Hundreds of others. They were in black and white, they were in color, they were mute, they were in

Dolby stereo sound. The pictures . . . They didn’t haunt him, of course. He didn’t have any emotional response. He wasn’t tormented by guilt, he wasn’t moved to lust. They just wouldn’t go away. The pictures came into his head and they wouldn’t let him sleep.

Tonight Nestor - energized by the city and troubled by its fast food - lay in a too-soft bed and fielded the pictures. Pushed one away. Then he did the same with the one that took its place. Then the next. For an hour, then two. He wanted Celine next to him. He thought about her but the pictures pushed
her
away. He thought about what he was in town to do. That kept the pictures away for a while. But they came back.

Finally - it was close to three A.M. - he began to think about the French girl, the one with the straight teeth. With the thought of her, and a little bit of effort on his part (elbow grease was the way he thought of it), Jack Nestor finally began to relax.

It was enough of a date to keep Bradford Simpson happy and not enough of one to worry Rune.

They were at an outdoor table at a Mexican restaurant near the West Side Highway, the table filled with red cans of Tecate beer and chips and salsa - and a ton of material about Lance Hopper and Randy Boggs.

He
had
wanted to ask her out again, as it happened, but Rune was content to keep the evening mostly professional.

Bradford scooted his chair closer to hers and Rune endured a little knee contact while they read through the Hopper files. “Where’s Courtney?” Brad asked. “Let’s not go there,” Rune said. “Sure. She’s okay?” Yes, no. Probably not. “She’s fine.” “She’s really cute.” Let’s not
go
there, she thought and turned back to the files on Lance Hopper that

Bradford had found in the archives. As they read she began to form a clearer picture of the late head of Network News. Hopper was a difficult man - demanding that everyone at the Network work as hard as he did and not let their personal lives interfere with the job. He was also greedy and jealous and petty and wildly ambitious and several times, when his contract was up, virtually extorted the parent company for stock options that increased his worth by hundreds of millions of dollars.

Yet he was also a man with a heart. For instance, spending as much time with the interns as he did, as Bradford had mentioned. He advocated educational programming for youngsters on the Network, even though shows like that produced far less revenue than after-school cartoons and adventure shows.

Hopper regularly appeared in Washington before the FCC and congressional committees, testifying about the importance of unfettered media. He was often vilified by conservative, family-oriented groups, who thought there should be more censorship in the media.

Hopper also took responsibility for the worst black eye in the history of the Network. Three years ago - just before his death - the Network had run an award-winning story as part of the coverage of a U.N. peacekeeping mission in Lebanon. The story was an exclusive about a village outside of Beirut that appeared to be liberal-minded and proWestern but was in fact a stronghold for fundamentalist militants.

But when a U.N. force made a sweep of the village to look for suspected terrorists they were so prepared to meet resistance that the operation turned into a blood-bath after a solitary sniper fired one shot near the convoy. A chain reaction of shooting followed. There were twenty-eight deaths, all by friendly fire, including some soldiers. The sniper was a ten-year-old boy shooting at rocks. The militants, it seemed, had left a week before. Some blamed the U.N. for relying on a news story for its intelligence but most people thought it was the Network’s fault for doing the story in the first place or for not at least following up and reporting that the terrorists were no longer there.

Hopper took responsibility for the incident and personally went to Beirut to attend the funerals of the slain villagers.

Bradford and Rune continued to pore over the files, and though a portrait of Hopper as a complex, ambitious and ruthless man appeared, no evident motive for his death emerged.