Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“We have to talk it all out and then hold a news conference. We’re going to be making appearances anyway.”

“Appearances?”

“Nightline, the Today Show, they’re all gonna talk to us — but you have to do your piece on the killing first.”

David stared off. So he would have to preside over this indignity. Report his own stupidity, cowardice, and avarice as though they were merely the virtues of being an innocent bystander. What platitudes would he have to invent about the young woman, whose eyes seemed so calm and happy as she killed? Predictably, he would have to take the attitude she wasn’t a hero or a villain, but tragically, another victim. He thought of her, alone now, in a jail filled with … what? Were they monsters too? Would she be electrocuted, guillotined, poisoned, hanged, shot? I guess the guards won’t rape or beat her since she’ll have to be shown to the cameras a lot, he tried to console himself. He prayed that the malicious old man really was Gott. If she had destroyed herself over a fake — the ultimate non-news story — the tone he would have to adopt in the piece … His stomach churned at the thought. He looked at Chico, talking feverishly, a dead man not knowing the killing blow had been struck, a megalomaniacal chicken missing his swelled head, and wished he could choke him. Stuff all the bullshit back down into his throat and out the right end. The rest is silence, he said to himself in bitter silence.

When they landed he realized the isolation on the plane with Chico was a blessing compared to the invasion of his brothers at the airport. The Minicams, the microphones, the notebooks rustling like autumn leaves, the pasty eager faces made bodiless by their equipment, swelled in their way, flowing with their attempt to escape the airport, a moving aggressive pack of animals unconscious of everything but the pursuit of their prey. The lights they cast followed their every step — David noticed other passengers watching the spectacle with confused expressions on their faces. Who are they? he could almost read their lips. You’ll know soon, David thought to himself. He was going to make every network, every paper, every wire service, both national newsmagazines. He could see the camera photos, read the captions, hear the laughter at Weekly, and write their stories with just the right touch of sardonic disparagement. Two of the big boys had fucked up, rushed off half-cocked into a dubious arrangement, and were now at least responsible for the ruination of a young woman, and possibly for the death of an innocent con man.

David stared at them. He felt no panic at the press of their bodies and the thrusts of their questions. I know who you are, he thought to himself, cold passing throughout his system, numbing fear or embarrassment. Chico, however, was bursting with energetic terror: “Sorry, no comment. We’ll have a news conference as soon as possible. Nothing to add.” He tried desperately to behave grandly, confidently, but surely the scene must have brought it home:

Their careers were over. They’d crapped in their pants, and Mrs. Thorn wasn’t going to admit she had toilet-trained them badly. They wouldn’t be fired. But all the rungs of the ladder above them were being sawed off now — and eventually, when enough time had passed, they would be “promoted” to some special project away from the weekly magazine, to the book division, to work on new magazines, something on another floor, away from the barrel so their rot wouldn’t spread.

“Come on, fellas, give us a break,” some print reporter shouted. “We’re newsies — give us a crumb. Was it Gott?”

“Everything on that point, all the information we have, has already been given to you,” Chico said, sweating and speaking nervously, so that this truth sounded like a desperate lie. Every time he responded at all, as though his answers were the cries of a desperate animal, the pack drew closer, baring their teeth, tasting the meal they would soon have.

“Mr. Bergman? You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” Janet Halston from CBS shouted above the rest as they reached the doors to the street. It was the first question directed only to him. “How did you feel,” she continued, knowing the answer to her previous question, “sitting across from one of the most heinous Nazis?”

As though a high-pitched whistle had been blown that only the dogs of the press could hear, the pack paused, their lights, their eyes, their pens focused on David.

All he could think of was the anchorman’s expression, neutral, superior, after this clip of his answer would be shown.

“Did you tell Tamar Gurion of the meeting ahead of time?” someone called out.

“Oh, please!” Chico said, and tried to push them through.

But Janet Halston, holding her mike casually, her cool blond hair unruffled in this crush, clung to David, asking her question in a tone of gentle insinuation, as though they were lovers confessing sins. “Did you feel sympathy for the killer’s action?”

David turned away from her — he didn’t want her to get a usable clip — and addressed the print reporter. “I had never met or known of Tamar Gurion until she appeared in the coffee shop. I did not tell her.”

“No more!” Chico shouted into the shouts. David smiled to himself at the panicked tones coming from Janet Halston. She couldn’t use his answer. She had thought she’d get something. Chico pulled him through the doors. A limo, waiting to take them to Newstime to meet with Mrs. Thorn and Rounder, was there for them to dive into. David turned back and caught Janet’s frantic eye — she was shouting her provocative questions at him. He winked at her while he closed the dark limousine window electronically. Fuck you, honey, he whispered. Fuck you.

Tony heard the insistent surf and felt the bobbing movement of the water. He was sleek and young, a boy lying happily on the shore, stroked with love. There were bodies beside him whom he could trust. The agony was over, the poison out of his system. I’m not hung-over, was the first clear thought.

My prick is in someone’s hand, was his second.

Tony opened his eyes to see a gray light. The soft surface was bedding, not sand. The crash of the water came from outside, the bobbing was Bill Garth fucking his wife right next to Tony.

The actor moved slowly on top of his woman, sleepily, in a steady rhythm, his eyes closed, his forehead butting gently against a pillow. Helen’s arms were around him, kneading his broad muscled back. One of Garth’s hands was holding Tony’s erection, his fingers lightly closing on the tip, flower petals closing and blossoming.

Tony closed his eyes. The lids felt rough, a harsh curtain closing. The back of his skull opened like a trapdoor and he felt he was falling into unconsciousness. Helen groaned softly. Garth’s hand felt feminine, gentle, soothing. Their motion on the bed quickened. The hand clutched him. He opened his eyes, the world coming into place wobbly, a table in danger of collapse. But I could stop this, he argued to himself. What’s the proper etiquette? I need you to make my picture, but get your hand off my penis.

“Ah,” Garth said as he climaxed, like a runner taking a first sip of liquid after exercise. He moved off Helen and noticed Tony. “Hello,” he said casually. Helen, her face soft from sleep, her body glistening with her husband’s sweat, turned in his direction.

She smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“He’s still hard,” Garth reported, and squeezed tightly before letting go, a handshake of farewell. “That was fun,” he said.

“Don’t get used to it,” Helen teased. They behaved like a cute television couple about the situation, as though they were involved in this week’s harmless prank.