Джон Макдональд - A Flash of Green

“They shot this character into orbit, seven thousand times around the planet, and he took along seven thousand squeeze-bottles full of high-vitamin gunk, one a day. And almost as soon as he was up there, he started thinking about steak. He tried not to. Before the trip was half over, he was breathing, dreaming, seeing, smelling steak. And then he came down and had a steak. He gobbled it down. He gobbled it down so damn fast, my boy, that the only slight taste he got was exactly the same as what had been in all those bottles.”

“So the second steak will be better, eh?”

“No chance. They shot him right back up there.”

“Seven thousand more times around?”

“Aw, no, Bri! For keeps.”

Brian Haas nodded. “You’re right. That one is real deep.”

“Ready for another deep one?”

“Let me get my feet braced. Shoot.”

“This one will be a fable because it’s got a monkey in it. One time there was a man who found himself a trick monkey. For a very small outlay in bananas, this man had himself a monkey who had a very quiet amiable personality. The thing was, this man could boost the monkey over transoms and through tiny windows, and when he was inside the monkey would unlock the house so the man could come in. The monkey thought he was pretty bright, and it was more fun than living in a tree. One day the trick monkey suddenly discovered that the kind banana man was... kicking the hell out of all the other monkeys... and...”

He put his fist on the counter edge and lowered his forehead until it rested against his fist. He heard the aftertones of his voice in the quiet lunchroom and knew he had gotten a little loud, somewhat shrill.

He felt Brian’s hand on his shoulder. “Hey, boy,” Bri said quietly.

Jimmy sat up. “I guess I didn’t get that one worked out yet.”

“It has possibilities. It has a plot line. It needs a kicker. You all right?”

“I’m brisk, Mr. Haas. Brisk and eager.”

“And I’ve got to go make J.J. think I am also.”

“That’s what I had on my mind, Bri. I don’t think you ought to go back there tonight. You ran into good old Jimmy. He’ll help J.J. put it to bed.”

“So we’ll both go confound him with our talent and intellect.”

“I’d just as soon you wouldn’t. Can you take it just like that? With no explanation, please? You go home to Nan. Tell her I love her.”

“I want maybe just one crumb of explanation.”

“If you go up there, there is something you might look as if you were mixed up in, and you wouldn’t be mixed up in it at all, but people might not hang around and listen to any explanations. Okay?”

“I’ve been mixed up in a lot of things.”

“This is mine.”

Brian studied him for a moment. “Just so I’ll know sometime.”

“You’ll know.”

Wing walked back to the newsroom. Borklund looked at him with weary disapproval as he listened to Wing’s story of Brian Haas’s headache. “If you’re as useful as you’ve been lately, James, it’s a damned good thing there isn’t much left to do. We aren’t holding much open.”

He worked with one eye on the clock. Finally he took an incoming call from a drunken woman and faked his end of the conversation, causing her considerable confusion. He went to Borklund and said, “I think I may have something hot, J.J. A man wants me to come down to my car in the parking lot. He wants you to listen to it too.”

“Who is he?”

“A bartender I know. He’s reliable. He says he overheard something that might give us a hell of a news break.”

“It probably won’t be worth a damn.”

“He said to be down there in three minutes. Maybe it’s something good. What’ll it cost us but a short walk?”

Borklund hesitated. “Okay, okay.”

They walked out to the parking lot. “I’m parked way over there in the corner,” Wing said. As they neared the car, he let Borklund get a step ahead of him. He looked around and saw no one.

Borklund started to turn around, saying, “There isn’t anybody...”

As he got halfway around, Jimmy Wing hit him squarely on the jaw with a short hard overhand punch. The blow opened Borklund’s mouth and staggered him back against the car, his glasses dangling from one ear. As Wing moved quickly to catch the man, Borklund grunted and lifted his fists and struck Wing weakly in the chest. Wing measured him and hit him again. Borklund started to slide sideways along the car, and caught himself. The glasses fell and splintered on the asphalt. Borklund sighed and assumed a brave John L. Sullivan stance and pawed at Jimmy with his left. Jimmy’s right hand was a throbbing lump of pain. In the shadows he could see a dark streak of blood on Borklund’s chin. He had the frantic, nightmare feeling that Borklund would never go down. He hit him again, and the shock of pain that ran up his arm made him gasp. Borklund wavered. He leaned against the car. His knees bent and slid down to a sitting position, lowered his chin onto his chest, and toppled over onto his side.

Brian Hass appeared beside Wing and said, “ What the holy hell are you doing?”

Jimmy took his knuckles out of his mouth and said in an exhausted voice, “I told you to stay the hell away, old buddy.”

“You acted so damn strange I decided to come back.”

“My God, that son of a bitch can take a punch.”

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Shut up. You’re getting highly nervous. Here. Take this over there by the light and read it. I’ve got something to do.”

“Like what? Stomp him a little?”

Wing said with great patience, “I am going to tape his little wrists and tape his little ankles and tape a rag in his little mouth and put him in my car for a little while. So get the hell away from here before he comes out of it and thinks you’re in this thing too.”

Brian walked toward the light. Wing taped Borklund up and hoisted him in over the tail gate. Borklund seemed heavier than anyone would have guessed. Wing’s right hand was beginning to puff.

He walked slowly over and stood by Brian as he finished reading the last few lines. “Holy Jesus in the mountains!” Haas said in a soft strained voice.

“How do you like J.J.’s nice little initials on it?”

Brian looked at them. “They should pass.” He handed the sheets to Wing. “Where are you putting it?”

“Boxed on the right side of page one.”

“ If it gets by Harmon and Tillerman and Crawder.”

“It will, with a nice two-column head: ‘Reporter Accuses Bliss.’ And the subhead: ‘Bay-Fill Conspiracy Charged.’ ”

“But what kind of an angle have you got, Jimmy? Where’s your protection? How much cover have you got?”

“None. Nothing. The sword of truth.”

“A sword against heavy artillery, boy. But did you have to put an assault rap on top of everything else?”

“Name another way to handle it?”

“Hell, I could have decoyed him away long enough.”

“Name another way to handle it where there’s nobody in it but me.”

Haas said slowly, “I see what you mean. But I know about it and I’m not doing anything about it, so that makes me part of it too.”

“Go home.”

“They’ll believe two of us quicker than one. Let’s go in there and spread some snow around, Mr. Wing. J.J. went home with a headache and a sore throat. We’ll snow them all, cut out some of the laudatory crud about Palmland and insert this little morsel.”

“You’ll get fired, Bri.”

“I don’t think so. They’ll have to fire you. That’ll make me more valuable. I’ll be terrible shocked when I find out you actually struck poor Mr. Borklund, and then lied to me, your good friend. Okay?”