The Pursuit of the Media Mafia

By D.B. Dakota

Vicar warns Congress they who spurn his laws will pay a price. The transmitter engineer finds it, the price, strung up on his station's tower, a man with a rope around his chest so he can pendulum to and fro with a bare leg swiping across the lightning gap, being zapped with RF. The detective embeds a spy-mole to root out the cause-hustlers making a buck off the plight of minorities of one kind and another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091425

Book preview

Prologue

In the beginning, God said, Let there be Papyrus. In time fitting, there came to be Parchment, and Man affixed it to the wall of his cave and upon it inscribed, and christened it Newspaper, and good, and prayed for more of them. And God said unto Man, Go ye forth therefore into The Twenty-first and be blessed, for there ye shall find the Kingdom of The Media.

And Man journeyed forth into The Twenty-first and quickened to his wall. Upon it, images scrawled and through it voices spake, and mills in great number bestowed parchments therefrom inscribed by storytellers with bare faces, bereft of facts. And Man deemed it Propaganda and wept, and prayed for Only One storyteller to lead him and give remedy from deceivers. Wherefore God said, There is among you only one man worthy.

And it came to pass that He set forth Vicar, the scribe angel, to cause The Media to league as Only One, to lead and give remedy. And Man bolted to his wall and therefrom took unto himself Only One parchment and to it gave the name Fair Shake. It was held just, for it was inscribed by Vicar the journalist. And before God and Congress, Vicar warned the lawmakers, "They who spurn Fair Shake laws will pay a price."

And lawmakers by day beat their breasts in the Kingdom of The Media, and by night lifted their goblets in hatred of Only One. And Man prayed for the day without a Fair Shake and night eternal for skewed journalists.

One

Drifting off the sidewalk onto grass, wandering about in the twilight, the stakeout frowned at his sidekick pacing alongside. Halting, focusing binoculars on a nearby third floor window, he studied a motionless figure at a desk. Now, okay? Let’s go on up, he nagged, before somebody shows. A lofty guy, the spotter slung a carryon over his shoulder and turned to take a shortcut across the parking lot to the building. ‘Follow me’, he motioned to his sleek female companion. You’re nervous—what about?

Look who’s jumpy. Heaving, twisting about, smoothing her hairdo, she was poring over a mental list of their next moves. Hold it. She took the field glasses, trying for a better look at the office layout. Tiptoeing didn’t help. I’m not sure that’s our man, she chided. His back was to the window. He’s got a phone in his ear—here. Returning the spyglass, she checked the time. Too early, we blow it. Too late, they’d miss him. Sweat him out. See what he does.

Long past business hours on a Friday, the two scouts in matching wind breakers stuck around, surveying exits and street traffic. Besides—over there. She tossed her head toward a dog walker. Codger’s watching us. She snuggled against her cohort’s chest. Don’t mind me. The maneuver got her a hug. H’m—drat, the dog’s moving on. She broke away and eyed the window.

The man in the office stood, put the phone down, yawned and stretched, stepped to the window and gazed out. A roiling cumulus cloud, pink on top, darkened on the bottom by mountain shadows, caught his attention. Almost overhead, the formation hovered over Boulder’s nearby landmark, the rusty Flatirons, mammoth stone slabs jutting out of the Colorado landscape.

He’s leaving. The edgy lookout groaned and zipped his bag shut. Now?

Let’s do it, the woman chirped. Perfect. The duo streaked toward the building, expecting the entrance to be unlocked. Breezing inside, they swept across the lobby in mock urgency with credentials in hand, puffing and grinning as they reached the registration counter.

In their upper thirties, both wore tan caps, sporting logos of a radio station. Along with a note pad, she clutched an oreo, a tiny voice recorder with removable sound card. The man with her toted an old model film camera with attached flash gun, and a gadget bag, the carryon.

We’re from KJT News, the woman stated, signing in before the receptionist-guard—seated behind the counter—could get up, offer help or ask their purpose at that hour.

Working on a loaded burrito, the watchman put aside his dinner upon being handed a short memorandum on a U.S. congressman’s stationery. Signed, it confirmed a May 28th appointment with him, the man in the window. Oh, I see. The watchman burped. Excuse me. Wiping his chin, slipping the memo into a file, he mumbled, "Bueno; why don’t you go on up. Have a nice evening."

The fidgety news team rode the elevator to the district field office of Representative Joel Ricardo and barged into the suite, littered with placards. Memorial Day was Sunday and he was in for the holiday, catching up on constituency affairs before the long weekend. Then he’d head back to Washington. Of Latin-American descent, a slight man in his early forties, he had receding dark hair and wore bifocals, pulled forward to better see who was there.

The reporter, tall, trim, pale, wore glasses, ornate, bejeweled frames, and had blond hair tied back in a ponytail—her face? Engaging, but the eyewear distracted. K-Jungle News, Congressman. We’re poop scoopers, said she, mousy and Southern, placing her business card on his desk. And you really oughta throw us out.

He shoved a desk drawer closed that held an ash tray, trying to hide it. The photographer frowned. She snickered. But we just finished an interview down the hall and saw your light on, so we thought you wouldn’t mind a little ol’ photo op. Shifting around, she craned to read the placards: Sightless Seekers Super Stupid.

Ricardo noticed her curiosity. I didn’t know you clowns did news.

KJT Skunk Works web site with pix—check us out.

I tol’ya he’d be up to here, the photographer crabbed in a Brooklyn accent, pointing to the cluttered desk. His honor’s the only one doing it right—let’s skip it. Bad time for interviews. He opened the door as if leaving and scowled at the reporter. Mister Congressman, ’scuse us. With an olive face void of expression except for a fixed worried look, the muscular photographer wore heavy horn rims, and his brown hair—odd for his complexion—covered his ears and collar, although he was balding.

I’ll do the talking, epidermis head, she snarled and puffed. And I have a teensy question. You wouldn’t mind, wouldja, sir? My name is Dana Borg, and this nuisance is Burleigh.

You seem to be in a hurry and I am too. Ricardo grinned at their tiff. I’m on my way out.

Could we walk down with you? Dana begged.

Ricardo shrugged. Can’t escape the press, but if... He changed eyeglasses to a designer pair, snapped his briefcase, slung his jacket over his shoulder and the three headed for the elevator. If your subject is that Sightless Seekers scam, those signs in the office express my position exactly. Forcing blind people to push those seekers around—the very idea. I will not be voting for such idiocy.

Well, yes sir, but... What I need to ask you is... Dana fumbled with her notepad. Oh, where is that quote? You said...

Inside the elevator Ricardo pressed B. Oh, Dana, ma’am—problem, Burleigh called with a sneer, turning to the control panel. We need’ta get off where we came in and that, if you paid any attention, was the lobby.

Daggonit, Burleigh, you stop that. We can come back up to the lobby. The congressman hasn’t answered my question yet.

Ricardo narrowed his eyes. All right, what do you wish to know?

She held the oreo up to his face. In light of all the furor over VASA, which you co-sponsored along with that other man who...

Ricardo squinted and frowned at her simple-mindedness, then stared at the sequencing lights overhead.

Oh, Mr. Representative Sharpe, I guess it was, she amended.

Ricardo nodded. The elevator door opened, accessing the basement parking garage, the three stepped out, Burleigh last. Pulling a length of soft foam out of his sleeve, he tucked it in the door cavity, blocking the light beam to keep the door from closing. The trio walked toward Ricardo’s aged sedan. Miss Borg, do you want me to get a shot of d’man or don’tcha? Burleigh twitted.

Shuckins, Burleigh—get a picture as he gets into his car, can’t you? Excuse us, Mr. Ricardo; we do get along. Now where were we?

The Vesty America Safety Act?

Yes. Will the bill do what y’all set out for it to do when—lunk-head! she shouted at the photographer. You’ve got your wide-angle on, for heaven’s sake.

I’ll just shorten the view—you know, step forward? Burleigh growled. I do the pictures—okay, skank?

But I don’t want to see a teensy man huddled in front of a fat car—and hurry so he can answer.

Ricardo swung his car door wide open and turned to face Burleigh. The photographer stepped closer and closer, focusing, framing. Ricardo removed his glasses and stared. Dana stepped back, flipped a stage-wave and elicited a smile from the official. Burleigh scanned the empty garage, saw no one else, took a deep breath, held it, squeezed his eyes tight, clicked—and hurdled backwards to escape the mist squirting out of the flash gun.

A jet spray shot into Ricardo’s face, a chemical vapor of bad stuff—Mace. Eyeee ah uggg! Ricardo beat the fogging aerosol, dropped his glasses and ignition key, slumped to the floor, spitting up, trying to cry out. Burleigh dashed to the garage door opener, pulled the plug so no one could enter, hurried back to his camera and thrust it into the gadget bag. The air cleared, Dana rushed to the victim, scooped up his glasses with a tissue and dropped them into an envelope. She deposited it, her recorder, pad and fake glasses in the bag, fished out gloves and the team slipped them on. Burleigh grabbed the ignition key, rummaged through Ricardo’s pockets for the trunk key, couldn’t find it, reached down to the trunk latch lever and unlocked it. They dragged Ricardo back and flung him in, together with his briefcase and jacket and slammed the lid down. Dana ran to the elevator door and retrieved the foam strip. Sliding into the front seat, both of them, Burleigh got behind the wheel and checked dash controls for emergency, location and notification systems so he could disable them. He saw none. Backing up, he turned around and sped to the garage door, stopped, plugged in the opener, yanked a chain and waited for the door to roll up. Driving outside, he pushed the door-close button, curved out into the street, drove past Dana’s car parked there and headed toward the outskirts of Boulder.

TWENTY MILES SOUTH of Boulder in Westminster, a Denver suburb, was the headquarters and a production studio of JungleNet, a national talk radio chain. Regionally, it broadcast over two AM transmitters; one, a low-power in Westminster itself; its antenna was just outside the station’s back door. The other transmitter, simulcasting on a different frequency with different call letters, was KJT in a Boulder meadow. It put out a high-powered directional signal, beaming up and down the Front Range of the Rockies. At all-talk KJT, the night-shift JJ—Jungle Jockey—had primed his listeners for sixty seconds, crammed, confused and frightened them with current events. He was a truth-tattler, griping, needling, ruffling feathers and egging listeners on for cat ’n dog shtick. The JJ had done his part and the party line was full of crowd noise—callers talking. Everybody was dumping at once, trying to get on the air with their bitch. The effect was the traffic of a hundred streets merging onto a single lane. That was the format—radio’s hot new sound.

The JJ kept one finger on the loonie switch to dump the dull callers into the black hole—keep them off the air. He kept another finger on the dead-man whistle to delete obscenities, because KJT was being monitored by deactivators in opposition to the format. The militant trashers were a volunteer patrol, trying to get something on jungle radio and shut it down—the entire chain if they could. Following the JJ’s monologue, the callers did the programming—nagging and harassing each other, testifying to the evidence of doomsday. Espousing lynchings, they thundered against new mandates and regulations and lambasted the abrupt short supply of choices—formerly called freedoms by some. In particular, they thrashed back against the agendas of an inciting national publication. Each dumfounded caller minded the other’s business. Each was trying to straighten out the country at the same time. The cause-jungle jock merely had to referee and muffle callers for commercial breaks:

...in the hell is this here vest dingdong...?

Hey, honky, I be listening to you bleep-bleep and...

Like, man, license all the sales clerks in the US of A!

Look, Sambo, back off!

...and this DOC thing, you can take it and shove...

Decaf Only Choice is coming, I’m tellin’ya.

...has that sales-clerk licensing bill got to do with coffee?

Balance the national deficit.

They got the Koffee Kills Kause law passed, so DOC is next.

Hot daddy, tell you what I be gonna do...

KKK—see the hate-black conspiracy?

...gettin’ me a chain of cameras and make fake clerk licenses.

...and here it is, that Sightless Seekers; I don’t see why...

There you go, picking on blind folks.

Speaking of... KJT lost its sound.

The JJ host-board operator was monitoring and editing the phone-ins’ real-time audio, and both loop-delay transmitter outputs, but KJT’s Boulder transmitter, the big one, suddenly went dead. KJT was off the air. The JJ waited for the automatic restart to cycle. The transmitter kicked back on, but only for a second or two. Static burst through again. The caller audience itself didn’t need a transmitter; they had a closed-circuit party line and could hear each other unedited, so they kept at it: ...Poohugger’s right; it’s high time that cause got stopped.

You buy something, you get had; who’s responsible for that if it ain’t sales clerks?

...coffee-kills cause is not gonna work—who the hell’s gonna police...?

Unable to monitor callers and attend to the dead KJT problem at the same time, the JJ switched off the audio feed to both transmitters and punched some computer keys. Didn’t help. He scooted his stool around to the KJT remote control panel with his eyes on a meter that indicated carrier or none. KJT’s carrier read zero. The restart cycled, power returned momentarily. He rotated a switch to the on-off manual override position and pushed carrier-on. The transmitter popped on. Promptly, the meter fell to zero.

On their radios, listeners caught fragments: ...so look what they did to garage sales.

Yep, permits, by god, just to sell off your junk!

...is a good newsletter and don’t you disparage...

Fizbo selling his house? Whap! Just like real...

Believe it, man. Fizbos have to get gov’ment licenses, sure do.

...and stop making fun of...

The JJ kept firing the transmitter by remote control, trying to get it to hold, hoping it would, but each push of the button was followed by a dying signal—silence. You beast! he shouted; this is disgusting. He switched back to automatic mode on the chance whatever was interfering with transmission would correct itself. Lock, damn you, or I’m walking. I can’t leave and I can’t fix it, so what now? After a few seconds, convinced he had a serious breakdown, the JJ got the station’s engineer on the phone.

Come on, Clyde, it’s two in the morning! the engineer crabbed. Did you try...?

Hold it, Dad, I did the whole bit; listen. The talker reviewed the symptoms and readings and his procedure. Transmitters just don’t do this, do they? Crazy.

None that I know about. All right, I’m going up there.

Where you at? How long?

A week, ten days—how in hell do I know? I’m Broomfield-close in my jammies and have a car. The engineer was ten miles away. Kill modulation now.

The JJ flipped a switch. Done. Why doesn’t this cheesy radio station have a back up transmitter! he screeched.

We’ve got one. So the fact that it won’t kick in tells me something’s wrong with the transmission line or the towers. So, lookit. If it does fire up and holds for ten seconds, you can resume. I’ll call you from the site—stick close by, okay?

I’m your man, loyal to the core, good luck.

Emergencies were rare, but the engineer, a stout young man, anticipated trouble by keeping his trousers handy, loaded with keys and wallet. Shoes and warm socks and a car coat were convenient. He was out the door in seconds. Underway he munched on a granola bar.

AFTER TWENTY MINUTES and two side roads, he swung onto a gravel lane down a sloping, then level, pasture. His headlights caught the transmitter building ahead; beyond that, two towers. Skidding to a stop, he left his car lights on, dashed out with the building key, opened up and flipped the lights on. The transmitter was still cycling off and on. He disengaged the studio feed and remote control. Checking metering, all parameters were normal. On override, he punched up final power. All he got was the momentary lock-in with matching whisssh of the carrier wave on the speaker. RF, radio frequency, high power, radiated energy from the two towers. The lock-in proved the carrier was loading properly. The problem was a sick switching relay to the dummy antenna, actuated only for tests, he guessed. Or something at a tower, causing an intermittent short. Maybe a squirrel had been electrocuted, gnawing on the lightning arrestor, thinking the ball-gap was two big walnuts. Fried squirrel at two A.M.—god help. But once he’s fried, he’s done. He doesn’t bite again and again. Same for a mouse or bird. Snake? A snake can’t climb a tower. Besides, most critters are asleep unless... Skunk?

He disabled the transmitter, grabbed a flashlight and raced out and down along the transmission line to the stockade that enclosed the first tower. At the gate with his key at the ready, he reached for the lock. It was missing. The hasp had been pried off; the gate was ajar. He cleared his throat, flicked off the torch and backed away. Standing still, he listened in near darkness. A night light inside the stockade wasn’t much help. His ears adjusted. What’s that smell? No skunk, but he wanted to gag. Seared flesh, swear to god. The engineer’s eyes adjusted. Light through the building’s window fell for a way on the weeds. The tower’s obstruction lights high above tinted the fence a pale red. The beacon on top of the tower blinked on and off. Its cycle was switched by a motor inside the stockade, humming, clicking. Then, another sound in there: a rhythmic creaking. Rocking chair, sounds like and...and, and...moans? He swallowed.

Easing toward the gate, he squeaked it open. Outlined by the faint red glow casting down was the three-foot high concrete pyramid on the ground, bearing the weight of the guy-wired 200-foot steel tower, the antenna. Uh-oh. He saw something else. What’s...? An object was swaying in the murk, bumping against the metal ball-gap, the lightning arrestor, two walnuts. The out-of-place object swung back and forth like a pendulum. That is no animal. He clicked the flashlight on and pointed it straight at the thing. A frigging mannequin. It was just swinging there. What kind of joke is this? Two feet, minus a right shoe and sock, were tied together. Upward his light beam crept. No trousers—yes, pants leg rolled up, the right one. No hands were visible, but arms reached behind the body. The hands were tied, execution style. Around the chest was a rope snubbed up against the arm pits. The head was hanging forward, dangling, rolling around, fractionally. That is no dummy. No moans now. Oh. My. God. The rope around the chest ran up a few feet above the head to a cross member rung of the tower. Looping over the rung, the rope was stretched a few yards over to a stockade fence post and lashed. The swinging body was a fully dressed man sans footwear with his hands behind and suspended from a rung in the tower. A gallows, sure as Hell.

As the body swung, his bare leg was rubbing against both terminals of the high-potential spark-gap, the path lightning would take—jumping the gap—to ground. When the leg touched the double-ball walnuts, it shorted out radiation of the antenna. Power of the transmitter ran through his leg, across the gap of a half-inch and directly to ground. Full power. Thousands of watts. Some joke. The short was shutting down the transmitter. Upon each firing of the transmitter, the leg got a shock, an RF burn, jolt after jolt. God, the pain. Unbearable.

The engineer reasoned that the man—assuming he was conscious at the time—was hung to permit him to wiggle his tied bare leg and kick himself away from the torture. But by rebounding away from the fiendish spark, the transmitter automatically energized again. He became a pendulum, striking again and again and again to send stabbing arcs, zzzk...zzzk...zzzk, shooting through his exposed leg. The shocks, the torment, were excruciating. Knocked him out. And out there in the country, no one could hear his screams, nobody except the executioner, who had fled. The moan, was that the last? KJT, you’ve got a doozy on your hands. An electrocution and a hanging.

The engineer was stuck with an apparent homicide, knocking out his radio station, and for twenty-four hours the cops would pull their beards, studying the crime scene before authorizing a restart of the transmitter. To Hell with that. He switched on the overhead flood light, sprang to the fence post with his pocket knife and began sawing the rope. The strands snapped apart with each ripping slash of his small blade until only a few threads held the weight of the body. He grasped the rope with both hands and yanked, severing it. Counterbalancing the burden, he eased toward the tower. Lowering the victim to a level, the engineer took hold of him. The body was guided onto the ground and stretched out, still tied.

The engineer galloped to the shack, in to the transmitter. Pushing the voltage-on button, he applied full voltage to the system. The transmitter went on and stayed on. He switched the studio modulation input back on and barked into the intercom: All right, studio, you’re back on, get going! Everything’s fixed.

Okay, Dad, freaky. I’m ready, the JJ responded. Thanks for the nap. The JJ threw the program line feed switch and opened his mike: Hey, dumpers, kick butt, hear? This is KJT jungle-talk, open-forum snake pit for the fightin’ mad. Party line’s open, no screening, jump in and unload. Let’s hear what you’ve got to say. Give me some smash-mouth combat. You maggots still with me?

Like, who left? a voice replied. Man, where you been? Wha hoppen?

Do I know? I don’t fix it, I just be runnin’ it. Back to those sales clerks, because you know what this conspiracy is all about, don’t-cha? What the feds are up to is license all you money changers out there. Understand what I’m saying? I’m talking licenses, folks, just like school teachers already are and lawn mowers, teeth cleaners and carpool drivers, and boat skippers, firewood guys, parking lot attendants and...

Hey, how about you junglejocks? Are you licensed? a listener needled. Because if you ain’t...

THE ENGINEER CALLED the Boulder police and asked for an ambulance. I think we’ve got a dead man here! Electrocuted! May still be alive. Hurry! He gave directions. Gate’s open; look for the towers.

Wait a minute, a law enforcer’s voice responded. Is that within Boulder jurisdiction?

What! You annexed this farm. Don’t you have a map? Jesus, move it! Slam. Bounding to his car, the engineer turned it around and pointed the headlights up the lane to help the cops spot the location. Running back into the stockade, he cut the ropes, freeing the man’s hands and feet. Slashing away the noose around the victim’s chest, he searched for a pulse. It was there—or was it the engineer’s own fingers? He put an ear to the victim’s chest. Ka-thoom, ka-thoom, very slow, weak. No way can I carry this man out of here. Too heavy, thought the engineer, and why don’t they speed it up? Who is he, anyway? Doesn’t matter, I’m not touching his IDs, nothing. Sure isn’t good news for this radio station. And I gotta deal with it. What a pain in the butt. Worse, will the cops get riled up and charge me with disturbing a crime scene?

ZZZK, ZZZK—THAT GUY, frying, whew! Burleigh the photographer held his nose and cackled. His eyesight was not the best without his glasses and I don’t think he appreciated our finesse. Burleigh’s watch showed three A.M. as he drove Ricardo’s car back close to the congressman’s office and stopped at the curb. Dana got out and into her own vehicle parked there and followed Burleigh. On a desolate street next to a fire hydrant, the Ricardo car was parked with the doors unlocked, one ajar and the key left inside, lures for theft, a kidnap frame-up for some kaleido-head. To complicate the case, Burleigh took from his pocket a KJT letterhead memo blank with Ricardo’s field office address penciled on. He crumpled it up and dropped it between the seats of the victim’s car for police to discover. Transferring to Dana’s vehicle, Burleigh declared, Stinky’s got a new driver’s license now, so what’ll I do with his old one and his credit cards?

As soon as he gets back to his office, if he does, just walk in and hand them to him. Dana was driving through a suburb. I’ll tell you when.

In this same get-up? Burleigh had reference to his disguise.

Naturally. He’ll be too scared to rat. The reason why, he has no doubt.

How did you know about RF burns? Neat stunt.

Electrocuting cats, Dana laughed. Hold a mouse up by its tail at the lightning gap, see. The cat jumps up—zzzk! Sautéed tomcat. Say, I’m hungry. Could we go find us an all-night diner and chow up?

And head home, yeah, let’s. Heaving bodies around made me tired.

I may have another one for you in a week or so, she said, watching a stoplight. "The war room is about finished and everybody will be there for the grand opening.

But one bastard that’ll be there is liable to give me trouble.

You want I should take him out?

I want you to keep someone else from taking him out. He’s one bad actor, but I need him.

Zzzk, zzzk, Burleigh chuckled; Can’t get over it.

Two

South of Boulder, holed up in a cheap apartment next to the dog track, Kain Iken, an unemployed public relations man, was banging his head against the wall—literally, disgusted because he couldn’t find a job. The wall was a surface of blisters, cracks and gouges—warped, thin wallboard wallpapered in a grapes pattern. With his nose, he pecked the grapes and, he imagined, squashed them a grape at a time. Then he got mad. Standing ramrod straight with his forehead against the grape pods, he battered the musty, hollow partition like a metronome, making music of sorts. At least he had a beat going—thump, whap, three, four. The panel bowed wave-like with each thud. It was something to do, not fun, since he had no drum, no anything, nothing promising, no prospect of work. His arms dangled and one hand choked a cola.

Shagboy? He was down to that, but car dealers preferred small guys as fetchers, nimble and slack behind the wheel and he was anything but. The forty-two year old used to be an offensive lineman for the Broncos. A good looking, curly-headed blond, divorced, he used to smile a lot, and could still turn on the charm. But it wasn’t working in the job lines. Forklift? Smearing sweat along, he side-stepped to a crack in the wall—whack-whack-whack—pounding rapidly and hard with his brow until the partition caved in. Into the wall’s hole he whimpered, Boxes? I could heft—no, my knee wouldn’t hold up. The pop dribbled out onto the floor. Copywriter? His nose dripped and his eyes watered. Pul-ease? I do copy good. But his former employer had outsourced his function. He butted the greasy spots with a cadence: Come. On! Come. On! Holding the pop can high, he banged it, slopping the panel, his hair and puckered face. Anything!

"Sí," came back from the other side of the wall.

You want me to starve—that it? Kain roared.

"Tremendo, Señor!"

"Silencio, Juan—not talking to you! Kain wheeled around and rifled the soda at the sink across the room. Missed—he couldn’t even throw straight. Snapping the ball between his legs, though, the former center was accurate. Dislodging a chunk of water-soaked sheetrock above the sink, he turned back, kicked a suitcase and hammered a tattoo with his fists on their party wall. Perdón!"

"Sí, amigo. Not good sufrir un colapso nervioso. Okay?"

What is wrong with me!

That high-pressure personality? The rattling tongue? Over gregarious? Too out of place—everybody knew him from his NFL days? So how about a football color-man? an agent friend suggested.

I’d rather do it than talk about it, Kain responded. Talk radio, that was a thought. He made the rounds, even KJT, but got no auditions. He was unwanted, he suspected, because of a notation on his resumé—he had a security clearance. Tied to the government, was he? Potential employers wouldn’t touch him in case he was a spy of some stripe. Too, he took the press to task, crossing swords with a touchy editor over her paper’s pandering. In revenge she lambasted him on a gossip site.

He leaped over boxes of his belongings to the sink and shook it, juddering it loose; the trap gurgled. Now he had a leak. Come on, Denver, cough it up! Where’d I put those ads? he asked himself. Under the bed was a pile of newspapers, the classifieds and sports, mostly, deftly jerked out of morning deliveries on other floors. So he was a thief too.

There they are. Along the wall, away from the window so they wouldn’t blow around, he stared at the help-wanteds torn out and placed in a neat row on the floor. Kneeling, he sorted them for the umpteenth and final time, disqualifying himself ad after ad. He left only one single if-I-have-to prospect. The rest, he crumpled: sales jobs, trainees, flippers, haulers....I never even sat in a rig. He turned upside down the gardener openings and would give those to Juan, the alien neighbor, if anything better showed up. Oh, there’s his stuff. I almost forgot. Kain had bought a sack of groceries to give to Juan: milk, Spam, bread, catsup.... Better take those over before he starves to death. Has he got a fridge? He can use mine. Juan’s a good egg, poor guy. Why he lapses into Spanish, I don’t know. He does good English when he tries. But he sure asks a lot of funny questions.

The thing about Juan—to back