“Look this way,” Brisbane told the reporter.
“But we can’t film this,” said Reevis.
“Why not?”
He pointed skyward. “Because the body is still hanging up there. We never show victims on TV when they’re still— . . . I mean, look!”
The three of them did. It was one of the countless lottery billboards across the state with an insane new jackpot number . . . and not the figure that was up there when the body was discovered, but the one state officials in Tallahassee had ordered put up while he was still swinging, because police interviews of witnesses were taking too long. And hanging by a noose in front of the digits was a lifeless state employee in a short-sleeve dress shirt with a laminated badge clipped to his pocket. The badge said Dagwood Foote. Can’t buy that kind of publicity.
“Ready when you are,” directed Brisbane.
“I told you, we don’t show corpses!” said Reevis.
“New directive.” Brisbane flapped a sheet of paper as proof. “This is the future. We posted crime scene photos on the Internet and took a poll, promising to ‘like’ the page of anyone who approved. They couldn’t get enough, the more grisly the better, especially if there were sexual overtones or the victims had funny haircuts . . . Just look at all the people around us taking selfies with the billboard over their shoulders.”
“Because there’s something deeply wrong with them,” said Reevis.
“That’s our specialty,” said Brisbane. “All of my audiences have problems. That’s why they watch.”
“But journalism is supposed to lead the way,” said Reevis. “Not follow.”
“Not anymore.” Brisbane held up a page with another directive. “I’ll feed you your opening line: Has lottery fever claimed its first victim?”
“I’m not saying that!”
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes! It’s distastefully flip! The man probably has a wife and kids, for heaven’s sake.”
“Do I need to call your assignment editor?”
“Fuck you! Fuck all these callous people!”
Brisbane leaned sideways to his cameraman. “Did you get that?”
“Every word.” Dundee adjusted the lens for a close-up.
“Good!” said Reevis. “Go show it to my supervisor, for all I care. Now you have your evidence that I’m insubordinate.”
“No,” said Brisbane, high-fiving his cameraman. “You nailed it!”
“Nailed what?”
“The confrontation that was essential for the segment.” Brisbane nodded. “They said you were a genius. Forget feeding scripted lines. From now on, you work best organically.”
“But that was just a confrontation between you and me.”
“That’s why they call it editing.”
Chapter 23
The Next Day
A mom-and-pop motel sat on a corner of Biscayne Boulevard between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. A simple turquoise court topped with white barrel tiles. It was once a sparkling postcard oasis where families on a budget drove two days in station wagons from Illinois and Indiana to enjoy a safe and happy vacation in paradise. Manicured lawn, shrubbery trimmed to strict angles, an intoxicating tropical palette of azalea, jacaranda, bougainvillea, poinciana. Children splashed in the pool, newfangled window air-conditioning units dripped on the sidewalk, and everyone bought ice cream next door from a stand in the shape of a large sugar cone. It was actually called the Florida Motel, with a neon sign in the shape of the state, bragging about color TV and shuffleboard.
That was then.
Today it clung to life as one of the countless old joints tucked among pawnshops, liquor stores and victim clinics, with its own constellation of the undead orbiting at all hours. The swimming pool had an aggressive aroma of chlorine ever since the crime tape came down, and police required the office to supply photocopies of driver’s licenses from everyone who checked in, except the manager let that slide for ten bucks.
The sun was at that point just below the horizon where approximately half the cars whizzing by had their lights on. A taxi pulled over and picked up a gorilla. Most of the motel rooms were dark, but number four had a glimmer of life. Inside it was quiet. The wall over the bed featured a faded Edward Hopper painting of a lonely person staring out a motel window at a lot of wheat. On the other side of the room, a lanky man stood intense and motionless at the sink, as he had for an obsessively lengthy time.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Why do you keep staring at that bag of uncooked rice?”
“Because my new cell phone is in it.”
“Why?”
“Rice is supposed to absorb the moisture if you get your phone wet.” Serge crouched down and inspected the bag two inches from his face. “This is the coolest gadget I’ve ever owned, so I’m going balls out with household tips. The most crucial step is not to turn your cell back on too soon. If you do and there’s any wetness still inside, the power surge will fry the circuitry. It’s a test of patience now.”
Coleman popped the cap off a beer bottle. “Why am I wearing a skin-diver suit with rubber gloves, boots and a mask?”
“More on that later.” He checked his wristwatch. “Hmm, I wonder if I’ve waited long enough. I must have waited long enough because my feet are starting to throb.”
“I say go for it.” Fart.
“That means I better wait . . . What are you drinking now?”
“Miller High Life!” Coleman thrust the bottle above his head in triumph. “The champagne of beers!”
“Coleman, do you realize what a ridiculous advertising slogan that is? Had all the executives just chugged a case of the stuff before green-lighting that chestnut?”
“What are you talking about?”
“In marketing, it’s not just what you call attention to, but what you don’t,” said Serge. “I mean, ‘the champagne of beers’? That’s like ‘Miami Mass Transit: The Rolls-Royce of riding the bus.’”
“Miller gets me fucked up. That’s all I know.”
“Now that’s a slogan.”
Serge raised the bag of rice and shook it. Coleman popped another beer, using the drawer handle on the nightstand. A police officer left the motel office with a stack of photocopied driver’s licenses. Someone screamed and clawed their eyes after jumping in the swimming pool. Coleman threw up in the nightstand’s drawer and closed it. “I say the phone’s ready.”
Serge slowly began to nod in agreement. “I’ve definitely given it more than enough time. Now I’m just wasting my life.” He swiftly yanked the phone out of the bag and turned it on.
Coleman walked over with a squeaking of neoprene. “Look! It’s working!”
“So it is,” Serge said with a satisfied grin.
Coleman pointed as the tiny screen suddenly zapped to black. “What just happened?”
“Son of a bitch!” Serge flung the broken device in a rage, and now the room’s Edward Hopper painting featured a lonely person looking out at a field of wheat with a giant cell phone in the middle.
“That was pretty interesting,” said Coleman.
Serge walked over to the window and peered outside. “It’s almost dark enough.”
“What for?”
“Back to the wet suit you’re wearing.”
“Almost forgot I had it on.”
“How does it feel?”
“Wet again inside.”
“Hold this in front of you.”
“Why?”
“Because the panda costume wasn’t cutting it.”