I gave my cell phone number, asked for his name in a not-too-subtle bit of pressure, and hung up. I had one other call to make, but kept the line open just in case.
As I cruised down the highway toward Coeur d'Alene, it occurred to me I was about as far away from home as possible, not so much in distance as in life, surrounded by all this wilderness, all this craziness. As the heater blew warm air on my feet and hands and the pale sun seemed to balance on the tops of the tall pines ahead, I wondered what Katherine and I might have been doing on this Monday night. Maybe we would have ordered food from an upscale delivery service and would be spooning little bits of mashed vegetables to our baby between taking bites of grilled swordfish for ourselves. Maybe she'd be pregnant again, glowing as she did the first time around. Maybe we'd be strolling the neighborhood, pushing the carriage with the dog padding along beside us, exchanging knowing, amused looks when we awoke about how much our lives had changed.
As I stared blankly out the window, the cellular telephone rang, thank God.
'Jack Flynn here,' I said, my throat surprisingly thick as I shook off my thoughts and brought myself back to the realities of death and life.
'Kent Drinker here. What can I do for you?'
Small talk, I assumed, carried no water with this guy, so I replied,
'I'm running with a story tomorrow saying that an authority familiar with the inner workings of the militia movement believes the assassination attempt was orchestrated by an insurgent, newly formed militia unit in Wyoming. I'm trying to get FBI reaction, to see if the bureau has been pursuing that lead or has independent knowledge.
Conversely, if you believe I'm wrong, it would be helpful to be guided away from the story.'
There was nothing but dead air on the other end of the line-dead air that carried on so long that I began to wonder if we had been disconnected. 'Hello?' I finally asked.
'Hold on,' Drinker said. 'I'm just trying to figure out what I can safely tell you.'
Not the answer I was anticipating. I was assuming he would tell me nothing.
Another stretch of silence, then he added, 'You would not be inaccurate in reporting that FBI investigators have been probing the relationship of a Wyoming militia group to this assassination attempt. I would be willing to say that on the condition of anonymity, as a senior law enforcement official.'
Here we go again. 'How about a senior FBI official?' I asked.
'No. I need at least some cover.'
I asked, 'How did you get turned on to the Wyoming group? What's your best link?'
'No way am I going that far with you,' he said. 'You have enough for a significant story. You sure have more than your competition. That's all I'm going to tell you.'
My mind was racing with more questions, but Drinker interrupted, saying in a clipped way, 'I have to go. I've helped you enough.' And then the click of his telephone.
It was abrupt, but it didn't really matter now. I had hit pay dirt.
Immediately, I dialed up another number, that of directory assistance in Cody, Wyoming, the supposed hometown of the Wyoming Freedomfighters.
They weren't listed, but a B. J. Walbin was, so I took it and called.
On the other end, I got the expected rigamarole-the snotty kid asking my name and my intended business, a referral to their so-called spokesman, who seemed to be inaccessible.
'Handle this however you want,' I told him. 'But if I were you, I would inform Billy Joe that there will be a story in tomorrow morning's Boston Record that will highlight his role in a presidential assassination conspiracy. He might want to know about this before it runs. If he wants to know more, have him call me at this number.'
I gave him the number and hung up before the kid could say another word. Fuck him.
Finally, I called Peter Martin at the office. I walked him briskly through what I had and told him where I wanted to go. He appeared in full agreement.
'How long before you can file?' he asked.
I said, 'I don't have a word on paper yet. I'll have to write it from the road and hunt down someplace to transmit. Can you buy me a couple of hours?'
Other editors were sticklers for things like deadline times, story lengths, and the like. Martin, to his credit, was an advocate of reporters, and as part of that would try to get me what I needed to do my job well, which in this case was a few extra minutes, like maybe sixty of them.
He said, 'No sweat. File to me. I'll buy you some time in Boston.
Write the shit out of it.'
I continued down the highway, urgently scanning the darkening road for a fast food restaurant, a bar, or even a mini-mart where I could pull over to put the proverbial pen to paper. So far, nothing. So I had started writing the story in my mind, getting through the first few paragraphs with some nice turns of phrase, when I spotted a faded red neon sign that announced 'The Dew Drop Inn.' It was a log building with just one window and smoke billowing from a chimney. The University Club of Washington it was not.
Outside were about a dozen pickup trucks and an olive-colored Buick LeSabre, vintage 1970's, which I assumed was owned by the town's one business executive. Nearby were another ten motorcycles-hogs, the owners probably called them.
Inside, the wood floors were dusty and seemed to scratch and slide underfoot. Everything was made of unfinished particleboard-from the beamed rafters to the bar to the simple booths and benches. Music played from a jukebox. Smoke filled the air, along with the smell of old beer and hot nachos. I stepped up toward the bartender as a few of the patrons looked my way.
I said, 'White wine spritzer please, with a wedge of fresh lemon.'
Just kidding. Mrs. Flynn didn't raise any fools. I ordered a Budweiser, specifically saying 'Longneck,' figuring, correctly, that's all they'd have here.
The bartender, a fifty-something gentleman with pleasant features and salt and pepper hair, popped it down on the bar. 'Buck and a quarter,'
he said.
My, my, I thought. Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all. 'You mind if I plug a laptop computer in over at that booth?' I asked. My goal was to get this bartender on my side, just in case I'd need him.
'All yours,' he said.
I laid a pair of twenties between us and told him, 'Hit the bar all around.'
That gesture of goodwill bought me exactly what I had hoped: a few words of thanks from the boys, but mostly some privacy to sit back and type out a story as fast as I could, without interruption.
As I finished writing my second graph, my cellular telephone rang.
'Mr. Flynn, Billy Joe Walbin here,' the caller said in a voice thick with a southern, good ol' boy accent.
I had no time for niceties or introductory, fruitless conversation.
'Thank you for calling back, sir,' I said. 'I am a Washington reporter for the Boston Record. I am planning on running with a story in tomorrow's paper saying that the Wyoming Freedomfighters, and you specifically, masterminded the failed assassination attempt on President Hutchins.'
'Hey there, aren't you the boy, the reporter, who was shot in that thing?' he asked. Always nice to be remembered.
'I was, yes.'
'Well, your story's bullshit. And I don't waste my time talkin' to the Jew media. You're all the same, all you Jew editors and Jew publishers and Jew reporters. Fuck youse all. Fuck you.'
And just like that, the line went dead. So I inserted that in the story, minus the profanity. I quoted Nathaniel, anonymously. I quoted Drinker, anonymously. I backfilled all the details of the assassination attempt. I gave the whole thing a dose of context, and I was through, in time to make deadline, in time to get my flight back to civilization.
The bartender-Gerry, he had introduced himself as-cheerily allowed me the use of his telephone to send my story east. A few of the customers appeared riveted by my actions. Once it was gone, at 6:00 P.m. local time, I had some time to waste before my flight, so I ordered another Bud and took a seat at the bar. A rather large man
