Mistress

I terminate the call and focus on getting distance. I take a left on Quarry Road, then a right on Lanier Place. I stop in the middle of a quiet residential area and get off my bike. Standing on the sidewalk, I make the call.

I navigate through the automated commands, my chest heaving, struggling for breath, and finally get a human voice. He thanks me for calling, tells me his name with incomprehensible speed, and asks for my name and account number. I only know the former, so then I have to give him my mother’s maiden name (Mapes) before we can finally talk. But the talk is brief. I ask, “Why the hell does my account say insufficient funds? And why can’t I transfer from savings to checking?”

The man goes quiet, then he tells me he has to transfer me to “special services,” whatever the hell that means, and then there’s music, “Train in Vain” by the Clash, which is adding insult to injury because the Clash is one of the best bands of all time and “London Calling” is my all-time favorite song, but all the radio stations play is this cheesy “Train in Vain” and “Rock the Casbah” and WHAT THE FUCK IS TAKING SO LONG-

“Mr. Casper, this is Jay Rowe with special services. How are you doing today?”

“I’m doing pretty fucking poorly, Jay, if you want to know the truth.”

“Sir, your account is disabled.”

“Disabled? Then undisable it. Able it. Whatever the fuck the word is, do it!”

“We can’t, sir.”

“It’s my money! You can’t hold on to it!”

“We can and we must, sir,” he says, but by now I get the picture. He’s following orders. This isn’t a decision my bank made on its own.

“Sir,” he says, “your account has been frozen on orders of the United States Department of Homeland Security.”

Chapter 77

I hang up the prepaid phone and break it into about twenty-five pieces. I kick the pieces all around the sidewalk and unleash a torrent of obscenities that would make a trucker blush before I get a grip on myself. I feel like Keanu Reeves in Speed after he learned that his partner, Harry, had been blown up by Dennis Hopper. I feel like Dennis Hopper in-shit, I don’t know, he gets pissed off in a lot of his movies, so pick one.

Craig Carney has been reluctant to play his trump card-having me indicted and arrested for murder-but he’s upping the pressure in other ways. He’s eliminated the one advantage I’ve had, free access to money. I have sixty-two dollars and change in my pocket.

With one of my other prepaid phones, I call Ashley Brook Clark at the Beat. I’m trying to keep a cool head, but the waters of panic are rising, and come on, Ashley Brook, answer, answer, ANSWER YOUR-

“Hello?” Ashley Brook says in a rushed voice.

“Ashley Brook, I need your-”

“Ben, thank God it’s-”

“-help, I’m in a real jam-”

“-you, everything is going haywire-”

Fuck! I stop talking, so she will, too, and we can have a conversation. It sounds like it’s going to be a fun one.

“Ben, everything is going crazy at the office. Payroll is telling me that our bank account has been frozen. The CIA was just here asking me all kinds of questions. They say you’re the subject of an espionage investigation and if anyone around here helps you, they will be considered coconspirators. Everyone around here is freaking out-”

“Slow down, Ashley Brook. We can-”

“They took our computers, Ben. They’ve taken everything. And they’re-they’re-”

“Ashley Brook-”

“Ben, they’ve shut down our website!” With these words, Ashley Brook loses her composure, bursting into tears and sobbing over the phone.

No. No.

“Have you called Eddie Volker?” I ask.

Through breathless gasps, I think I hear the word yes.

Maybe Eddie can think of something. But if the feds are talking about espionage, they’re talking about national security. They’re talking about the Patriot Act.

They can do pretty much whatever they want to me.

It is over ninety degrees outside today, but I have never felt a greater chill running through my body. They are doing everything in their power to destroy me, and now they’re doing something even worse. They are destroying my newspaper, and hurting my employees with it. People who depend on me to put food on the table.

I have to do something. I have to save my paper and the people who’ve made it so great. But what can I do? Where can I confirm anything I suspect? I can’t even separate the good guys from the bad guys, much less turn to any of them for help. And my friends will now be risking a prison sentence for so much as loaning me five bucks or answering a question. I can’t jeopardize any of them. But take them out of the equation, and who do I have left? I don’t even have a newspaper anymore.

I’m out of money, resources, and friends.

And probably time.

I can only think of one other thing. I take a breath and hope against hope.

“What about Jonathan Liu’s computer?” I ask. If there is any place where I can find proof of what’s going on-not supposition, but proof-it will be on that computer.

Ashley Brook is quiet for a long time.

“They took it,” she says.

Chapter 78