“I hear she’s dating a tax attorney,” Copeland said. “That’s gotta be a helluva letdown after the turbulent world of Jack Hatfield.”
“What is this, Bob? This Is Your Life?”
“You’ve been underground for a while, my friend. I’m simply trying to get a feel for your state of mind.”
“I haven’t been under anything. Just making a living.”
“Pickup stories and character profiles for the local affiliates? Not exactly GNT, is it? Makes me wonder what you might do to get back into their good graces.”
As this was starting to sink in, Copeland moved to a glass display case that held a blue denim shirt. Reportedly Kerouac’s.
Jack stared at him. “Are you trying to tell me something, Bob? Or is this just your usual schtick?”
“Careful. I’m not the enemy, remember? I didn’t have to answer your call.”
“I know. So why did you?”
He raised a shoulder and let it drop. “Loyalty, I suppose. I’ve always felt bad about what Lawrence Soren and his hatchet squad did to you. You’re a man of integrity, and to see you attacked like that caused me considerable pain.”
“Yet you never bothered to call.”
Copeland smiled. “You know how it is in this business. Somebody slits your throat, everyone else is just trying to avoid the spray. It’s never anything personal.”
“Except to the guy who’s getting his throat slit. So how about you cut the small talk, Bob. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have information to share. Did you look into what we discussed?”
Copeland nodded. “I did, just as you asked, and I found out that you’re a tinfoil-hat-wearing lunatic who has no idea what he’s talking about.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “And is that what you believe?”
Copeland eyed him sharply. “Come on, Jack, give me a little credit. Nobody spews that kind of venom unless they’ve got something to hide. Character assassination and misdirection are standard operating procedure these days. On both sides of the aisle.”
“So you’re saying this goes back to Washington?”
Copeland shook his head. “I’m saying no such thing, because I don’t know. If there’s anything more to that blast than what you learned from the press conference this morning, nobody’s talking about it. And about all I could get out of one low-level administration lackey were a few choice words that would make my foulmouthed friend Dick Cheney proud.”
Jack frowned. “So then why are you here, Bob? If that’s all you’ve got, why agree to this meet?”
“Because I like you, Jack. I’ve missed doing business with you, and I think you may be right about this thing. And if you are, you deserve fair warning that you’re about to swim upstream in dangerous waters.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“No. Just a general feeling based on the reception I got when I started asking around about this alleged Iranian.”
“Did anyone deny he was Iranian?”
Copeland shook his head.
“Who did you ask?”
Copeland sighed. “Come on, you know I can’t answer that. You need to tread lightly, my friend. You already drew attention to yourself at that press conference. You didn’t back down when that federal mouthpiece started in on you, and you kept asking questions when you didn’t like his answers.”
“That’s my job,” Jack said.
Copeland chuckled again. “Right. Which is how you got your name on another list. When someone starts acting like an actual reporter, the people I know tend to get nervous. They don’t like real questions, hardball questions. They like reporters who get with the program. And I don’t care what you’re looking to find out. You start poking at a hornet’s nest, you’re bound to piss somebody off.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Look, you’re giving me nothing but generalities. Help me out here. Who do I need to be looking at?”
“Anybody and everybody, would be my guess. Try throwing a rock and see who throws it back. But make sure you’re prepared to duck.”
“And what about you? You just gonna watch or-”
“Give me some credit, Jack,” Copeland said irritably. “I’ll keep digging, as discreetly as I can. I’m curious, too, but I’m not interested in a suicide mission.”
Jack nodded. “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.”
Copeland gestured to the portrait of Carolyn Cassady. “She was something, wasn’t she?”
Jack shrugged. “If you like the type.”
“Oh, I do. Hell, if I’d been around back then, I probably would’ve made a move on her myself.” He paused. “She wrote an autobiography, you know. I hear it’s pretty good.”
“Yeah?”
“I think Dark Nights still has a copy. You should grab it before somebody else does.” He gave Jack a curt nod, then walked to the stairs and turned. “It might just open your eyes.”
Then a moment later, he was gone.
Just Like Copeland to test a man, Jack thought.
Whenever someone’s actions puzzled Jack, he sought answers in the Bible. He had read and reread both Testaments, committing long passages to memory. And right now Job 18:2 came to mind, when Bildad said to his long-suffering friend: “When will you put an end to words? Reflect, and then we can have discussion.”
Jack grinned.
The roles were a good fit.
He would reflect, then they would talk.
The Dark Nights bookstore was a San Francisco landmark, located just down the street.
The young woman at the cash register had so many tattoos and piercings that Jack had to wonder what had motivated her to mark and mutilate herself. Some fashion statements are permanent, and chances were pretty good that one day this girl would be a sixty-year-old grandmother wondering what the hell she’d been thinking.
Then Jack realized he sounded just like his old man, complaining about “kids these days…” It was the natural progression of things, he supposed.
He found the book Copeland had recommended, paid for it, then nodded good night and went outside and across the street to the Etna, where he found a table in back and ordered a single malt.
When it came down to it, this place was the real Beat Cafe. Kerouac had spent many a night here, getting polluted with Neal Cassady and the woman they shared. Jack honestly couldn’t care less about these people, but Bob Copeland’s suggestion that he buy a copy of Carolyn’s autobiography had not been unmotivated.
So, as he waited for his drink, he opened the book-which she’d titled Off the Road — and carefully leafed through the fragile, yellowing pages, scanning them one at a time.
He got his first hit on page 94.
Halfway down, in an excerpt of a letter from Neal Cassady to Kerouac, a word had been neatly underlined in penciclass="underline" operation
Jack knew full well that this wasn’t some random marking, but was Copeland’s handiwork, the result of his love for cloak and dagger.
He found the next one on page 98, at the end of another excerpt: road
Then there was nothing for a few pages until he reached page 109, where the last word of the first paragraph was underlined: show
His drink came, and he let it sit as he continued on through the remaining pages, one after another, all 355 of them. There were no more pencil marks to be found.
When Jack was done, he quickly went through it again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Then he closed the book, knocked back his scotch, and felt its heat roll through him as he quietly contemplated Bob Copeland’s message.
Operation Roadshow.
Jack immediately thought of a PBS television series that Rachel used to watch, where people brought in ancient household items to be evaluated by antiques dealers, in hopes of striking it rich.