When he’d graduated from journalism school twenty years ago, he had tried to pursue a career in the way of most of his classmates, traditional media. But even then the pool was beginning to evaporate. He had no connections to get him into the Times, the Post, the Journal, or the other big-city dailies, so he ended up in small-town rags and backwater TV affiliates. (At lunch once, staring with glazed eyes at a video clip of a totally unnewsworthy car crash looped for the fiftieth time that day, he’d asked one young reporter, “You ever wonder what Walter Cronkite would think about something like this?” She’d replied: “Cronkite. Was he the one who ran for President a couple of years ago? Some scandal or something?”)
Powers left the world of broadcast not long after. He dabbled in public relations and advertising and the world of trade magazines, making a decent living but all the while despairing about how he could satisfy his keen ambitions in a profession where opportunities were increasingly limited.
Then, the Internet.
Blogs and online media, he realized immediately, were the future of journalism: the only way to reach audiences abandoning traditional sources of reportage. These consumers — a new generation — had come to believe that if it was posted on YouTube, Snapchat, HereNow, or Twitter, or sent to them via some BFF’s text, it was true, it was news. He quit his day job, bought a new laptop and a do-it-yourself Web-site construction program, and launched The Power(s) Lunch.
It soon became one of the top-ten blogs in the U.S., having more than a half-million subscribers and two million daily hits by random surfers and redirects. It was criticized for a tendency to pick the sensational over the substantive (but that complaint could be leveled at any news organization) and to be overly aggressive in its crusading. Sure, there were a few screwups. Like the post in which Powers took up the case of a young Muslim accused of terrorist sympathizing — unfairly, Powers asserted. He pointed out flaws in the U.S Attorney’s case and managed to get the young man released on bail. Unfortunately, a month later he was caught again, this time assembling a car bomb — destination Times Square. (But that didn’t invalidate the government’s sloppy case.) Then there was the investigative piece about the accountant embezzling funds from a Catholic charity, whose headline could have been construed to suggest that the perpetrator was a child abuser when in fact he’d been dispensing the stolen money to victims of molestation. (Still, he was vindicated when the court, citing the blog’s first-amendment rights, dismissed a suit brought by the criminal’s widow.) But such missteps were rare; more troubling to Powers were the instances when he was scooped. As when a rival blog managed to be the first to run with a story on a New York City water-system kickback scheme, one that Powers had been working on. And the time the Post beat him “to the punch,” in his words, with a story on an abusive NBA player who cracked his wife’s jaw because she jokingly commented about the skill of another team’s point guard.
Still, he was resolved not to let incidents like these hamper his march to the top of the new-media Everest. And, if it panned out, the exclusive on Michael Kessler could very well take him to that pinnacle.
Listening to the streaming water — my, how long had she been in there? — Powers now stretched, a long, slow, luxurious maneuver, as elaborate as a yoga move. Nicole and her laser-beam cerulean eyes were fixed in his mind. He was surprised to find that, after delivering the lead to him, the woman had grown considerably more attractive. He now felt a stirring in his chest.
Those eyes...
The shower finally stopped and he glanced at the light illuminating the mist coming from under the bathroom door. He smelled floral perfume. That uncoiling sensation from a moment earlier hit him again — lower in anatomy now.
He tugged the blankets aside, making a landing zone on the sheets. He wondered what she’d be wearing when she returned to the bedroom.
It was then that his phone trilled. He glanced at caller ID and answered. “’Lo?”
The bathroom door opened and slim young Cherise came out. In answer to his earlier question to himself, she was wearing nothing at all. He patted the bed and turned back to the phone, on which Nicole was saying, “Trevor, I’m sorry it’s late. But I have to talk to you.”
“Oh, I was up,” he said, winking at Cherise, who giggled softly.
“We may have an issue.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m at the Union Club.”
An exclusive private venue in Midtown.
She continued, “There’s this courtesy thing, with wait staff and service workers and bartenders. I read that Kessler is a member of the club, so I asked around and found out I knew one of the waiters. He got me in the back door. I talked to some of the staff. I was asking if Kessler comes in often, if anybody’d seen him. He hasn’t, not recently. But a waiter here was telling me that it was curious. Somebody else was asking about Kessler yesterday. A reporter for some blog. He was here as a guest. The waiter didn’t know who he was but he described him. Short, rumpled suit, and balding.”
“Goddamn it. Daniel Leavitt.”
The man’s All the News blog was one that had scooped him several times.
“Maybe he’s heard the plot rumors too,” Nicole said.
“We’ll have to move fast. Let’s move up our meeting tomorrow. Can you do eight?”
“Sure. Oh, one other thing. I heard there’s talk that Leavitt’s using people to spy on his competitors. You ever hear that?”
“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Scumbag.” Powers’s eyes slipped from Cherise’s breasts to her backpack. He noted her phone and a tablet peeking out. Was she recording? Hell, what had he said just now? He thought back. No, he hadn’t mentioned Kessler or the story. Good.
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He disconnected.
Cherise was looking at him seductively and licking her own finger.
Powers winced. “Honey, I’m sorry. Something’s not sitting well, from dinner.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I’m feeling fine. We split the same quinoa burger.”
“Good. But, well, I’m a bit older. The system isn’t what it used to be. You mind calling Uber?”
“I guess not.”
“There’s a good girl.”
Nicole arrived at his office the next morning, promptly at eight, and Powers noted at once that something was different about her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She deposited a heavy carton on his desk and sat. She pulled her coat off but kept it curled on her lap.
“Somebody’s been following me, I think. I’m not sure. Just, something I sense. A shadow behind me. I stop and they stop.”
“You see who?”
“No. Not clearly. Dark clothes. I was pretty freaked out. I jumped in a cab and lost them, I’m sure. But it might mean Kessler knows everything.”
Powers looked out the window onto the bright streets of the Village and saw nothing suspicious. Still, he said, “I think it’s a good idea if you went underground for a while. Move out of your apartment. And take some time off work, your other job.”
“I can’t afford that, Trevor.”
“I’ll pay. Get a hotel. At least for a few weeks, until we see what happens.”
“I suppose I could.”
He wrote her a check for two thousand dollars, handed it over. “In a way, this is good news. For both of us.”
“What do you mean?” she asked doubtfully.
“It proves we’re on to something big.” He nodded at the carton. “If I can find out what, it’ll push our circulation through the roof. You’ll be associated with the most influential blog in the country.”