“Better than your last one at CBS, I hope” he said before taking a long draft. He belched and after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand said, “What’s the scoop?”
Elia felt the drill of his eyes, chasing more. Spurred on by Simon, she had emailed her resignation into Close-up the night Mandrake’s story went to air. When the credits scrolled past her name as assistant researcher, she couldn’t help but squirm and found it hard to look him in the face. While she couldn’t unmake that snippet of history, she wasn’t proud of it and wouldn’t remain part of it.
“It’s a deeper trawl into Isabel’s past… about what made her. But it’ll only be ready to go to air after the election. So if Clemens wins, it’ll be ‘the woman thankfully behind the turkey’ story.”
“If Foster wins?”
She shrugged. “Why the slimy shit shouldn’t have.”
31
AFTER THREE WEEKS, Karim Ahmed was still holed up in the Philadelphia hideaway with his same four friends. The dilapidated row house was smack in the middle of Strawberry Mansion, near the east bank of the Schuylkill River. This place didn’t look like the birthplace of the nation, not today. There were no mansions either, but plenty of decay. Row after rundown row, many houses had been abandoned and boarded up, and others with broken shutters were flapping to signal that someone was home, but wishing home was somewhere else.
Karim was making cheese sandwiches for lunch. “I’m tired of hiding,” he said peeling the plastic wrap off the sunlight yellow slices he’d bought at the mini market down the block.
By the sink, Abdul was twisting the creaking faucet with a wrench to run some water for a cup of tea. “Soon, my friend,” he said. “It is good there is enough money.”
Mohammed walked in, carefully, over the cracked, lifting floor tiles. He snaffled a portion of cheese from the packet.
Their street was in a district with a Muslim flavour, though largely black Muslim. Around here, welfare was the biggest employer.
“We go tomorrow,” Karim said.
32
“YEAH, IT’S A promo for some stoopid new TV show.” The thick Bronx accent sashayed from a short, skin-headed man. “Some clever-dick guy upstairs dreamt it up so, by definition, it’s brilliant. They gives me tree hours, yeah, tree. What, like I’m a magician? I ain’t got that many people on call, which is how come I need you guys. So how many messengers you got you can send me?” he asked, drumming his fingers on top of the latest issue of The Economist.
He made a few notes on a pad and continued, “So to repeat, you’ll send sixty—that’s six-zero—guys here in plenty time to make all my drops, all over Manhattan at 17:25 on the button… Yeah, I said 17:25… You think I don’t know that’s rush hour? Listen, bro, I’m not the fat cat genius who thunk this up… Cool it, man. Don’t shoot the messenger… Okay, you’re the messenger—it’s an expression. Now listen… If any of your guys ain’t at the drops by 17:25, they don’t get no money… Yeah, the packages are ready… The pick-up? Don’t you listen? It’s, like, where I told you… Yeah, that’s it… Where? Christ, dude, where do you think...? Okay, it’s just east over the Queensboro Bridge in Long Island City. Yeah, off 21st Street, a warehouse with a Big SatTV sign out front… your guys can’t miss it… What…? No, our people’ll be there to collect orright. The TV broadcasts go live at 17:35 so if our guys ain’t at the drops at 17:25 to get the packs from your people, they’ll be dead meat, so don’t you worry… See ya.” He terminated the call with a sinister grin.
“Dead meat. Great joke, Dwayne,” his companion Gary laughed.