Tampa Bay Noir
- Автор: Аткинс Эйс, Bancroft Colette
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Akashic Books
- ISBN: 978-1-61775-951-2
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Tampa Bay Noir». Краткое содержание книги:
“We’ve been jammed with so much, trying to get our TV show back on the air,” Buck apologized. “I’ve just been so slammed with so many things.”
I said it was no problem. The sun streaked past my passenger window. “What do you have to do to get your show back on the air?” I said. I figured entertaining his fantasy was the best way to ingratiate myself.
“Oh, just... when you’re working with twenty-five syndicators, it’s a daily grind to get everything set up,” he said.
“That’s a lot of syndicators. Can you name some of them?”
“We’re going into eighty-some-odd markets,” he said. “But I’ll, uh, fill you in on everything. Just let me get through December and I’ll talk to you, okay?”
“You know, I talked to Jim West from the Walk TV,” I lied. “He said he would be happy to have you back on the network, but that you owe them money, and would have to negotiate a new contract.”
“We’re dealing with another syndicator,” said Buck. “One of the major networks.”
“I thought there were twenty-five syndicators? Is there only one? Which one are you working with?”
“I’ll talk to you about it in January, hon. Everything will be up and running by then.”
“You know, I talked to your landlord, Carol, too. I know that you’re in the middle of eviction proceedings, so I’m wondering what’s going on with that.”
“I’ll talk to you in January.”
“You owe her about the same amount that you’re asking for in the Battles — $64,000. You’re asking for $65,000 in the Battles. Is that related?”
He hung up.
I knew from Google Maps that his mansion sat at the end of a cul-de-sac in a double-gated golf course community. I parked across the street from the entrance and leaned on the hood of my car. There was no way I could drive up to it; I would have to sneak in. Given that Buck was dodging me again, showing up at his door now could seem like escalation, a threat. I decided to get a room and regroup. I expected him to e-mail me that night, anyway, since I had baited him. The truth was, his landlord had refused to speak with me. I wasn’t surprised; I knew from social media that she was a Trump supporter. When I’d asked her whether she believed in Hill’s work, whether she and Buck had a “personal friendship,” she’d said it was none of my business.
No official motion had been made on his eviction in several days. This led me to believe that she didn’t really want him out; she just wanted her money. Maybe she believed his lies about syndication. Maybe she agreed with his views on Muslims, Oprah, abortion, and salvation.
Some part of me was beginning to sympathize with Buck. I could almost ignore his hateful messaging and see him for who he was: an insolvent, weak, lonely has-been. I related to his moral certitude, but tendency to violate his own moral code. I related to his failure, but determination to keep trying against all odds. I almost, in spite of myself, felt like reaching out to him and saying, Here, let me help you be less of a fuck-up. Then again, he might not have wanted my help. Maybe he believed himself a martyr.
I checked into the Sunrise Motel, advertising fifty cable channels, a mini fridge, and low rates. A wreath of dead leaves hung above the bulletproof glass of the check-in window, beside an American flag. Next door was a liquor store that I planned to hit up as soon as I changed out of my dirty clothes. My car was one of two in the lot. The other was missing a back window. I needed a nap.
The walls of the room were concrete blocks, painted white and unadorned. The bedspread was the color of red tide. I was checking the mattress for bedbugs when Buck’s first e-mail came in. I scrolled until I reached it — he had not waited for me to respond before sending others, each spiraling deeper. Who are you? he demanded. First... I am NOT being evicted. Second... why would you be calling my landlord? Wht is your real goal? Issue?.. If we are to move forward??
His messages were riddled with snark and jabs at my intelligence, and sarcastic turns of phrase: FYI, LOL, Obviously you are very ingenious.
Outside, the sun was setting fast over a blighted intersection crawling with souls of little faith. I decided to hold off reading any more of Buck’s e-mails until he was done being mad at me, but my phone kept vibrating in my pocket, and each time I felt it, my pulse quickened. I hated when people were mad at me, even people I hated. I asked the liquor store clerk where the Scotch was, and opened my phone in the back corner. Interesting, Buck said. Spoke to Mi-Seon?.. Spoke to Shelly?.. Mike? Key $ man David?
I took note of these names.
He insisted that the Live Crusade’s monthly operating budget for the last nine years had been $65,000, that the bulk was balled bandwidth — though it was obvious to me, and anyone taking even a cursory look, that he was using no bandwidth.
I paid for my Dewar’s and carried it out in a paper bag. Back in the room, I brought it to the bathtub, where the squawk of Trump’s voice penetrated the wall from the next unit. A murderous fantasy overtook me and I thought about my ex-boyfriend, how proud of himself he must be now, seeing that horny toad’s face every day. I hadn’t even told him about my abortion. I’d paid for it with my own credit card and had lied about leaving town for two days to report on a story. “I’m a feminist,” he had told me. “I just think that a man should have some say, if he’s the father.”
I smiled imagining telling him now, imagining stabbing Trump in the face and, as he died, holding up a picture of the thirteen-year-old he’d raped, tossing money at him for an abortion as I was leaving.
Buck was still e-mailing me.
...btw... throw Hinn... Jakes... and the rest of the prosperity pimps on Christian TV with Osteen, he said. I would never worry about money again if I took their path to preaching/fleecing the choir...
Poor baby.
I actually live and believe all I teach... and one day... like each one... will stand before God..
Then, to my surprise, he said, Chat with you in Jan...
I went back to Buck’s Facebook. The sun had set and the Sunrise was filling up, all of the windows coming alive. Next door, someone was getting fucked or murdered. I turned up the TV. Buck and I had a friend in common: the mother of a person I’d dated briefly in high school. The family identified as Messianic Jews, or “Jews for Jesus”: ethnically Jewish, but evangelically Christian. This manifested in curious ways. One day, my boyfriend built a didgeridoo out of some old PVC pipe. He was playing it in the kitchen and his mom came to listen.
“After a while, it kind of puts you into a trance,” said my boyfriend.
“Then you have to stop,” said his mother. Her expression was fearful. “That’s how the devil gets in.”
Two years after we broke up, when my ex was seventeen, he married a fifteen-year-old girl from the next street over. Twelve years later, they were divorced with five children. His social media was now a scrolling advertisement for misogyny. Ladies, this is how you take care of your man! Another woman coming at me!
I often wondered why I was still virtually connected with him. Maybe I recognized his rage as suffering. I suspected the problem was an undiagnosed illness, though that seemed insulting to people with illnesses, and could be letting him off too easily. I knew via rumor that his ex had taken out an injunction for protection against him after he’d tried to strangle her in the shower. Afterward, he got another girl pregnant and beat her into having a miscarriage.