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told him he should probably take a shower soon, but he had no time for that now. He
scrubbed under his arms with a wet face towel, then gave them each two swipes of
deodorant to cover up the funk. He slipped on the first pair of jeans he found on the floor
of his room and a blue T-shirt from the pile on his bed that looked passably clean. There
was a tiny spot of blood on the chest from the little bar scuffle he'd gotten into the other
night, but the shirt was dark enough that it was hardly noticeable. Besides, that was what
a jacket was for.
On his way out, the phone in the pocket of his jeans began to vibrate. Probably his
boss again, wondering where the hell he was. But as the pleasant hazy feeling from the
Vicodin began to sweep over him, he decided to ignore it.
* * * *
Jack parked his motorcycle a few blocks from the Red Dragon Bar because he
couldn't find a spot any closer. He'd been to the bar a few times, but it had never been
packed on a weeknight. The college kids, punks, slumming yuppies, and hoodrats looking
for hook-ups were nowhere to be seen tonight. Instead, the place was swarming with
cops, their police mobiles parked in the middle of the street like they couldn't give a rat's
ass about blocking traffic. There was also an ambulance, a fire truck, and a couple of
news vans. Gary Stevens, a correspondent he used to work with, spotted him and gave
him a nod of acknowledgment.
Bemused, Jack found himself nodding back. What the hell was NBC doing here?
Shit, maybe he shouldn't have hung up so quickly on Harry. He tried to remember what it
was that his boss had barked in his ear and the words that echoed back to him were
 sunken and  ship. At the time he'd been a little fuzzy with sleep not to mention hung
over so he didn't really think to ask Harry to clarify. Harry was always sending him on
bullshit jobs. That was what he and his team specifically covered: bullshit. Each week,
they produced a segment featuring crackpots and charlatans living in the Chicago area for
a local news station and gleefully busted each and every one of them on live TV. Last
week, it was a psychic dog. The week before that, it was a woman who could read your
future from the cellulite on your butt.
It was gutter-work for a guy who sported a Peabody award on his mantel, but shit, it
paid the rent. And the booze.
 Yo, Jack!
His head automatically pivoted toward the direction of the voice calling him and he
found his cameraman and production assistant across the street, standing to the side of the
bar and distinctly out of the way. Kenny Hardaway lowered his camera from his shoulder
and waved him over. Jack sighed. Reaching into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket,
he pulled his pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, and crossed the street,
squeezing his lean body between the gridlocked cars.
 What the hell's going on, man?
 'Bout time you got here, bossman. Kenny produced a lighter out of his pocket and
touched the flame to the end of Jack's cigarette.  Fucking pandemonium breaking loose
all over the place. He jerked his head toward the bar.  Crowded as hell in there. A
goddamn mouse wouldn't be able to squeeze in. Good thing the talent's stuck in traffic or
she'd be whining about not being able to get in.
Kenny was barely out of college, but was the most brilliant A/V guy Jack had ever
worked with. At five-five, he barely came up to Jack's shoulders, but carried himself with
the confidence of a much bigger guy. He was dressed in the urban style favored by white
kids who grew up watching MTV: baggy jeans, oversized yellow windbreaker, hundred
dollar sneakers, and neon-blue goggles resting atop his heavily-gelled, spiky red hair. As
ridiculous as he looked, Jack knew he could throw down if necessary. He once had to
spring the kid out of jail for beating the shit out of a guy twice his size.
Jack drew heavily on his cigarette and nodded toward the uniforms interviewing the
bystanders and the people being attended to by the EMTs.  Harry babbled something
about a sunken ship appearing out of nowhere like a David Copperfield trick. Did
anybody get squished? Even as he heard himself say the words, Jack couldn't quite
believe he said them. The whole thing was so surreal.
 No, but that would have made good copy. Standing next to Kenny, Jack's PA blew
on her hands and a puff of air plumed out of her mouth.  All the injuries were idiots
running out of the bar in a stampede and stepping on each other.
Tiff Olsen was a black-haired, heavyset girl with a giant chip on her shoulder and a
view of the world that was even more cynical than Jack's. Tonight she was wearing a
burgundy sweater, a knee-length black skirt, black fishnet stockings, and black combat
boots. Over the outfit was a black trench coat that swallowed even her chubby frame.
Kohl eyeliner and artificially long and thick eyelashes that reminded Jack of spiders
framed her deep green eyes. Her lush mouth, which was set in a perpetual frown, was a
deep purple. Completing the look was a tiny silver barbell that bisected one pencil-thin
eyebrow and a silver hoop that hung from her left nostril. Kenny once told her she would
be prettier if she didn't have all that junk on her face and received a slap for his trouble.
Jack gave the twosome a measuring look and took another drag of his cigarette.
 Guys, level with me here. How the hell did it happen? Could this be a publicity stunt
and they built the thing inside? How big is it?
 Overheard a uniform saying it's a twenty-foot fishing boat or something. His
cameraman pulled out a notebook from the pocket of his windbreaker and flipped it open.
 It has a name, too. SS Kiyo. Shit, if it's got a name, it's gotta be registered somewhere,
right?
Jack shrugged. At this point, he really didn't know what to think. It had to be a hoax
of some kind. It was just a matter of figuring out how it was done. He had never come
across a  miracle that he couldn't expose for the scam that it was.  We'll have to look it
up, see if it's an actual boat that sank somewhere. If it's for real, it will have a history.
We'll talk to the owner of the bar, see what we can shake loose. He flashed his teeth at
his crew.  We'll solve this one, kids, don't worry.
Tiff made a sound of exasperation.  Jack, Kenny and I canvassed the crowd while
we were waiting for you. You know what they told us? The fucking thing really did just [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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