Читать книгу The Crooked Bullet - Rotimi Ogunjobi - Страница 5

Dynoooomite!!

The wide-mouthed black youth looked like J.J. Walker from the old-time TV series Good Times. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and doing a mime to Ex-Man’s remix of Tony Camillo’s Dynomite on MTV. Frank O’Dwyer woke up to find the time was ten o’clock. He was horrified. When you had a boss who didn’t like you very much, and you woke up at ten o” clock on Monday morning, you knew dead cert that your ass was already grass.

Frank had fallen asleep on the couch, as he realized. An open can of Guinness was spilled on the carpet. He had no recollection of when he had popped the can or switched on the TV; he also couldn’t tell for certain how he had got home last night. It had been really a hell of a gig and a demon or two were still trapped in his head, hacking away with sharp axes and picks. Frank picked up his mobile phone and called his office at East End Mirror.

“Ellen, I am going to be a bit late this morning, I am not feeling so well,” he told Ellen Wescott, the secretary.

“Frank, you had a meeting scheduled for nine-thirty with Spencer, and He’s hopping mad. Better come in as soon as you can, but I think you’re dead meat already”, Ellen told him.

Frank’s heart sank. It was the day of the monthly departmental meeting with his boss Spencer Cowley aka The Beast; who also owned the East End Mirror newspaper. As the journalist who handled the crime beat, Frank’s absence wouldn’t go unnoticed, at least not by Spencer who seemed quite lately to have a special place in his heart for him - a place where poisons were kept.

David Fernandez would be there of course. David was the bespectacled young Indian rookie journalist who presently covered the trivia departments and the cocktail circuit. David was okay really - quite friendly and efficient. He was also very unnaturally gifted with computers, and so prodigiously prolific that Frank suspected the little guy had programmed his computer to crank out fake stories.

David did remind him of a long time foe Phil Jenner, who used to work with The Independent but had somehow just disappeared; like fallen off the face of the earth. Phil Jenner had been quite a terror to Frank’s life because Spencer Cowley always compared Frank’s puny effort to the prodigious Phil Jenner. And so prolific had Phil Jenner been that it appeared he manufactured his own stories – like when he wanted to report a murder, he just went off and killed somebody. But somehow he disappeared, and life had since then become more bearable for Frank – until David Fernandez showed up. Later though, Frank had learned to his shame that David Fernandez just made more creative use of Google and Yahoo! Frank had afterward learned to live amicably with David since their tasks rarely encroached.

Somewhere along the line though, Spencer had determined that newspapers thrived more on gossip and trivia than on real news and thus had David become to be much more seriously reckoned with at the East End Mirror. And as David grew in importance so had Frank begun to feel his own relevance diminished. In his nightmares, the little Indian guy now played a significantly menacing role, and as a matter of fact, Frank suspected that David was being prepared to take over from him in the event of his demise, which now seemed quite near.

Never one to distress nevertheless, Frank took off his seven-inch wide plaque which said MC Wire, had a quick shower, coffee, a burnt buttered toast, and eventually set out for work. Trevor “The Mad Scientist” Cook, his tandem deejay act, did bring him home last night, he knew. Trevor had just bought a new BMW, and they’d together taken it for a spin to Brighton for a gig along with two mad West Indian chicks and two cases of wine. Pity he couldn’t now remember the girls” names.

The sun seemed unusually bright and hot this morning; shining with such intense malice. The entire world seemed to jog along sluggishly around him like gargantuan mobile Dali sculptures. Frank’s flat was mere minutes from Hackney Central, which was not too crowded at this time. From there he caught a bus to the office of the East End Mirror, located in Shoreditch, ten minutes away.

It was an open-plan office containing ten cubicles on either side of a central aisle. A conference room, as well as the office of the proprietor Spencer Cowley, was at the far end. Frank slipped in quietly, said a quick hello to Fernandez with whom he shared a cubicle. Frank had barely sat down at his desk when Spencer Cowley breezed by. He is a burly man with fat jowls and a booming voice

“Could you come with me for a little chat Frank,” he said, without a pause in his steps and without looking in his direction. Frank noted that nobody was looking in his direction either. The greetings this morning had been quite lukewarm all around - something heavy definitely seemed expected.

Frank found Spencer in the small conference room at the end of the corridor which ran the entire length of the office. Everyone remembered the room as the place where major negotiations were made: such as hiring, promotion, ass-kicking, and firing. Spencer was smoking a cigar when Frank came in, and Frank felt an irresponsible urge to point to the No Smoking sign on the wall. An irresponsible urge because here at the East End Mirror, Spencer Cowley, owner, Chief Executive, and Chief Editor was the law.

“Good morning Spencer. Sorry I was late. I wasn’t feeling well this morning when I woke up”, Frank apologized.

“Oh, of course, yes, and I guess I am the cause of it, isn’t that right? Especially as this happens so frequently. Frank, what do you think this place is about?” Spencer didn’t sound amused.

Frank grimaced. He had a very bad headache which was presently being exacerbated by Spencer’s loud voice. He looked away into the clear glass tabletop and doodled nervously on it with a finger.

“Frank, do you honestly think this newspaper is a joke?” Spencer asked, puffing violently on his cigar like a mad marijuana fiend. Frank thought this a trick question and safely kept quiet. Besides, his head hurt like hell.

“Let me put it another way, Frank, do you honestly enjoy working here?”

Against common sense, Frank this time around had an irresponsible impression that Spencer genuinely had his best interest at heart; like your anxious mother hassling you for spending the whole night out at a party. Frank looked away into the clear glass table and doodled nervously on the top with a finger.

“No I don’t enjoy working here, Spencer”, he truthfully replied; and this did somehow make him feel good.

“So why don’t you be man enough about it then and quit?” Spencer said to him, and this made Frank feel bad.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to say that” Frank apologized. Too late though; he found Spencer looking into his eyes with contrived pity, slowly and very sadly shaking his head.

“I’m sorry I’ve got to let you go Frank”, Spencer said to him; and this made Frank feel a lot worse. He tried to feel man enough about it nevertheless.

“Don’t I get any kind of notice?”

“Your contract entitles you to one month's notice Frank, but never mind. I have signed you a check for the next month, and you can leave today”, Spencer told him, offering a sweaty handshake.

“If you need references, I will be pleased to give you some. I’ve already given Ellen a check for you, and you may collect it immediately. Good luck Frank”.

Frank returned to his desk and silently began to empty the drawers. The entire office seemed unusually quiet and busy around him. He felt angry with them all, with Spencer Cowley and most of all with himself for handing Spencer the perfect excuse to throw him out, right on a golden platter. It hadn’t been a great job, but it paid the bills. Ellen came around a few minutes later with his check.

“He’s in a hellish mood today, innit?” She commiserated.

“Yeah, well it’s got to happen one day; and I guess the sooner, the better,” Frank puts up his brave front.

Fernandez came over, cautiously.

“Wat happened over there Frank?” he worriedly asked.

“Just lost my job. I guess you will be doing the crime watch circuit all by yourself for a while unless Spencer has found a replacement for me yet.” Frank wheezed.

“That’s awful. What are you going to do now Frank?” Fernandez sounded genuinely concerned.

“I don’t know yet. You never plan to lose your job, I believe, or do you? I’ll get by somehow, I am sure.” Frank shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m happy you can think like that. It’s all really no more than just a job, see? Just hang on to that truth and you won’t feel so bad anymore” Ellen advised.

“Thanks, Ellen,” Frank said to her and signed the voucher for his check.

“Good luck Frank, we’re going to miss you” Ellen shook his hand

“Going to really miss you, Bro. I know we didn’t get along so well on some issues, but I really think you are a great guy. Namaste.” Fernandez also emotionally took his hand.

Frank emptied much of the contents of his desk into the bin. They were mostly half-written stories that were long dead. This completed, he left the office of East End Mirror, giving one last tired salute at the door, and his few prized possessions in a little box under his arm. Spencer Cowley standing menacingly in the middle of the news office returned the salute.

Frank caught a bus home from Shoreditch to Hackney Central, looking pensively out of the window all through the journey. At Hackney Central, he bought some fruits from a stall and walked to his flat which was about two hundred yards away.

It was still just around midday. He found it strange and a really confusing experience to be home at this time of the day.

Frank put the fruits in the fridge, took out a can of Guinness, and lay on the sofa to watch MTV. The Ex-Man’s newly released video was still getting prime-time play treatment. Every time he heard the song, he always got this feeling that he knew the voice even though it had been passed through a synthesizer. But then a lot of rap often sounded quite like the same, unless you were doing it in some patent way like Snoop Dogg or even like Grandmaster Flash, who he very much thought was the boss. Frank soon drifted off to sleep.

There were three missed calls on his phone when he woke up. He dialed his voice mail. There was one message from Trevor:

“How are you doing, Frankie? You did have quite a skinful last night, didn’t you? Talk later” [click]. The second message brought him fully awake.

“Hi Frankie, it’s me Nancy. You’ll call me back, will you? [Click]”. No, he wouldn’t. Nancy Hughes was an old flame, who had house stepped on her foot three weeks ago at a rave party. Life had a way of working funny new habits into lonely people’s lives because as much as Frank had ever known, Nancy was chronically agoraphobic and would rather watch a golf game on television than from the middle of a mile wide green. That was how shocked he had been to find Nancy at a rave, where six dozen lunatics were getting smashed on cheap booze and screaming above the deafening music.

The third was from his mum in Manchester, wanting to make sure that he was still wearing clothes and not walking around naked in the night like all those hooligans. Now, Frank knew this was an important message, and if he didn’t reply to his mum’s call, she would probably come knocking on his door the next morning. So Frank called mum and assured her yes, he still was wearing clothes; no he wasn’t wearing manacles around his neck; no he wasn’t smoking pot yet, and yes He’s still got a job - the last one being now a lie.

He returned to watching television. Again the video of an EX-MAN rap rendition of Herbie Hancock’s “Chameleon” was playing on MTV. He liked it.