MY TELEPROMPTER IS DEADLY

Excerpts from the new Inspector Dan Rather Mystery by David Burge

It was a slow September night in Manhattan. The kind of sweaty summer night where the mean streets of Gotham run wild with the shadowy scum of the Republican National Convention. The kind of night where mysteries are born. The kind of night I live for.

My name is Rather. And I’m a dick.

I stabbed out a Lucky into my Watergate Hotel ashtray, a sentimental little souvenir I picked up after my first big scoop (Dan Rather #1 - the Case of the Phantom CREEPs), and peered through the Venetian blinds of my 53rd Street office. I polished the lens on my camera.

It had been over a year since my last big investigation, a nasty little blackmail plot against an eccentric Baghdad Hills tycoon (Dan Rather #24: The Tikrit Orchid), and rent was overdue. I needed a scoop, and I needed one fast. My rabbit foot was working, because a scoop soon came waltzing through the door. In silk stockings.

“Gotta light, handsome?” asked the 32-30-41 silhoutte leaning on the frame.

Mapes. I hadn’t seen her since Dan Rather #27 - The Secret of Abu Ghraib. She was a dangerous dame with dangerous gams – and a nose for Republican plots.

“Hello, Mary,” I sneered, pushing back the rim of my fedora with a Sony microphone.

“’Smatter, Daniel? I thought you’d happy to see me,” she purred, filing her nails.

“Happy ain’t the word, doll. You’re lucky I didn’t drop you like a bad habit after you burned me on the Lynndie England caper. You gotta case for me, or is this strictly a…. social call?”

“All of the above, Danny Boy. Got time for a little gossip?”

“Depends on the gossip-ee, I suppose.”

“Suppose I told you it concerned a little mumble-mouth guy from Texas.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Do the words ‘Texas Air National Guard’ ring a bell?”

“You know my fee, doll. Twenty-five grand a broadcast, plus expenses.”

I poured a hot cup of muddy joe into my CBS News logo cup. It was going to be a long night.

*************************

Burkett had the gaunt, hollow look of a man who had crossed paths with Bush crew. I knew it far too well. He was scared, and would probably clam up if I didn’t turn the screws.

“Where did you get these memos?” I demanded.

“An Air Force Admiral. She was a, um, Mexican dame… yeah… Lucy Ricardo,” he stammered. “That’s it, yeah. She smuggled the papers to me in… uh… a bottle of Vita-meata-vegamin.”

That was all I needed. I called HQ and booked a segment on Sixty Minutes II.

“And she had a friend name Ethel,” he added. "An a conga band."

****************************

Although Lt. Kurtz was a media cop, I knew he wanted the Bush gang on ice as bad as me. I decided to confront him, point blank.

“Give it to me straight, flatfoot,” I demanded. “What in the name of Edward R. Murrow is going on here?”

“I’m saying you’ve been played like a pawn shop fiddle, Rather. Set up. Conned. Slipped a mickey.”

“What are you implying Kurtz?”

“Snookered. Bamboozled. Flimflammed. They sold you a first class ticket to the Palookaville snipe hunt on the Gullible Express.”

“And so you’re saying….”

“You’ve been duped, Danny. Fooled. Had. You were wedgied, pantsed, and paraded around town in your skidmarked B.V.D.s. ”

“Stop talking in code, Howie,” I snapped. “I need the truth!”

“Oh for crissakes, read the freaking blogs, Rather!” he snapped.

Hmm… ‘blogs’… it echoed around my mind... who, or what, were these ‘blogs’ he hinted about? Playing a hunch, I booked a berth on the next Zephyr to L.A.

*************************

I bulldogged the wheel of my Hudson down Topanga Canyon, its whitewalls squealing a noisy complaint as I skidded through its treacherous curves. Johnson’s Schwinn Black Phantom was fast, but no match for my Hornet straight-8 flathead. I sped alongside and threw my door into the frantically pedaling hophead, and set him flying down an embankment in his green zoot-suit. I slid down and put him in a half-nelson.

“Going somewhere, Charlie?” I asked. “See, I’m looking for a tutor. Somebody who knows something about … ‘Microsoft Word.’”

“Cheese it, fuzz, I know my rights,” he mumbled. I cranked the armlock tighter, and not just for persuasion. Johnson played in several jazz combos and there was a good chance he might be juiced on reefer pills.

“Cut the cute stuff, wise guy! Who is Power Line? Who is Captain Ed? What in the hell is a kern?”

Johnson began laughing uncontrollably. It was obvious he was on narcotics, and he would have to sleep it off before he would talk, and then...

The blunt thud of the blackjack rang in my ears, A sharp pain.

Lights out.

*************************

“Rise and shine, meester Rather,” came the familiar voice echoing through the opium haze. “Eets playtime for leetle network gumshoes.”

“Allahpundit,” I mumbled, clutching the welt throbbing at the back of my skull. “I should’ve smelled your pachouli all over this caper. What’s up with the pajamas? They’re almost as ugly as you are.”

“Oh Danny, my friend, why do you be so mean to me? I always be nice to you,” he pouted, tossing back the tassel on his fez as he took another sickly-sweet drag from the hookah. “I even brought you a leetle playmate.”

I didn’t have to look for him. The ice-cold steel of the cowbell jabbing into my ribcage was the unmistakable calling card of Allahpundit’s sadistic goon, Ace.

“Who put you up to this?” I grimaced… “INDC? Buckhead?”

“Shut your yap, Rather,” said Ace, cuffing me with the butt of his cowbell. “We’re in the interviewer seat now.”

I clenched my jaw when I saw a new interrogator enter the filthy room, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. God, no... it was Goldstein.

***************************

“Let me get this straight, Professor,” I pushed, “you claim you’ve never received a single telegram from the White House? The RNC?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” he sighed, lazily tamping his meerschaum pipe.”May I offer you a glass of brandy? It’s an excellent vintage.”

Oh, yeah, this Reynolds character was good. It was clear how he rose to the top of the Blog underworld.

“No thanks Professor, I only drink when I’m happy. By the way, those pajamas… where did you get them?”

“A, heh… gift from the InstaWife,” he said, a slight twitch in his voice.

“Goodness, look at the time,” he interjected. “If you’ll excuse me, I have examinations to grade. Please allow me to see you to the door, Inspector.”

“Just one more thing, Professor,” I said as we reached the tiled portico. “Do you know why Tennessee fans wear orange?”

“You seem to know quite a bit, Inspector,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Perhaps you can tell me.”

“Saturday for the game, Sunday for huntin’, and weekdays to pick up trash in the road ditches.”

He slammed the massive door of InstaManor in my face.

***********************

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME

What could the cryptic note from McAuliffe mean? Maybe this caper was finally driving me nuts. It had more turns than a holstein’s digestive tract and more cul-de-sacs than an Orlando subdivision. Even the attack by Frank J's psychotic assassin monkeys made more sense. I stared again at the message, struggling for clues...

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME

An Italian connection? Possibly Berlusconi, but… wait… were my eyes were playing tricks? The message seemed fluid, evanescent, colors fading… yes! How could I have missed it before? McAuliffe had used disappearing ink!

I stared, transfixed, as the risers on the ‘M’ slowly evaporated… It wasn’t ‘ROME.’

It was ROVE.

Comments

[slatts]

That is nothing short of breathtakingly brilliant.

[John in Tokyo]

Genius.

[Kieth]

Good shit, my man...

Nice roundup. This memo business has always sounded a bit "noir" to my ears... Sheesh. I need ta lay off the sauce. Dan may just end up using ME as a "source"...

Damn, that's funny. Perfect!

[Recycler]

Fucking genius!

[Jacqueline]

Hillarious!

[cowboy blob]

Between Dan the Dick, and the Acme Rocket Skates, that's some good stuff!

[Tim P]

I laughed, I cried, I hurled, all over my oh so hot creamy white thighs. Oh no!! I'm channeling Ann Coulter!! Damn, I hate it when that happens.
Uncle Vick musta forgot my meds again. Oh well, great piece, yet again.

[yerbuddyjoe]

The best, great job!

[eieio]

Absolutely brilliant!

[Iron Fist]

I am absolutely hurt you didn't have me beat the living shit out of him ;-)

[m]

More! More!
"Its whitewalls squealing a noisy complaint" caused severe hyperventilation.

I have nothing but awe for you, iowahawk. OMG.

[Runner Rick]

Absolutely brilliant! Thanks!

[TEM]

So, that is the frequency!

[Josh]

wow! This is hilarious, good job

[Jeff G]

I always slather my rubber gloves in squeeze butter, then roll them in ground fiberglass. I find such a procedure makes the interrogation more...piquant...

[Joshua Scholar]

We're so unworthy!

[julie]

Oh, please, there has to be more!

[hillbilly geek]

Wonderful! Your best yet.

Now, how about something from Frank Herbert....
after all, dare I say it, she is the...
Shadout Mapes!

[moflicky]

"juiced on reefer pills"

ah, memories....

[moflicky]

hey, my name isn't 'Hillbilly geek'

although I am one....

call me moflicky

[moflicky]

oops, what an idiot i am. sorry ;)

note to self, look below, not above your post.

[tenneck]

...damn funny. Right up until you had to take a potshot at us Tennesseans. We vote Bush for God's sake.

OK. It was still funny.

:D

[bill]

AWESOME...!!! laughing my ass off!!!