Farewell, My Producer

Excerpts from the new Inspector Dan Rather mystery by David Burge

It was a quiet cold Monday at Black Rock. Too quiet, I thought, slowly polishing the lens on my trusty Sony VC6809. New York is not the kind of town that likes to keep secrets, and my tingling senses told me that somewhere in Gotham somebody was spilling some beans. And in my line of work, you get to know deep down in your gut those beans have a habit of being silent - but deadly.

My name is Rather. And I'm a dick.

I had just finished the final teleprompter read-through on the Alberto Gonzales caper (Dan Rather #31: The Sadist Wore a Sombrero) when a familiar figure sauntered into the studio.

"Look what the cat drug in," I smiled. "What brings you down to the salt mines, Captain Moonves?"

Moonves and I were once tighter than two cousins in a Kentucky hayloft. I helped show him the ropes at Black Rock back when he was a green rookie straight out of the programming academy, but lately I sensed tension between us after the release of the Nielsen Report (Dan Rather #29: The Case of the Missing Viewers).

"Can the wisecracks, newsreader," he sneered. "You've got a little date with Commissioner Thornburgh downtown."

"Gee, maybe I should buy a corsage. Sorry, Lester. I'm washing my hair."

"No dice, Dan-O. They've got the goods on you this time, and you better check that smart mouth of yours at the door."

"Aw, nuts Les. You know I'm busy following lead in the big Quagmire Caper. Tell Thornburgh to schedule it through my secretary, Mary Mapes."

"Dan," he paused, taking a breath. "Mary's... gone."

No - no - not Mary...

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

Thornburgh peeled off his tortoise shell glasses and gave me a blank stare.

"We've been through this several times now, Rather," he sighed. "The evidence was fake. Forgeries. Made up from whole cloth. There is no Lucy Ramirez. The entire TxANG case is closed."

"So," I pondered, "you're thinking we need to set up a stakeout in Crawford?"

"Rather," he bellowed, "The Guard letters were on Starbucks stationery, and originally discovered in the trunk of Mary's '99 Hundai. Military officers do not address each other as 'Dude' and 'Bro.' Mary FedExed them to Terry McAuliffe six times for spell checking."

"No speaky Esperanto, Commissioner! What's your angle?"

"You ran the story seven days before contacting document experts, and when you did, they were recruited from a methadone clinic. You spent $47,000 of network money on a schizophrenic man who said he could build a steam-powered word processor and a time machine."

I planted my hands on the desk, and leaned over into Thornburgh's face.

"I see where this is all going, Commissioner. You're in on it too! You're just going to sit there and take it when there is a criminal in high office who stole over 20 XBox systems from Texas National Guard!"

"That's enough, Rather," he growled. "Turn in your microphone. You're suspended."

"Too late Thornburgh. I'm suspending myself, at full pay."

I slammed the door behind me. It looked like this investigation would be strictly freelance.

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

I needed answers and I needed them fast. A little bird told me I smelled a rat, and when my bird smells rats, there's sure to be a red herring around. Herring... I thought. Like in lutefisk. Playing a hunch, I booked the next Northwest Unlimited for Minnesota.

It was raining cats and dogs when the train salamandered into Minneapolis Union Station. I ducked through the Pullman doors, hoping this was not another wild goose chase.

"Dan! Over here!"

It was my old pal Nick Coleman, whom I had telegraphed during a stopover in Toledo. A hardbitten Twin Cities newshound, Nick knew every sleazy nook and cranny in the sewer of the Minnesota blogging underworld.

"What've you got for me Nicky?"

"Seems you've made a few enemies in Swedetown, Danny boy. I thought we might pay a call on two charming fellows that go by the moniker of the Powerline Crew. They've been trying to get my goat for a long time."

"Sounds interesting," I said. "But let's get something to eat. I'm hungry as a horse-eating bear."

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

Hinderaker's eyes followed me as I circled his office, walking through the staccato shadows from the venetian blinds.

"For a lawyer and a banker, you two seem to know a lot about documents," I mused.

"It's part our business," he said, struggling at the ropes. "What are you driving at, gumshoe?"

"Shaddup, shyster!" screamed Nicky, swinging the back of his hand at Hinderaker's defiant face. He missed and tumbled backwards over the mahogany desk, lodging his head into a wastebasket.

"Oh nothing in particular," I answered lazily, picking up a trophy. "What's this? Bush Goon Squad Good Conduct Medal?"

"Time Magazine Blog of the Year," he huffed. This enraged Nicky, who picked up a typewriter and lunged screaming at Hinderaker. Blinded by the steel trashcan wedged on his head, he missed again and crashed through a nearby window.

The time for 'good cop' was over.

"Let's stop playing games," I shouted at his partner Johnson, pulling off his green eye shade. "We both know you chumps are on the take from the Bush boys. Do you expect me to believe you can afford that snazzy Lincoln V-12 on a banker's salary?"

Then it hit me... I was interrogating the wrong Johnson.

Next stop: Hollywood.

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

"Hello Charlie," I demurred, startling the excitable hophead. This was not my first run-in with Johnson, the Topanga Canyon jazz hepcat with a nasty habit for exotic typography.

"Go peddle your papers, Rather," he snarled, tuning his guitar in the empty club. "I didn't have nothin' to do with that Thornburgh report. Those flatfoots didn't even call me to testify."

"Honest Abe here says maybe he can refresh your memory," I said, stuffing a crisp fin into the breast pocket of his Pachuco zoot suit. "I hear reefer goofballs and bicycle tubes are pretty pricey out here in L.A. these days."

The new $5 green hankie did the trick, as the greasy Be Bop sideman started to sing like an animal of some sort that is capable of making musical tones.

"Natch, Jackson..." he paused, looking sideways for stray ears. "You didn't hear it from me, but there's this comic book cat, name of Jimmy Treacher. Word on the street is that he knows something about...the Maltese Space Unicorn."

It's a good thing Johnson finked on his blogworld crony when he did, because he immediately collapsed in laughter, kicking over his electrical guitar amplifier.

"Hollywood Information? Give me the number for a Mr. J. Treacher,"  I asked, peering from the phonebooth as Johnson continued rolling on the filthy jazz club floor in narcotic-fuel hysterics.

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

Another blogger, another dead end. Treacher in the insane asylum. Allahpundit missing. His goons Ace and Goldstein playing the big room at the Flamingo. I knew if I was ever going to get to the bottom of this mystery, it was time to stop fishing in the little fishponds. It was time to start fishing for the 500 pound gorillas. I just needed the right bananas to bait the hook.

At midnight I hopped in my Oldsmobile V8 and drove the barren, winding roads of Long Island to Idlewild airport. I caught the next Douglas DC-3 for Knoxville, Tennessee.

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

"Master Reynolds is unavailable at the moment, he is tending to his orchids," said the butler, slowly closing the massive oaken door of InstaManor. I stuck my size 10 two-tone Oxford cordovan in the jamb.

"Now that's a real funny story, sport," I smiled, gripping the door. "See, I read in the local newspapers that he converted his greenhouse to an aviary."

"That will be all, Chalmondley. Please show Inspector Rather in."

Reynolds. That languid, elegant voice concealed the psychotic criminal mind behind the entire Blog organization.

"May I pour you a cognac, Inspector?" he asked nonchalantly. "I've been testing new cameras all afternoon, and I've worked up a bit of thirst."

"No thanks, Professor. I've come for some answers about Mary Mapes."

"Oh dear, that sordid affair. Nasty business, that," he said, adjusting the lapels of his smoking jacket. "I'm afraid all the answers you seek are in the Thornberg report, Inspector. You should read it. Read the whole thing."

"Just one more question, Professor," I asked, as we slowly descended the mansion's sweeping marble staircase.

"You know I'm always ready to oblige your curiosity, Mr. Rather," he said, motioning for Chalmondley to retrieve my coat.

"What's orange, 100 yards long, and has 148 teeth?"

Reynolds' eyes narrowed.

"I fear I am unable to help you there, Mr. Rather. Do you have a conjecture?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," I said, putting on my fedora. "The front row at Neyland Stadium."

"Heh, Inspector," he snapped. "Heh, indeed. Now, I must bid you... good day."

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

Dragging a river is one of the most gruesome tasks of an investigator. Even if it's for garbage. Witnesses had seen Mary dump a large cardboard box into the Hudson near 53rd Street before she went missing, and I was determined to sift through the evidence no matter what the net dredged up. Mary knew the truth, and somewhere in murky waters was the clue that was finally going to rip the lid off the whole Bush coverup operation.

The first two net-loads that spilled onto the deck of the scow yielded little useable information - hair curlers, control-top granny panties, a DNC phone directory, a soggy copy of Microsoft Word for Dummies. 

The third load: bingo.

"Hey, look at this Mr. Rather," said Cap'n Billy, the scow's jovial drunk skipper. "Some sort of note."

I held it to the moonlight.

Meet Me at Denton's, it read, with a mysterious signature: Wonkette.

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

The dame was sitting alone, in a circular booth, at the back of Denton's D.C. clip joint.

"The elusive heiress Ana Marie Cox, I presume. I thought you blog people stuck together."

"Things are not always as they seem, Inspector," she purred, sidling over to offer me a seat. "Some of us know you've been framed."

She pushed back her flaxen stringy strawberry blond mop, revealing a glistening pair of voluptuous Rubenesque cheekbones that protruded and heaved in the smoky red haze of the narrow tavern.

"Call me Dan," I said. I lit two Luckys and handed her one. "Now suppose you tell me a good story."

"A bedtime story?" she vamped, her cheekbones throbbing colyly. If she weren't so damned sexy - in a plain, pale mousy way - I'd swear those cheekbones look like they just went fifteen rounds against Willie Pep. "Perhaps you'd like to hear one from my extensive collection of 18th Century ribald butt-love tales."

"Slow down, doll. I'll be up to see your etchings soon enough. I need to know the lowdown on the Mapes caper. And how about putting a little powder on those cheekbones? The glare is killing me."

"Okay, Dan," she cooed. "Ever hear the term fake but accurate?"

Fake... but accurate. Now we were getting somewhere.

"Coxie," I murmurred, "This looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Comments

[James]

You are frickin Hillarious!!!

Go hawks by the way from a fellow Iowa alum. Looks like your workshop experience paid off.

[James]

Sorry to post again. But please try to actually write an entire dan rather detective novel. It would sell. I am dead serious. He would be the funniest pulp fiction detective ever!!!

[Patton]

"My name is Rather. And I'm a dick."

Contextual perfection.

[Abu Qa'Qa]

I only wish the Hawk would get an old photo of himself for this blog. Say something from the sixties!

My name is Rather and I'm a dick! ROTFL

[graboy]

Totally brilliant - thank you!!!

[Steve]

You're cookin' with gas, daddy-o! Scott Ott has nothing on you.

[Fitz]

Consensus here in Atlanta is that 148 teeth is a generous estimate.

[Judith]

This was brilliant! Please, puh-lease write more episodes of Inspector Dan, the dick.

[SSG Pooh]

Heh.

Indeed.

Neyland Stadium or Carrier Dome?

[Mr. Dart]

The Knoxville perfesser's response to the Neyland Stadium joke caused coffee to travel through the nose. Thanks Hawk.

[29]

I was hoping for a Wonkette butt-plug and you came through with the perfect money shot.

[Marty]

Can we get this on TV somewhere?

Way too funny.

[tcobb]

You are evil. I laughed so hard that I think I damaged my ribs, and you should have KNOWN this was going to happen. Yes indeed...you did this on purpose. My lawyer will be contacting you soon.

:-)

[Sheryl]

You are the best - and all the SEC/ACC (non-UT) folks I just sent this link to are in agreement with Fitz - 148 is WAY too many.

[Purple Fury]

Glad to see ole Dan R. managed to recover from his earlier misadventures with the ACME rocket skates.

This is awesome, Iowahawk. Thank you!

[LWB]

This was effin' hilarious

[Axel Kassel]

A hit, Sir. A most palpable hit.

[Will Collier]

Heh. Speaking for everybody else who went to SEC schools where the people don't dress like traffic cones, you haff my gwatitude.

One correction, though: Military officers *do* refer to each other as "bro" and "dude"--especially fighter pilots...

[serona]

OH MY HEAD! Fabulous. Nick Berg stuck in a wire trash can! "Chalmondley" ROTFLMAO.

thanks

[serona]

uh, Nick Coleman. Bad gaffe. sorry.

[azul93gt]

"For a lawyer and a banker, you two seem to know a lot about documents,"

You crack me up.

[Dick Nixon]

Mary's '99 Hyundai!! LMAO! NEVER, NEVER, EVER, impugn the character of a high-powered lefty newswoman by saying she putts around in a Korean tin can!! If you're going to slander with fiction, at least give her the dignity of one of those Volvo 4-wheel-drive luxo-wagons.

[Andy]

Real bad gaffe... but its okay :)

The Nick Coleman stuff was especially good. And the InstaManor.

ha

[Bizzy Halder]

Sheer brilliance as usual Hawk.

I second the motion for a complete novel. I'd buy as I have nothing but time on my hands.

Better yet . . . get in touch with the folks at Jib Jab and work this into another one of their classic clips that spread like wildfire over the net. Do it now. I'll pay for this one. Promise.

[Kyda Sylvester]

"Dying's easy; comedy's hard."

How great is this! I hope it's but the first in a series.

[Old Grouch]

Kyda: It's the second! Hit the "Inspector Dan Rather" link below the title.

[Daniel in Brookline]

Brilliant!! I can't wait for the TV miniseries.

[Greg]

ROFLMAO!!!

Excellent as always, Iowahawk. You know, Dave Barry is taking a leave of absence from his column, so I think the country's newspapers need a new humor columnist.

[Probert]

Fine work.

p.s. The orange line of dental destruction could also apply to those folks in Austin. Burnt Orange still being orange, and frankly slightly effete.

[Sir Not Appearing in this Blog]

"A bedtime story?" she vamped, her cheekbones throbbing colyly.

ROTFLMGDFAO. Seriously.

[Bob Huffaker]

Burge's "Farewell" is hilarious. Check out Rather's epigram to the final chapter of When the News Went Live: DALLAS 1963, Taylor Trade ISBN 1589791398

Here, finally, is the view from the street about November 22, 1963. This reporters' account of the Kennedy assassination brings to full focus the personal anguish as well as the professional pressure endured that day by those who could not take the time to cry. This book will become part of the real and permanent history of a dark day for America. Jim Lehrer, The NewsHour

The first accounts of how the Kennedy assassination happened came from the local radio and TV reporters of Dallas. For the first time, some of the best of those reporters tell the gritty tale of how they did it. The story they tell is riveting, insightful and filled with new detail about that awful weekend that changed America. Bob Schieffer, CBS News Chief Washington Correspondent

People often ask me "what it was really like" to be in Dallas on the day Kennedy was shot. . . . When the News Went Live provides an eloquent answer to that tough question, as four newsmen who were there, on the ground, tell how it "really was" through their eyes and ears. Dan Rather, CBS News

This book has more legs than the Rockettes. The slim page-turner possesses a crisp, objective quality that, like a good movie, never stops moving. Kent Biffle, The Dallas Morning News

This work brings immediacy and intensity to events that shook the nation. You are there with the four, on the streets, at the hospital, along the flower-strewn Grassy Knoll the day after, in the jail as Oswald is paraded for the press and then for murder live on TV. Interwoven with this is the perspective of forty years from men grown old, who still live with November 1963. Sterlin Holmesly, The San Antonio Express-News

The integrity and dedication of these four veteran journalists is impressive, as is their ability to make a 40-year-old event come alive again. Publishers Weekly

. . . a fast-paced recounting of what they witnessed. . . . It concludes with two thought-provoking chapters about the business of news and its uncertain future. Recommended for academic and public libraries devoting space to journalism. Library Journal

. . . a riveting account not only of the assassination but of TV's transformation into America's most dominant news source. William Endicott, The Sacramento Bee

. . . a first-class account of a tragic historical moment that still has an impact on our nation.
Ken Judkins, The Lewisville Leader

[A.R.Yngve]

Reading this hilarious satire, I hear the INSPECTOR GADGET theme play in my mind:

"Dum-de-dum de-dum Inspector Rather... dum-de-dum de-dum dum dum Woo-Hoo!"

Brilliant. When's the BEST OF IOWAHAWK book released? :)

[TallDave]

Brilliant.

Kudos on some masterful satire.

[Jim Treacher]

azul93gt mentioned my favorite line.

[everybody calls me dude]

"My name is Rather. And I'm a dick." Oh, yeah.

This screams to be in paperback. Headline: BLOGGER GOES DEADTREE!! OWLS CONCERNED.

And not just every cornpone can spell Chalmondley. (I guess that's more of an audible gag. Oh, well.)

[Tim McNabb]

Can't...Breathe...Laughing...

I think I had a stroke, the left side of my face is all droopy.

Tim McNabb
fivehundredwords.com

[rosignol]

*applause*

[Ron Nutter]

Very, very good. Reading this made my day. I particularly laughed out loud at Nick Coleman careening out of control as "the dick" questioned the Powerline folks.

[Iron Fist]

If she weren't so damned sexy - in a plain, pale mousy way -

Style: 10

Artistry: 10

Brutality: 27 1/2

Complete evisceration: priceless

Well done, holmes ;-P

[JD]

Absolutely freekin' criminal.

FWIW, tho, the 148 teeth at Neyland Stadium is about twice the amount of teeth you would find at Legion Field...

[David St Lawrence]

Just masterful!

The first blogosphere classic of 2005
and you are just hitting your stride....

[CraigC]

Hawk, "Rubenesque cheekbones???"

[The Dread Pundit Bluto]

It's aces, baby, aces. I laughed. I cried. I boiled in my pants.

[anselm]

Rowan Atkinson as the "Dick," Dan Rather; Leslie Neilson as Moonves. I see a great movie in the works.

[Robin Goodfellow]

37 Across: 12 letter internet acronym for deliciously spectacular hilarity.

[Thomas]

Excellent, and it was nice of you to embelish the physical prowess of Nick Coleman. I could hear my dad laughing from the great beyond...he hated that S.O.B.

[R.L.A. Schaefer]

Clearly Rather's agent number is now 000.

[Ken Hall]

Brilliant, Hawk. It reminded me of Harvey Kurtzman's "Thelonious Violence."

[Anselmo Cardinal Trentino]

Yes, he's a dick and walks around in a trenchcoat.

A splendid bit of work, Hawk.

[max wyeth]

Iowahawk smacks in the chiseled kisser.