Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [77]
But is it right for me to hold back?
God knows, I'm no journalist. Quite the reverse. My take on a story is not only highly subjective, but also—and this is what makes me unique as a reporter, I think—it rarely coincides with anyone else's. It's not that I lie, exactly; there'd be no point. I just think my memory's shaky, that's all. Less of a storage system and more of a garbage chute: facts disappear into it and they're never seen again. Whenever I've worked in newsrooms in the past—CNN being a good example (I lasted just one day before I was canned)—I've made a point of telling my boss right at the start, “Please, please don't regard me as one of your journalists. Indeed, if you're looking for hard news, I'd go to the Brothers Grimm before I'd ever come to me.” For these reasons and more, I don't seek out facts. I don't investigate. I don't ask the tough questions. Not as a rule.
However, maybe this needs to be the exception. Obviously, if the rumor Nick heard is true and a deal has at some point been made with Al Qaeda, and especially if I could get this man to admit to such a thing on-camera, I mean—jeez, this interview would be TV Gold. And not the fake sort of TV Gold either, the sort you get on a basic cable adventure show whose host eats cabbage lasagna with soil and pubic hairs in it and wins an Emmy. No, the sort that makes news bulletins worldwide. On real TV.
“Oh, for goodness' sake, just ask him!” I tell myself. “Go on. What harm can it do?”
And I have my mouth open, ready to take the plunge, when at the last minute I glimpse Jay and Nick standing off-camera. Jay's staring at me sternly, while Nick—well, he gives a little flinch. And it's that, the flinch, that kills it. Because if I step out of line, there's only one person who'll suffer. Not us—we'll just be expelled from the country. It's Nick and his company that'll bear the brunt. And I'm sorry, but I can't do that. He's such a great guy. I want him and his wife to be happy and free, safe and prosperous. In other words, I want them to move to New York as soon as possible.
So, despite an overwhelming urge to ask the question, the only one that really matters, I'm forced reluctantly to let it go, and allow the PR dice to fall where they may.
“Number four,” Hamza continues, unaware of my internal debate, “it's affordable. And number five, you get the best standard of living in the world. So you get everything you want in a safe environment…”
And so on, and so on, and so on.
Disappointed? You have no idea.
1 One billion square feet of attractions, including a real full-sized snow dome and a “City of Wonders” featuring re-creations of the Taj Mahal, the pyramids of Giza, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which will be better than the originals because they'll be new. And at least one of them probably won't lean over, the way the old one does.
13
First Hint of a Problem
“So—did you hear?”
It was one of Fat Kid's ditzier hobbit underlings on the phone, squeaking like a chew toy.
“Hear what?”
“About the New York Times.”
These were exhilarating days at the office. In my absence, things had been going particularly well. The place was grinding out shows like a well-maintained turbine, everyone was happy with them, audiences were starting to find us and watch regularly, and our viewing numbers were up. The Thumb was on top of the world; he couldn't have been happier. Basically, everything was sunny and wonderful. Which, as you know, is usually when life hits you with a curveball and knocks you right off your feet.
“What about the New York Times?”
Quite unexpectedly, a review of the show had appeared in the TV column.
“I'll fax it to you right away.”
“Sure, take your time, there's no rush,” I said, trying to sound cool, like I had a thousand things I'd rather do than read an article about myself in the number one