Read Online The Journalist by G.L. Rockey - Free Book Online

polls, but Ben was slicker than the snakes he handled, he
thought. Beno has to KO that insane sonofabitch.
    Zack turned in his chair and propped his bare
feet on the windowsill.
    Pondering a series of support-Beno
editorials, he heard someone enter his office. Immediately, he
recognized the fresh Ivory Soap smell of Mary O’Brien. Savoring the
moment, he anticipated her familiar pristine voice.
    It came. “Boca, you just got another call
from the President’s media guru.”
    He turned and watched Mary slide onto the
Naugahyde sofa. She wore her usual outfit—faded Levis, lavender
V-neck polo shirt and tan tennis shoes. No socks, no jewelry, no
makeup. A black-banded silver Timex slid loosely on her wrist.
    “I did?” Zack said.
    “Yes, you did.”
    “How did I get a call if you took it?”
    “Telepathy.”
    “Oh, let me guess what Dr. Lande had to
say  ”
    “Same complaint as always.” Mary stretched
her tanned arms over her head and pushed her slender legs out. The
stretch was a tall one considering her willowy body was just short
of six feet. She touched the front of Zackary’s desk with the tips
of her tennis shoes and fluffed her shaggy dishwater hair.
    Zack shook his head and smiled.
    “What?” She flashed.
    “All comfy?”
    “Yes.” She flashed again and stretched
farther.
    “That’s good.”
    She rubbed the bridge of her wide, but not
too wide, nose. “How’s Boca’s day going?”
    A half-smoked Camel hanging from the side of
his mouth, he decided to ignore the Boca remark, preserve the mood.
Studying the fervor in her blue eyes, he said. “What did you tell
her?”
    Engrossed in Zack. “Who?”
    He leaned over his desk. “I thought you said
Lande called.”
    “You smoke too much.”
    “Oh, and did you say that?”
    “What?”
    “You smoke too much.”
    She rolled her eyes.
    “So, what did our dear Ms. Lande have to
say?”
    “The White House must be reading your
editorials.”
    “At least we have two readers.”
    “Who’s the other one?” Mary raised an
eyebrow.
    “You.”
    “And you, that’s three.”
    “So what did Lande say?”
    “Says you’re bordering on malice—actual
malice, she said.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Quoted some New York Times versus
Sullivan. Court held that a public person, celebrity,
politician—Armstrong—who alleges libel, as by a newspaper—you—and
can prove that the statement was made with ‘actual
malice’—knowledge that it was false or done with reckless disregard
of whether it was false or not—can sue for damages  and you, The Boca , is and they’re not above
suing.”
    He shook his head. “She really said all
that?”
    “Yes, Boca, she did.”
    “You know I don’t like that.”
    “What?”
    “Being called Boca.”
    “Fits.”
    “On what grounds?”
    “Your mouth?”
    “I meant Lande.”
    “I think it’s maybe because you keep writing
that our dear President is paranoid with delusions of
grandeur—megalomania, narcissistic I think you wrote ‘marked by
infantile feelings of omnipotence, grandeur, delusional,
manic-depressive, they call it bipolar now, disturbed, senile, an
insane lunatic mien master, stupid jackass’ or something like
that.”
    “Well, let him prove he’s not.”
    “Zack, come on, you have to admit you are a
little excessive. Like Lande said, you’d think the old fart, you,
was a licensed shrink.”
    “She called me that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Huh, imagine. Anyway, I have had
considerable training in mind games.”
    “You keep reminding me.”
    “Anything else?”
    “She said you’re dead wrong on that military
para-something, global unit whatever editorial, and they want a
retraction.”
    “Ten billion U.S. smackers went
somewhere.”
    “Zack, it’s a dangerous world. Benny is
counteracting terrorism.”
    “Why do you defend that moron?”
    “No need to get edgy.”
    “I’m not edgy.”
    “Sound edgy.”
    “He’s insane.” Zack crushed his cigarette
out.
    “He’s a