Sunday afternoon, Brad set forth with the task of
coming up with five thousand dollars to pay Asher. As far
as he was concerned, that was all he needed, because if he
could raise the front money and get the aliens out, he would
have no trouble convincing Wheeler to pay the rest. Five
thousand dollars might seem like a lot of money to spend on
a celebrity interview, but if it was an exclusive interview
with a being from outer space, it was worth it. Besides,
after he rescued the alien and wrote his story, he'd be rich
and famous.
The thought filled him with a warm glow. Rich and
famous... and not rich like Johnson or Fletcher. They were
highly paid, but far from rich. The way Brad figured it,
he'd first have do the interview scene, then he'd sell his
book to one of the large publishing houses, next promotional
tours, royalties, and finally a movie. He was going to make
Watergate and the Iran-Contra Affair look like small
potatoes. This deal would set the record straight.
All he needed was five thousand dollars.
Brad picked up a pizza and a six-pack, collected his
financial records (stored in a shoebox), and started to
work. For about an hour, he munched pepperonis, sipped
suds, and scribbled figures. He considered cash advances on
his credit cards, cashing savings bonds, selling his meager
stock holdings, and withdrawing his savings. All together
it came to twenty-six hundred dollars.
Now, that's not bad for someone that had been working
for only about six months, but to Brad it amounted to
failure. He considered hocking his stereo, television, VCR,
even his kitchen appliances, put figured he'd still be a
thousand dollars short. If he could have sold his Firebird,
he could have made three times the money he needed.
Unfortunately, he had bought his car with a special loan for
college seniors, and had gotten the money for the minimal
downpayment, through the government's student loan program.
Considering the damage to the front end, he could probably
get just enough to pay off his loan.
As he drank the third beer, he wondered if he there was
anyone he could borrow money from. None of his friends had
any money worth mentioning, he didn't own a home he could
mortgage, and he wasn't familiar with the gimmicks that
thousands of people used to get money from the signature
loan places. The thought of cashing a bogus check crossed
his mind, but he decided that it was too big a risk. If
they caught him before he was able to rescue the aliens, he
might not have a chance to do it at all.
He had no idea where he could find a loan shark. He
wondered if he could do a 'favor' for the mob, or one of the
drug gangs, but didn't have any idea what to offer them. Of
course, there was always Melanie, but he thought that asking
her for money would place any hopes of a relationship
strictly on a business level. Brad ignored the thought, in
favor of the image of Melanie in her tight jeans and the way
her blouse had so perfectly cupped her breasts. If she'd
quoted him the price Asher had, Brad would have sold his
right hand (as long as he had a chance to use it first).
That left only two options; one of which was to call
his parents. Brad laughed at this idea as he popped the top
of another beer. He was on good terms with his mother and
father, but if he called and asked to borrow a thousand
dollars his mother would have a fit. "Oh, you never should
have moved to California! All those crazy people smoking
crack! You've probably inhaled some secondhand smoke and
become addicted. Oh, my poor baby, boo-hoo... Next thing I
know you'll be carrying an Uzi and living in the street!"
Mothers always overreact-- actually it was an M-16, but
that comes later.
Wheeler was Brad's only other option. Somehow he had
to convince Wheeler to cover the rest of the money. Maybe
if he explained that he was throwing in over three thousand
dollars of his own Wheeler would agree. There was only one
way Brad was going to find out for sure... he'd have to walk
in the office with his head up, and make his pitch.
Of course Wheeler was off on Sundays, the office was
closed, and Brad had two beers left in the six-pack. Brad
put his feet up, turned on the TV, and decided not to worry
about it. He opened his eyes about eight o'clock to find
the television still on, and his head pounding. Who ever
had said the best way to avoid a hangover was to stay drunk,
was sadly mistaken.
The next morning, Brad intentionally avoided Wheeler's
office to allow the other reporters first shot at the boss.
He hoped that maybe that way, Wheeler would vent his Monday
aggression on them, thus placing him in a better mood.
Furthermore, by waiting, he gave the office time to clear
out, as people began to hit the streets chasing stories.
When things seemed to calm down, Brad made his move.
He entered Wheeler's office with a light rap on the door.
"Good morning, Brad," started the boss without lifting his
eyes from a piece. "Are we feeling better today?" Brad
closed the door, causing Wheeler to look up and say "I guess
not."
"Mr. Wheeler, I know you don't agree with the facts
I've gathered, but there are a couple of new developments I
need to tell you about."
"Dartmouth, I don't do flying saucer stories, and
neither do my people."
"Listen, Mr. Wheeler: Friday afternoon I talked with a
psychic I met in Las Vegas. She said she has made contact
with the aliens, and that they are definitely in the desert
about fifty miles north of town."
"A psychic?" asked Wheeler skeptically.
"Don't act so surprised: you're the one that assigned
me to write about the psychics here in LA." Brad's
statement seemed uncommonly aggressive to Wheeler, but he
accepted it as truth. "Furthermore, Johnson put me in touch
with a man who can help me."
"Johnson's collaborating on this with you?" Skepticism
had changed to disbelief.
"No, he helped me find a mercenary. It's the same guy
who helped Johnson get into Afghanistan."
Wheeler removed his glasses and covered his eyes in
confusion. "A mercenary? What in the hell do you need a
mercenary for?"
"He's going to help me rescue the aliens." Wheeler
peeked from between his fingers. "I need two thousand
dollars."
"Two thousand dollars? Is that the going price for
rescuing aliens these days? Sounds cheap."
"Actually its ten thousand, but he wants five up front
and I've got three. If the paper will cover the other two,
I can guarantee it'll be the best investment you've made.
Hell, you spend that much flying Johnson to the Middle East.
Once we have the aliens, I'm sure the paper will cover the
other five."
Wheeler stood, and walked to a three drawer cabinet in
the corner of the office. Brad watched as he walked his
fingers across several files. His heart raced. Was Wheeler
checking his budget to see if he could cover two thousand
dollars? Was he looking to see if the paper had any policy
about how much could be spent on one story. Maybe he wanted
to see how he had paid Asher when he'd worked with Johnson.
He withdrew a file and returned to his chair to study
it. Brad's palms began to sweat and his mouth became dry.
"You said you've got three thousand dollars?"
"Yes sir." A faint smile crossed Brad's lips.
"Good." Wheeler closed the file and looked Brad in the
eye. "Your personnel file says you've got a weeks worth of
vacation. Take it, and your money, and go to Hawaii. Swim,
get a tan, get laid, burn off some steam. Either that or
arrange psychological counseling."
"What about this story? It's too big to ignore?"
"I don't do flying saucer stories. Listen to me, while
you're laying on the beach of Maui, I want you to consider
whether or not you've chosen the right career. Obviously
the pressure of trying to find this big story is too much
for you. Maybe you're not cut out for Los Angeles. Perhaps
a small town newspaper would be more your speed. You're
falling apart, Brad. You need some rest."
For a moment Brad was heartbroken. A moment later he
was furious. He calmly rose from his seat and spoke in a
voice so cold that it literally scared Wheeler. "You'll
see. I'll get the money, and I'll get the aliens-- and when
I do, I'm taking them straight to the Times." Brad turned,
and walked out.
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