Tales from Dig Down

“Robert, can you hang on,” the man said, trying to keep his voice level. “I’ll be right back. I promise,” he said, desperate that he could keep that promise.

The pounding intensified the closer he got to the door. “Hold on,” he said, believing the door would be turned to kindling before he opened it.

Pierce seemed to pass into the room before he opened the door all the way. “Oh good, you’ve got a pot made already” he said, eyeing the carafe. “Mind if I pour myself a cup?”

As he watched his partner help himself without waiting for a response, the man couldn’t remember the last time Pierce had started a conversation with a hello. Or any form of pleasantry.

Pierce interrupted his inaugural sip with, “PRESTON! Don’t leave the paperwork on the floor like that. Christ! Do you not get how important this presentation is tomorrow?”

“Pierce,” Preston said, tiredly, “This hotel doesn’t have a desk, let alone a big enough table for me to fit everything on. And I didn’t want to spread them across my bed because I’m so beat if I so much as touch any part of the mattress I’m worried I’ll just pass out.”

“Oh no, not when we’re this close,” Pierce vetoed him. He looked for a place to set down his own briefcase. It had become such a fixture in his hand Preston didn’t even notice it anymore. “Good idea taking the phone off the hook. No distractions tonight.”

Robert!

“Uh, I was actually on the phone with my son before you…showed up,” he said, making sure to phrase it diplomatically.

“Preston,” Pierce said, not even attempting to hide the agitation in his voice. “We’re pitching to the CEO and the rest of the board tomorrow. This is important. You’ve had all week to talk to your son.”

“No, actually, I haven’t. I’ve spent each night with you preparing for the pitches we’ve been making all week.”

Pierce gave a frustrated groan, then eyed the coffeemaker again. “Make it quick,” he grumbled as he poured himself another cup.

Preston sprung for the phone. “Robert, are you still there?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as panicked as he felt.

“Yeah,” a meek voice doing it’s best to sound tough replied.

Preston’s heart sank. He knew that voice well. It was the tone his son used when he was hurt but didn’t want to cry.

“I-I’m going to have to go soon. I just wanted to call to see how you were doing. And to hear about your big game,” he added quickly with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, hoping he could remind his son how great the conversation was going two minutes ago.

That joy felt so hollow now.

“Yeah, but…you’re not coming to my game tomorrow, are you?”

At that moment, he didn’t give a damn how important his meeting was tomorrow. All he wanted was to do whatever it took to make his neglected son happy.

Preston. What do you always tell Robert about lying.

“No, son,” he forced himself to admit. An ant could’ve towered over how small he felt. “All the meetings I’ve had this week worked, and got us this really important session with the people that run the company. But if all goes—”

He was cut off by his son’s anguished groan. Before he could start up again, Robert said the only thing that could make things worse.

“Mom wants to talk to you.”

His son’s excitement warmed his heart. His dread that his son would be angry at him for not calling all week melted away.

“I wanted to call before it was your bedtime, Robert,” the man said, eyeing the clock on his nightstand. It was not quite nine, but his wife always let Robert stay up a little later on Fridays when he was on one of his business trips. “I know you had a big game last Saturday and I still haven’t heard all about it.”

He could practically see his son’s beaming smile on the other end of the line. “I had three hits, including a triple!”

“A triple? Wow! That’s harder to get than a home run.”

All the tension and demands from the week melted away talking to his boy.

“Yeah, that’s what mom said.”

“Robbie,” a voice called in the distance on the other end of the line. “Who is it?”

“It’s dad,” Robert called back to her. The man wanted to talk to her too, but right now he sensed she’d been circling the phone, the deadliest predator to walk the earth, and him the prey.

“So what—”

“And guess what else dad,” Robert said, turning his attention back to the phone call.

“What else?”

“That triple?” Robert asked, then waited until he went “Uh-huh” before adding, “It was with the bases loaded!”

“Wow son!” he said with such pride until it dawned on him that he had missed it.

“And dad! Guess what else.”

“What else, Robert?”the man asked, doing his best to keep his son from noticing his state of glumness.

“Guess what I finally did in the field. I’ll give you three guesses.”

The man didn’t need three guesses, not with how Robert had talked non-stop with rabid infatuation about the one play he wanted to make.

“You caught a pop fly,” he stated, posing it coyly as a question.

“I caught a pop fly!”

“I told you you could do it,” the man said. “Did you do it like we practiced, with two hands to secure the ball in the glove?”

“Welllllll, not exactly,” the voice on the other end grew uneasy. “I used just the one hand, and I held the glove near my face and made a kissy face and winked when I caught it. But it’s because I knew I was gonna catch it. And the whole team was laughing the rest of the game and at practice.”

The man sighed disapprovingly. “Robert, you shouldn’t showboat. It’s good that you knew you were going to catch that one, but what if you were cavalier about the next one and missed it. Your team is counting on you.”

“Sorry,” the boy sulked.

The man grimaced. What’re you thinking? It’s little league for christ sake. How many times do you tell him it’s just a game and to have some fun?

“That does sound like an impressive catch. What a ballplayer,” he said, desperately trying to change the tone of the conversation. “I’m going to need to get your autograph before you make it to Cooperstown.”

“Daddy!” Robert groaned.

“I’m serious. It’ll be worth so much, I’ll be able to kick my heels up and retire.”

“Yeah right, you love work so much you’ll never stop,” Robert said, his voice growing more serious the deeper he got into the sentence and realized the truth of what he was saying. “When are you coming home?”

The man winced at the question. He hadn’t meant to open up this can of worms. Especially with how well the call had been going.

“Robert, I’m—”

He was interrupted by the pounding on his door.

Shit. Why’d it have to be now of all times? I’m not ready.

The first thing the man did when he staggered into his cheap hotel room was put on a pot of coffee. The packaging of the grinds all but assured him his taste buds would not be in for a treat. That was fine. It could lack in taste, as long as it made it up in caffeine. The week had been grueling, and yet his job was just beginning.

His eyes skimmed across the bed he had slept in all week. Though it felt like sleeping on a slab of marble, it was the most inviting thing he’d seen all day, and he found he had to fight to pry his eyes away from temptation.

He checked the clock on the nightstand. It read 6:32.

Almost there, he promised himself. Twenty four hours from now, it’ll be out of your hands. Then you can sleep as much as you want.

The hotel was so lacking in amenities it didn’t even offer a desk. Instead, there was a small, knee high table that had just enough room for his briefcase.

It’s okay. There’s plenty of room on the floor to lay out all the relevant papers. 

The buzz of the coffeemaker jolted him awake as well as any cup of joe could. He chuckled to himself that he no longer needed to pour himself a cup, and even felt relieved that he didn’t have to press his luck that the coffee was any good to get the high he needed.

The man quickly lamented the fact that like it or not, he was most likely going to need to finish the pot. He was almost through his week of hell, but there was still one more night getting by on two hours sleep standing between him and the finish line.

To his relief, he’d had worse.

For the next hour, he carpeted the floor with all the reports he’d been hauling everywhere in his briefcase. To the untrained eye, it was a chaotic collage, but to him, each paper had their crucial place in his masterpiece.

Projections and pie charts jumped out at him from every page so vividly he could envision them when he closed his eyes. He began to close his eyes, point blindly at the floor, and recite what information he expected to find on that page. After ten attempts, he had a perfect score.

When the rush from the first cup wore off, he made to pour himself another, and only then did he notice that two hours had passed. He berated himself as he put down his mug and made his way to the phone.

You can’t forget again!

The man picked up the phone and dialed from memory, which was an impressive feat given all the numbers dancing around in his head. As he waited for the phone to ring, he pointed at another random page and quickly gave the percentages for each slice in the pie chart. He didn’t need to check to know he was eleven for eleven.

At the first ring, it hit him that he hadn’t called in a week. There was bound to be a cool reception for him when she picked up.

The man shook it off. He had sat her down and laid it out for her. It was no mystery to her that he was putting himself through hell this week. She might be mad, but deep down, she’d understand.

But will he?

He didn’t have time to answer as the phone was picked up on mid-ring, and he heard the chipper voice announce on the other end, “Moore Residence!”

The man smiled. Just like I taught him. He braced himself, hoping the voice would still be as bright and bushy tailed when he heard who it was. 

“Hello, Rob—”

“Daddy!”

“I was chasing down a hot tip,” Ryan replied before he was interrupted by Horace’s twentieth sneeze of the meeting.

The young reporter couldn’t suppress his smile. “Are you catching a cold?”

“YES!” Horace bellowed. “Thanks to the wild goose chase you sent me on!”

Ryan leaned back in his chair. “How exactly did I send you on a wild goose chase?”

Horace opened his mouth to reply and then closed it. He snuck a quick peek at Frank, who had remained silent leaning back in his office chair, watching the drama play about between the two of them.

“Never mind,” Horace mumbled quickly.

“Actually, I’d like to know,” Frank said, finally leaning forward. If Horace’s face could’ve paled further, he would’ve turned transparent.

“I was following a lead,” Horace replied nonchalantly, believing his answer was enough.

“What did you hope to uncover?” Frank pressed.

Horace glared at Frank with a look of betrayal. “Doesn’t matter. Turned out to be nothing.”

“No, it does matter,” Frank insisted. “Because right now, if the dock workers wanted to, they could file charges for trespassing and harassment. Did you actually accuse them of being human traffickers?”

“That sounds suspiciously like a fictional idea I jotted down in my notepad,” Ryan interjected. “One that’s been mysteriously torn out.”

Horace’s eyes burned white hot into the side of Ryan’s head. The sight would’ve been menacing had it not been interrupted by another sneezing fit.

“I remember getting it at the precise moment I got the hot lead that I chased down this night,” Ryan went on. The smile was back. “I had a hard time keeping the details of the story straight as I was being fed the tip.”

Horace turned back to Frank. “They’ll never press charges. They’d expose the fact they were playing poker on company property.”

“You’d better hope so,” Frank said gravely.

“I’m sure our legal department would rest easier knowing Horace was in fact chasing a lead,” Ryan said. “Perhaps he should offer up his notes on the story.”

That brought color to Horace’s cheeks as he began to fume. Frank signaled to fork over his notes, and the thief hung his head as he offered it to the editor.

“Quite a talent to take your notes in Ryan’s handwriting,” Frank commented.

“Sir!” Horace protested. “This is a case of pure sabotage by Ryan!”

“How could Ryan sabotage you with a story idea written in his notepad? Did you tell you this was a credible lead?”

No response.

“So what I have on my plate is potential criminal charges against my lead reporter, who was off chasing a bogus story you can’t explain how you came into possession of without admitting to theft.” Frank looked out his office window and shooed away the crowd of reporters reveling in Horace getting his comeuppance. “And a whole paper ready to cannibalize you for it.

“All of this while one of the most junior reporters of the paper may have just broke the story of the year.”

Horace was nearly hyperventilating. “What. Story?” he managed.

“The one that’s been dominating the airwaves since you’ve been gallivanting around the docks,” Frank said as he turned on a TV he kept in his office.

The screen came alive with a shot of the exterior of a hotel.

“—coming to you live from the horrific scene. Once again, if you’re just joining us, Representative Benedict Spears, known in Congress as the Battering Ram, was arrested earlier tonight, charged with counts of possession, prostitution, murder, and unlawful disposal of a body. We’re still learning all the details, but the story broke when Spears was found today in his hotel room in the midst of carving up the body of a deceased female, who was not his wife, that had checked in with him.”

He didn’t wait for Ralph to respond as he rushed from his hiding spot. Horace was fifty yards from the warehouse, yet covered the distance in no time, leaving the cameraman in his wake.

The reporter slowed to a crawl as he reached the lone window of the warehouse, not wanting to betray his ambush. The figures had turned on the lights inside, granting him ample ability to see the nefarious acts taking place within.

Horace looked on in puzzlement. A lone figure stood off in the counter, counting money, which looked promising. But the rest were sitting at a conference table dealing playing cards. Those at the table looked as though their only care in the world was the card game.

Perhaps they’re just passing time until it’s confirmed the money is all there?

Behind him, Horace heard the thunderous footsteps of Ralph barreling to catch up. He tried to signal to him to be quiet before they no—

“What’s that noise?” one of the figures at the table barked. The rest of their heads shot up towards the door.

Shit!

Horace turned to flee. And crashed right into Ralph, who was doing his best to slow himself down.

The two collapsed on top of each other. Hands helped them back to their feet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” one of the men demanded.

Horace felt the best course of action was not to let on how terrified he was, despite how much his knees were betraying him. The hope was that they’d pick up on his confidence, which might deter them from harming him. “I can ask you the same thing!” he said as boldly as he could.

“Wait a minute,” one of them said, stepping closer to study him. “I know you!”

“Damn right you do,” Horace snarled, not holding back on any of the false bravado. “Horace Husk, with The Post!”

“No kidding,” another one of them said, sounding impressed. “My brother works there, maybe you know—”

“Never mind this six degrees of separation,” Horace cut him off. “You gentlemen have a lot explaining to do about what’s going on in there,” he said, waggling his finger at the warehouse.

The six men turned in unison to look at the warehouse, before staring at him with a dumbfounded look. They couldn’t have choreographed their actions more perfectly. 

“Our monthly poker game?” one of them finally offered.

“Monthly poker…No!” Horace yelled as he pulled the page he had stolen from Ryan’s notepad out of his pocket and waved it at all of them. “I’m talking about your human trafficking operation!”

If Horace had been wearing a look of triumph, it vanished as soon as the six men stared into the warehouse again and turned back to him with another shared look of confusion. Their ignorance looked too genuine to be fake.

“You gentlemen aren’t running a human traffic…” 

But he couldn’t finish the inquiry as another question demanded to be asked.

Where’s Ryan?

Ryan seethed at the juxtaposition. Whereas he had broken out in a sweat, Horace donned his famous eat shit grin.

His scrawny frame tensed up as the thief ambled over. His first instinct was to take his freshly filled notepad and run.

Relax. You knew this would happen when he saw you. Just don’t blow it.

Ryan quelled his urge to run, instead busying himself with items on his desk. The last thing he wanted was to let Horace know how much he loathed the thief.

No, the last thing he wanted was for Horace to figure out how much he wanted to exact revenge.

“Good evening, Ryan,” Horace greeted him heartily.

The salutation was in the same tone it had always been, but now Ryan saw it for what it was. The opening line in a con to gain his trust.

“Evening,” Ryan replied, sparing him a quick glance over his shoulder. 

“Okay, I was worried about a chilly reception,” Horace said. “You’re mad I got the credit for that story. Your source, um…”

“Anthony?” Ryan offered absently. His source’s name was actually Andy.

“Yeah, Anthony!” Horace said, confirming he hadn’t interviewed the man, just slapped his name on the story Ryan had written and gotten it to Frank first. “I guess he called to give an additional detail he had forgotten to tell you. He never mentioned your name, so I thought I was breaking a story. Believe me, if I had known that it was yours, I would’ve taken down what Anthony said and delivered it to you personally. I mean, what a story!”

Ryan shrugged, feigning interest, and hoping Horace was buying his acting. “Stories come and go.”

He could feel Horace eye him curiously. “I can see that.” He pointed to Ryan’s open notepad. “You got a good one? Looked like your hand couldn’t keep up.”

Ryan quickly flipped the notepad shut. “I might be on to something,” he said guardedly.

“Care to share over coffee?” Horace asked, taking a presumptive step toward the break room.

“Sorry, can’t,” Ryan said curtly.

That stopped Horace. His eat shit grin flickered for a moment. “Come on,” he cajoled. “If there’s any bad blood, we can hash it out. I’m telling you, this is just a tragic misunderstanding. I’m really sorry it happened.”

If you were really sorry, why didn’t you go to Frank when you found whose story it was?

He kept that question to himself, bottled up inside. For now, it took everything to look polite but firm on the outside.

“No hard feelings,” Ryan assured him. “Like I said, stories come and go.” He leaned in closer to him, as if to share a secret. “And this story…everyone will forget about my last one. Well…not mine. Yours. But it’s okay. Once I write this one, I’ll forget all about the snafu that give you credit for my story.”

“Really?” Horace asked, intrigued. 

Ryan nodded, but offered nothing more. He could see the thief’s face crumble under the suspense.

“What is it?” Horace finally asked, then gave a blustery laugh to mask how forcefully he had posed the question.

“Sorry,” Ryan said, turning away from him. “My source said to get there ASAP. I’ve got to grab a photographer. We’re going to want pictures of this.” He paused. “Actually, Frank’ll probably want video footage of this we can send to news outlets. You know how he loves it when they have to credit us with a story.”

He fished out his keys and started for the elevator. Behind him, Horace took the place he vacated by his desk.

Ryan could feel the thief’s eyes widen. “You do think I stole your story, don’t you? You don’t trust me anymore.”

He turned to face Horace. “I really have to get going,” he insisted. Ryan flashed him a smile. “Relax. I know your true intentions,” he said before continuing on his way.

Horace watched him frantically press the button for the elevator before abandoning it hurriedly for the stairs. When the plucky reporter was out of sight, he turned back toward Ryan’s desk, picked up the notepad he had left behind, and rushed to the opening elevator.

The thief had dashed into the elevator so quickly, he didn’t even notice that the door to the stairwell was slightly ajar. Nor did he see Ryan peering through it, watching him, smiling.

He took the bait.