Free Mesopotamia by Arthur Nersesian Page A

utilizing one fuck-up to cover another.
    “If this clown died down around there, I’ll give you twenty-four hours, then I’m calling up the next brilliant out-of-work twelve-stepper who desperately needs another chance.” He hung up. Life was only getting easier. I called Gustavo to get some idea of what lay ahead.
    “Oh my lawd,” he said, “I was certain you’d be retreating back through the Holland Tunnel by now.”
    “I would but my home has been condemned. I have no where to go but Memphis.”
    “Glad to hear it. I have to return my car to the rental agency by tonight, but my paper actually gave me just enough to stay in a cozy motel. My room has twin beds and a blue movie channel,” he invited. “Also, I did find out some juicy goings-on about our Mr. Scrubbs.”
    I told him I’d see him soon.
    We were a partnership by chemistry. Unless he was intoxicated he couldn’t work. Though I found it difficult to write while drunk, I could still drive. Mutually imbibed, he said we jointly had the capabilities of one mediocre journalist.
    After the long drive back to Memphis, I dragged my shopping bags up to his motel, a Comfort Inn, and knocked on his door. He greeted me with a smile and showed me inside. On his bed was a large brand-new metallic suitcase. Flipping the tiny combination lock, he snapped the latches open. The contents resembled an assassin’s rifle case, complete with crisp cut-out cushions. It held a variety of photographic equipment—two digital cameras, a Polaroid with zoom lens, and a heavy-duty tripod attachment.
    “Where’d you get all this?”
    “Won it in a poker game from a drunken photographer during my last big story.”
    “Why’d you bring it?”
    “Let’s face it, they only really care about the pictures. And we got to shake a leg, so grab a camera and let’s go.”
    “With all this technology, you can probably take photos of the future,” I said, prying one of his cameras loose from its form-fitting foam. A tiny digital camera with an enormous zoom lens looked like a robotic pygmy with a large steel erection. He grabbed the Polaroid. “So, where we going?”
    “Thucydides Scrubbs is back home!”
    We jumped into his rent-a-wreck and he had me drive to the Scrubbs estate as he loaded film into the Polaroid and checked his minirecorder.
    “What exactly did you discover?”
    “That Scrubbs could be innocent.”
    “What proof?”
    “Just a vibe.”
    “That’s probably the DTs from all your drinking.”
    “I spoke to everyone I could who met the guy and learned he doesn’t have a temper. He’s not jealous. He’s got no history of violence. He’s been divorced before. No one’s ever heard him raise his voice. He’s even been cuckolded before and remained friends with the wife who cheated on him. By all accounts he was cynical about this relationship from the very start. He even had a prenup.” Too bad you can’t sell a vibe.
    As we pulled up to his neatly manicured estate, we saw the ever-multiplying swarm of photographers converging in his rolling driveway. Scrubbs was just exiting his place.
    “Return to Camp O.J.,” Gustavo said, and holding his camera like a pistol, he joined the fray. It was like an army of fire ants going after a stray dung beetle. The crowd pelted Scrubbs with questions, shoving their cameras tightly toward his face.
    “Why’d you kill your wife?”
    “Has she been kidnapped? Why don’t you tell the police?”
    “Where’d you bury her?”
    “Did you strangle her? Did you cut her up?”
    “Do you think she’s dead?”
    “Who do you think killed her?”
    “Where’s the million dollars missing from your account?”
    A thousand questions simultaneously buffeted the middle-aged man as he attempted to act as if it were just another day. I tried my best to shove into that mosh pit, holding Gustavo’s pygmy camera above my head, hoping to get a single photo if only to show to Jericho Riggs that I was in Memphis, doing my sober best.