Free Mesopotamia by Arthur Nersesian Page B

Unfortunately, nothing worked. I couldn’t get the miniscreen to light up. I was techno-illiterate.
    When Scrubbs finally closed the door of his SUV and drove off, a few followed in slow pursuit.
    We just stood there with the rest of the First Amendment mob. Gustavo finally grabbed a sterling silver flask from his back pocket and took a deep swig. Then he explained that the grand jury was expected to be filing charges against him imminently.
    “I thought he was already indicted.”
    “Not yet … Hey, you should try these, they really mellow you out.” He pulled out a burnt-orange container of pills and rattled it.
    Right then my phone chirped, with Vinetta’s name on the display. I let it go to voice mail. Without asking what the pills were, I gulped down two without water. “Did you say that you had some sort of scoop or lead or whatever they call it nowadays?”
    “Yeah, I’ve tracked down someone who worked for Scrubbs.”
    “Who?”
    “I spoke to a gardener at a neighbor’s house who said he knew a plumber who had worked for Scrubbs, and he said the plumber claimed to know or see something hot, or at least warm.”
    “And you called this plumber?”
    “Course. He said it was actually a friend of his, some electrician who learned some vital detail and wouldn’t be available until this afternoon.” A typical Gustavo convolution.
    “What vital detail does he know?”
    “Wouldn’t say.”
    “How much does he want?”
    “He said eight hundred for him and two hundred for this electrician who had the goods. But we’re not supposed to tell the electrician that we were paying the plumber more.”
    “Unfortunately, I’m broke.”
    “Me too.” He delicately poured more bourbon down his throat.
    “Did he say anything at all about Scrubbs?”
    “Not a word, but he didn’t sound dumb.”
    “So we’re just supposed to just cough up a grand?”
    “Well, I thought we could get him down to six, then maybe we can each ask our editors for three hundred apiece and do different spins on the same item.” We had done this once before, but we had to keep it behind the editors’ backs. They didn’t like shared sources for exclusives.
    “Does this plumber think you’re calling him back?”
    “He didn’t actually give me his number, but I know where he’s working.”
    “Where?”
    “At Graceland later this afternoon,” Gustavo said as he nervously opened the trunk of his car. He took out a new gallon-size bottle of Jim Beam and brought it to the backseat of his car. “Maybe I can get the information out of him some other way.”
    He carefully twisted open his little flask. I watched him trying to control the tremor in one hand as he poured the firewater from the big bottle into his monogrammed flask. We were at the broad bottom of the achievement pyramid, far below the pointy tip of great success. Each little battle strengthened or weakened us for the next one. If Gustavo could successfully fill his flat metal container, even though half of it was dribbling onto the frayed carpet of his rental, it would improve his confidence in dealing with the plumber. While he continued to struggle with the golden liquid, I asked someone for directions.
    “Take 240 East to 55 South past the Elvis Presley RV Park.” From there we could drive over to the tacky wilds of Graceland.
    After briefly getting lost, we followed a packed tourist bus all the way to Presley’s infamous digs.
    We walked up from the outside gate where we bought tickets. Then, along with a group of roughly twenty-five heavyset people, we were slowly ushered from room to room and spoon-fed tidbits of Presley’s colorful life. During the tour we looked for a plumber, but seeing none, I spent the time telling Gus about last night’s trailer park saga and the murdered Elvis impersonator who may have been knocked off by his cheating wife.
    “That was the only time I ever killed a paying story,” he mumbled.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I had