|
The Token
Chapter One
Dan Engstrom stood gazing out the twentieth floor window of his Wyndham Hotel room, granting himself a few moments of nostalgia before heading down to tackle the task at hand. Though tinted glass and distance stood between him and the streets below, Dan was sure he could detect the multi-layered aroma of seafood gumbo wafting up from Mothers, his favorite eatery in all of downtown. Olive laden Mufelletas from Central Grocery, dark chicory coffee and powdery white beneigts from Café de Monde, and jazz from a dozen smoke filled joints, all made their contribution to the palette some mystic artist had used to paint this place called New Orleans.
“What a job,” he thought.
What a job indeed. Weekend anchor for the fastest growing cable news network and covering the mother of all storms. Hopefully landing that one big story that would elevate him to prime-time. Bill O’Reily, move over!
“I'd give anything, do anything to get the chance.” Dan muttered.
“No you wouldn’t.”
Dan shook his head; frown replacing smile. There was that voice inside his head again. The one he had been trying to rid himself of for months. He turned his attention back to the story at hand consciously willing himself to ignore the intruder within. Assuring himself it had never been there in the first place.
From his vantage point he could see Old Man River making its lazy winding path through the Big Easy. The Canal Street - Algiers Point Ferry was making its way across the river as it did every half-hour. Below and to the left of his window, French Quarter spread out in its well planned squares. People were getting drunk and passing out on the same brick roads others had for hundreds of years. High rollers and low rollers alike were busy at Harrahs a couple of blocks away. It was an eclectic mixture of grand cathedrals, street artists, and historic buildings. A place where old money culture and the basest underside of humanity existed with nothing but the barest of walls between them.
Dan’s Blackberry vibrated. Probably his producer calling. He was right. “They’ve declared a mandatory evacuation Dan, get on the streets and get that killer story we need.”
Dan's mind raced into high gear, “How long do we have?”
“No more than twelve hours before they start closing things down. After that no one gets out until this thing blows over.”
Unfazed by his boss’s tone, Dan checked his address book for a list of names he could follow up on. He spotted the one that most interested him and quickly decided where he needed to go first. “OK, Steve, keep your pants on. I’m headed over to City Hall to see what I can get.”
A silence on the other end was followed by an ominous warning. “Look Dan, no more screw ups. There can't be any more Nashvilles.”
“I understand.”
“Do you now? It's now are never for both of us. Don't take me down with you. Just get the story.”
No goodbyes followed, just dead air on the other end. Dan set his Blackberry back down on the vanity. “Now or never,” he scoffed. He was no spring chicken but he didn't have one foot in the grave either. But then he noticed his graying temples in the mirror and shook his head. He may be a reasonably fit forty-two but by national standards he really was approaching the now or never stage of his career. He had to get this right or he would be reading pork belly futures from some hick station in the Corn Belt. He shuddered at that thought.
Neither room service coffee nor a cold shower could jar the thought of what took place in Nashville out of Dan’s brain. Steve had been prodding him for answers ever since but Dan wasn't about to cough up the real reason. How could he tell the producer of a major news network that one of his star reporters heard voices in his head?
After dressing, Dan suited up for his assault on City Hall. Blackberry, note pad, wallet, change and a small silver token. Dan held the object for a moment, a hint of contemplation in his eye. Then unceremoniously it joined the other contents of his pocket. A quick glance at his Rolex as he slipped it back on his arm. 7:35 PM. Plenty of time to get to his appointment.
Dan walked back to the window overlooking East New Orleans. The lights on top of the Intercostal Canal Bridge blinked in the distance. Blinking red lights. Like danger signals they reminded Dan of the Ninth Ward, Gentilly Terrace and the door he had slammed shut on the place so long ago.
He shook his head, the blinking lights still dancing in his eyes. “Gotta compartmentalize. Keep everything in its place.” Wise words he needed to remember about now. Dan walked to the dresser and straightened his tie. Time to get out there and get that story. He had been holding his ticket to success long enough. Time to get it punched and join the big boys.
|
