Friday, 21 October 2016
Lamar Johnson sat with practised poise on the steel park bench. The Birkenstocks at his feet proudly displayed his oddly babylike toes. He sat admiring the gradients of the coming season. The green turning to yellow, the oranges fading to brown and even the grey of the river looked freckled, now littered with leaves. The colours were so pretty he thought. It was a shame he'd come to sully natures grace with the taint of his transaction.
Making 5 dollars for 500 word articles wasn't the life Lamar had envisoned for himself. However, writing was his passion and freelancing sites often paid the bills - very minimally but enough to get him through each month.
Even on full-time hours, writing communications for a motosports company, all he could afford to pay for was the 0 star rated apartment above Mr Radison's garage.
Saving for his own place was out of the question. Otherwise how was he going to continue supporting his clubbing habit, networking was important. It was temporary, he always told himself, until he got his big break. Until he no longer needed to look at the price tag or be forced to shop for vintage anything. Then he'd move out.
Right now the food was too good, the drinks kept pouring and he was out practically every night. One day he'd be a copywriter or head of some high profile men's fashion magazine but until then rent was always due.
It was a happy chance then that Kristen Wyland had handed all of her research over to him. A chance, he would repay in kind. He didn't know her very well, but for this small favour he promised get to the bottom of her disappearance. TMZ alone would cover his rent for 2 months.
He watched as the gossip blogger gaped and guffawed over the audio in his ears. Always the thinker and always the schemer, foregoing credible news outlets was a brilliant move on his part. A grown woman having sex wasn't worthy news for the six o clock bulletin. But it did make fish fodder for the gossip mags.
Lamar Johnson was a cunning man. He would release the info now, and watch the DA scramble against the fodder and backlash. Then as they turned their backs, he'd blackmail them threatening to reveal the other woman on the tape, then (and this he vowed was going to happen no matter what) he'd find out what exactly had happened to Kirsten Wyland.
"This -is gold man!" The blonde-haired, pink lipglossed, check shirt wearing blogger said. The smile on his face framed stars of gold at the knowledge of how much buzz this was going to cause.
Although he beamed at the writer as if they were in some conspiratorial partnership, Lamar only gave him a tight lipped smile back.
"This is gonna break the in-ter-net. Trust me! Look I'm glad you came to me man." He manically chuckled and stared at the sky like he could feel God himself place a hand on him. The laugh cast a black shadow over the gay park life. If you leaned in close enough, you could taste its inky schadenfreude and smell the pile of ashes it would leave in its wake. It was a laughter only the devil could stomach.
"Great so how uh -how do we do this?" The stiff limbed writer asked - wanting to get things over with quickly. The corners of his armpits were itchy waiting to hear how much the story was worth. Maybe they'd offer 5000 and he could push it up to six. Just an extra thousand for a little celebration party.
"Oh man. I'll wire you the money right now. How much do you want? 50?" The guy whipped out his phone and dialed so quickly Lamar almost missed the bubbling anger at the ridiculous figure.
"50!" He gasped and sucked air between his teeth in anger. This was daylight robbery, he might as well just publish the thing himself for free. 50 dollars! Psh, the man must've thought he was desperate.
"Man forget you." Enraged he grabbed his earphones back from the square jawed thief.
"What, hey man wait." He shouted after him. "Come on what do you want 60? Alright 70!" He could hear the flap of the mans winter coat as he brisk walked to catch up to Lamar. His hand reached out, begging him to stop.
Lamar tightened his grip on his tan satchel and walked like a man possessed towards the exit.
A 'Jesus Christ' was whispered by the stranger who was chuckling without humour.
"Alright, a hundred." He said. "A hundred thousand that's as far as I can go."
Lamar stopped dead in his tracks. The tarred walkway seemed to adjust its contrast as he saw each textured bauble rise over the surface. His ears felt like he was sitting at the bottom of rhe pool.
A hundred thousand dollars!
"Look man there's no way I'm fucking you over on this one. I can't go any higher than that but you won't get this offer again. Word'll get out and then who knows." He shrugged. "If not me, it'll be some pissant who'll just steal it from you anyway. Come on man a hundred thousand and I take it off your hands. What'dya say?"
On the outside, it looked as though Lamar was giving the bloggers offer as much contemplation as to the existence of an ant. After all, no one could tell with his skintight, black Gap tee, and black thrifted Savile Row skinny trousers that he was already behind on rent.
On the inside however, fireworks were exploding with blinding dragon dances and the popping of champagne corks. A hundred thkusand dollars.
"I mean." Lamar began, haughtily looking away from the man and tapping his foot.
"I guess a hundred will do."
And so the deal was done.
With a tap on a phone. And a beep in a pocket, the payment notification signalled a deal made in blood.
Come Monday evening, the news cycle would be filled with the lurid sounds of the District Attorney's sextape and the flashing lights of Lamar's celebration party.
And to think if he had known better he would've done it for the 50. At the disappearance of the blogger, the writer shook his head and laughed. He laughed until the tears fell out of his eyes and the birds scattered about his way.
Kirsten Wyland was just the gift that keeps on giving.
