Iowahawk has created what may be his masterpiece: the Rathergate saga as hard-boiled dime novel, rushing at you like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist….

MY TELEPROMPTER IS DEADLY
(Excerpts from the new Inspector Dan Rather Mystery by David Burge)

It was a slow September night in Manhattan. The kind of sweaty summer night when the mean streets of Gotham run wild with the shadowy scum of the Republican National Convention. The kind of night when mysteries are born. The kind of night I live for.

My name is Rather. And I’m a dick.

I stabbed out a Lucky into my Watergate Hotel ashtray, a sentimental little souvenir I picked up after my first big scoop (Dan Rather #1 - the Case of the Phantom CREEPs), and peered through the Venetian blinds of my 53rd Street office. I polished the lens on my camera.

It had been over a year since my last big investigation, a nasty little blackmail plot against an eccentric Baghdad Hills tycoon (Dan Rather #24: The Tikrit Orchid), and rent was overdue. I needed a scoop, and I needed one fast. My rabbit foot was working, because a scoop soon came waltzing through the door. In silk stockings.

“Gotta light, handsome?” asked the 32-30-41 silhoutte leaning on the frame.

Mapes. I hadn’t seen her since Dan Rather #27 - The Secret of Abu Ghraib. She was a dangerous dame with dangerous gams — and a nose for Republican plots.

“Hello, Mary,” I sneered, pushing back the rim of my fedora with a Sony microphone.

“’Smatter, Daniel? I thought you’d be happy to see me,” she purred, filing her nails.

“Happy ain’t the word, doll. You’re lucky I didn’t drop you like a bad habit after you burned me on the Lynndie England caper. You gotta case for me, or is this strictly a…. social call?”

“All of the above, Danny Boy. Got time for a little gossip?”

“Depends on the gossip-ee, I suppose.”

“Suppose I told you it concerned a little mumble-mouth guy from Texas.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Do the words ‘Texas Air National Guard’ ring a bell?”

“You know my fee, doll. Twenty-five grand a broadcast, plus expenses.”

I poured a hot cup of muddy joe into my CBS News logo cup. It was going to be a long night.

*************************

Burkett had the gaunt, hollow look of a man who had crossed paths with the Bush crew. I knew it far too well. He was scared, and would probably clam up if I didn’t turn the screws.

“Where did you get these memos?” I demanded.

“An Air Force Admiral. She was a, um, Mexican dame… yeah… Lucy Ricardo,” he stammered. “That’s it, yeah. She smuggled the papers to me in… uh… a bottle of Vita-meata-vegamin.”

That was all I needed. I called HQ and booked a segment on Sixty Minutes II.

“And she had a friend name Ethel,” he added. “An a conga band.”

****************************

Although Lt. Kurtz was a media cop, I knew he wanted the Bush gang on ice as bad as me. I decided to confront him, point blank.

“Give it to me straight, flatfoot,” I demanded. “What in the name of Edward R. Murrow is going on here?”

“I’m saying you’ve been played like a pawn shop fiddle, Rather. Set up. Conned. Slipped a mickey.”

“What are you implying Kurtz?”

“Snookered. Bamboozled. Flimflammed. They sold you a first class ticket to the Palookaville snipe hunt on the Gullible Express.”

“And so you’re saying….”

“You’ve been duped, Danny. Fooled. Had. You were wedgied, pantsed, and paraded around town in your skidmarked B.V.D.s. ”

“Stop talking in code, Howie,” I snapped. “I need the truth!”

“Oh for crissakes, read the freaking blogs, Rather!” he snapped.

Hmm… ‘blogs’… it echoed around my mind… who, or what, were these ‘blogs’ he hinted about? Playing a hunch, I booked a berth on the next Zephyr to L.A.

*************************

I bulldogged the wheel of my Hudson down Topanga Canyon, its whitewalls squealing a noisy complaint as I skidded through its treacherous curves. Johnson’s Schwinn Black Phantom was fast, but no match for my Hornet straight-8 flathead. I sped alongside and threw my door into the frantically pedaling hophead, and set him flying down an embankment in his green zoot-suit. I slid down and put him in a half-nelson.

“Going somewhere, Charlie?” I asked. “See, I’m looking for a tutor. Somebody who knows something about … ‘Microsoft Word.’”

“Cheese it, fuzz, I know my rights,” he mumbled. I cranked the armlock tighter, and not just for persuasion. Johnson played in several jazz combos and there was a good chance he might be juiced on reefer pills.

“Cut the cute stuff, wise guy! Who is Power Line? Who is Captain Ed? What in the hell is a kern?”

Johnson began laughing uncontrollably. It was obvious he was on narcotics, and he would have to sleep it off before he would talk, and then…

The blunt thud of the blackjack rang in my ears, A sharp pain.

Lights out.

Visit iowahawk’s joint for the thrilling conclusion…