FreedomLand by Christopher Jackson

Author:Christopher Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2021-06-07T17:25:15+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

“Go for Ponce.”

“Hope I didn’t catch you on top of somebody,” Monica Bell said when James “Ponce” DeLeon answered his phone.

“What? Of course not,” DeLeon said, managing to sound outraged. Scared straight after Roger Ailes, Bill O’Reilly, and Charlie Rose had gone down, he now kept his sex life confined to Manhattan’s singles scene and out of the office. “Who is this?”

“It’s Monica.”

“Ohmigod! Monica! Where are you? Are you OK? I’ve been sitting here worried sick about you!”

“Well, when you’re the producer of The Monica Bell Show and Monica Bell goes missing, I bet that makes you worry about where the next paycheck’s gonna come from.”

“I can worry about lots of things at once,” DeLeon said. “That’s why I’m a good producer.”

“Shouldn’t we be talking about me right now?”

“Oh, of course. Where are you? Did the police find you?”

“No. Believe it or not, I’m calling from Fayetteville, North Carolina. In a sure sign God is a thirteen-year-old boy, I’m being held captive in a bankrupt topless bar called Knockers. I’ve spent the better part of the week chained to a stripper pole. I got one of the kidnappers drunk, and he left his phone within reach.”

“God, what a story. This will bring in killer ratings.”

“I’m fine, thanks. Your concern is touching.”

“I’m concerned about you,” DeLeon said. “That goes without saying. But just think of the ratings when you come back to tell your story. Through the roof!”

“Listen, dummy. It gets better,” Monica said, listening for the sound of a flushing toilet and also for footsteps in case Jacob Kelley returned. “The Unacrapper is one of the kidnappers.”

“Fuck me,” DeLeon said.

“Not in my job description, thank God. Now, can you stop channeling your inner Weinstein and focus on the problem at hand?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. But I enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

“I’ll call 911 right now and get you out of there. You could be on the air tonight. Both radio and TV,” DeLeon said.

“If I wanted the police here in five minutes, I would’ve called 911 myself.”

“Well, what do you want?”

Monica was silent for a moment. She looked around the dark, forlorn space that had been her home for several long days. A big U-shaped bar jutting out into the middle of the room. Cheap wooden tables scattered across the floor, some still bearing the standard restaurant-issue sugar and salt and pepper dispensers. A few even had bottles of Tabasco sauce. And then there was the ridiculous stage and the brass stripper pole to which she was tethered. She was ready to go and shook her head in disbelief at what she was about to say. “See, this is where it gets a little complicated. One of the kidnappers is a decent guy. Comes across a bit dopey but really isn’t. Politically, he’s somewhat to the right of Tucker Carlson’s most racist grandfather. But he was only trying to help me, and it turned into a kidnapping.”

“How does ‘trying to help’ turn into kidnapping?” DeLeon asked, not unreasonably.

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