The Destroyer - 89 - The Destroyer 089 - The Dark Horse by Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir

Author:Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir [Murphy, Warren & Sapir, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Pulp Action
ISBN: 9780451171160
Publisher: PINNACLE BOOKS
Published: 1992-07-20T23:00:00+00:00

Yet the tape he had given her proved to be blank. And the network had refused to run her interview with Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, calling it "Soft and unprofessional."

Cheeta had instantly blamed this on her cameraman. But the missing tape still bothered her.

There is only one way to solve this mystery, she decided, as she stirred her jungol and let the scrumptious turnip-and-cabbage odor soothe her flaring nostrils.

She picked up the phone and called personnel.

"Did anyone named Nero drop off a resume today?" she asked the personnel manager.

"No. Nor Demo. Nor Nemo, or any of the other names you keep mentioning."

"Well, if anyone with any of those names drops off a resume, I am to be notified instantly or it's your job."

"You don't hire and fire at this station," the personnel manager had said.

"Fine," Cheeta Ching replied tartly. "I won't fire you. What I'll do is rip your Adam's apple out of your gullet with my naked teeth."

There was a pregnant pause while the threat sank in.

"The very minute anyone with those vowels in his name drops off a resume, you'll be the first to know, Miss Ching," the personnel manager said, helpfully.

"Thank you," Cheeta said sweetly. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Cheeta hung up the phone. It rang a second later. It was the station news director.

"We just received word that Esperanza is giving a speech down in the South Central district. I can get you a cameraman, if you want to cover it."

"I want to cover it," Cheeta said quickly, bolting from her chair. Here was her chance to redeem herself. And maybe run into Nero the Divine, too.

The thought of coming into contact with the dark-eyed Nero made more delicious shivers course up and down her spine. She wondered if it would stimulate ovulation. She had tried just about everything else.

The station microwave van came off the freeway and into the worst section of South Central Los Angeles.

The driver looked startled. He pulled over to the side of the road, his face wearing a confused expression.

From the back of the van, Cheeta poked her stickyhaired head forward.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, shrill-voiced.

"I think I took a wrong turn," he said, pulling a folding map from the glove compartment.

"Don't you know your own city, you nitwit?"

"I thought I did. But this can't be South Central."

Cheeta peered through the windshield. She saw a neat downtown area. No litter clogged its gutters. The sides of buildings were wet from recent scrubbing. Even the sidewalks looked freshly washed.

More incredibly, there were no loitering gang members, no back-alley drug dealing, no hookers in tight clothes leaning against building facades.

"Why not?" she asked, her too-smooth face puckering in perplexity.

"Look at this place," said the driver. "It's neat as a pin. South Central is a dump."

"Maybe the city cleaned it in preparation for Esperanza's speech," Cheeta suggested.

"Lady, you don't know this city. Or South Central. The cops are petrified to come here after dark."

The driver returned to the map.

"Says here we should be on Compton Street," he said doubtfully.

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