Sweet Dreams, Irene (3 page)

“Well, good morning, Miss Kelly! Nice of you to join us!”

“Good morning, John. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here with you.”

J
OHN
W
ALTERS,
my news editor, sauntered over to me. “That cop boyfriend of yours keeping you up too late at night?”

“I came in at seven-thirty this morning. You can check that with Geoff.”

“So where the hell have you been since then? The ladies’ room?”

“No, John, I was interviewing someone. And not in the ladies’ room.”

“Really? At seven-thirty in the morning? Who is this early bird?”

“Sorry. For the moment I’m not free to say. I’ll probably be able to tell you more this afternoon.”

He stared at me. His face was red, and I could see the veins in his neck and forehead. “Come into my office,” he said gruffly.

I followed him across the newsroom, which had fallen silent in the wake of our exchange. As I watched his huge behind waddle in front of me, I wondered what bug could have possibly crawled up it so early in the day.

He opened the office door, ushered me in with a mocking bow, turned to the newsroom, and shouted “Work, damn it!” at the top of his lungs. Then he slammed the door shut so hard everything on his desk jumped.

He turned to me and scowled, but didn’t say anything. I decided the best defense was a good offense, mainly because I was pissed. But I kept my voice calm and low.

“You know, John, I really don’t mind being paraded through the newsroom like an errant child—you’ve got a nasty reputation to protect, and as staff curmudgeon it’s almost your duty to throw a fit now and then. I’m happy to be of help. But usually, underneath it all, you’ve got some reason for getting angry. I can’t figure out what it is this time. Have I let you down somehow? Is there a problem with the way I’ve covered the election?”

He sat down. The flush of anger left his face and he started fooling around with a ballpoint pen, stabbing it into the blotter on his desk. He was actually silent. Something
was
wrong.

“What’s going on, John?”

“I don’t have any problems with your coverage of the election. As usual, you’ve done an ace job. You haven’t let me down in any way.”

“So what is it?”

“Wrigley is on my case all the time. He wants me to hand over some of your work to Stacee.”

I felt my fists clench. Winston Wrigley III was an ass-pinching SOB who had inherited a job as editor. The publications board could still outvote him, or the staff would have walked out a long time ago. In fact, two years before, I had quit the
Express
after a loud argument with him. He had wanted me to come back but I turned him down until O’Connor was killed. I came back to finish the stories O’Connor was working on when he died, and in the process ended up hooked on reporting again.

“My work to Stacee? Stacee who couldn’t find her way around City Hall with a map? Stacee who’s so adorable she spells her name in a cutesy kind of way? Stacee who has spent all of six months out of J school?”

“You’ve forgotten five months of grad school under Professor Wrigley’s private tutelage.”

“Goddamn that bastard! He questions my ethics—bans me from crime stories because of Frank—”

“Wait a minute, you know he’s entitled to do that under the circumstances.”

“Oh hell, John. I’ve heard it all before—if I’m going to bed with a cop, you’re not going to put me on a crime story. I might not be able to stay objective if the cops are due for some criticism. Never mind that you and half the reporters on this paper are drinking buddies with these same cops—sex somehow will ruin my brain for being a crime reporter. But you know what, John? It’s worse for Frank. Who do you suppose they’re going to go looking for the first time somebody in the department leaks some story to the paper?”

“Look, Irene, if you think I don’t trust you—”

“I hope it hasn’t come to that.”

“It hasn’t.”

I settled down a little. “I’ve never made a stink out of being forbidden to do stories that involve the cops. I can live with it. I knew that something like that might happen if Frank and I got involved—”

“Yeah, yeah, but you can’t help yourselves. Look, don’t make me sick, okay? I don’t like what Wrigley’s trying to pull with Stacee any more than you do. She’s not a bad kid, she just seems to be so used to getting her way by using that saucy little body that it hasn’t occurred to her yet to use her brains.”

“Yeah, well, anyone who lets Wrigley into her underpants can’t be the next Einstein.”

“Oh, so you’ve been wise all your life? Shall I talk about a couple of the losers I’ve seen you hook up with over the years?”

I flinched. “No thanks. Point taken. So what are you getting at, John?”

“Starting tomorrow, why don’t you try to let her help you out?”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“I’m not. You know it’s too much to cover on your own. You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

There was some truth in this, I thought. In the past, O’Connor and I had covered things together. When I quit, other reporters had worked with him off and on, but no one had really made the contacts and connections I had. When I first came back to work at the paper, I had been glad to have the distraction the long hours gave me. But now, if I was honest with myself, I had to admit I was wearing down. Still—
Stacee?
John was looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“So you think Stacee has talent—outside of the type Wrigley appreciates so much?”

John grinned. “I knew you’d be fair about this, Irene. The kid needs a mentor—someone to show her the ropes. Her writing is okay. Needs a little polishing, but that takes time.”

“Hold on, John. This is not an unconditional surrender. I’m not signing up to be a mentor. I’ve worked hard to build up the trust and confidence of my sources in Las Piernas, and I’m not just going to hand it all to her on a silver platter. If she works with me, I choose what I’m going to let her cover. The paper has as much or more to lose than I do if she starts pissing people off.”

“You are getting very uppity in your old age.”

“I have a great role model.”

“Hmmph.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, but finally he agreed.

As I left his office, my eyes came to rest on a woman who looked like she was made to order should central casting call up and say, “We need a bimbo.” It was Stacee Martin. She looked up at me and smiled a 400-watt, totally phony smile.

What the hell had I gotten myself into now?

M
EANING TO RETURN
the smile, I believe I ended up grimacing, since she looked puzzled in response. I turned and made my way over to my desk, which had once been O’Connor’s own. I admit it—I was pouting. I thought about Stacee and her way of reaching whatever goals she had at the paper, comparing it to my own time as a green reporter. I had spent my first two years up in Bakersfield covering a crime beat. And the first stories I took on at the
Express
weren’t glamorous. Pet vaccination clinics, shopping center openings—and lots of crime stories, everything from break-ins to paramedic stories. If it was really juicy, they gave it to a veteran—which is how I met O’Connor. He had chosen me to work with him after I had paid some dues.

Now, at the time when maybe I would have picked somebody out on my own, I was going to be stuck with double-e Stacee. Hell if I was going to take responsibility for thrusting her career forward.

But as I thought about it, a little smile began to form on my lips. There were lots of ways to pay dues. I was going to run her ass so ragged she wouldn’t have enough time or energy to warm Wrigley’s bed. God, what a great way to pay Wrigley back.

T
HAT DECIDED
, I called the Montgomery campaign to see what I could learn. I asked for Brady Scott, Montgomery’s press manager.

“Irene! What a pleasant surprise!” An unsolicited call from the local press. He was gushing all over himself.

“How’s it going, Brady?”

“Very well, very well. Monty will make a great D.A.”

“Any special reason for all of this optimism?”

“Oh, just faith in the voters,” he said, and I could hear the note of caution creeping into his voice.

“Come on, Brady. Word on the street is that you’ve got a nasty hit planned on the Henderson campaign.”

“Monty is running a clean campaign.” Maybe it wasn’t caution. Maybe it was—naw, these guys are never ashamed of anything.

“Who’s saying he isn’t?”

“Look, you know how it is. As any campaign gets down to the wire, people pull out the stops. It’s already happening and you know it—our opposition is doing the same thing. We found out something we think the voters ought to know about, and we’re going to tell them.”

“If the voters ought to know about it, tell me. It’s practically your civic duty, Brady.”

“Well …”

As he hesitated, I heard the muffled voice of someone else in the room with him. I couldn’t make out who it was.

“Look, that just wouldn’t fit into our plans right now. I promise you that I will be available for you if you’ve got any other questions. Are you coming to the coalition meeting tonight?”

I hadn’t planned on going to this particular “Meet the Candidates” night, but just at that moment I saw Stacee cross the room to the City Desk, and I got a flash of inspiration.

“No, Brady, but we’re sending someone else there.”

He sounded a little disappointed, but I didn’t owe him anything.

“Sorry you’re clamming up on me, Brady. I thought by now—well, call me if you change your mind, okay?”

I hung up. So some kind of hit piece was planned. But they were definitely keeping it under wraps. I tried calling a couple of other people who were close to the campaign. Nothing.

I started plowing through the mass of paper that had accumulated on my desk since yesterday. I was making some headway when I noticed a shadow across my desk. I looked up to see who was darkening my reading light. It was Stacee.

“It’s not polite to read over people’s shoulders,” I said.

She blushed and said, “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to. I guess I’m just curious.”

“Not bad to be curious. Just practice reading things on people’s desks when you’re
outside
the newsroom, and you’ll make more friends here.”

“I don’t seem to have many.”

My heart was breaking. Gee, Stacee, I thought to myself, don’t you wonder why? But aloud I said, “Sit down. I was going to try to talk to you later today anyway.”

She sat there dutifully, mooning at me. Christ Almighty, I thought—it won’t work with me, kid. I tapped my pencil. What was I going to do with Wrigley’s little princess?

“I understand you want to work on political stories.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What makes you think you can cover politics? Have you done it before?”

“In college, I covered student elections.”

I looked up at the little holes in the ceiling tile above me. The answer to my prayer for patience was not there.

“I mean,” she said, in a meek voice that made me want to kick her, “I know it’s not the same thing.”

“No,” I said. “Just tell me why. Why political stories?”

Why me? I thought, but I didn’t say it.

“I really want to work on something that’s important.”

I looked over to the City Desk, where a group of general assignment reporters were gathered around Lydia Ames, assistant city editor and a friend of mine since grade school. She was busily handing out the day’s less glorious assignments.

“Who do you know around here who
doesn’t
want to work on something important?” I said.

“I know I haven’t had much experience. But how am I going to get any experience if somebody doesn’t give me a chance?”

“Same way the rest of us got it—pay some dues.”

She looked crestfallen. I felt a little twinge—I refused to believe it might be guilt.

“Look, if you expect me to hand over a major story to someone who’s as green as—”

“I don’t expect that,” she protested. “I don’t mind hard work. It’s an honor just to be helping you. I’ve always admired your writing, Miss Kelly. I want to be like you.”

Where are the hip-waders when you need them? On second thought, she was laying it on so thick, it was more than hip-deep. I needed a steam shovel. She must have seen my doubts, because she grew very serious and said quietly, “I mean that.”

That twinge again. “Well, if you mean it,” I said, “then thanks. But understand that I’m doing this as a favor to John. I don’t know you well enough to have picked you out to work with me.”

“I understand. But I still appreciate the chance.”

“We’ll see. Here’s what you can do for starters. Go down to the morgue and read issues from June on—anything you can find related to local politics. When you’ve got at least that much background, we’ll go from there. And tonight there’s a meeting of the Las Piernas Coalition for Justice. All the major candidates will be speaking there. Go to it.”

“Tonight?” she said, looking uncomfortable.

“Yes, tonight. You do want to cover politics, don’t you?”

“The Coalition for Justice will be meeting on Halloween?”

“Yes,” I said, and I pulled out a flyer to prove it to her. “You weren’t expecting nine-to-five hours when you got your degree in journalism, were you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, I can see this isn’t going to work out,” I said, trying to keep the glee out of my voice. “You’ve obviously got a hot date or something. I’ll ask Lydia to put one of the more experienced general assignment people on it.”

“No—please. I’ll go. I’m sorry—I’ll cancel my other plans. Thanks for giving this to me.”

Maybe she would last a week, I thought. “No problem. Try to read up on the candidates before you get there.”

“I’ve been reading all of your stories—I clip them out.”

“What?”

She looked sheepish. “Like I said, I admire you. I’ve clipped out all your stories since you came back to the paper. I used to read your columns when I was in high school and college. Then you left the paper. When you came back, I didn’t know how long you were going to stay, so I started clipping them. You know, starting with the ones you did on Mr. O’Connor.”