Sweet Dreams, Irene ik-2 Read online

  Since Henderson had only run once before, unsuccessfully against a then-popular incumbent, I didn’t see how twice in four years meant Jacob grew up with campaigning. But I supposed from the perspective of someone his age, it must have seemed constant, given the time his father would have devoted to it.

  “If you’ve grown up with campaigns, you know your dad will know how to combat mudslinging. What is it that really bothers you about this?”

  He was silent, seeming to be debating about what he should and shouldn’t tell me.

  “Off the record?” he said.

  A sixteen-year-old demanding to be off the record. He did know something about politics. “That depends. You came to see a reporter, after all.”

  “But it’s about something that isn’t true. It’s not news, then, is it?”

  And he had grown up with a lawyer. “Okay,” I said. “But if I find out otherwise, expect to see it in print.”

  He mulled this over. “Okay. Montgomery has this photo. It’s supposed to show me participating in a witches’ coven.”

  “A witches’ coven?”

  “Yeah, you know, a group of witches.”

  “I know what a coven is — but how did he get a photograph of you and a coven?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I do know, but I don’t know how.” He drew a breath. “What I mean is, I was there, but I wasn’t there as a witch or anything. And I didn’t see anyone with a camera, so I don’t know how.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “You’re not going to believe me.”

  I waited.

  He sighed. “I was trying to get a friend of mine to leave. She’s mixed up with the wrong crowd. I was trying to get her to come home.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “She’s just a friend. Not my girlfriend.” He looked down at his hands. “We grew up together. I’ve known her since we were little kids. Sammy’s been our neighbor for years.”

  “Sammy?”

  “Gethsemane — yeah, I know. It’s worse than Sammy. Her parents are real religious types. I think that’s part of why she’s doing this crap with the witches. I don’t think she really believes in it. I think she’s just trying to rebel against her parents or something. Anyway, we’ve always talked, and been… I don’t know, we could always just talk to one another. She’s my friend. Understand?”

  “I understand. Do her folks know about the witchcraft stuff?”

  “Yeah. They kicked her out. They’re so busy going to church all the time, I don’t think they care about anything else.”

  “So where is she living?”

  “She was just spending the night with her witch friends, but I talked her into going down to Casa de Esperanza, the runaway shelter. You know about that?”

  “Yes.” Casa de Esperanza was, in fact, one of the many gifts Frank’s neighbor, Mrs. Fremont, had given to Las Piernas. She had started it back in the 1970s, when I was in college. One semester I did volunteer work there for credit in a psychology class. She had founded the shelter, but she had since handed most of the administration of the facility to other people. She had kept some of it in the family; I remembered that she once told me her own grandson worked there. All the same, Mrs. Fremont still spent a lot of her time at the shelter, lending an ear to troubled teens. She seemed to be the town grandmother.

  “Well, anyway,” Jacob went on, “I talked Sammy into going to the shelter. She didn’t put up much of an argument. I guess even the witch friends were tired of having her over all the time.”

  “Who are these witches?”

  “They’re not even really witches. It’s just a bunch of high school kids playing dress-up. They read all these weird books and try to do the rituals and all of that, but as far as I know the worst thing they’ve done is gone into the cemetery after closing.”

  “Some people think there are occult groups murdering their pets, having strange sexual rituals, worshipping the devil,” I said. “Maybe getting into drugs, things like that. Trying to be evil, you might say.”

  “I know what people think. But it isn’t true. Not with this group. I mean, I think Sammy would let me know if they did anything like that. She loves animals — she wouldn’t hang out with anyone that killed a pet. Maybe there’s some other group of witches out there. I don’t know. These people she hangs out with talk like they’re really evil, but I think they just like the showy stuff. I think they’re all talk.”

  “All of them? Maybe Sammy’s fairly innocent, but when people get into this kind of thing, they sometimes attract people who are more serious about it all.”

  He brooded over that for a moment. “That’s what I’m afraid of, I guess. That’s why I keep trying to get her to quit hanging around with them.”

  He was holding something back, so I decided to wait it out. It was getting stuffy in the little room, but I figured there was more to the story than he had told me thus far.

  “There is one guy…” he said, then paused, seeming reluctant to say more. “He’s older. Sammy told me about him. He’s sort of the leader. They never see his face. He wears some sort of goat mask or something. He wasn’t there the night I tried to get Sammy to leave. But she was really freaked out, you know, like if the guy found me there he would kill me.”

  “Kill you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe she was just being dramatic. She is sometimes. Lots of times, really. She just needs attention. But I think she really was scared of something.”

  Something was bothering me about his story, and I finally figured out what it was. “If you didn’t see a photographer, how do you know there’s a photo? And how do you know about this hit piece of Montgomery’s?”

  He turned beet red. If he was nervous before, he was frantic now. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You’re really testing my patience, you know that? There’s going to be a witch hunt, only there aren’t really any witches. You say you’ve been photographed at a gathering of these wanna-be witches, but you don’t know who took the photograph. You say there’s about to be a smear campaign that might cause your father to lose an election, but you can’t tell me how you know. And for toppers, you’ve asked me to keep all of this stuff that maybe happened and maybe will happen off the record. What the hell am I supposed to do with all this?”

  “Please,” he said, bursting into tears, “I need your help.”

  I felt like a bully. I hadn’t meant to make the kid cry. I leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Jacob, I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a packet of tissues.

  He was embarrassed, but he took one.

  “Have you talked to your father about this?”

  He laughed. There was no mirth in it. “What father?” he said.

  “The one you care so much about that you’d come down here and talk to the meanest reporter in town.”

  He smiled a little at that. “You’re not mean. He’s not around much. He’s — I understand, really — it’s important to him to win. But he doesn’t have time to sleep, let alone talk to me. He’s really worn out.”

  “He should be proud of you. You care about your friends and your family. You strike me as being a good-hearted person.”

  “He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t want people to know about me. I don’t know. It’s because of the way I dress — at least, that’s what my mom says. I guess I’m no different from Sammy. I sort of rebel against him. But I really do like to wear black.”

  “Can’t help you with that, Jacob. You’re in one of the world’s oldest struggles there. What do you think I can help you with?”

  “Could you tell people I’m not a witch?”

  “It will seem pretty odd if I do that before anyone has said you are.”

  “It’s going to happen. I — can you keep a secret?”

  “Most secrets. If they won’t hurt anyone, or compromise the paper. But just because I’m a reporter doesn’t mean you can’t trust me with a confidence.”


  “I have a friend who — who works for the Montgomery campaign. We don’t usually talk about politics. But when my friend saw this flyer about me being a witch — well, that’s how I found out. I don’t want to get my friend in trouble.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  He turned red again. “Please don’t ask me any more about it, okay? I’ve told you too much already.”

  He acted as if he was going to leave. “Hold on, hold on,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone about your friend.” He looked at me as if he were trying to decide if he could trust me. Apparently I passed the test, because he sat back down again.

  “Look, Jacob, all I can do is try to find out if this piece is really going to be mailed out, and if it is, I’ll do what I can to balance the coverage so that your side of the story gets told. It would help if I could get some kind of quote from your friend Sammy. Do you think she would talk to me?”

  “If I went with you, she might.”

  “Is she playing hooky today, too?”

  “Naw, she’s in school. They try to make sure kids go to school if they stay at the shelter. It’s a rule.”

  “What time will she be out of school?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  “Okay, so, would she be back at the shelter by three?”

  “I could go back to school — you know, tell them I’m feeling better. I’ll find her and ask her to meet us there if you want.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there at three.” I pulled out a card and gave it to him. “Call me here at the paper if you need to cancel.”

  He took it and read it over. “Okay,” he said.

  “Do you have any idea of how Montgomery’s people knew you’d be out at this witch shindig?”

  “No.”

  “Any chance your friend at the Montgomery campaign might have told them?”

  “No!”

  “Okay, okay, take it easy. Did you tell anyone else? Or could anyone have overheard you talking about it?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. But I did have a big argument at the shelter with Sammy. Maybe someone heard us. I don’t know. The walls are kind of thin, and there are always a lot of kids hanging out there.”

  “One other thing. How are you at taking advice from old fogeys?”

  “Depends on the advice, I guess, and the old fogey.”

  “Well, let’s say this old fogey.”

  “Try me. You’re not real old.”

  “Thanks, I guess. I really don’t have any business sticking my nose in, so it’s just between the two of us, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s just something to think about. The way I figure it, if you’re concerned enough about your dad’s campaign to come here and talk to me, maybe you’re concerned enough to fight a little of the fire Montgomery plans on setting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’ll be using your appearance — the black clothes and black hair — to promote his ideas in people’s minds. Trust me on this — I used to work in public relations. In fact, a pal of mine named Kevin Malloy could make you an expert in this kind of stuff. People will try to place you in a box — the box you seem most likely to fit in. Those that get to know you, even for as short a time as I have, will doubt you could ever fit in a box labeled ‘witch.’ But those that don’t know you are only going to have what Montgomery says and any pictures of you they see in the paper. And believe me, there will be a picture in the paper if this comes out.”

  He groaned.

  “Anyway, you have every right to wear whatever clothes you want to wear, or to dye your hair pink, if you want to. But there’s a price for everything. Ask yourself if it’s worth it to change your image for a few days.”

  “That sounds a lot like selling out.”

  “Maybe. But again, ask yourself what set of principles you’re selling out to. The set that doesn’t want to bring harm to others, or the one that says you’re free to make any fashion statement you choose. It’s up to you. No skin off my nose.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “What do you say we get some fresh air?”

  “Yeah, I’m suffocating in here.”

  As we stood up, we heard the throbbing sound of the presses as they started up. Danny met us outside the door with ear protectors. “Better wear these,” he shouted, as the roaring grew. He led us back through the aisles. Jacob was enthralled with it all. I had seen it a thousand times or more, and I was still enthralled.

  He shook Danny’s hand as we left, and we handed over the earmuffs. Jacob was smiling, and I was glad to see him lighten up a little. “Feel better?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m still scared about it, but I guess I feel like maybe there’s something I can do about it.”

  “I’ll see you at three.”

  “Okay.” He turned to leave. I had started up the stairs when I heard him call out to me.

  “Miss Kelly?”

  I turned around.

  “What kind of classes should I take if I want to work here?”

  “Journalism and English are good starting points. You have a school paper at Las Piernas High. Try to get on it.”

  “I think I will. Bye.”

  He moved out of the building with a little more energy than he had shown in the halls, and I found myself bounding up the stairs. I don’t often encounter young people — my God, I was old enough to call them young people — in my work, and there was something refreshing about spending time with Jacob. As I entered the newsroom, my mood was shot down by a booming voice filled to the brim with sarcasm.

  “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.”

  4

  JOHN WALTERS, 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.”