Sweet Dreams, Irene ik-2 Read online

  “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?

  MEANING 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.

  THAT 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.”

  I must confess I was flabbergasted. And embarrassed. And, yes — well, flattered. “Really?” I managed to choke out.

  “Really.” God, she looked so sincere, I wanted to believe her. But I thought about what was going on with Wrigley and fell back to earth.

  “Well, you still need to reread anything you’ve read about local politics — any story by anyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Take this flyer. And let John know if you can’t make it for some reason — he may want to send someone else.” That was baloney, of course. This meeting was only one of a hundred, and whatever would be said tonight would be repeated at ten or twenty other meetings this week. The candidates were running around to every civic group they could get their hands on. Oh sure, they’d tailor tonight’s speeches along the more liberal side, to fit the coalition. Tomorrow, at the Veterans of Foreign Wars meeting, they’d tailor to the more conservative side. If she was serious, seeing them in each camp would provide good experience.

  Before she left my desk, I told her about the VFW meeting and she noted the time and place. She thanked me again and I waved it off. I was going to be furious with myself if I started trusting all of her gratitude and flattery at face value. I reminded myself again that she had been crawling into Wrigley’s bed to get what she wanted. I shivered and went back to work on my pile of papers.

  Afternoon rolled around and I called Casa de Esperanza to make sure there wouldn’t be any problem meeting there with Sammy and Jacob. The woman who answered wavered a bit, even though I told her I wasn’t planning on writing anything about the shelter. She wasn’t moved to commitment by my saying I had once worked at the shelter, either. Finally, I dropped Mrs. Fremont’s name as a reference and doors opened — suddenly I was a welcomed guest. “Mrs. Fremont should be here any time now,” the woman said brightly. I thanked her and told her I would be there in about twenty minutes.

  I tidied up a few things, still feeling like it was unnatural for this desk to be so clean — O’Connor had always covered it in mountains of loose papers. As I made my way out to my car, I was concerned about going into this meeting without having spent at least a little time trying to get some background on witchcraft or on any previous news of local cults. Hadn’t I just given Stacee a big speech on being prepared?

  And all I knew about witches came from a little background on what went on in Salem three hundred years ago and a few episodes of Bewitched.

  “Eye of newt and toe of frog; Wool of bat and tongue of dog,” I mumbled, drawing a look of apprehension from a passer-by. I doubted the incantations from Macbeth were going to be of any help either.

  Oh well, I thought, climbing into my car, I’d just have to keep in mind that I was meeting with Sammy to confirm Jacob’s purpose for being at a certain gathering — a political story. Not a witchcraft story.

  I left the parking lot with those good intentions. By the end of the day, I would be wondering if I was on that famous road that is paved with good intentions.

  5

  I GOT TO CASA DE ESPERANZA before Sammy and Jacob arrived. The place was all decked out for Halloween. Inside, it didn’t look much different than it had fifteen or more years ago — I had to stop and do some math — right, fifteen years ago. The music groups on the posters which adorned its walls had changed, except for one for the Doors. I tried to do a little more math, working out how old Jim Morrison would be today, when a clean-cut, muscular young man came walking toward me. I was wondering if all the runaways looked so well-adjusted these days, when he said, “Irene Kelly? I’m Paul Fremont. My grandmother has often spoken of you.”

  As I took the offered hand for a vigorous handshake, I tried to absorb the shock of realizing this “kid” was a twenty-one-year-old college student, not a runaway. “Hello, Paul. Your grandmother has told me a lot about you. She’s certainly very proud of you.”

  He looked at me a little oddly, I thought, but I didn’t have time to figure out if I had embarrassed him or if he just didn’t believe me, because at that moment the grandmother in question appeared on the scene.

  “Why, Irene! Mrs. Riley told me you’d be coming by this afternoon. And now you’ve met my grandson, Paul. Good, good. Let me show you around, dear. This part of the house hasn’t changed since you worked here, but we’ve been busy out in the back.” She took hold of my arm and led me off. Paul nodded in understanding and went into a small office.

  Mrs. Fremont was right. The place had changed. A recreation room had been converted out of a garage. There was a deck and a beautiful garden, including a spot where the residents grew some vegetables. There was some indefinable something that inwardly itched at me about the garden. I knew it wasn’t because I remembered it; the last time I had been in this yard it had just been dirt and grass of dubious parentage.

  “Frank and a friend of his built the deck and did all of the landscaping for us,” she said.

  I looked at her in surprise, then smiled. “Now I know why something about it seemed familiar.”

  “Yes,” she said, returning the smile, “I’m not sure his friend Pete enjoyed the work so much, but Frank put his heart into it. He’s a keeper, Irene.”

  “A keeper? As in, ‘my brother’s’?”

  She laughed. “No, as in, ‘one you shouldn’t throw back into the pond.’ “She became reflective for a moment. “Come to think of it, Frank is the kind you mention as well. His brother’s keeper. Yes. He certainly isn’t afraid to get involved or lend a hand.”

  I looked out at the garden again. She was right. Frank was a keeper by either definition. The Express and the LPPD be damned.

  This warm fuzzy moment of ours was rudely interrupted by the sudden blare of a stereo and the simultaneous ruckus that can only be raised by a group of teenagers. I was cringing at the loudness, but Mrs. Fremont was looking at me with laughing eyes. “I’ve lost some of my hearing,” she shouted into my ear. “Probably from when people who were in high school with you used to sit around here and play records by the
Who and Pink Floyd at full blast. I count my blessings.”

  Judging from the noise outside, Mrs. Fremont had about twenty blessings in tow; but when we got back inside the house it turned out to be about half that.

  I looked the group over and didn’t see Jacob; I figured Sammy wasn’t here yet either. I was trying to take in this boisterous sea of energy, released from the school day and excited about a Halloween party to be held that night, when it dispersed in varying directions almost as soon as it had arrived. Some of the residents took over the bathrooms, some headed down the separate wings of the house to their rooms, a group went out into the backyard, and a couple of them tried to raid the refrigerator. Mrs. Fremont moved off into the kitchen to chat amiably with them — the generation gap we had talked about in my day narrowed to a sliver.

  Paul walked into the front room and reached for the volume control, cutting the decibels in the room in half. He winced as he turned to me and said, “My ears can’t take it as easily as Grandmother’s.”

  “Believe me, I’m with you,” I said.

  “Don’t ever let any of the residents know, but I prefer classical.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  At that moment, the front door burst open with such fury it bounced off the wall and almost closed again on the thin young woman who entered the room. She marched past me, pausing long enough to give me an angry look before heading back into the women’s wing. She was pale, dressed totally in black, and had long hair dyed to a dark, raven color. This spidery young lady had to be Sammy.

  Quite a few of the other residents I had seen earlier were wearing black, and some had that same look of bravado over pain as well, but something about the creature who had just flown past me made her a better candidate for a witches’ coven. I had just figured out that part of this impression came from a cloying fragrance that still hung in the air — she had smelled strongly of some kind of incense or spice oil — when the door opened a second time, more gently.

  Jacob looked at me and blushed to the roots of his hair. “Sorry, Miss Kelly. I told you she was dramatic.”