Sweet Dreams, Irene

“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.”

“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.”