“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 —
“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
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.
