by Cindy Dees
A wave of relief seemed to wash warmly over Davis, comfort coming from the solidarity they shared. He allowed himself to settle into the wealth of camaraderie, taking from it what he needed most in that moment. Laughter was abundant as they continued to banter back and forth.
“I bet Dad doesn’t know anything about any of us going to therapy,” Davis said after a few minutes. Concern peppered his next comment. “I’m sure he’d have something to say about it if he did.”
Mingus shrugged. “Dad knows what he needs to know. Stop worrying about Dad and take care of yourself however you need to.”
“He wants me to take a meeting with Balducci,” Davis suddenly blurted out. “Do you know anything about that?”
The brothers shot each other a look.
Ellington shook his head. “Did he say why?”
“It doesn’t matter why,” Mingus interjected. “Dad wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
Davis threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m a city alderman, for Christ’s sake! An elected official who’s supposed to stand up against men like Balducci! How is that going to look?”
Parker nodded. “Mingus is right. Dad would never have you do anything that would jeopardize your position or impede your responsibilities as a city official.”
“My being an alderman is why I don’t need to take a meeting with Alexander Balducci. I can’t risk how that may look to my constituents. I have to consider what they may think.”
Mingus laughed. “Saying no to Dad is much riskier than taking that meeting. Just take the meeting.”
“Take the meeting,” Parker and Ellington echoed in unison.
Davis shook his head and threw back a shot of rum.
“Until then—” Mingus tossed back his own shot “—someone figure out what we’re eating. I’m starved.”
“I say we just hit the prime rib joint upstairs,” Davis concluded. “The food is good, and we won’t have far to fall when the night is done and finished.”
The brothers all nodded. “Sounds like you’re feeling better,” Mingus said with a chuckle.
Davis tossed back another shot and laughed.
* * *
“Neema! Neema!”
Neema Kamau found her father’s voice especially irritating as he called out from behind her. She stole a quick glance at her wristwatch. She was already late for her job at the Chicago Tribune and she didn’t need a lengthy lecture about something that really wasn’t important to her. She thought about ignoring him but knew that would only make the lecture that came later even more unbearable.
She turned slowly, meeting the look he was giving her head-on. He stood there, hands locked tight against his waist, his expression stern. “Yes, Baba?”
“Are you coming to the restaurant tonight?” Adamu Kamau queried. “We could use the help.”
The restaurant he referred to—the Awaze Grill—was the family business, and it was his pride and joy. Born and raised in Kenya, her father had immigrated to the United States when he’d been in his early twenties. A naturalized citizen with a doctorate in mathematics, he had been one of the most prolific analytical minds to ever work for the Pentagon. But a massive heart attack ten years ago had shifted his priorities and redirected the lives of his wife and children.
The move to Chicago had been the first big change, the whole family leaving DC to follow him to Illinois. It was only recently that Neema had realized her parents opening their family restaurant was truly a dream come true for the two of them.
The building on West Reynolds Street had been purchased outright, the couple dipping into their life savings to make it their own. After renovations, Awaze Grill was born, featuring the best recipes of their east African culture. For her family, it was a second home of sorts. For her parents, the restaurant quelled any feelings of emptiness they had for their African culture in America. Being able to share that culture with others made everyone feel like family to them. For Neema, working when she was needed rewarded the gratitude she often felt for all her parents had done for her.
Raised according to her parents’ Kenyan culture, Neema knew that family was central to everything. Children were expected to honor their parents and fulfill any obligations asked of them. Saying no to her father was not an option, nor would she have even considered it.
“Yes, Baba.” Neema nodded. “If you need me to work, I’ll be there.”
He nodded his balding head. “Also, I need you to stop by that alderman’s office. You know the one.”
“Alderman Black?”
“Yes, him. He needs to do something about the drug activity on the corner. It isn’t good for the neighborhood, and the police aren’t doing anything to help with the situation.”
“I sent him a letter last week, Baba. We should probably give him a little time to respond.”
Her father shook his head. “No. You need to follow up in person. To be sure he understands how big the problem is. These young boys are getting out of hand. One of them cursed me yesterday. Outside of my own front door! No respect! No respect at all!” The old man threw his hands up in frustration.
Neema shuttered a soft sigh. “Yes, Baba. I’ll try to run by his office on my lunch hour.”
Her father gave her a nod then stepped forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a good daughter, Neema. You have a good day.”
Neema smiled. “You too, Baba!”
Once she was out the door, Neema sighed with audible relief. It hadn’t been nearly as painful as she had anticipated. In fact, she was feeling slightly guilty for imagining a doomsday lecture from her father. She’d been certain her late-night hours the previous evening would have had her father on a rampage. It wasn’t often that she agreed to dinner and drinks with her coworkers, specifically because of how her parents reacted when she did. It was one thing when her shift at the newsroom required her to be out all night. It was something wholeheartedly different when she was out all night socializing. She was surprised her father hadn’t mentioned it at all.
Much like her father, Neema had moments when she herself overreacted, having to bite her tongue to keep from being snarky. The morning had begun to feel like one of those days, other things on her mind. Like her stagnant career and the fact that she saw no hope of things improving.
Admittedly, she had promised her father to use her lunch hour to reach out to their district alderman. But, truth be told, Neema had no interest in trying too hard. She knew who Davis Black was. Everyone knew the city alderman and his family. The Black name was synonymous with most everything that happened in the Chicago judicial system. His father was the police superintendent. His mother was a federal court judge, and all his siblings were gainfully employed cops, attorneys or civic leaders. They didn’t just make or enforce the law. Most of the Chicago community considered them to be the law.
For months, Neema had been angling for a story on the Black family. Something that would carry her byline and merit national attention. She dreamed of a Pulitzer Prize and the accolades of a breaking news story. It would validate her decision to forgo a career in medicine, like her parents had wanted, for the degree in investigative journalism that she had achieved. It would show that she’d made the right decision following the one and only time she’d defied them.
Her love for journalism had started in high school after working on the school newspaper. What was meant to pass some time and be an easy grade had changed the entire trajectory of her life. Now she just needed it to pay off and become the career she wanted it to be.
In college, she’d worked on the school’s newspaper, Central Michigan Life. She’d been the news editor, a senior reporter and a copy editor. Her senior year, she’d interned at the Flint Journal, covering city government and breaking news. After graduation, she’d gotten her first official job with the Morning Sun. As a staff reporter, she’d embraced local city tow
nship and public education beats, gaining valuable experience in both hard news and feature writing. That position had lasted three years when she’d been offered a position with the Chicago Daily Herald writing lifestyle articles about foodstuffs at the Long Grove Apple Fest, algal bloom in Herrick Lake and the nice women who volunteered at the community gardens. It had paid well but lacked the substantive bite of the stories she wanted to write.
By happenstance, a friend whose husband was a producer for the Chicago Tribune had given her a heads up that they were looking for a news reporter. Neema had jumped at the opportunity. The Tribune was the most-read daily newspaper of the Chicago metropolitan area and the Great Lakes region. With the sixth highest circulation for American newspapers, and unlike many of its competitors, its numbers were growing.
Although Neema still occasionally got the usual fluff story about school spelling bees, she’d been able to write more serious pieces about Chicago’s political scene, corporate corruption, and the challenges facing the education system.
Social media had significantly changed how news made it to people’s front doors. The political outcry from a presidential administration about newspapers and reporters being the delegates of fake news had not served the industry well. It also hadn’t helped that some news organizations had gone the way of tabloid sensationalism over quality reporting. But the Tribune had stayed true to its roots, maintaining its print presence and expanding its digital footprint.
Most newsrooms were still the stomping grounds for white males, their boys’ club mentality not at all inclusive of women in general. Women of color, far and few between, were an anomaly. For Neema, every day in the office was an uphill battle trying to prove her worth in a world that saw little value in her humanity let alone her ability. But it was a fight Neema welcomed, even when the struggle sometimes felt unsurmountable. So, one lead, just a hint of impropriety somewhere in the city, or with one of its stellar citizens, could once again change her life. But everything about Davis Black and his picture-perfect family felt too elusive to ever amount to anything that Neema could use and she didn’t have the time to waste chasing dead ends.
Minutes later she sauntered into the Tribune’s new offices at Prudential Plaza. It was a stark contrast to the original offices at Tribune Tower on North Michigan Avenue. Neema had started in the newsroom while they’d still been in the landmark building that had housed them for almost an entire century. It was one of the most recognized newsrooms in the world with its neo-Gothic beauty that rose some thirty-six floors into Chicago’s skyline. Inside, it had been a roach-infested dump with large cubicles from the 1970s, built-in file cabinets, antiquated television sets that sat on desktop corners and ceiling tiles that routinely leaked and crumbled. It was currently undergoing a renovation, having been sold to a Los Angeles-based developer who was turning the space into luxury condos.
Neema remembered well the first time she’d walked into the building’s lobby for her interview. She’d been instantly smitten with the space, the walls engraved with quotes about the media industry. Her journalistic spirit had been instantly inspired. The new office space was ultramodern and much nicer, yet lacked a certain je ne sais quoi possessed by the old building.
Taking the elevator to the offices on the twenty-seventh floor, Neema shot a quick glance to her watch. The noise level when she stepped into the newsroom was just a semblance of what it could be, voices raised as reporters shouted over each other. The open-concept space was set up with honeycomb-like pods comprised of desks that shifted from sitting to standing at the push of a button. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave them all spectacular views of Millennium Park.
The digital team and breaking news team both sat room-center under a massive TV mount hanging from the ceiling. The other departments—lifestyles, food and dining, and sports—clustered around them. The open floor plan had taken some getting used to, but it fostered a wealth of organic conversation that most of the staff found engaging. This morning was no exception.
“What’s going on?” Neema questioned as she hurried to her desk, noting the burst of activity in the room.
Rose Edmonds, the digital news editor for the investigative team, greeted her warmly then shrugged her narrow shoulders. “They’re debating the merits of gun control and active shooter drills in the public school system. Brooke scored a sweet interview with the chief executive of the NRA.”
“Lucky Brooke,” Neema stated as she cut her eyes in Brooke Donovan’s direction. She gave the woman a nod and a bright smile, Brook returning the morning greeting with a wink of her eye.
The statuesque, blue-eyed blonde was an on-air personality who’d fallen into journalism by chance. She had dated an NBC newscaster in her late teens, the man having groomed her for the spotlight. He’d been her first husband and the father of her two oldest children. After their divorce, Brooke had struck out on her own, landing the job with the Tribune. She was passionate about news and had been a star in the newsroom ever since.
Despite them being polar opposites of each other, Brooke had proved herself to be a good friend. She’d gone to bat for Neema a few times, helping her to fight for stories the managing editor would have passed on her for without a second thought. Neema was genuinely happy for Brooke, but it also struck a nerve, reminding her that she needed to step up her game.
It took most of the morning for Neema to wade through the multitude of emails in her inbox and then clear away the mess on her desk. She had just completed a half dozen follow-up calls on a story she was working on about the new school superintendent when the managing editor for investigations called her into his office.
George Pappariella had been with the newspaper since forever. He was old enough to be her father and wore his age like a badge of honor. He was also set in his ways, and considered women in the newsroom an affront to the American spirit. It wasn’t often that he addressed Neema, or any of the other women directly, usually preferring to delegate through third parties.
“How’s it going, Nina?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “It’s Neema,” she said, repeating her name slowly. “Nee...ma.”
He nodded. “Neema, yes. Okay. Well, how are things?”
“Things are well, sir,” she answered, attitude clinging to each word. “Thank you for asking,” she quipped politely.
“Good to hear.” He quickly dismissed with the small talk. “We’re going to have to ask you to do some night shifts for the next few weeks. Fuller needs some time off to help with his kids, so he’s taking a short leave of absence. We need you to start tonight.”
Her eyes widened slightly. Jason Fuller had been hired to do the late-night news beat about six months ago. His very pregnant wife had recently given birth to twins, boys named Wayne and Garth, after the characters from that 1990s movie Wayne’s World. “I can’t start tonight. I have a prior commitment.”
Pappariella looked up from the papers he’d been shifting from side to side atop his desk. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll be delighted to help out, but starting tonight’s not possible. I have a prior commitment that I cannot cancel. And the union requires employees be given sufficient notice of any schedule changes.”
Pappariella bristled slightly. “I was under the impression you were a team player, Nina.”
“I am. I can’t however speak for Nina, since I don’t know anyone by that name. My name, sir, is Neema. N-e-e-m-a. Neema.”
The man’s face skewed, his mouth puckering as if he’d tasted something sour. Heat flooded his cheeks with color, his olive complexion suddenly turning a deep shade of Christmas red. He bit down against his bottom lip before finally responding. “Can you start tomorrow? Is that sufficient enough notice?”
Neema gave him a smug smile. “It is. Thank you.”
He waved her away, the gesture dismissive.
Neema turned on her chunky heel.
&nbs
p; As she closed the office door behind her, the smirk that blessed her expression was telling. It wasn’t necessarily a win, she thought to herself, but felt immensely rewarding to have stood up for herself.
Copyright © 2021 by Deborah Fletcher Mello
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ISBN-13: 9781488071416
The Cowboy’s Deadly Reunion
Copyright © 2021 by Cynthia Dees
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