by Daniel Fox
Ida said nothing, afraid to speak.
“The reason everyone wants to shake my hand is because I killed thirteen Japs. Thirteen. Soldiers. All on my lonesome. You know how I managed it? Because I was shot full of holes. I was sure I was already dead. So what difference did it make, fighting thirteen or thirteen-hundred?” He nodded. “Yeah. That’s my advice for you. Let it go. None of this matters.”
Ida’s own anger bubbled up again, enough for her to speak. “Doesn’t matter? That girl doesn’t matter? Are you out of your mind? Did you see what was done to her?”
“I did. And I’ve seen worse. Villages full of girls hacked to pieces.”
“But not here. Never here. This is L.A.”
Bob shook his head. “There is no ‘here’. There’s only people. People and their masks. It’s just that overseas we got to take our masks off. Now someone has done that here. I thought there was a difference between L.A. and the islands. There had to be. But it’s all the same. That’s why I was laughing. It’s all a goddamned joke.”
He held out his hand to help her up.
She scuttled backwards, got up on her own. He stepped back to let her get into her car.
He caught her door before she could close it. He leaned down. “Stop pretending you care about the girl. You don’t. I don’t think you can.”
“I don’t care what you think. Let go.”
“Ida Bly cares about Ida Bly. Just admit that to yourself and the world will get a lot easier for you.”
Their eyes locked. Both with a hand on the door. A standoff.
Finally Bob let go. “Anyway, maybe we should compare notes back at the office if you’re not in too much trouble for stealing-”
Ida gaped at him, then slammed the door shut and left rubber on the road as she peeled off.
CHAPTER 25
The hits kept on coming.
Ida went back to the Clarion. Clifford called her into his office. For once he was quiet, and that was worse than when he yelled.
He told her to sit on the couch. She did, wincing at the pain in her tailbone.
“Did you do it?”
“Look boss-”
“The picture you told me they gave you. Did you or did you not steal that picture?”
“Yes. What will they do?”
Clifford went over, looked out his windows. “The cops? They’re not sure yet. There’s probably going to be some sort of law suit against the paper. And it’s possible they might press charges. You took their property and interfered in an investigation.”
“It was full of reporters in there. All of them were poking through files, answering phones. It was an ant hill.”
“And yet only one of them was dumb enough to publish their interference on the front page of a major newspaper. The cops are pissed. I was honoured to receive a personal call from Chief Horrall himself. He did not use particularly flattering language. I asked Bob to talk to someone at City Hall, try to smooth things out-”
“Bob isn’t what you think.”
Clifford held up a hand. “We are done on that subject. Bob is not the topic. You are. You and what you’ve done to this paper.”
“What about...”
“What about what?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it. What are you worried about? That you’ll get in even more trouble?”
“You’re worried about what I’ve done to this paper. But what about what this paper has done to me?”
Clifford stared at her. Finally: “Just get out.”
“I’ve given every moment of my life for the past-”
“I’m pretty proud of the restraint I’ve showed in these last few minutes. But my reservoirs are running mighty low. I’ve never hit a woman but boy oh boy am I ever thinking of giving it a great big whirl right now. You’re fired. You’re gone. Now get out while that’s all that you are.”
Ida stood. Quiet. She went to the door. She turned back. “I’m going to tell you this now not because I hope it will help you, not because I’m hoping you’ll heed my warning to save yourself. I’m telling you this now so that in the not-so distant future I can go ‘I told you so’ with unutterable glee. Your shiny hero Bob Tree is messed up. He’s got a head full of snakes. He is going to hurt someone if he hasn’t already. You think what I did was bad, what until you get the fallout from Bob Tree’s big day.”
They stood, looking at each other.
Clifford: “One more word, I dare you.”
Ida stormed out of his office. Stopped by her desk. Gathered her things. Felt the eyes of everyone on the floor watching... they burned pretty good. She was about to toss her desk notepad into a bag, but instead jotted down the address of the empty houses on Skid Row, pressing down real hard, making sure to dent the next page down. She tore off the top page, the one she had written on, and tossed it in the garbage. Let Bob Tree steal that tip from her. Hopefully he’d get robbed, maybe get his stupid famous face pushed in. It was petty horseshit for sure, but it was the only thing that made her feel the least bit like a human being at the moment.
She gathered her things and left the paper.
***
Ida parked herself on a stool at a small high table and ordered herself a bourbon. She felt worse almost immediately; this was the hangout spot for Clarion employees to come and get loose after a shift. She didn’t want to talk to them. She should have gone to the library or some such place where a woman could drink alone. Worse, a couple of groups of men were giving her the eye. She turned her scar outwards, made it prominent. The looks didn’t go away entirely, but they scanned around looking for more unspoiled examples before swinging back around her way.
“Copy!”
Ida looked up from her drink. Elaine? Debra? Whatever her name, the copy-girl from the Clarion was standing next to her, bouncing up and down on her feet, smiling and glowing with an obnoxious amount of youth and peppiness.
“What?”
“You know, ‘Copy!’? That’s me. At work? Well, my name is actually Darlene. Not, you know... ‘Copy’.”
“You old enough to be in here?”
The copy girl leaned against Ida’s table. “I’ve got I.D. Besides, I’m not the one buying the drinks.” She pointed over at a table behind her.
Ida leaned back and looked. Two men, professional-types with loosened ties, raised their glasses at her.
The kid looked down, traced an invisible circle on the table’s surface with her finger. “Anyway, since we’re out of work I just wanted to say that you’re, you know, you’re kind of an inspiration, I guess?”
“I’m what?”
Darlene looked up at her, eyes all aglow. “Oh yeah, all the girls on the floor say so. And we all think it’s super unfair the way Mister Young is treating you. But we’re all on our way up and you watch, nobody is going to be talking to us like he talks to you, not when we’re through with them. Anyway, I thought maybe I could buy you a drink. Or, well, have the guys do it.”
“You’re gonna change things, huh?”
“Yes ma’am, we are.”
“Don’t.”
Darlene blinked. “Sorry... what?”
“Don’t try to change things. Change is pain. It’s powder over black eyes. ‘Mister Young’, all of them, even your two happy friends over there, men, they hate us. They’re smiling right now but that’s because you’re young, you’re pretty, and that gives you some power over them. They know it. And they hate it. But they can take it because they know you’re going to get older, and that power is gonna wash out to grey, and then it’s the ditch for you. That said, if I could go back, I’d be pretty like you. Get my teeth into a half-decent fella. Make sure his pot roast hit the table on time.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“Because the game isn’t just rigged, it’s over, and they already won. I can tell you’re hating every word I say, but believe it or not I’m trying to save you a lifetime of fighting in two weight classes over your head.”
Darl
ene had stood back up straight during this tirade, her back stiffening, no longer leaning on Ida’s table. “You sound like a man when you talk like that. And you shouldn’t. It’s not change if you just become one of them. We are going to change it all, you’ll see.”
Darlene whirled, the men at her table watching her chest as she moved. She grabbed her coat from the table and charged out the door, leaving the men puzzled and angry.
Ida called out after her: “Hey! What about my drink?”
***
The following individuals are present in this interview transcript:
Doctor Stefan Nabozny MA, PsyD
Clinical Psychologist
Robert Tree
Patient
Date: July 11, 1947
Time of interview commencement: 13:23
Interview Duration: 54 minutes
Location: Veterans Administration, Dr. Nabozny’s offices
Mode of Transcription: Audio tape (permission granted by patient, see file for signature) to Typed
Transcription Date: July 18, 1947
Robert Tree: You getting sick of seeing my face yet?
Doctor Stefan Nabozny: How could I? You’re so handsome.
RT: (laughter)
SN: There are no numbers to this. There’s just supply and demand. You coming in with such frequency just means you recognize that your demand has increased lately. Did something significant happen since we last met or is this more of a general catch-up session? (22 seconds silence) Bob?
RT: Would you recognize me on the street?
SN: You were in all the papers. Every news reel had your face in it for a while there.
RT: No, I don’t mean- Not because of the war. I mean as a patient. If you passed me on the street, maybe saw my body language when I’m buying a newspaper, would it be easy for you to see a guy who needed your help?
SN: Not just based on that, no. But that segues, however obliquely, to something I’ve been working on. I’ve got it here.
RT: How much would you need? In order to take a serious look at someone. In order to, you know, in order to commit someone. Lock them up.
SN: Hm? Oh, to know a person was in fairly serious need of my help? There are no exact parameters. This is for you.
RT: What is it?
SN: I’ve been thinking about the man who had his way with that poor girl. I put my thoughts down there. It’s all in the file.
RT: (reading) “...since the death scene was by all accounts staged it follows that the perpetrator would likely seek to return to see what effect his display had on his audience.” I don’t know, there have been a couple thousand people by the scene by now. Anyway, what I was getting at-
SN: I was thinking maybe you could pass it on to your police contacts.
RT: What I was getting at was how big a... a... gesture would someone have to make before you recognized a guy who needed some couch time?
SN: Bob, please. I really think this could be of some bene-
RT: (reading) “...time it took dictates the killer has a location they feel secure in.” Well shit Doc, you just narrowed it down to every slob that owns a shed in his backyard. You know if I give this to the cops, and they believe it, and they use it, and they forget how not to use it, they’re only going to be looking for what you say in here?
SN: Well yes, that’s the idea.
RT: I suppose you’d like some credit.
SN: Yes, that’s fair. I put a lot of work into it.
RT: Do you also want credit if the killer isn’t what you say in here but the cops spend all their time looking for your version of the guy so the real guy gets away scot-free?
SN: Listen, I’m really very good at my job and I don’t think-
RT: Doc-
SN: It could be of great help to-
RT: Doc-
SN: A great help to the police and yes I would like to be acknowledged if-
RT: I hit a woman!
(10 seconds silence)
SN: Oh.
RT: Well, not hit her exactly. Shoved her down. But hard. I hurt her. And I scared her. And it took a lot to not go further.
SN: I noticed the state of your hands when you came in.
RT: Yeah.
SN: Is she okay?
RT: Yeah. Physically anyway, I think. I doubt she’ll be inviting me over for tea anytime soon. I could have killed her just then though. Boy... I could have killed her.
SN: When you were asking about how much it would take for me to have someone committed, you weren’t talking about the killer, were you?
RT: No, I was. That’s the problem though.
SN: You don’t feel you’ll recognize him when you see him?
RT: The opposite. I see him everywhere. In everyone. I can’t un-see him.
(13 seconds silence)
SN: Robert, our time-
RT: Yeah. See you next time.
SN: Uh Robert... don’t forget the file.
CHAPTER 26
Ida and bourbon and nothing else. She had nowhere to go. Nothing to do except avoid the landlady’s questions.
Clifford had made her write an apology to the Clarion, to the police, to the city, and to the mystery dead girl, in that order. No final paycheck if she had even a stray thought about saying no.
She paced in her kitchen, drinking, reading the apology. Usually apologies and corrections got buried somewhere in the back on the features section. For maybe the first time in history, a paper’s apology was on the front page. With her name on the byline.
The crazy woman’s paper bag was on Ida’s kitchen table. Ida picked it up, turned it over. Looked at the drawing of Skid Row’s very own boogeyman. The drawing was primitive; it looked like it belonged on a cave wall. A warning to others of the tribe to not explore into the dark inner reaches beyond.
She went to the sink to wash out her glass. It was either do that or keep refilling it until she passed out. The red brick smashed through her window at head height, spraying glass at her face. One of the edges of the brick cut into her left ear, the thing smacking against her head with its warm weight, then falling on the floor with a dull thud with the glass tinkling down around it.
Ida yelled, clapped a hand to her bleeding ear, dropped to the floor behind the counter, out of sight of anyone looking in through the broken glass. Breathing came in above her. Heavy. Male. He was looking for her.
Ida slapped a hand over her mouth to keep in a scream as there was a knock at her entrance door and her landlady’s voice calling out, asking if she was alright.
She wasn’t alright. She wasn’t even slightly okay even when the footsteps turned and walked away, slow, like the man wasn’t afraid of being seen, never mind being caught.
Her eyes caught motion. The paper bag fluttered down to the floor on a breeze from the window. The Skid Row demon looked back up at her.
She looked over at the brick. Something was tied to it with brown parcel string.
She turned it over and found a piece of torn paper with a message for her slashed across it in angry inked letters.
***
Darlene the copy-girl had a date set for that evening, but she didn’t feel much like going. Two recent events had soured her mood.
The first was getting dressed down by her hero, Ida Bly. Getting told not to try. Who said something like that to a teenager? Especially one that wanted to emulate you?
The second was the termination of the very same Ida Bly from the paper. Somebody asked Darlene who the best reporter in the U.S. was, Ida’s name popped out of her mouth before the question was fully formed.
Bob Tree and Mister Young. It was their fault. They had it in for Ida because she was twice the news-person than either of them could hope to be. They had it in for her because she was a woman, period.
She had thought Bob Tree was dreamy. Six feet packed full of charm and war-hero valour. Not anymore.
The more she thought about Mister Tree, the more steamed she got. So what if he did kill a bunch of Japanese?
What the hell did that have to do with writing a ripping good story?
Nothing. That’s what.
The worst part was that Darlene had seen Mister Tree rip that tip off of Miss Bly’s desk. She hadn’t quite understood what was going on at the time, but with the valuable tool of hindsight she thought Mister Tree had looked awfully suspicious pawing at Miss Bly’s stuff.
She didn’t think Mister Tree would like it much if someone did the same to him. It would be a heck of a wake-up call if someone did. If someone ran right out and took a hot lead and milked it before he got the chance.
***
Bob sat in his car two blocks down from City Hall, reading his head-shrinker’s file in the glow from the street lights. He still didn’t get the point. It seemed like a pile of guesswork. Maybe it was educated guesswork, but missing by a little or missing by a lot didn’t matter much if you only had one shot.
And that was the thing – he figured he only had one shot at ingratiating himself, of getting back in with the cops after the morgue picture blow-up. Bly might have been the one to nab the picture, but the fall-out had contaminated all reporters, especially the ones from the Clarion. He needed a life here... he needed a mask to hide behind. He needed people to see him as normal. He could admit that much to himself. He was too afraid to skip out on the social contract altogether. Being a reporter was the only mask he had to hide his face.
He snorted. He didn’t think the Vets’ Association would appreciate him going off his rocker after all those press conferences they had made him give once he got back from overseas.
He got out. Went up to City Hall and inside.
Police H.Q. was still hopping, days into the murder investigation. The brutality of the crime had bought it extra legs.
The detectives’ floor was still crawling with reporters despite the Bly fallout, people coming in to give tips and get their picture in the papers, cops trying to get something done in the middle of all the mess.
The one clear spot was next to the one and only Sergeant George Schuttman. He wasn’t doing much of anything, just sitting and glowering. He looked like he was too tired to get himself home.