Good Sam

by Dete Meserve

To Be Opened Only by Kate Bradley. Personal and Confidential.

  I had no doubt it was from Good Sam. But after meeting with Bonnie, I didn’t want Alex to get into trouble for helping me with the assignment.

  “Don’t think so. I actually think it’s a wedding invitation.”

  I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Are you sure, because—”

  “Positive. Thanks, Alex. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I ducked into an editing bay and ripped open the envelope. The letter read:

  Dear Kate,

  Now that you’ve confirmed I’m Good Sam, meet me tomorrow night at eight outside the ARCO building downtown. Come alone, and don’t bring cameras. If I see you’re not alone, or if you mention this meeting to anyone, I won’t show up.

  Good Sam

  Downtown Los Angeles at night. Alone. Last year sixteen thousand people were assaulted in Los Angeles. Nearly five hundred were murdered. Most of the crimes didn’t happen in downtown Los Angeles, of course, but fear isn’t easily swayed by logic.

  None of this made sense. If Good Sam wanted the attention, as I suspected, why did he want me to come alone, without a cameraman?

  I could only conclude that he wanted me on his territory. On his terms. But why?

  A chill ran down my spine, and then I kicked myself for being such a chicken. This was Good Sam—the man who had given away one million dollars.

  When I first started on the Bummer Beat, reporting on all the arsons, murders, and robberies, I’d return to my apartment at night so on edge that I’d search for potential killers in the closets and under the bed. I actually walked around with my cell phone clutched in my hand with 911 already punched in.

  When David had assigned me to do a live report on three homicides that had happened within a three-hour period in Watts, I’d turned it down. I’d been too afraid to go there at night. Turned out the story got enormous national attention and launched the career of a little-known reporter at Channel Four named Diane Stinson. Six months later she was hosting Good Morning America for ABC.

  Was I going to let fear stop me from getting my big break? And what about Bonnie’s mandate to hand any leads off to Susan?

  Maybe David had been right. Maybe I’d have been better off covering the political beat. Although politics can get dirty and scandalous, a reporter rarely has to meet a source alone at night in a gritty part of town.

  When I returned to the newsroom, I was surprised to see Eric sitting on the edge of my desk.

  “They said I could wait for you here,” he said, rising.

  My lips softened into a smile. “They won’t even let my father sit at my desk when I’m not here. How’d you convince them to let you in?”

  “I guess I look trustworthy or something.”

  “My guess is it’s the ‘or something’ that got you in. If Shondra’s at the security desk, she’ll let in just about any guy with a cute smile.”

  “You think I have a cute smile?”

  “Cute is for chipmunks. Your smile is…tempting,” I said.

  He took a step closer and touched his hand lightly to my hair. “Could I tempt you into having dinner with me then?”

  I glanced at the clock—8:47. “Unless we’re going to McDonald’s, we’ll never get a reservation or a table this time of night.”

  “Where I want to take you, we don’t need a table or a reservation.”

  “Where exactly do you have in mind?”

  “Griffith Observatory. A blanket, a bottle of wine, and hot chili straight from the kitchen of the winners of the Los Angeles Chili Cook-Off.”

  “Tempting.” I glanced at my thin wool pants and matching jacket. “But I’d be freezing dressed like this.”

  “I’ll keep you plenty warm,” he promised.

  As I picked up my purse from the desk, the letter from Good Sam fluttered to the floor. Eric reached down and picked it up and saw what it was.

  “Another fake Good Sam?” he asked.

  “Actually, I think this one might be the real deal. He wants to meet me tomorrow night.”

  “What makes you think he’s not yet another fake?”

  I shook my head. “Earlier today he gave me a lead about one of the people he gave a hundred thousand dollars to. The lead panned out.”

  Eric scanned the letter and frowned. “Anyone who asks a reporter to meet him alone downtown at night and demands that she keep the meeting a secret is up to no good. You shouldn’t go.”

  “The Good Sam story is so hot right now that an interview with him would be, well, probably the most important interview of my career.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “Kate, he could be dangerous. At the very least, someone should go and watch out for you.”

  I pointed at the letter. “He says I have to come alone.”

  “How about if I go down there before you, sit around and read the Wall Street Journal on my iPad, and act like I’m a suit on my dinner break?”

  “As much as I’m curious to see what you look like in a suit, I’ll be fine,” I said, smiling. “Really. What could possibly happen?”

  “He could very easily whisk you away in a car.”

  “There’ll be no whisking,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, I don’t think that’s Good Sam’s style. I mean, someone who gives away a million dollars probably doesn’t have a criminal bone in his body.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Someone who gives away that kind of money would either keep quiet about it or meet you on your territory to talk about it,” he said softly. “He wouldn’t demand that you come alone to downtown Los Angeles at night.”

  I looked at him, ready to tell him about the dozens of tougher assignments I’d handled on my own. But then I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t expected.

  Genuine concern. For me.

  It was an unfamiliar feeling to be the object of someone’s worry, and I wasn’t entirely sure I liked it. Did it make me weaker, somehow less capable, if I needed his help?

  Eric handed the letter back to me. “I’ll be there. He’ll never know I’m there. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  I’d been to the Griffith Observatory several times during the day. I’d stood on its balconies, which afforded spectacular views of the city from high atop Mount Hollywood, and even sat through—or should I say slept through—one of the planetarium shows. There’s something about lying in a high-backed chair in the dark and listening to a scholar’s quiet voice telling you about the stars and constellations that induces immediate relaxation and, for me anyway, sleep.

  On Monday nights, the observatory and museum are closed and after sunset, the trails that lead through the park and up the mountain are also closed. But Eric knew about a fire road, a narrow, twisting back road used by park and fire officials to get to the top of the mountain. As we traveled up the road with only the light of his headlights to guide us, my stomach tightened at every curve.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I lied. I wasn’t just afraid of driving off the mountain. I was afraid of the feelings that were developing inside.

  It’s like riding a roller coaster. The moment the car crests at the top of the hill, you are completely at the coaster’s mercy. You have to trust that the car won’t fall off the track and that your seat harness won’t break. You have to trust that the other person won’t break your heart. I guess that’s why I don’t like roller coasters; I’m not good at trust.

  “We’re almost there,” he said. “It’ll be worth it—you’ll see.”

  Griffith Observatory is a whole other world at night. It’s dark enough that you can see the silver stars glittering in the sky above and the golden lights of the city glowing below. And while you know you’re in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities, it feels as though you’ve escaped to a secluded sanctuary high above the noise and cars and people.

  It was also cool—probably only in the low fifties but with the kind of mountain dampness that
anyone who’s been in Los Angeles for very long considers cold.

  Eric laid a blanket on the ground and gave me one to wrap around my chilled body. He pointed up at the stars. “It’s really clear tonight after the rain. Clear enough that you can see Orion’s dagger.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have slept through the planetarium shows, because I had no idea where Orion was. “Orion?”

  “See those four bright stars there?” He leaned his head back and pointed to a spot right above us. “The top two are his arms; the bottom two are his legs. His belt is the three stars going horizontally in the middle. And his dagger hangs below.”

  You know how some people see scorpions and tigers and women holding scales in the stars? I never could see anything but a jumble of white dots. But that night I could actually make out the pattern.

  “I see Orion,” I said in amazement.

  Eric pointed back up at the stars. “See those bright stars over there? You can see parts of Andromeda and Perseus.”

  “Where?”

  “They’re not easy to see, like Orion. I’ve never seen the entire constellation of Perseus, but I look for the pattern at the top where Perseus is holding the severed head of the gorgon Medusa.”

  I couldn’t see Perseus, or Medusa’s severed head, for that matter. But I could see the excitement in Eric’s eyes as he scanned the skies. He seemed completely at ease underneath the stars—the same relaxed way he’d had in the pool.

  “I think I’ve forgotten all the Greek myths. Was Perseus the Greek titan who was chained to a rock?”

  “You’re thinking of Prometheus,” he said. “But Perseus’s story does have someone chained to a rock. Andromeda’s mother, Queen Cassiopeia, told the sea nymphs that Andromeda was more beautiful than they were. So the jealous nymphs got revenge on the queen by arranging to have Andromeda chained to a rock by the sea. The sea rose up to drown Andromeda, and with it came Cetus, the sea monster, to devour her. But Perseus, fresh from killing Medusa, had been watching over Andromeda and fallen in love with her. Perseus flew down, single-handedly slayed Cetus, and rescued Andromeda.”

  After watching Eric rescue the boy in Malibu Canyon, I could see why he liked this story. Like Perseus, he had flown down to slay the sea monster and rescue the boy from the water.

  I relaxed onto the blanket and took in the depth of the skies, realizing I was staring into the past and wondering how many other stories lay out there among the stars. Under their canopy, the day’s worries about Good Sam, Bonnie Ungar, and Susan Andrews felt trivial.

  “How do you know so much about Greek mythology and the constellations?” I asked.

  He lit two candles in mason jars, which cast a warm, yellow glow in the darkness around us. “When my brother and I were little, my father taught us how to navigate a boat by the stars using an old-fashioned sextant. The easiest way for me to remember the constellations is through the stories.”

  “What kind of dad teaches his kids to navigate using the stars?”

  “A dad who loves sailing. We used to take the boat out every weekend when it wasn’t raining, and in the summer we sailed almost every day. I spent so much time on the boat or in the water that they used to call me Fish.”

  “Fish, huh?” I said. “Can you still navigate a boat by the stars?”

  “Somewhat,” he said. “I cheat and use the GPS a little, but once you learn to do it, you never really forget.”

  “So you still go sailing a lot?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Something in Eric’s heavy tone made me look at him, but he had turned his head away, and I couldn’t see his expression.

  “Why not?”

  He was silent for a moment, and when the words finally came out, they sounded strained. “I just don’t.”

  Call it a reporter’s habit, but I couldn’t leave it at that. I watched him open and close his hand reflexively and wondered what he was thinking. “C’mon. You’re the only person I know who can navigate a sailboat by the stars. Why don’t you sail anymore?”

  He opened his mouth as if to reply then quickly closed it. “Can you drop it?”

  He stood abruptly and headed to the car, leaving me alone. As I watched him pull some items from his trunk, my cheeks grew hot. Had I asked too many questions? Was I an annoying pochemuchka?

  Long minutes later he returned carrying a soft-sided cooler. “Hey,” he said, and then sat on the blanket next to me. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about the way I handled that.” He twisted the cooler’s long straps into a soft knot. “My brother and I used to sail together a lot, and ever since he died, I really haven’t been too interested in going sailing.”

  His words came out sure and steady like they always did, but underneath the calm I sensed there was something more that he wasn’t saying. I realized then that no matter how charming and attractive he was, there was something about him that was just out of reach. My instinct was to press the conversation further, to say some words of sympathy about his brother’s passing or to coax an answer out of him about how his brother died. But in the flickering light, his eyes seemed to be imploring me not to dig deeper. Not to ask any more questions.

  “I know it sounds like a cliché that firefighters make the best chili, but the guys at the station really do,” he said, his tone lightening. “They’ve won the LA Chili Cook-Off two years running. This is their latest experiment.”

  He pulled two piping-hot cardboard containers from the cooler. Steam rose up and swirled around the containers, infusing the air with fragrant oregano, onion, and a surprising hint of cinnamon. He made a show of presenting me with the warm container and a plastic spoon.

  I dug into the chunky chili, which had a major kick to it, yet a sweetness I’d never tasted in chili before. When I looked up, I found Eric stealing a glance at me. I had the definite feeling he wanted to say something, so I waited for him to speak, but he grew silent again.

  “This morning you teach me to swim,” I said, filling the silence. “Tonight you serve me the best chili ever. How are we ever going to top a day like this?”

  He took my hand and held it. “I’m pretty sure we’ll find a way.”

  I became aware, then, of the crisp night air, the slow song the crickets were singing nearby, and the scent of freshly mowed grass. In that perfect moment, all my senses were suddenly and joyfully awakened, and I felt connected to Eric in a way I’d never felt with anyone before.

  A slight breeze caressed my cheek. I leaned my head against his shoulder, dizzy and giddy with anticipation. And that’s when I knew I was falling. I’d crested at the peak of the roller coaster and was plunging down the other side, trusting him with my heart.

  A full moon was high in the sky, lighting our way as we drove back down the mountain. The constellations Eric had shown me—Orion, Perseus, and Andromeda—were now mere specks of light, faded by the moon’s bright beams.

  Eric’s cell phone beeped. He pulled over to the side of the road and read the text. “Damn,” he said, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. “Damn.”

  “What happened?”

  “The boy in Malibu Canyon I rescued. He just died.”

  “No.” I closed my eyes, shuttering the tears that threatened to spill out. The water had claimed another victim. It had grabbed and held him in the darkness long enough that not even Eric and his crew’s brave maneuvers could save his life.

  The last time I’d cried for a victim of a story I had covered was on Good Friday last year. I had gone to the home of a budding high school athlete who had been gunned down the night before while sitting on the front steps of a friend's house. While I interviewed the dead boy's cousin, I felt a sudden rush of heat and thought I was going to vomit. In the middle of the interview, I got up and rushed out of the room. I couldn’t come back. Every time I stood up, the room spun and my body broke out in prickly sweat.

  I was certain I had an ulcer, or worse, a brain tumor or inoperable stomach cancer. No matter how much antacid
I chugged, I couldn’t make my stomach stop hurting. After a battery of tests, a doctor told me there was nothing wrong with me—except I spent too much time reporting on tragedy.

  Neither Eric nor I spoke for a long time. With only the light coming from the dashboard, I could make out his profile but not his expression. I was sure I saw his body tremble slightly.

  “When I went to rescue the boy,” he said, his voice snagging in his throat, “I met up with his father, who had accidentally let go of him when they were trying to cross the river together. He said to me, ‘My baby’s gone.’ And the look in his eyes, the way he said it…I’ll never forget.”

  I placed a hand on his arm, unsure of what to say. Every tragedy chips away at optimism. Hope becomes fragile then frayed—until one day, if you let it, hope disappears entirely.

  “I thought I had a shot at saving him,” he said.

  “A tragedy like this is hard. But it does get better,” I said quietly. “Tomorrow will be better.”

  He turned to me, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “I wish I had some of your optimism.”

  “No one’s ever called me an optimist before.”

  I kissed him then. I knew it wouldn’t change what he was feeling. But it was a start.

  Chapter Nine

  Anyone who tells you downtown Los Angeles is dead hasn’t been there in a while. At eight o’clock, ARCO Plaza, a large patch of concrete between the ARCO Tower and the Bank of America building, is filled with people going to dinner or on their way home. The plaza is part of what they call the “new downtown,” known for its gleaming skyscrapers of steel and glass, home to the Pacific Stock Exchange and the financial district. It’s probably the one area of LA where you won’t see many tourists toting cameras because it looks like just about any downtown anywhere.

  I sat on a metal bench beneath the glare of fluorescent park lights and waited. In the distance I saw the 444 Flower Building, now the Citigroup Center, also known as the L.A. Law building because it appeared in the opening credits of the show. That program has been off the air for over two decades, but the label still persists. From the ground, the building doesn’t look glamorous the way it did in the aerial TV shots. If this building were in Manhattan, no one would even notice it.