by Jan Hudson
Chapter Eight
“Hulon, why are we sitting out here this time?” Sunny asked. “I’ve been anchor for the news for two weeks—and doing a pretty darned good job, if I do say so myself. Not once have you had to appear before a camera, so that can’t be the reason.”
With a brisk breeze blowing in from the bay, the fourth-floor ledge was a miserable place to be. Her hair whipped every which way, and she had to fight to keep her skirt from billowing up like Mary Poppins’s umbrella and sending her flying over rooftops. She would have been enormously irritated with Hulon if he hadn’t looked so woebegone.
“You don’t know, do you?” Hulon asked.
“Know what?”
“The station has been getting complaints-stacks and stacks of letters and a deluge of phone calls. All about you. The viewers are irate, especially after what happened over the weekend. The switchboard has been jammed today. Even the mayor raised a stink.”
Sunny felt the blood drain from her face. “I . . . I thought things had been going well. Everyone has been complimentary.”
“No, no, not about your anchoring. Indications are that the ratings are up. You’ve done a fine job, certainly better than I ever did. Maybe better than any anchor we’ve had. No, people have been complaining about the weather reports. Complaining vehemently.”
Surprised, she said, “This is the first I’ve heard about it. Roland has been doing pretty well. Of course, the predictions have been off a couple of times, but—”
“Four times in two weeks, including his Friday night forecast for the weekend. As you well know, instead of being fair, as he predicted, it rained all day Saturday and Sunday. Planned family outings were a bust, the golf tournament at the country club was a disaster, and the mayor’s daughter locked herself in her room and cried all day because her garden wedding was a washout. Everyone is furious with Roland. They want you back doing the weather.”
Hulon looked as if he were about to cry, but he continued. “Viewers felt that you would have warned them, and they could have made contingency plans. I’ve just come from a meeting with Foster and Kale. Our advertisers are threatening to pull their accounts. The owners have to do something.”
A terrible sinking feeling flooded Sunny as she realized why Hulon was back on the ledge. What hadn’t been said, but what she surmised, was that Kale and Foster were going to restore Hulon to the anchor position and transfer her back to the weather. The whole notion formed a heavy knot of despondency that sat in her stomach like a huge black lump.
Roland Cantu was bound to be disappointed too. He’d been extremely excited about his promotion. And with his degree in meteorology, Roland was much more qualified for the position than Sunny, who merely had a couple of college courses in the subject. She’d taken those only because of a logical curiosity and as an alternative to biology and cutting up frogs.
She felt like joining Hulon in a good cry. Was she, because of this crazy ability that her grandmother had called a gift, going to be chained to weather reports forever?
Despair squeezed her throat. She stared out over the harbor marina, feeling like one of the sailboats tethered there in tight slips, eager to break moorings, fill sails, and run with the wind. But she wasn’t the type to run away from difficulties.
Irritation began to shove aside despair. Why hadn’t Kale mentioned the problem to her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him. Except for the few hours that their work separated them, they’d spent every moment of the last two weeks together. He had helped her film and edit the interviews for the special on gangs. They had laughed together, played together, eaten together, slept together, made love endlessly, and talked about everything under the sun—except the fact that he might jerk the magic carpet out from under her.
Damn his hide!
Just when her career was getting on track, moving in the direction she’d envisioned, he was going to throw up a roadblock. Irritation blossomed into fury. Well, we’ll just see about that, Mister Kale Hoaglin!
Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, steam practically coming out of her ears, she crawled along the ledge to the window. “Get your butt inside, Hulon Eubanks,” she called over her shoulder, “and stop being such a wimp. We’re not giving up without a fight.”
She went downstairs, sailed passed the secretary Foster and Kale shared, and banged on Kale’s door so hard that she almost skinned her knuckles. She planned to tell him a thing or two—loudly.
“He’s not in,” the secretary said. “He and Mr. Dunn just left for a dinner meeting.”
“Shoot! I forgot he was speaking at the Rotary Club in Robstown tonight.”
Deflated, Sunny went back upstairs to prepare for the six o’clock news. No matter how lousy she felt, she would psych herself up for the camera.
After the broadcast, her disquiet returned and a sense of loneliness almost overwhelmed her. How she missed having Estella to talk to. She was considering calling her friend at her parents’ house in San Antonio for a gripe session when Hulon walked up, looking like a whipped dog. He patted her back and said, “Maybe we can find a way to work things out. Why don’t you join me for dinner?”
“Isn’t your wife expecting you?”
“No, tonight is her ceramics class, and I don’t feel like being alone.”
“I know the feeling.”
Sunny grabbed her purse, and they walked the short distance to the Water Street Market and ate soft-shell crabs at one of the restaurants. She even indulged herself with dessert—a huge brownie, warm and filled with pecans, topped with a big scoop of ice cream. It was better than a second glass of wine and infinitely more comforting.
As she licked the last dollop of ice cream from her spoon, an idea struck her. “Hulon, it just occurred to me that we’re not approaching this problem creatively.”
“How do you mean?”
“Exactly what are viewers complaining about?”
“About your not doing the weather.”
“No,” she said, “I mean specifically.”
“Specifically, the forecast.”
“Right. I think I know how to kill two birds with one stone. Are you game to try something on the ten o’clock news? Kale and Foster aren’t around to tell us we can’t. And, after all, you are the news director.”
* * *
At ten-twenty-six, Roland Cantu said, “And that’s tomorrow’s forecast according to the National Weather Service. Let’s hear what Sunny says about it. Sunny?”
“Thank you, Roland,” she said, smiling into the camera. “Sunny says that I agree with the forecast one hundred percent. But the tropical disturbance building off the west cost of Africa near the Cape Verde Islands could bear watching over the next several days.” She did a quick teaser for the last news story, then led into a commercial.
After the break, Sunny launched into the kicker, a brief human-interest story that occupied the last time segment, and then signed off.
Hulon ran over, grinning and clapping his hands. “Beautiful!”
Sunny laughed and leaned back in her chair. “I believe it will work. Roland, what do you think?”
“I like it. I can see it stirring up even more viewer interest when we don’t agree,”
“Right,” Hulon said. “We can create a kind of friendly rivalry. The idea has all sorts of possibilities.” Hulon bit his lip. “I only hope the owners will agree with us.”
“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Sunny said. “I’m not without influence.”
A few minutes later, as she was gathering her things to go home, the phone on her desk rang. “Hello.”
“Is this the weather lady?”
“Rico?”
“I’m not sayin’. You want some action shots of a big slam? Be at the Old Bayview Cemetery at eleven o’clock.” Click.
“Hello. Hello.” She jiggled the hook futilely, then hung up. “Rats!”
She knew from her research that a slam was the term for when gangs confronted each other, often with serious results. Wa
s this a hoax, someone playing a joke, or was it for real? Should she call the police? She hesitated to send the cops on a wild-goose chase.
At least she could check it out. She noted the time and wished Kale was around. Carlos. He lived on the way to the cemetery. She quickly punched in his number.
“Carlos? Sunny. I may have a hot story, and I need you. I’m bringing a van, and I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Can you make it?”
“I’ll be waiting at the curb.”
She hung up and tried to think. She’d promised Kale that she wouldn’t go on any gang interviews without him. Of course this wasn’t an interview, but she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate the finer points of her argument. He should be back in town any minute, but dammit, he wasn’t here now, and this wouldn’t wait. She hesitated to call him, knowing he would probably blow a gasket if she told him where she was going, so she did the next best thing. She texted him, then dashed for the door. The phone on her desk rang, but she didn’t take time to answer it.
* * *
When Sunny didn’t answer after the sixth ring, Kale disconnected his call to Sunny and hit the steering wheel with his fist. “Damn!”
“Problem?” Foster asked.
“I was hoping that I could catch Sunny before she left. I have to break the news to her about switching her back to weather before she finds out from someone else. And call me chicken, but I’d rather do it in a public place. I was going to suggest that we stop by the Lighthouse for a drink.”
“You think she’s going to be upset?”
Kale laughed wryly. “That’s the understatement of the year. She’s going to raise holy hell. I’ve put off discussing the problem with her while we’ve tried to come up with some other solution, but since we didn’t find one, now I have no other choice.” He pulled into Foster’s driveway and said to his cousin, “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to tell her, could I?”
Foster laughed. “Not me. You know how I hate that sort of thing. I break out in hives. Why do you think I put out an SOS for you to come to Corpus and straighten out the KRIP mess? Your type makes a better hatchet man.”
Kale groaned. “Thanks, cuz. Thanks a hell of a lot.”
When Foster got out of the car, Kale Was about to call Sunny’s cell when he noticed that he had a couple of text messages. The second message was from Sunny—a garbled bit of information about Carlos and her checking out gang activity at Old Bayview Cemetery on West Broadway at eleven o’clock. An icy finger of fear slithered down his backbone. It was a quarter to eleven, and he was twenty minutes away. Cursing, he peeled out of Foster’s driveway, tires squealing and laying a black line of rubber in their wake.
* * *
At five of eleven, Sunny and Carlos, along with their equipment and her cell phone, crouched in the shadows behind a tall, weathered tombstone with a cherub on top. The cherub’s nose was missing and one wing tip was gone.
“Do you see anyone?” Sunny whispered, peering over the cherub’s foot into the eerie expanse. The streetlights, which turned Carlos’s skin a sickly mauve, made a feeble attempt to push back the darkness, but they only created creepy shadows and dim puddles.
“Not a living soul—pardon the pun. This place is spooky.”
Only the traffic from the interstate and the distant sounds of a cat fight interrupted the quiet.
“Is the camera ready?” she asked.
“I told you that it was the last time you asked. Are you sure we shouldn’t call the cops?”
“And tell them what? Have you seen anything to report?”
“If that was Rico who called you, playing a prank, I’ll have his hide.”
Car doors slammed.
Sunny stuck her nose over the edge of the tombstone. “Shhhh. Someone’s coming.”
She could see about a dozen boys quietly enter the cemetery and congregate about twenty-five yards away. Carlos nudged her and pointed to their right, where another group approached. When she saw the flash of a knife in one hand, she sucked in a gasp and dragged Carlos to the ground.
“We have to call the police,” she whispered quietly in his ear.
He put his finger over his lips and shook his head.
A shot rang out, and pandemonium broke loose.
Hunkered behind the tombstone, Sunny tried to call 911, but her fingers were shaking so badly that she kept hitting the wrong buttons. She finally reached the emergency number and explained the situation. The moment she hung up, she could hear the loud screams of sirens approaching.
“That was fast,” she said, watching CCPD cars converging from every direction.
With spotlights illuminating the area, police officers waded into the fray, and Carlos started filming. A white Cadillac convertible screeched to a stop, and Kale was out and running toward them.
He grabbed Sunny by the shoulders, and, his eyes wild, scanned her face. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she said cheerfully. “We’re getting some dynamite stuff for the special.”
He made an extremely profane and uncomplimentary remark about the special. “I ought to take you home and beat your butt.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You and what army?” She shook off his grip and turned back to the ruckus, which was dying down now that the police had control of the red- and gold-shirted gang members.
“Oh look, Kale,” she said, tugging his sleeve. “That looks like Meathook. And I believe that’s B.J. who’s spread-eagled against the patrol car. Come on, let’s get some shots of this.”
* * *
Sunny sat curled up on the couch with her fingers cupping a snifter of brandy. Kale, glowering as ferociously as a Saturday night wrestler, sat on the edge of a chair across from her, holding an empty glass that had contained a double shot of Scotch only moments before.
“Whatever possessed you to pull a dumb stunt like that?” he growled. “If I hadn’t called the police, you’d have been in a hell of a mess.”
“Ohhhh, that’s why they were so quick,” she said. “You needn’t have been concerned. I’d just called them myself. Kale, you’re such a worrywart. You’re going to have to get it through your head that I am a very bright and capable woman. I can take care of myself.”
“Like hell you can!”
“Oh, stop making those bear noises,” she said, dismissing his roaring with a wave of her hand. “We really did get some fantastic film for the special. I wonder who called me? I could have sworn it was Rico, but his gang wasn’t involved. Carlos sure was relieved.”
Kale shook his head and looked at her as if she were a simpleton. “You don’t get it, do you, Miss Sunshine?”
“Get what?”
“Of course it was Rico. He wouldn’t have squealed on his own gang, but he knew you’d call the cops on his rivals.”
“Why, that sly little devil.”
He looked exasperated. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. You march blindly into trouble like a lemming over a cliff.”
She smiled smugly. “Reporter’s instinct.”
He made a rude comment. “Finished with your brandy?”
“Why?”
“I just thought of something I can do with you.” His smile turned licentious. “All night.”
“Don’t you have something to tell me first?”
He looked puzzled. “About what?”
“Oh,” she said innocently, pausing to pick a piece of lint from her skirt, rolling it between her fingers, then depositing it in a potted plant, “something about complaints to the station about the weather. Some minor detail like breaking my heart by moving me out of the anchor position.”
He paled. “Oh, my God, I’d forgotten about that.”
“Forgotten about it?” Her eyes widened. She fluttered her lashes dramatically, relishing watching him squirm for a change. “Forgotten about destroying my dream, bursting my balloon, raining on my parade? Forgotten about it?”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Honey, I meant to explain—”
>
“And when, pray tell,” she asked in a syrupy-sweet tone, “were you going to explain that you were planning to put my head on the chopping block? While you were nibbling my belly button or after we made love?” She affected a wounded-maiden pose and milked the moment for all it was worth.
“Aw hell, Sunny, I . . .” He looked at her helplessly.
“Why, Ah do believe, Mistah Hoaglin, that foah once in yoah life, yoah at a loss foah words. Ah’ll just sit heah as quiet as a li’l ole mouse until you think of some.”
“Dammit, Sunny—”
“Mistah Hoaglin! Yoah vocabulary seems seriously limited to profanity. Ah’m shocked.” If she’d had a fan, she would have fluttered it furiously. “Ah would think that a renowned correspondent with the network would have a better command of the language.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s going on here? Why aren’t you in my face yelling?”
“Me? Yell?” She splayed her hand across her chest and tried to appear affronted. “Why, Mistah Hoaglin, Ah never yell.”
“Like hell you don’t. And what’s with the simpering Southern belle business? What are you up to?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She put her snifter down and stood. “I think I’ll go for a swim.” She unbuckled her belt and let it drop. On her way to the pool, she left a trail of clothes behind her. From the hopping and thumping noises she suspected that Kale was imitating her actions.
By the time she’d reached the apron of the pool, she was nude. Kale, still wearing one sock and trying to unzip his pants, caught up with her.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked. “I’ve sweated bullets trying to avoid switching you back to doing the weather. It’s been frustrating as hell. I figured that you would give me a hard time.”
She smiled. “Oh, I plan to give you a hard time.” She touched him intimately.
“I’m all for that, love,” he said, reaching for her, his lips already descending.