“Ah, senorita, you do not understand how the law works in Mexico. You get pulled over in a car and you pay the policeman not to write you a ticket. It is the same with all things.”
“Police on the payroll. Right.” That made sense.
“Okay, fine. Four hundred. But I’ll have to borrow money from Maddy. Maddy, can I borrow fifty pesos? I think that’s like five bucks, right?”
“They have dug a long tunnel out in the desert. They use it to transport the drugs from Mexico to America. My brother, he used to work for them as a driver before he was killed. Before he died, he told me where the tunnel is.”
Jodi waved the purse in Miguel’s face. “Four-fifty? Come on, dude. I really want this purse.”
“Wow.” I tried to sound casual, as my insides did the Snoopy dance. I’d found a whistle-blower. Someone actually wanted to blow a whistle at me. Give me information no one else knew. This was something that happened to Newsline producers, not little old local news me. “That’s such a great story. I’d love to hear more about it. Seriously. Can you call me with all the details?”
“Si.” Miguel nodded. “I will call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, fine. Five hundred pesos. And that’s my final offer.”
“Sold. You are a shrewd barterer, chica.” Miguel winked at me as he took Jodi’s money and wrapped up her purse. I smiled back. “If all Americans were like you, my nine children would starve.”
Jodi grinned stupidly, pleased by her bargaining prowess. She was going to be so pissed tomorrow when she woke up and realized she’d spent fifty bucks on a cheesy Louis Vuitton knockoff that had Xs instead of LVs on the pattern. As her best friend, I should have dragged her away a long time ago. But at this point it was easier to let her have her simple purse-buying happiness. Besides, she could live with the loss of fifty bucks.
I, however, had a feeling this story was going to change my life forever.
CHAPTER THREE
FROM: “Victor Charles, MD”
TO: “Madeline Madison”
SUBJECT: re: cosmetics that kill?
Dear Maddy,
Thank you for writing to me regarding your story on “Cosmetics That Kill.” However, in all my forty years as a doctor at this major medical institution, I have never once come across a single case where cosmetics were responsible for someone’s death.
Perhaps you’d be better serving the community by doing a story on a new over-the-counter diet drug that uses herbs hand ground by Aboriginal tribe members. As the company’s paid spokesman I’d be happy to extol its virtues to your viewing audience and I’m sure it’d be a great ratings booster. I could even provide you with a patient who lost over fifty pounds in one week by taking this pill.
Your favorite TV doc,
Victor
P.S. The FDA has not yet approved this drug (you know how they are!) So I would suggest you don’t bother contacting them to ask them if it is safe and effective, but rather take my word for it. After all, I am a doctor.
Bing!
[email protected]: hi!
I squinted in puzzlement as an instant message popped up on my computer the next day at work. We weren’t really supposed to be IMing on the job. The IT department had even put a block on our computers so it’d be impossible to download an IM program. Luckily, AOL’s service had a Java Express version, which meant it could run online and there was nothing to download. Let’s just say the brilliance of such a concept wasn’t lost on our department.
In fact, in News 9 Cubicle Land all you ever heard was bing, bing, bing all day long with a sole bong thrown in from Jodi’s computer. She had gotten sick of thinking other people’s bings were hers and changed the sound settings.
So, while the appearance of an IM wasn’t unusual in and of itself, I couldn’t help but notice this particular IM came from my father, the most un–computer savvy, low-tech guy on the planet. The man didn’t know how to program his DVR. Didn’t own a cell phone. And now he was IMing me? I had no idea he even knew IMing existed. I would have been willing to make a bet before this very minute, in fact, that he would have happily gone through his whole life never knowing or caring that communication with his oldest daughter was simply a bing away.
Bing!
[email protected]: Are you there, sweet pea?
[email protected]: Yes. Hi Dad. What’s up?
[email protected]: Wow! This instant messaging thing is very tight, huh?
Oh-kay. Now I’m officially freaked out. Not only was my dad using IMing technology, but he was using expressions like “tight.”
[email protected]: Yeah, it’s a gr8 way to communicate
[email protected]: Listen, hon. I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner tonight.
[email protected]: Well, it is a work night . . .
[email protected]: Your mother and I have some news we’d like to share with you.
[email protected]: Is it bad news??????
[email protected]: Oh no. It’s nothingbad.
[email protected]: Okay, phew. For a moment it sounded like you guys were going to get a divorce or something. So what is it? Did you win the lottery? If you did, can you buy me a condo?
[email protected]: My hands are getting tired from typing. Just come by for seven, okay?
[email protected]: Ok. Bye dad.
[email protected]:
Oh. My. God. My dad used an emoticon! Another twenty-first centuryism that I figured he’d never work out. Something was definitely up.
“So, what are we doing today?” Adonis—sorry, that would be Jamie—slid into David’s seat and smiled at me. I tried not to cringe as my insides instantly turned to mush.
That smile of his had to be outlawed in at least thirty-three states. He shouldn’t be allowed to spring it on me like that. But what could I say? Excuse me, gorgeous photog, could you please not smile at me? Ever? Then he’d want to know why, and I’d have to admit I had the total hots for him, which he’d think was “really cute” and say I was a “nice kid” but he had a real woman back at home. One with caterers, swan napkins, and a sparkling diamond ring that he’d placed on her delicate finger. She probably had perfect nails and went to the manicurist seven days a week.
Stop it, Maddy. Imagination running wild. She could be an ugly troll for all you know.
I realized Jamie was still waiting for the response one would typically receive after asking a simple question of one’s coworker—if one’s coworker didn’t belong in a drooling mental ward due to raging female hormones.
“Well, I don’t know if I have anything for you to shoot, ” I said with a sigh. “I’m desperately researching a story on ‘Cosmetics That Kill’ and unfortunately keep coming up a bit short on interview subjects.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Cosmetics can kill? I had no idea.”
“It’s okay, neither does the rest of the world. But promos decided it’d sound like a good ad to run during that Extreme Makeover reality show we air on Tuesday nights.”
“You know, now that you mention it, I think I received some chain e-mail with something about deadly lipstick, ” Jamie said thoughtfully. “Though I probably deleted it.”
“Really? Do you think it’s still in your trash folder?” I asked, trying not to get my hopes up. Wow. First day on the job and my photographer was helping me produce! He was actually interested in my story and wanted to contribute.
You got to understand. Most of our photographers at News 9 were die-hard union guys. They did exactly what you told them, with no thoughts or creative suggestions. It was not a team effort. Ever. They might as well have been robots, though I was pretty sure robots didn’t bitch and whine every time they were asked to do something. And heaven forbid you break a union rule. One time, I hit the “eject” button on the camera to get my tape. I thought the photographer was going to have a heart attack. I had to sit through this half-hour lec
ture about how my hitting “eject” could lead to photographer layoffs because there wasn’t enough work for them to do. Evidently I’d personally be responsible for hundreds of starving children whose photog daddies and mommies stood in the unemployment line.
Jamie turned around in his chair and logged into my cubemate’s computer. I watched eagerly as he pulled up his Internet e-mail account and selected his trash folder.
“Here it is.” He clicked on the little envelope icon and the e-mail popped up. Because I was blind and refused to wear glasses or get contacts, I had to come up pretty close behind him to read over his shoulder. And this close proximity made me realize he was wearing spicy cologne that sparked a direct tingling effect you know where. Man, this guy could turn me on without even touching me.
To: Jamie Hayes
From: Jennifer Quigley
Subject: FWD: LIPSTICK - Please Read
Lead is a chemical that causes cancer. The higher the lead content, the greater the chance of it causing cancer. Watch out for those lipsticks, which are supposed to stay longer. If your lipstick stays longer, it is because of the higher content of lead. This is how to test lipstick for lead.
1) Put some lipstick on your hand.
2) Use a 24k -14k gold ring to scratch on the lipstick.
3) If the lipstick color changes to black then you know the lipstick contains lead.
NOTE: Please pass this along to all your friends. In addition to saving their lives, you will also receive good luck in three days. If you do not pass this along and simply delete it, something really bad will probably happen to you. There was this one guy in Cuba who deleted it and he died in a fiery car crash five minutes later. Doctors said it was because he was checking his e-mail and driving at the same time, but we know better! You have been warned!
“So, what do you think?” Jamie asked, turning around to look at me. Since I had been leaning over so close, the sudden movement caused us to bump noses and an electric shock zapped through my entire body. It was like accidental Eskimo kissing!
“Sorry, ” I said, even though I wasn’t. I sat back down in my chair. “Can you forward me that e-mail? I’m pretty sure it’s an urban myth, but it’s definitely worth checking out.”
“Sure, no prob.” After getting my e-mail address, Jamie forwarded the message. Then he turned back to face me.
“That’s a cute skirt, ” he remarked casually, his eyes roaming my brand-new black swishy skirt I’d run out and bought last night before going to Tijuana. After learning I’d be working side by side with a sex god, I’d decided money needed to be spent on clothes. And evidently, I thought with delight, the investment was paying off.
“This old thing?” I brushed off. “Thanks. I suppose it’s cute.”
“Um, I think you forgot to take off the price tag though, ” he added, gesturing to the hem. Oh shit. My face flamed as I looked down to see that he was right. There was definitely a price tag hanging from a plastic loop on the right side of the skirt. I thought I’d removed them all. He must have thought I was the biggest geek loser in the known universe. Who would put a tag there anyway? One so easy to miss. Was there some disgruntled Nordstrom’s employee out there who thought it’d be amusing to embarrass poor innocent people who bought clothes from her?
Now, there was a story. “Clothes That Kill.” You could die from humiliation, right?
“Actually, it’s a new thing, ” I said, recovering just in time. “Keeping the price tags on is very hip these days.”
Please believe me, I begged silently. Or, if you don’t, please don’t call me on it.
“Oh. Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly. “My fiancée Jennifer always tells me I’m perpetually unhip.”
Ew, there he went, spouting the F-word like it was no big deal. I couldn’t stand it.
“Listen, ” he added, rising from his chair. “Why don’t you research the lipstick thing and in the meantime, I’ll go around the station and get some people to let me videotape them putting on makeup. That way you’ll have some video for the piece in case it pans out.”
I wanted to hug him. Or fall over in shock. I’d never, ever had a photographer volunteer to do something without me having to beg and plead and listen to him whine. This guy was unbelievable.
And during the eight hours of the workday, he was all mine!
I arrived at my parents’ house at about quarter to seven. They lived in an adorable Craftsman-type house in Normal Heights, one of the older neighborhoods in San Diego. The houses there were small and quaint. And now, with the backlash against the extravagant monster houses with no yards being thrown up in urban sprawl subdivisions all over the county, the old-school houses were extremely desirable and super pricey. My parents’ house had tripled in value since they bought it when I was a kid.
The door opened at my knock and my little sister Lulu answered it with typical Lulu exuberance. At sixteen years old, she was a bundle of unrepressed energy and while I loved her, sometimes she was a bit on the exhausting side. A total wild child, every time I saw her she had different-colored hair. It was currently bleach blond and shorn to a boyish cut. She wore baggy raver pants and a tiny, belly-baring pink tank top that declared one could evidently get “Lucky in Kentucky.”
“Hi, Maddy!” she cried, throwing her arms around me and almost knocking me over with a huge hug. “How are you? What are you doing here?”
“Um, Dad instant messaged me. Said he needed to see me.”
“He did?” Lulu raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know he knew how to IM.”
“Yeah. Neither did I.” I shrugged.
“Well, come on in.” Lulu gestured widely. “We’ve just finished dinner.”
Uh, that was weird, since the whole reason I was supposed to be coming here was for dinner. What the hell was going on?
We walked into the foyer and then headed for the living room. My parents were seated in the same seats they always sat in after dinner since I was a toddler. Dad in his ultracomfy, well-worn leather armchair and my mom knitting on the far end of the couch.
Except, my mother wasn’t knitting. And as I sat down next to her, I realized she looked like she’d been crying. A swelling of fear fluttered through my stomach. I thought this wasn’t supposed to be bad news.
“Hi, Maddy, ” my father said with a wide smile. He didn’t seem upset at all. “Thanks for coming over. How was work?”
“So, what’s your news?” I wanted to cut to the chase at this point; the suspense was killing me.
Please be that you won the lottery, I begged silently, suddenly realizing the chances of that being the news was slim to none. I sat down on the sofa and held my breath, waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop.
“Lulu, sit down, ” my father reprimanded the bouncy sixteen-year-old. With a huff, Lulu complied, squashing herself between Mom and me.
“Your mother and I have some news, ” my father said, leaning forward in his armchair. Even in his fifties, he was a good-looking man with a sprinkling of distinguished salt-and-pepper hair and a trim waistline. “We’ve decided to live apart.”
“What? What?” Lulu screeched, jumping up from the couch, hands on her low-rise hips. “You can’t get a divorce! That’s, like, so not fair!”
My heart fell into my stomach. For a moment I thought I would be physically ill. My parents were splitting up. It seemed so wrong somehow. I mean, I knew almost everyone’s parents got divorced. But usually it was when they were kids. No one’s parents lived happily ever after for thirty years and then decided one day it wasn’t working out and they were moving on. It just didn’t happen like that. There was a point where you were safe. You could relax and know that your family was one of the rare ones that beat the odds.
And now they were going along with the rest of the crazy world and getting divorced.
“Why are you getting a divorce? Who am I supposed to live with?” Lulu demanded. Poor girl. While it was devastating news for m
e, at least I’d moved out of the house. This would impact my sister’s entire existence.
“You can stay with your father and his little whore, ” my mother said in an odd, cheery voice.
I whirled my head around, jaw hitting the floor. What? What did she just say? I’d never, ever heard my mother use bad language in all my existence. She was the sunshine and oatmeal-raisin cookies stay-at-home mom who used to read us Bible stories. She didn’t say things like “his little whore.”
Which brought me to my next question. I turned to look at my evidently philandering father. Had he really cheated on my poor, sweet, innocent mother? How dare he? Anger replaced my sadness and I rose from my chair.
“Dad. What the hell is going on here?” I demanded, hoping he could hear me over Lulu’s wailing sobs.
My dad squirmed in his chair. For a chair he’d sat in for the last thirty years of his life, he suddenly seemed to find it mighty uncomfortable.
“I’m seeing someone else, ” he said at last.
“Someone else?” My mother raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. Since when did she pluck her eyebrows? “Aren’t you going to tell them who?”
He took a deep breath. “Someone from my office.”
“Who happens to be twenty-three years old and pregnant with your child!” my mother added helpfully, if not a bit bitterly.
News Blues Page 3