by Jan Burke
I TOLD JOHN ABOUT Moffett’s resignation and the connection between Ben Watterson and Moffett. Then I drove over to city hall and spent time that did little more than confirm my initial impression that Moffett’s resignation was as unexpected as a queen’s belch at a banquet. People were either trying to pretend that nothing happened or nervously hiding glee or horror, depending on how they felt about Moffett. Up on the sixth floor, where the city manager’s offices are housed, only the most minor officials were available to see me, and they had little to say. The most powerful had left for lunch appointments. Each of their secretaries quickly closed any appointment books that were open on their desks, then calmly lied to me, saying they had no idea where their bosses were eating lunch.
I looked at my watch. Just after one o’clock. I made a big show of leaving and talking about being too late for my deadline (my own lie) and took an elevator down to the lobby and left the building to call the paper. The potential of this story had rated me the use of a cellular phone for the afternoon, but it was cheaper to make the call from a pay phone, so I used my own coins. I hoped John would balance the righteousness of that sacrifice with the fact that I had bupkis to report. He didn’t.
I grabbed lunch at a noodle shop near city hall, went back in through the lobby, and stood around acting as if I were fascinated with a sculpture that I had seen at least two thousand times before. The sculpture is big enough to hide behind if you’re not wearing red or some other color that will show through the holes in it; I was wearing a dark gray outfit that blended in perfectly.
I saw the secretaries from the sixth floor — those liars — come back from their own lunches, and figured that was as good a sign as any that their bosses would be back soon. They chatted while waiting at the elevator, and the pieces of conversation I strained so hard to overhear turned out to be about a baby shower for a coworker. Not wanting them to warn their bosses that I was in the building, I took the stairs. A few other hardy souls took the stairs as far as the fourth floor, but after that I was on my own.
I stopped on the landing of the sixth floor, looked through my purse for the big rubber eraser I carry for such occasions, and jammed it in the door to hold it open a crack. From this vantage point, I couldn’t see the elevator or any of the office doors. That didn’t matter. Years of covering this particular beat had taught me a lot about the habits of Las Piernas city executives, and I knew where to wait for my prey. I had an excellent view of the door to the men’s room.
Sure enough, Ray Aiken came walking down the hall. Ray was the assistant city manager, and to my good fortune, he preferred the city hall facilities to those of whatever restaurant he was returning from. Ray was nearing sixty. He’s a big man with a small bladder. I know this from watching many long city council meetings.
Ray was alone. My lucky day. I retrieved my eraser and waited in the hall.
He was still tucking the tail of his shirt into the wide waist of his pants when he shouldered his way out of the men’s room door. He looked up, saw me, and said, “Oh, cripes,” turned around and went back in.
I pushed the door open and followed him. “I know no one else is in here, Ray, but I’d prefer not to interview you in here so soon after you’ve—”
“Goddammit, Kelly, this is the men’s room!”
“Really? And I thought those things were baptismal fonts.”
He turned beet red and said, “Have you no shame?”
“All kinds of it, but it won’t keep me from talking to you in here if I have to.”
“What if someone comes in here and sees you in here with me?”
“They’ll think neither one of us has any shame. Come on out into the stairwell and talk with me, Ray.”
He sighed in resignation, and after a furtive look down the hall, followed me into the stairwell. I sat on a step, but he stayed on his feet. “I don’t have to talk to you,” he whispered, craning to look at the landings above and below.
“I know.”
He looked back to me in surprise.
“You don’t have to,” I went on, “but I think you will.”
“Really? What makes you so sure?”
“You’re the guy most likely to be the next city manager. You’ll need the paper’s help to keep you clear of the stink that Moffett’s leaving behind. And it’s especially smelly that Moffett has quit the day after Ben Watterson killed himself.”
“I was sorry to hear about Ben,” Ray said quietly. “I don’t think the two are connected.”
“Maybe not. We’ll leave that for now. But as the man most likely to be the new manager—”
“Big assumption, Kelly.”
“No, think about it. The new mayor has an unexpected chance to reshape the office. He likes you. A total newcomer would bring the city to a grinding halt while he or she learned the ropes — the mayor can’t afford that. You’re known as someone the city employees trust. You’re experienced, but you’re not one of the fossils.”
He laughed at that, but sat down next to me. “Kelly, if I know you, you’d love to see everyone on the sixth floor replaced.”
“Not necessarily. I’ll admit, I’m not one of Moffett’s fans. I don’t think you are, either. You’ve worked hard for him, and he’s needed your expertise, your way with people. But he hasn’t always treated you with the respect you deserve. That’s why I picked you instead of one of his cronies.”
He sighed. “You knew his cronies would never talk to you, so you picked one of his drudges to harass. As for all that respect I supposedly deserve — if some male reporter had followed a woman into a restroom—”
“Look, I apologize. I wouldn’t have followed you in there if I thought you were—”
“Never mind, never mind. I can’t stay in this stairwell all afternoon. What do you want?”
“Just tell me why Moffett’s resigning. The real reason.”
“Resigned. Past tense. He’s out. But the man put thirty years of service into this community, Irene. I can’t drag him through the mud.”
In spite of the actual words spoken, when Ray stops calling me Kelly, I know he’s giving in. I waited.
“I need a cigarette,” he said, and lit one in blatant disregard of a city ordinance banning smoking in public buildings. I kept waiting.
He took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “You don’t need me to tell you that there are many opportunities offered to a man who holds the title of city manager. He’s not elected, but because the council relies so heavily on him for information and to carry out their will, he’s powerful. In fact, Allan has been the city manager longer than any of the current council members have been in office. If certain offers were made to him, well, even a saint would find it tempting to accept an offer now and again.”
“And Moffett is no saint.”
Ray shook his head.
“So just what kind of sinner are we talking about here?”
He stayed silent, watching the end of his cigarette for a moment. He took another drag, then said, “You remember what downtown was like about twenty years ago?”
“Sure. Depending on your point of view, it was a historical district full of beautiful but aging buildings in need of renovation, or it was a seedy, festering dump that needed to be demolished.”
He smiled. “Liked the old buildings, did you? You were probably some damned hippie.”
“Sorry, Ray, I just missed out on the hippies. The nuns wouldn’t let us out of our plaid, and by the time I got to go to public school, it was all over. To use a hippie expression, I’m not too bummed out about it. The Las Piernas High School imitation of hippiedom was pretty pathetic.”
“Too young to be a hippie. Dammit, Irene, you are making me feel very old.”
“So this is related to downtown redevelopment?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I’m close.”
He smiled, crushed out his cigarette, and carefully pocketed its remains. “You’re closer than you were to being a hippie, I sup
pose.”
He stood up, brushed his pants off, and left me sitting there. I thought about what he said. I left when a bureaucrat from the next floor up opened a door, sniffed the air, and told me in a nasty tone of voice that it was illegal to smoke anywhere in the building.
7
I THOUGHT FRANK MIGHT resist the idea of dining at the Terrace that night, but I was wrong.
“Of course I’ll go with you,” he said. “You know how I feel about your being out alone late at night. And these guys might not appreciate your attention.”
“I’m not asking you to come along as muscle, Frank. We just haven’t seen much of each other lately.”
He looked skeptical. “Sure that’s it? Or do you just want to avoid attracting attention by dining alone in a fancy restaurant?”
I turned red, but said, “The last of the great romantics.”
He took that as a personal challenge. He met it admirably, so even though we weren’t due there for a couple of hours, we were a little late getting to the Terrace.
DRIVING TO THE RESTAURANT, we passed through the part of town where I had seen Lucas. I started telling Frank about him.
“It’s a cold night,” I said, watching the empty streets as if I might see him again. “I hope he’s in a shelter.”
“Sounds like your friend at the center looks out after him. He’s probably okay.”
“Roberta’s out of town,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know where to look for Lucas. I was such a jerk that day. Ran away from him.”
“You expect too much of yourself,” he said. “You didn’t know who he was. He scared you. That’s not your fault. And you didn’t make him crawl into a bottle, either.”
“No,” I said, but grew silent.
“Listen, from what you’ve told me about him, you’re probably right — some time after graduate school, something must have really gone wrong. But right now, until he contacts you, there’s not much you can do about him. I could ask the guys who work that section of town—”
“No, don’t. Just knowing where he is wouldn’t be enough. And it might embarrass him. I don’t want Lucas to think I’m putting pressure on him. He’ll come to see me when he’s ready.”
We came to another section of the city, this one much more affluent than the one we had just left. Separated by one of the oil fields that have brought money into Las Piernas since the 1930s, the two neighborhoods might just as easily have been separated by outer space. Here in the Knolls, as the enclave was called, big, sloping lawns fronted large homes.
The Terrace isn’t in one of the fancier parts of the Knolls, but it is on an actual knoll. It’s at the end of a small street, bordered by the high walls of one of the housing developments. One of the smaller lots of oil pumps is across from it. Despite the noise made by the rhythmic, rolling, rocking-horse motions of the pumps outside, the restaurant itself is quiet.
Even though it’s packed every night, something about the Terrace invites its diners to speak in low voices. Dark paneled wood, candlelight, and traditional fare — no menu items that belong in a lab notebook. Perhaps a little straitlaced, but reliable.
Before the maître d’ could do much with his look — one that said he wished he wasn’t too polite to pinch his nose shut — I said, “We’re just here for a drink,” and guided Frank into the bar.
“Going to drink your dinner?” Frank asked as we sat at a small table.
“No, but you can make a meal out of the appetizers. We can’t have dinner here tonight, anyway. They didn’t have any tables open in the dining room by the time I called.”
“Now you tell me.”
I shrugged. “This will be cheaper.”
He laughed. “I guess we can stop by Bernie’s on the way home.” He wasn’t looking at me as he said this. He was looking around the room, checking out the occupants. Cop habit of his. He caught me catching him at it and asked, “Do you need to take a stroll around the restaurant to look for Moffett and his guests?”
“I could, but I think I already know where he is. We’re sitting next to a private dining room,” I said, pointing at a hallway off the bar.
“So that’s what the note on the reservation’s list meant.”
“Mr. Harriman, I’m dazzled. I didn’t think you had a chance to read it while the maître d’ was snubbing us.”
“I’m full of tricks. You’ve been in this private dining room?”
“Not as an invitee. Are you familiar with the Brown Act?”
“The law that gets you and all your pals at the Express into government meetings, right?”
“Well, yes, but there’s more to it than that. Without getting into a lot of details, let’s just say one of the most important things the Brown Act does is to prohibit local public agencies from meeting secretly.”
“Public agencies?”
“Local legislative bodies, for the most part. School boards, city councils, and commissions are included. It’s a state law. One of the best sections of the Brown Act — great for reporters, anyway — extends the requirement for open and public meetings to any committee or task force those councils and commissions appoint — even advisory groups.”
I paused in my civics lecture while the waitress came to take our drink order.
“You’re going to tell me what this has to do with the private dining room at the Terrace, right?” Frank asked.
“Patience. So — these commissions can’t exclude reporters from meetings, right? And ‘meetings’ aren’t just those formal gatherings in the council chambers. The law can extend to social functions. Parties, picnics, you name it.”
“Wait a minute. You mean the city council members can’t have a party without inviting the Express?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what they discuss. If the city council members all get together for a picnic, they don’t have to invite the public — unless they start discussing public business. They can’t evade the law just by going to the park and playing Frisbee while they tell each other how they plan to vote on a zoning change.”
“I’m beginning to see where this is leading. Someone held a meeting here and you found out about it.”
“Right. The Redevelopment Agency. People with business and construction interests used to invite the city planning commission members down to the Terrace for dinner meetings. That’s in violation of the Brown Act. Someone leaked word of one of the meetings to me, and I barged in on it — it was a great story.”
Frank shifted a little in his chair. The drinks arrived, and he took a long sip of scotch before asking cautiously, “You do remember that I’m employed by the city? I mean, I won’t get in the way of your doing your job, but—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to barge in on this meeting, Frank. I can’t.”
“Why not? You just said—”
“Moffett doesn’t qualify. He was the city manager, and now he’s a private citizen. The people who are in there with him have been involved in city projects, but none of them are members of a public board or advisory committee — at least, not right now. So it’s a private meeting.”
“So why are we here? Were you going to try to eavesdrop?”
“The Express may be cheap, Frank, but we haven’t crawled down to tabloid level yet. No, I just want to know who showed up for this cozy little gathering. And I want them to know that I’m around — that will be enough to make a couple of them nervous. If I get a chance, I’ll try to corner one of them on the way out. Even if I don’t, someone may want to talk later.”
“Any ideas about what’s up?”
“Not exactly. But it’s got to be connected to whatever caused Moffett to resign.”
WE ORDERED ENOUGH APPETIZERS to keep the alcohol from going straight to our stomachs. We made the most of our chance to be alone, to talk, to catch up on the day’s events — even though I was keeping one eye on the hallway near the private dining room.
After we had been there about an hour, Andre Selman came out of that hallway. I ha
dn’t seen him in more than a decade. His once-blond hair had turned silver, he had gone soft in the middle, but otherwise he hadn’t changed much. For some odd reason, he seemed shorter.
Most of the women in SOS would probably say that Andre’s charm was more powerful than his looks, but at the moment, neither was in evidence. He looked like hell. He was dabbing a handkerchief across a perspiring forehead and he was pale. His blue eyes watched nothing but the carpet as he hurried along. I thought he might be headed for the restroom, but his destination was one of the telephone booths. Like everything else in the Terrace, the phone booths are old-fashioned — real booths with doors made of wood and glass. By the time I figured out that Andre hadn’t gone into the restroom, he was returning to the dinner party. It was on his way back that he spotted me. His eyes widened, then his face screwed up in anger. For a moment it looked as if he would storm his way over to me, but then he seemed to notice Frank.
Frank had realized some moments before that I was watching someone, and had turned in his chair and started watching, too. I couldn’t see Frank’s face, but Andre’s seemed to go pale again. Andre hurried down the hallway to the dining room.
Frank turned back to me, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Well, well, well,” he said, and finished off his drink.
“Out with it.”
“That, I take it, was the old boyfriend?”
I cringed. “Do I go around reminding you of your mistakes?”
He laughed. “No. But none of my old girlfriends have whole societies dedicated to honoring their memories.”
“What are you talking about? SOS isn’t about Andre.”
“You sometimes call it ‘Survivors of Selman,’ right?”
“As a joke.”
He didn’t say anything, just sat there looking bemused. His smug mode. He was inviting a fight, but escalating the argument in the middle of the Terrace was an unappealing idea. I had the feeling this topic could get loud. I kept my eyes on the hallway and changed the subject.