“Nervous?”
“Not at all,” Troy said. She batted her eyelashes at Perez, who responded by rearranging her napkin. The Slotman brought them their drinks, leered for a moment at Perez’s obvious discomfort. She gulped her wine.
Troy went on, “You know as well as I do, Isabel, that the media these days is amok. There are no standards of what a story is. The big newspapers and networks won’t break an obviously tawdry, unsubstantiated, gossipy story, but they’ll sure follow it once a paper with lower standards prints it.”
“You trying to say The Post has low standards?”
“No, I think The Post is a very good paper. But there’s a corollary to what I just described. If the reporter has motivation to break something, anything, you know as well as I do that a clever writer can harness circumstantial facts or buttress the claims of a dubious source.”
Perez made as if to interrupt, but Troy cut in. “Hear me out. Kent, for example, obviously has that kind of motivation these days. He’s been made the laughingstock of the local press after his wife appeared in flagrante on the front page of The Beacon’s Metro section. He wants to prove to the world that he still counts. Understandable. But I won’t have him force a story which would end up ruining Ricardo’s chance at the governorship.”
Perez took a second gulp. She realized she had leverage. “Let’s say you’re right, Arlene, about that basic physics equation. If so, there must be another equation.”
“And what’s that?” Troy said.
“The Speed and Impact of a Scandal Slows and Lessens in the Presence of Another Scandal,” Perez said coolly. “Unless of course, the scandals involve the same people, in which case there is an exponential effect: the intrigue takes on a new mass and velocity.”
“Are you saying we’re about to be hit with another scandal?” Troy asked, suddenly worried.
“Not that I know of,” Perez said. “But I’ve just finished entering most of the campaign finance data into our computer. Who knows what I’ll find?”
Troy was all business now. “That kind of story doesn’t bother me. Campaign contributions are a fact of political life. We can handle that, as long as it’s factual.”
“Spin is a dangerous thing, isn’t it, Arlene?” Perez said. “I mean like you said, a reporter can look for the agreeable or the controversial in just about anything.”
They said nothing for several moments, each woman studying the other. Finally, Troy said, “I didn’t take you for a hardball player.”
Perez said, “Stand in the shadows for as long as I have, you get tough.”
Troy ran a finger along the skin between the thumb and index finger of her other hand. “The Speed and Impact of a Scandal … how did that go?”
“Slows and Lessens in the Presence of Another Scandal,” Perez said.
“That was it,” Troy said softly. She hesitated. “We might, uh, know some things about Barnes that we were, uh, holding in reserve.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Perez batted her eyelashes at Troy. “Friends tell friends secrets.”
“Mmmmm,” Troy purred. “And what might a friend tell me?”
“How about what reporters at The Post are working on at any given moment. What might a friend tell me?”
Troy leaned forward and said huskily, “That she wants to be more than friends?”
Perez wet her lips deliberately. “Every thing in good time, Arlene,” she said. “Why don’t we begin by slowing down Kent Jackson before he hurts our dear mayor?”
Troy ran a fingernail along the outside of her wineglass, then said, “I suppose you might be at your desk some morning soon and just might be willing to receive a call from an anonymous tipster.”
“I suppose I might,” Perez said. “And I suppose you’ll be at your desk from time to time to listen to a voice from inside the media machine?”
“I suppose I might,” Troy smiled. She looked longingly into Perez’s eyes. “And after the campaign is over, who knows?”
Perez mustered all her guile and stared humidly back at Troy. “Yes, who knows?”
Now in the newsroom, typing in her notes from the anonymous tipster, Perez again paused to fondle the sniffable badge. She’d kept her part of the bargain, snooping around in various reporter’s files and pumping Prentice LaFontaine for all the latest dirt inside The Post. Just yesterday she’d told Troy that Jackson was in some kind of gambling trouble and seemed interested in finding out more about the financial relationship between Chief Leslie and Mayor Portillo. He’d evidently heard a rumor that they were involved in a mutual investment somewhere. The item hadn’t phased Troy a bit.
“Ricardo gives away most of his excess income to charity,” Troy said. “His investments are limited to a savings account for his kids’ education fund, his home, and a piece of property over on Lake Mead in Nevada where he plans to retire.”
Whatever. For a little information Perez now had the makings of a blockbuster story. A story certain to be seen across the country by agenda-setting reporters and their editors. She snatched the phone from its cradle and began punching in numbers.
Welcome to the Jungle …
THE NEXT MORNING, GIDEON McCarthy sipped from a disgusting concoction Estelle had whipped up in the blender: milk, two eggs, a carrot, and a powdered protein supplement the hospital nutritionist had recommended. The doctors had wired his mouth shut with a gap of about a quarter inch so he could talk and get the straw into his mouth. Two weeks of this crap and his stomach now turned at the first whiff.
“Is good, no?” Estelle asked.
“Dear Estelle, that’s like asking the poor boy if a bed of nails has the luxury feel of silk,” Prentice LaFontaine said. News sat at the dining room table near the kiva fireplace eating a huge plate of huevos rancheros.
McCarthy lay on the couch in the living room in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Surprisingly he looked fit. With the wired jaw and the long walks he’d been taking, he’d lost fifteen pounds.
“No, really, Tia. It’s good,” McCarthy said. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to ten. The house, ordinarily boisterous this time on a Saturday morning with the children’s playing, was quiet, subdued.
Estelle fumbled with her apron and hurried away into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Mr. News, you want some coffee?”
“Thank you, dear one, yes,” LaFontaine said. He turned to McCarthy. “I must say I’d forgotten how much the gleaming steel in your mouth did for your general appearance. How long did you have them on after the car accident?”
McCarthy drew his lips back to reveal the full extent of the wiring job. “A month, so I got another two weeks to go.”
“How pleasant.” News jiggled his expensive black loafer. “Anyway, here’s the gossip: the newsroom is still humming about the attack. The Zombie has called George Romero and demanded a legion of walking corpses to invade police headquarters. Abby and Croon have named you to the list of the top twenty living survivors of tragedy.”
“Well after the Kennedy family I hope.”
“I think you’re number twenty exactly, displacing that little girl who fell down the sewer hole in Texas a few years back? The Kennedys’ number one ranking remains intact. What else? The Slotman is pushing a special drink he named after you.”
“C’mon.”
“True! True!” LaFontaine chuckled. “A double bourbon with a dash of lime juice on the rocks. Up on the chalk board above the bar it says ‘The McCarthy: Drink one of these and your jaw won’t move for a month.’ Roy Orbison said the Slotman made a fortune on them last Friday night.”
“Just what I always wanted,” McCarthy said. “To occupy a soft spot in the Slotman’s heart.”
LaFontaine grew somber. “Some people are wondering if you’ll come back.”
In the kitchen Estelle’s bustling stopped. McCarthy glanced in her direction and saw her looking at him. He spoke to her more than News. “I’m not giving up.”
The doorbell rang. Malice tore out of
a back room, yelping, skidding sideways across the hardwood floor toward the front door, almost tripping Estelle, who spun neatly and wiped her cheeks with the folds of her apron. Carlos and Miriam appeared in the doorway to the back hall holding each other’s hands. McCarthy forced a smile onto his face, “Baseball game time, guys. Ready?”
Carlos said nothing.
Miriam, a lovely little girl with shoulder-length dark brown hair, said, “Do we get to eat cotton candy?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Owens,” McCarthy said.
The doorbell rang again and a third time. Malice barked and leapt at the door.
Estelle said, “Well, does no one answer?”
McCarthy got up off the couch, picked up Malice, and opened the door. Charley Owens stood there in white linen pants, blue polo shirt, and tortoiseshell sunglasses, holding two California Angels baseball caps. “McCarthy.”
“Owens,” McCarthy said. Malice snarled and bared his teeth.
Owens took two steps backward. “Is the show of force necessary?”
“The kids love him.”
“I bet. May I see my children now?”
“I’d like a word outside first.”
Owens didn’t seem to like the idea. “Can we lose Bowser at least?”
McCarthy tossed the dog inside and shut the door.
Owens peered at the yellowing bruises on McCarthy’s face. “Judges don’t look kindly on these dangerous professions in custody battles.”
“We’re here to talk about today, Charley. You go to the baseball game, then you come home, no side trips, no ‘Gee I’m sorry we’re late,’ or I’ll be on the phone to the judge to block any further visits. Clear?”
A vein pulsed along Owen’s neck. “Clear.”
“Another thing. I want you treat the boy like an egg.”
“I’ll treat him any way I want,” Owens said. “He’s my son, not yours.”
McCarthy took a quick step forward, took Owens by the collar, and opened his mouth so the steel work gleamed. “Do I look like I’m in a negotiating mood here?”
Owens smiled wanly. “Not really.”
The door opened behind them. McCarthy released his grip and stepped back. Miriam said softly, “Mr. Owens, can I have some cotton candy at the game?”
Owens knelt as Miriam came out through the screen door. “Sure, you can, honey. As much as you want. And you can call me daddy, you know.”
“No,” Miriam said. “I’ll call you Mr. Owens.”
She said it such a sweet, matter-of-fact manner that McCarthy wanted to hug her. He looked up. Carlos stood in the doorway with Estelle behind him. Owens came erect and offered the boy his hand. Carlos shook it limply.
Owens said, “Hope you like the Angels. They’re playing the Twins.”
“I like the National League,” Carlos mumbled.
“Well,” Owens said. “We’ll make the best of it, all right?”
“Okay,” Carlos said uncertainly.
Owens looked beyond the boy. “Estelle, black becomes you as always.”
Estelle said, “As always, you the same, Charley.”
Owens gave her a forced smile, then slipped his sunglasses back on. “Okay, let’s go kids. It’s a long drive to Anaheim. Who wants to sit up front?”
“I do,” Miriam said. She tugged her new baseball cap down over her ears. She marched toward Owens’s rented white Lincoln, calling over her shoulder, “Bye, Gideon! Bye, Tia! You bring any cotton candy with you in the car, Mr. Owens?”
When they’d gone, McCarthy stared at the fabric of the sofa and the pattern in the Navajo rug Tina had brought to his home. LaFontaine chatted merrily about how Brad Perkins planned to open a personal training and nutrition counseling service for the gay community. He was calling himself the Physique Motivator.
“You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?” News asked after several minutes describing the pending venture.
McCarthy said, “Brad’s planning to open an eat vitamin and pump iron so you can give your significant other a bruise organization.”
LaFontaine scowled at him. “I know you’re feeling down, but was that necessary?”
McCarthy closed his eyes. “I guess I’m getting sick of me and my friends cast in the role of sucker.”
“I tend to enjoy that role myself,” LaFontaine said.
“Ha, ha,” McCarthy said. “I’m serious, News. …”
The doorbell rang again. Estelle answered it and murmured for a few minutes. She leaned around into the living room. “Is two ladies, Gideon. They say they have to talk with you about some men named Patrick and Blanca.”
McCarthy got up from the sofa. “Let them in.”
A plump woman in her early thirties with lank brown hair, wearing a pink exercise suit entered. She was followed by a striking Hispanic woman in a tight-fitting, basic black jumpsuit. Her dark hair cascaded down to her shoulders in tiny ringlets. The plump woman said, “Which one of you is Gideon McCarthy?”
News extended a finger in McCarthy’s direction. The woman rushed at him, raising her fists. “My husband didn’t kill anyone!”
McCarthy grabbed her wrists before she could strike. The woman struggled, then broke down and bawled. Estelle came forward to lead her to a chair. McCarthy looked at the Hispanic woman and shouted over the din, “Mrs. Blanca?”
“Please, I’m Click Patrick’s wife, Maria,” she said in a streetwise tone. “I’m here to tell you Click doesn’t have the cojones for murder.”
McCarthy pointed to the sobbing woman. “So she’s?”
“Anna Blanca. Been blubbering since your bullshit story appeared two weeks ago.”
At that, Anna Blanca’s histrionics settled. “I hate you for what you wrote,” she said between hiccups.
“It was my job,” McCarthy said, knowing that sounded ridiculous.
LaFontaine piped in: “He was only the messenger. Don’t kill him, dears.”
“Who are you?” Maria Patrick snapped.
“The messenger’s friend, Prentice LaFontaine, esquire.”
Maria frowned at McCarthy. “I would not have figured you for a maricon.”
“A queer’s friend,” News said, annoyed. “Not his companion.”
“Gee, so sorry,” Maria said. She took a broad stance. “Okay, messenger, get your notebook. Me and Anna got a message to send to you.”
McCarthy did as he was told. An interview with the wives of the accused was a good story. He brought a notebook and pen back into the room and handed them to LaFontaine, who looked at him questioningly.
“I’m on codeine, News,” he said. “Do me the favor?”
LaFontaine grumbled, “Your stenographer awaits.”
Maria Blanca said: “How much you know about my husband, Click?”
“Eight years on the force, hasn’t made sergeant,” McCarthy said. “Gentry testified he and a bunch of other patrols who worked the Boulevard extorted her for sex. Sorry to say it, but he isn’t exactly a model officer.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Maria said, tapping the tip of a sharply pointed high heel on the rug. “Click’s not the brightest guy in the world. But that’s no crime. And he can be a very caring person. Click adores his children.”
“Duly noted,” News said.
“Right. Now this second thing, you know, about him extorting her for sex.”
“We have that from several sources, including her grand jury testimony,” McCarthy said, anticipating her protest.
“I don’t care what you got,” she insisted. “Did he lean on her for sex? Probably. We was … well, we was having problems earlier this year. But anyone was extorting anyone after that first time was her. She put the arm on Click.”
“Diego, too,” Anna Blanca whined. “She had a tape of them on the telephone.”
That backed up Billy Kemper. “What did they talk about?” McCarthy asked.
Anna raised the tissue to her nose. “Diego didn’t say. But I could figure, you know, based on the news stories. Sex probab
ly.”
McCarthy said, “I know Click called Gentry and talked to her about wearing a little red nightie to their next meeting. She taped that conversation. What I’m saying is that no matter who was extorting who, after her testimony, there’s a lot of motive here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Maria said dismissively. She hesitated. “A red nightie?”
“Fire engine red,” LaFontaine said.
“That little prick,” she said. “I’m gonna bust him in the chops next time I see him.”
She fumed a moment, then continued. “But that still doesn’t change things. Like I said, Click’s a jerk, but he’s no killer.”
“Didn’t have to be,” News said. “The story said they hired someone to kill her.”
“I can read,” Maria snapped. “Look, Click’s dream was to get off the streets, become an evidence tech. He talked a macho game to be accepted by the other cops. But do your job here, McCarthy. Get ahold of his record. He’s a scaredy-cat.”
Anna Blanca cut in. “But my husband’s not. Diego’s got a mean streak and that’s why it doesn’t make sense. If Diego wanted to kill someone, he’d do it himself. I know that doesn’t sound like an alibi, but you’d have to know him to understand. Hiring someone would be like backing down.”
McCarthy and News glanced at each other. Not too convincing, but it would make for a decent story.
“Look,” Maria said as she pawed inside an oversize black pocketbook. She drew out a copy of McCarthy’s story, already yellowing. “You say here the whore heard Click start the conversation about the contract and Diego having to be convinced.”
“That’s how she described it.”
Anna said, “That’s not how it would happen if it was true.”
Maria interrupted. “If they was talking this for real, it would have been Click saying no and Diego doing the persuading.”
“Absolutely,” Anna said.
McCarthy thought about that a moment. “So you’re not denying they said it?”
Maria rubbed her chin and took a quick look at Anna. “Like off the record? Yeah, they said it. But Click was fucking around, acting the tough guy. It was just talk.”
Hard News Page 24