Without thinking, she turned and closed the door. As she came back around, her boss had moved quickly from behind his desk and walked over to her.
“Rebecca, listen,” he got closer to her. “I don’t want to get back at you for anything. I just wish you’d give me a chance.”
“What?”
“Let’s quit playing these games Rebecca. Admit it, you want me as much as I want you.”
For the first time she felt very uneasy standing there that close to her boss. “Steven, this is my job. I don’t come to work everyday to see you. I do it because I love the work. Like I told you.”
“I know, I know. Listen,” he said, reaching out, putting his right hand on her left breast.
She quickly jerked away.
“Jesus, Steven. What do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy?”
“Crazy? Come on Rebecca, I love you. I always have!” He wore a sad face as he quickly put his hand on her breast a second time, as though she wouldn’t mind this time.
Reacting instantly, Rebecca slapped him, hard and direct, hitting his ear with her open hand. He grabbed at his head, in pain, then, looked at her maniacally. She took a step back, frightened by the stare.
“Damn you, Rebecca!” he shouted. “Fuck! Why did you do that? You bitch!”
Rebecca just stared at him.
Steven shouted at her, “You’ve been coming in this office for the past four years, whining, crying, bitching and complaining, expecting good ‘ol Steven to fix things for you. Pretty little Rebecca’s got a problem, Steven Wagner comes to the rescue! You’ve used me to get what you wanted in this business, and I was stupid enough to fall for it.”
“You’re wrong,” Rebecca whispered.
“No, you’re just like my ex-wife. Sixteen years I kissed her ass, waited on her hand and foot, put her through school, and then one day when I thought everything was finally running great in my life, she tells me that she’s got no use for me anymore. She’s in love with our next door neighbor. But, oh, no, not the husband, but his beautiful wife. She decided she doesn’t like men anymore. They both did. Ain’t that some shit? Now you reject me. Women! Jesus Christ. My wife, the mother of my children, is a fucking lesbian. Can you believe it?”
Rebecca listened on, dumbfounded by his verbal lashing.
“And now Miss Rebecca Ray thinks she has this man here wrapped around her little finger so well that she can just come in this office demanding everything she wants to make sure she furthers her illustrious career.” He picked up a paperweight off of his desk and held it as he continued, “Who do you think you are? You are not irreplaceable!”
“Steven, I— I am so sorry,” she stuttered.
“Do you really think you got this job because of your qualifications? Yeah, right! That’s a joke! I gave you this job because you’ve got a cute smile, big tits, long legs and a great ass. That’s the only reason you’re here Rebecca Ray. We needed a token bimbo, and you fit the bill perfectly. You got that?”
He squeezed the paper weight tightly, then spun around, hurling it across the room, hitting and shattering a ceramic vase setting on a shelf on the other side of the room, startling and scaring Rebecca, making her shake uncontrollably.
“Fucking stupid women,” he growled as he seemed to be boiling out of control.
Rebecca put her head down, embarrassed by his biting remarks. Her eyes watered and her cheeks turned red.
He breathed heavy, as he spoke, “You let me down, Rebecca. Where’s the fucking loyalty? You need to think about turning in your resignation today.”
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“We’re done here. I can’t make you resign, but if you don’t, life will get a lot harder for you around here. You’re off the evening news. I hired a new gal last week. Take the rest of the day off. I’m done with you. Now, get the hell out of here!”
She couldn’t move a muscle, though she tried. Her body just wouldn’t go. Her eyes begged him for mercy.
Again, he looked at her with a hatred she’d never seen before. “I told you to leave, damn it! Do you think I’m kidding?” he shouted, moving towards her. He grabbed her by the arm with one hand, opened the door with the other, flung Rebecca out into the hallway, then slammed the door shut behind her.
She fell to the floor when her legs gave way. A small crowd of station employees gathered around her, staring on with looks of pity. No one came close to console her. Rebecca realized right then, her climb to the top had not made her any friends along the way. Not one single friend. Nobody really cared.
***
Rebecca left work that morning with little self-respect left, feeling defeated and betrayed.
When she got to her apartment, she moved with little energy, picking up clothes left on the floor that morning. As she made the bed, her mind drifted to thoughts of all the things she’d accomplished at the station and tried to recall how all the plumb assignments had come her way. Though she didn’t want to, she had to admit that the only reason she got the opportunities was, as her boss informed her, because of her looks, not her ability. That was painfully too clear.
She sat on the floor against her bed, grabbing a teddy bear to cuddle. The more she thought about the truths of her aspiring career, the closer she came to tears again. How many people in the business were out there laughing at her, especially when she had accepted the local Emmy award the year before for best anchor woman in St. Louis. In her speech, she’d rambled on about how hard it was to make her dreams come true. Feeling ashamed, she began to cry.
As suppertime passed, she was still crouched by the bed sobbing, looking at the odds and ends displayed in her room but not really seeing them.
The room grew dark as the sun set. At around six o’clock, she finally got up off the floor, walked into the living room and turned on the TV to see who her replacement was for the evening news.
As the picture came up, Rebecca recognized the opening theme playing before the start of telecast. She wiped away her tears and sat on the edge of the couch to watch. Immediately she could see that in her place was the new girl recently hired from the local rock radio station. Like Rebecca’s, her hair was blond, and her body was shapely.
The theme music faded out, the camera came in close to the anchor woman, as the stations logo was emblazoned across the bottom of the screen, followed by the young woman’s name.
Rebecca didn’t really want to watch, but her curiosity got the best of her.
“This is the six-o’clock news, and I’m Wendy Reynolds.”
Rebecca winced a little.
“First in the news tonight, the city is reeling in shock at the death of former Congressional candidate, and city D.A., Tony Bix. His nude body found hanging from a belt, from the ceiling rafters of his basement. Officials on the scene suspect Bix died from an accidental asphyxiation, playing a dangerous sex game, by himself. No suicide note was found nor was any evidence of foul play.”
Rebecca heard Tony’s name and moved closer to the TV. Looking on in horror, Rebecca clenched her hands together and listened intently.
“Federal agents were called to the scene at the attorney’s rented home in West County. Agent Steve Frankano and his men took over the site from local law enforcement almost as soon as the body was discovered. We now join our man there, who has Agent Steve Frankano with him. The anchorwoman looked over her shoulder at a monitor showing the live pictures from the scene.
“This is Glen Mitchell, and I’m here with Federal Agent Steve Frankano. Thanks for taking a moment to talk to us, Agent Frankano. Tell us what you found here.”
Rebecca didn’t take her eyes off the screen.
“Well,” the agent stammered. “Ah, well, as you can see, we have the, ah, we have the scene roped off here, but it looks like a pretty cut and dry case here. Accide
ntal asphixiation.”
“Agent Frankano, tell us why you were called in to handle this case, instead of the local authorities? The St. Louis Chief of Police declined to give us any information and referred us to your agency.”
“Ah, well, I can’t say anymore right now. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Rebecca’s eyes grew wild with anger. She cried out to her TV screen, “Lies! You’re lying. You’re lying! You know who did this! You know who did this, Frankano! Why are you lying? It was no accident.”
She fell to her knees and put her hands on the screen. Her body was exhausted. She cried out loud. Her head rested on the front top edge of the television stand. “You’re lying! You son-of-a-bitch. Why don’t you tell them who did this? Why don’t you tell them?” she sobbed.
***
Many months later, there were two inches of fresh snow on the city streets as highway department crews worked feverishly, per the mayor’s request, to get the streets down by the riverfront passable. The dedication ceremony on the Eads bridge was nearing and could go on without delay. The thousand or so people expected for the event could safely find a place to park and also a place to observe the proceedings.
The sky was a dreary gray, and the Mississippi River was murky and filled with floating debris. Near Wharf Street, which ran the length of the riverfront, at the northern end of the Gateway Arch, right at the base of the Eads Bridge, sat the fighter plane Simon Moss had spent the past decade trying to get erected as the monument to all those who fought with him in Vietnam.
The press had their cameras ready. All of the local TV crews were there so they could follow Moss on the short march that would take him from the deck of The Eads Bridge, over eighty feet above the muddy Mississippi River, then down to where the monument would be unveiled below. He was scheduled to toss a wreath into the brown murky water, honoring those who gave their lives, then he would proceed down to the platform, which sat next to the fighter plane, for the grand ceremony.
A Moss supporter put the final touches on a purple cloth draped over the plaque and the fighter plane that would be unveiled during the final moments of the ceremony. A cord was attached to one corner of the cloth and run up the side of the make-shift podium where Moss was to give a speech. One tug at the cord would reveal the politician’s trophy.
Rebecca Ray climbed out of a van where she had kept warm drinking a cup of coffee, as a crowd began to gather around the platform.
“Bob,” she called out to her photographer, “let’s go up on the bridge and wait for Moss to arrive.” Rebecca had moved out of St. Louis, to a small town, in Southern Illinois, where she found a job as a beat reporter for the local newspaper, her way of getting back her credibility.
The photographer gathered his equipment and followed her as she made her way to the walkway, up on the entrance of the Eads Bridge. Only one of the two lanes leading to East St. Louis, Illinois, were open. The closed lane was roped off to allow for Simon Moss’s arrival and wreath tossing ceremony.
Rebecca surveyed the surroundings: the old bridge itself, down to the dirty Mississippi River below, and up to the top of the giant steel Gateway Arch. She hoped that in time she would find a job at another station in another state. The reporting of Simon’s fighter plane dedication was her first for the small town newspaper.
She stood at the side of the bridge and looked down at the crowd gathering below around the fighter plane. Then her eyes scanned the eastern horizon and the dilapidated, economically blighted city of East St. Louis, Illinois, then back across the river and up the northern leg of the Arch. She remembered as a girl, watching a documentary of the enormous structure being built, and it brought back other memories of the time when downtown St. Louis was just beginning to rebuild itself. Times were simpler then, and people had simple lives, she thought to herself. She wondered how her life had turned from being one she had complete control over, to one where she had none at all.
One of Moss’s aides signaled down to a group of musicians set up by the Congressman’s constituents, as they began playing a rousing assemblage of bombastic music. The man then turned and began backing people away from the side of the bridge to make way for an oncoming caravan of limousines.
The camera focused in on the entourage, the small cluster of Moss supporters smiled at each other as their man’s arrival neared.
Rebecca shook her head in utter amazement and contempt at the spectacle. The air grew colder as the first car stopped near the side of the bridge. Getting out, were a couple of men in long overcoats who checked out the scene. The cameramen then followed the second of four big cars, since the first held no one of importance.
Then, as a sharply dressed white-haired man exited the second car, the people surrounding began clapping and cheering. The crowd below the bridge heard the small ovation and assumed that Moss had arrived, so they, too, began applauding.
A wave, a smile and a few handshakes accompanied the congressman’s arrival, as the other two autos emptied their riders. Rebecca looked over at the men who came with Simon and then, vaguely recognized one of them.
She moved through the crowd, leaving behind her photographer so he could get some pictures of the man of the hour readying himself to toss the wreath into the muddy waters below. The man she was approaching stood next to a half-dozen other serious looking men.
“Hey, you,” Rebecca called out to the man, “You?!!”
The man saw the reporter coming toward him and quickly turned away, acting like he was carrying on a conversation with the man next to him.
“I want to talk to you!” she called out.
When she was only ten feet away, three of the other men, quickly stepped in front of her, took her by the arms and moved her back.
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Please. I need to talk to him.”
She pointed to the man, “I need to talk to you, Frankano! Please!”
He knew immediately who she was. “Alright. Let her through!” he commanded them.
A few yards away, Simon Moss was beginning his speech, in memory of the dead Vietnam warriors, peppered with highlights of his career in congress.
Rebecca Ray came closer to the agent.
“You’re the federal agent who was on TV at the scene where Tony Bix’s body was found a few months ago, aren’t you? Frankano, right?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m Rebecca Ray. I know everything about Simon Moss. Tony Bix and Tom Merritt, told me everything.”
The man looked at her with a deeply concerned look on his face, as she continued talking.
“Tony Bix was murdered, wasn’t he?” she desperately asked him. “It was no accident, was it? Moss killed him, didn’t he? I never heard from Tom Merritt again either. He was an FBI agent, like you. Did you know him? Is he dead too?”
“I don’t know what happened to Tom. I know what he was trying to accomplish though. I’m very sorry he got you involved.”
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?” she paused, looked out to the north and adjacent Martin Luther King Jr. Bridge, then back to the agent. “Why? Why did Tom Merritt and Tony Bix have to come to me for help? Do you realize my whole career is all but ruined?”
“Why is that, Miss Ray?”
“You tell me, damnit, Frankano.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“Well, sorry isn’t going to cut it, damn it! Your partner knew what Moss was up to all those years, so he came to Tony and I for help to expose him.”
“Yes, we know.”
“But just as soon as they came into my life, they were both gone. I just don’t understand. Someone’s got to explain all this to me so I can get my head around it. Where is Tom Merritt at? What have you done with him?”
Frankano didn’t respond, as he checked his watch, then glanced past the toll way on the entrance
to the bridge.
“Why are you here?” she asked.”Why are you letting this whole circus go on?”
“Come over here, Miss Ray.” He took her by the arm and walked her to the north side of the bridge. Simon Moss stood across the pavement from them, facing the south railing. Moss looked over and down to the foot of the bridge, shouting out his speech into a microphone, to his constituents below, and those followers and media standing around him on the bridge.
The agent cautiously spoke, “I’m not any happier about this than you Miss Ray. My bosses got worried when Tony Bix and Tom Merritt joined forces to get Moss. They were obviously keeping an eye on Tom, since he had made his feelings known about the way we were handling the case up to that point. They moved quickly to transfer him. After Bix was found dead, Tom was ordered not to have any other contact with you. He was also re-assigned. I haven’t seen or heard from him.”
“Damn it!” she shouted up at the sky, in the cold winter air. “Whatever happened to this administration’s talk of transparency in government?”
The agent stood silent, looking over at the congressman, who was wrapping up his pompous speech.
Rebecca looked over at the grinning white-haired politician, too, positioning himself to toss the dedication wreath into the river below.
“How many lives has that man ruined?” She pointed in Moss’s direction.
“Too many,” the agent answered. “But all the games are over.”
“What did you say?”
“The case against the senator fell apart. We don’t have enough to prosecute him. He covered all his tracks and he is off scott–free. All we have left is Moss and his trail of destruction.”
“But Tom Merritt said you had built up a good case against that senator.”
“We all screwed up in a big way, I admit it. It’s complicated.”
“You must be very proud of yourself! You’re no different from that jerk,” she pointed at the proud incumbent. “So, at least he’s going to jail, right?”
Frankano didn’t answer.
“Well, Moss is going to jail, isn’t he? Please tell me he’s going to jail.”
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