Eldon laughs; his mouth still has some chewed-up food stashed to the side. “Don’t you dare. That food was well and old. Had no business reheating that. You did me a real favor and saved my belly some future disorder.”
He takes the paper-towel sheet from me and stoops down to rake together the flood of rice and greenish peas and pieces of brown-drenched chicken from around his feet. He’s shaking his head and chuckling. “Boy, you give my heart a real jump, gyal.”
Maybe it’s the steel-pan ping-pang melody of his Trinidadian accent or his lean, six-foot-five frame, muscles pressing through his smooth, bronzed skin. Whatever it is, Eldon’s simply a treat, a walking feel-good story. He doesn’t do the day-today mailroom runs anymore. Promoted. But sometimes he does my better sense a favor and pops up outside my office door carrying something heavy and important just for me. “Wait, what are you even doing here? It’s Black Friday. Shouldn’t you be watching football between food comas or something?”
“Yeah, I should. But I had t’ing I hadta do here for me bredren. He girl just had a next baby, so I tell him I go’n hook him up so he can miss a couple days next week, you know? Play daddy and take care of the new fam.”
“That’s really sweet, Eldon.”
“Yeah, I try, y’know? Karma.”
“Please. Karma doesn’t want anything to do with me. Trust.”
“How you mean?”
“It’s a long story. Anyway, let me get out of your way.”
“You could never be in my way, Madame Lightburn.”
“That’s kind, Eldon.”
“Why you here, though? You not hitting the shops? My girl left since before dawn to line up in that cold.”
“No, that’s not my thing.”
“No shopping? So w’as yuh t’ing, then? Wuk?”
“Right now, working is the best thing for me.”
“Yeah, you ain’t solo on dat, gyal. I catch boss lady in here earlier.”
“Who, James Kessler was here?”
“Gurl, please. Not she. She ain’t coming in here for a holiday; not for all the rum in Port-au-Spain. Nah, dred. I talkin’ ’bout the next one, the black one, new boss lady.”
“Wait, Joan?”
“Yeah, das who I mean. She did in here earlier and I spy she in yuh office.” He steps in closer and lowers his voice. His essential oils—patchouli? kush?—take flight, floating right under my nose, replacing the stink of the sour food from the floor. “Yeah, man. In there peelin’ through yuh papers, gyal. Flippin’ through all dem on the desk and t’ing.”
“In my office?”
Eldon raises his eyebrows twice, adding a slight nod to the maneuver.
“The fuck? What did she say to you?”
“She ain’t see me. Man like me move in silence. Ninja styles, dred. Lis’en. I tellin’ yuh this to say: watch yuh back, right? Is real crabs in this barrel he’e.”
Eldon slides behind the main mail table, probably to demonstrate his ninja flow. Meanwhile, I do not know what to do next. Eldon basically just told me that there’s a mini-IED under my feet; tread lightly.
“Yuh al’right, Lightburn?”
“Uh, yeah. I—I guess I’m trying to process what you just said.”
“I overstand,” Eldon says, kissing his teeth. “Yuh caant trust even yuh muhduh ’round this place, boy. But you, you go’n be al’right, Lightburn. And I not just sayin’ dat because you’s my people. I watch yuh, and just know that you ain’t go’n let dem bad-minded people draw yuh down. You too ready, dred.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that, but thanks for letting me know, Eldon.”
“Never a t’ing.”
“Can I at least buy you another lunch?” I glance at the greasy film on the floor beside him.
“Nah, dred. My girl have nuff cook food back at the crib. This,” he swims his hands around the wide stain, “this was just me being craven. Don’t bother giving it another thought, Lightburn. And don’t stop in here too long, man. You don’t need to be breathin’ in all this wretched stale air in here.”
“I won’t. I’ll be in and out. I promise.”
He winks, gives me a nod and starts walking toward the Mailroom Employees Only door with the key-code knob. The minute he clears the corner, I bolt back to my office. Something about the Robot rummaging through my files has me instantly nervous. The woman is all about subterfuge, yes, but old-school snooping doesn’t seem like her style.
I turn my cell phone on, finally; this is an emergency. I’m pacing and can’t think of whom to call first. Who would take my call, that is. My voice mailbox is full. Scrolling through the numbers, I can practically see the moment—to the date and time—when the Singh sisters collectively said, “Fuck her.” It was Thanksgiving night, just after midnight. There’s a long list of private-number calls:
Private number, Wednesday, 5:36 p.m.
Private number, Wednesday, 6:10 p.m.
Private number, Wednesday, 6:20 p.m.
Private number, Wednesday 6:32 p.m.
Private number, Thursday, 11:34 p.m.
Private number, Friday, 9:45 a.m.
It’s Bauer. Has to be.
Tyson called somewhere in there. My guess: an “if you’re feelin’ it” casual invite to come over for his annual turkey soup and sweet-potato pie and The Wiz viewing party.
Nothing from Grant (as it should be).
And there were two calls from a 212 number within an hour of each other early this morning. Really early, like Nik Steig–early.
I’m taking the chance and hitting call back. I can hear myself panting through the phone as I wait, hoping that Nik will answer. Please don’t let this be a Bauer fake-out.
“You’re alive?”
“Nik?”
“Best?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Nik laughs. “I know it’s you. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Fine. I missed you—missed your call. My phone. I just turned it on—the battery—and saw that I missed your call. So, I’m calling. You. Calling you back.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You sound, I don’t know, weird.”
“Well, weird is our thing, right?”
“Right. But you’re okay?”
“Yeah . . . I’m just sorting through stuff, trying to work it through.”
The desperation in my voice is so thick I almost choke on it. But I’m long past humility and acting coy. I need his influence, his I-know-a-guy connector pull. I need his help to make this story really happen or all of this—all of this work and focus—will be for nothing. The choice isn’t even a choice. I whisper one of my father’s sayings: Big mout’ does get all de food—the Trini equivalent to the squeaky wheels-oil idiom. I have to let the steam out of this boiling-over pot. I clear my throat. “Actually, I could maybe use your help on something.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I’m working on this story, and it’s kind of taking over my brain.”
I can hear the clink of Nik pouring himself a glass of something—an adult, generous pour. “What’s the story?”
“It’s pretty grim. It’s a crime story, but it’s more about this girl—the survivor of the horrible story. This man named Bashir Imam drowned his four daughters in the backyard pool. His son—the eldest of five kids and the only boy—helped him do it.”
“Sounds horrific. And this is for James?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Of course, it is. A little different than the usual . . . but, yeah.”
“A little different? This is a total departure. I’m surprised that Kessler is going in this direction.”
“It’s for the shame issue. And it’s not about the actual crime or the father-son murderers thing. That’s already been played out in the courts and the papers in Canada.”
“So this is an international story?”
“I mean, Canada isn’t exactly international . . .”
“Fine, but I’m still not seeing the connection to the J
ames brand here.”
“Again, it’s not about the blood-and-gore stuff. That’s not the focus. Okay, yes, Bashir was on trial for drugging the four daughters—the youngest was only seven. He crushed up meds in their rice pudding, then took them to the yard and drowned them one by one. The son helped with the pool part. I know. Completely hardcore horror movie, I agree. The media called it an honor killing; he’s Muslim. Somehow the girls brought shame upon the family, so he killed them. The father denied all of it, naturally. Said the girls were messing around with drugs and mingling with a bad crowd or some other twisted-up fiction. But the thing is, one of the daughters—the eldest, Fatima—she survived. All the stories I’ve researched and collected never really got into how she survived. She was in a coma for a short while, but she survived.”
“This story sounds familiar now that I think about it. Was this in Ottawa or something?”
“Yeah, kind of. That’s where the trial was held. It was a couple years ago.”
“So in addition to being brutal, it’s also an old story. Where’s Kessler’s head on this? Is she even thinking about the advertising side?”
“It wasn’t really her call.”
“Whose call was it—Joan’s?”
I know I’m on the borderline of taking too long to answer, so I push out a “yes.” It sounds like a sneeze, blurted out, wild.
“Still doesn’t sound right. But Joan does have a strong news background. Kessler trusts her, so there must be a thought-through plan here. In fact, if they are going for it, I might be able to help you.”
“What do you mean? Do you know a guy?”
“Don’t start. But, yes, actually I do. An old friend; Brian Thompson, he’s the—”
“He’s the big-ass cheese over at CBC. I know exactly who Brian Thompson is. He’s a legend.”
“That would be him. Let me give him a call. See what he can do to advance things for you. He’s got wide reach. Good man.”
“You’d do that?”
“Sure. It’s clear you’re invested in this story, and I can help, so let me.”
“Nik, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I hear his smile sliding up the sides of his mouth. He’s going to say something dirty—I can smell it. The sticky words haven’t yet left his lips, but I’m already embarrassed. It’s when I spin around coy in my chair that I see her: Miyuki Butler filling my doorway. I almost choke, and jump out of my seat. “Uh, I have to go. I’m at the office, actually, and I—yeah, sorry. I need to go. Let me call you later?”
“Oh. Uh, sure.”
I hang up before Nik can say anything else.
“Jesus. What are you—how long have you been standing there?”
“Sorry,” Miyuki says, her hands up at her face. “I just walked over here.”
“You haven’t been standing there this whole time?”
“No. I swear. I arrived here when you saw me,” she says.
“You scared the shit out of . . . Put your hands down. This isn’t a stickup.” I’m too irritated and freaked to even bother masking my loathing. I say, semi-whispering, “Of course you’d think I’m some thief.”
She hears me, and her face shifts from startled to clearly nettled.
“I didn’t know you were in here until I saw your light, okay? So don’t hate-speech me. I was coming over to say hello.”
“I wasn’t hate-speeching you. Anyway, it’s Black Friday. Why is everyone here?”
“Who’s everyone?”
“My guy from the mail—uh, the marketing department and now you.”
“Oh, that is everyone.”
“Whatever, Miyuki. Why are you here?”
“I was in the ’hood and I came in to grab some work. Next week is going to be totally bananas. I wanted to get the jump on a couple of things. Why are you here?”
“Me? Same. I’ve got that story for you guys about . . . the shame-sex stuff, which is going really well and . . . yeah. So, that’s me.”
“Right.” Miyuki looks suspicious. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her without her elaborate eye makeup, so maybe suspicious is her baseline. “How’s that other story coming along?” She slips into my office doorway, uninvited like some ballsy vampire, and leans against my open file cabinet.
“What other story?”
“Uh, the other story we talked about.” Miyuki’s voice is petulant and grating. I know she’s fighting her tongue right now, and desperately wants to pop some smart shit like, “Duh. Obvi. I mean, hello?”
“I’m not doing that other story. What makes you think I’m doing that other story?”
“Because Joan told you to do it.”
“Wait. What other story are you talking about?”
“The first-person? About you and Grant King, plus the Lana Scott angle. We e-mailed you about that new part of it.” A low tide sweeps in and adjusts Miyuki’s disposition. “Listen,” she says, completely devoid of that fucking creaky-voice thing she does. “We were sad to learn the news about Lana. We know you were really upset. Heard about last week, your . . . departure. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t lose anything. Lana and I, we weren’t close.”
“Oh. Okay. But still, that’s a lot to deal with, on top of the Grant King stuff and all the gossip stuff. So, that’s why we e-mailed you—about the extension.”
“What extension, and who is we?”
“Joan and I, we—well, the e-mail came from me, but Joan and I had discussed it—that we would push your deadline on that story a bit. You didn’t see the e-mail?”
“I haven’t been checking that lately . . . which is exactly why I came in today, to catch up on e-mails from the last couple of days. Voice mails too; I left my iPhone charger here.” (There needs to be a word for the relief that sets in when a perfectly shaped lie falls into your lap. It’s akin to choosing the right colored wire to cut—red! or blue!—to diffuse the bomb, with two seconds to spare.)
Miyuki nods. “Makes sense.”
“So, I should probably get back to that.”
“Right. But one quick thing? A bit of advice, actually.”
“Are you giving or asking?”
Miyuki slides the door closed, which baffles me, and I think she knows it. Mind games don’t take breaks, not even on Black Friday. “Look, we’re on the same team. And Joan is serious about making changes. She wants to do some cool things with the magazine. It’s best to jump on board, not paddle against it, you know? She’s different from Susie and James. She’s in more of a hurry to get to the point. She’s tell, she’s not much for asking, and she’s not waiting to see how you feel about things. It’s about the work for her; that’s what she looks for. That’s what matters.”
Typically, Miyuki’s entire presence is annoying, but there’s something in her face, something unvarnished and sincere that’s edging up toward considerate. I take what she’s saying for what it is and settle back into my irritation. “Okay. Good to know.”
She gets up and opens the door. “So . . . about the piece, then?” She’s returned to her usual comportment, which means the vocal-fry thing is back and glitter has magically appeared on her brow bone. I swear it wasn’t there before. “Can you get the first draft in to me by, like, next Wednesday, by noon, latest? It’s bordering on super-late and Joan has already noticed. I can’t cover for you beyond this.”
“You’ve been covering for me?”
“Yeah, totally. When you get to the e-mails, you’ll see.”
“I guess a thank-you is in order, then?”
She fans her hand in the air around her head. “No worries. We’re all just washing backs here, right?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Good talk.” Miyuki pushes out her bottom lip. “And I know it sucks; I’m totally ruining your holiday weekend with all of this work stuff. Sahreeee.”
“Not a problem. Thanksgiving’s no big deal for me. I’m Canadian. We’re not big on cel
ebrating genocide and all.”
“Oh-kaay. I’ll just look for the draft first thing next week, then,” she says. Before slipping out the door, she turns back and cocks her head to the side. “Cute scarf, by the way. Love brocade.”
This bitch. Love brocade. The minute I start thinking maybe I need to relax my hardline stance on her, she shows me that it’s not wise and not worth it. And here I was actively ignoring her whole animal-print-explosion situation.
I need to get out of here before she swoops back around to drop more bitch bombs at my door. This is probably her calling with one more dig, some more advice, maybe about the perfect Anthropologie candle she could loan me to deal with the odor problem in my office.
“Yes, Miyuki.”
“Ms. Lightburn? It’s Clark. Bauer. I’m a little surprised to catch you. I was just going to leave a message here. Your voice-mail box is full on the other number. This one too, I think. Sorry about that.”
“What do you want? Why are you stalking me?”
“Whoa. I’m not stalking you. I’m doin’ my job. You know how that goes. Reporters never take holidays, right?” he chuckles. “I’m sure your dad always said that. Wait, is he still working for the Montreal Gazette or did officially retire? I think he might be still poking around on a few things, from what I gather.”
“Listen, asshole. I’m not doing this. You’re not doing this. It’s not your job to flood my life with your nonstop messages. And hounding my folks? They’re old and quiet and private. You have no right.”
“Ms. Lightburn, hang on. Wait. I think you’ve got the wrong idea. And I’m sorry if I did anything to give you the wrong impression about me or what I’m doing here. This isn’t an attack or staking or anything like that. Tell Me More is doing a nice holiday feature about one of James magazine’s star staffers. I’m just reporting it out. That’s all. Maybe I got a little ahead of myself. When I heard that your father was a big-time crime reporter. . . I kinda nerded out. That’s it. Promise.”
“You’re not allowed to talk about them. I don’t talk about my parents. I won’t talk about my parents.”
“What about your brothers—will you talk about them? I can barely find mention of them in any of the—”
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