“Great,” Corlis promised, standing up.
“But fork over the money only if King’ll talk—for the record—on camera.”
“Just getting him to talk off the record about being manhandled by the cops at the behest of his own university should certainly help us advance the story.”
Zamora shook his head firmly. “He’s gotta talk for the record—on camera,” he repeated sternly. “And the interview’s got to be exclusive to WJAZ. We air it, and then he can talk to the other stations if he wants to. Tell him that’s the deal. Otherwise, keep your pocketbook zippered with your WJAZ money inside, do you understand?” Corlis nodded her agreement. “Do you think he’ll do it?” he asked. “Talk on camera, I mean?”
“Oh, he’ll talk,” she assured her boss breezily.
However, Corlis was not at all certain that King would speak on the record. But if he declined her request for an on-camera interview, she had an alternative plan. She’d bail him out of jail on her own nickel and get him to talk off the record, just for background and not for attribution. Corlis reckoned he must be a fountain of information on the byzantine political scene in New Orleans—and she was determined not to fall into any bear traps again covering this story!
Corlis smiled jauntily at her boss and headed for the door, humming under her breath. “It ain’t necessarily so…”
Once outside the nondescript brick building that housed WJAZ, she walked toward her Lexus, which she had unceremoniously parked adjacent to a Dumpster overflowing with fast-food remnants and empty bottles of Dixie. She swiftly flipped on the air-conditioning and waited for the car’s interior to feel less like a convection oven, musing that she’d been too Californian and too shell-shocked when Jay fired her in LA to give up her status-symbol luxury car. Now she’d give anything to own a vehicle with payments that didn’t rival the mortgage on her New Orleans apartment!
She shifted the car into gear and nosed out of her parking space. With a growing sense of excitement, she began to consider the elements of this classic David-and-Goliath story: a wrangle between a fearless professor of historic preservation and a pugnacious developer. She figured there was probably a lot more to the recent altercation than had been revealed publicly, especially if Grover Jeffries had his beady little eyes set on tearing down more historic buildings along Canal Street in order to build a high-rise hotel. A huge project like that might provide jobs and publicity that would be irresistible to the local politicians.
Yep, she thought, joining the stream of rush-hour traffic heading out of the city, the controversy had “juice.” And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to predict that King Duvallon was in for the fight of his life.
***
“City of New Orleans… central jail… how may I direct your call?” said the voice on the other end of Corlis’s cell phone. She leaned against her car’s sumptuous leather headrest. The loan payments might be killing her, she considered briefly, but a Lexus certainly provided her a comfy traveling office.
“My name’s Corlis McCullough, from WJAZ-TV,” she explained to the operator as she sped up the ramp to I-10. “I received a phone page from this number.”
“Oh! Hi Corlis!” the operator exclaimed with easy familiarity. “I see you all the time on TV! Imagine! Now I’m talking to you in person!”
“Hi there,” Corlis said, trying to sound gracious despite her constant amazement that the viewing public considered people they saw on the tube their old friends. “By any chance, can I speak to a prisoner? He called me about an hour ago. His name is Kingsbury Duvallon.”
“Oh… Professor Duvallon!” the woman said in an admiring tone of voice. “We don’t get many prisoners in here like him, I can tell you that! Is he a friend of yours?” she asked wistfully.
“Well… kind of,” Corlis replied, feeling awkward to be answering the woman truthfully. “I covered the big uproar at the university today. I think Professor Duvallon is calling me about that.”
“I’m real sorry, sugar, but I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone. The prisoners are having supper. A judge just set his bond though,” she added helpfully.
Corlis thanked the operator and was about to hang up when she blurted, “Can you get word to him that his message got through to me? Tell him I’m coming down to the jail.”
The operator’s voice sounded muffled, as if she’d put her hand over the telephone mouthpiece for privacy’s sake.
“I will if I can… or get somebody else to, okay, sugar?” A brief pause ensued. “Can you get me a WJAZ T-shirt, or one of them cute rain ponchos I’ve seen you wearing with the station logo on the back?”
“Will do,” Corlis agreed instantly. “Leave me a voice mail at the station with your home address… and thanks for telling Professor Duvallon I’m on my way. You’ve been very nice.” Then she pushed the “end” button on her cell phone and stared out her windshield at the bumper-to-bumper traffic, lost in thought.
Kingsbury Duvallon was still in jail. He’d decided to call WJAZ and asked for her. What a lucky break! Or was it?
***
For the better part of a half hour, Corlis fought evening rush-hour traffic all the way up I-10, exiting to Broad and Tulane avenues. Just before six thirty, she parked beside a deserted curb in the city complex that included the criminal district court, police headquarters, and Central Lockup.
While securing her car door, she gazed across the street at the gray, cinder-block construction that housed the jail. What a perfect architectural example of form following function, she thought grimly.
Postmodern brutal.
The building was so sterile and devoid of ornamentation that it looked as if it could also have served just as well as an auto body shop. Once inside, Corlis concluded that the linoleum floor and turquoise plastic seats were the lobby’s most attractive features. A window with a large “Bail Bonds—Pay Here” sign beckoned. She approached a barrel-chested clerk and inquired about the process of springing Associate Professor Kingsbury Duvallon out of the clink.
“Judge Bouchet says that’ll cost you three hundred dollars to get him released, ma’am,” the clerk announced. “You pay in cash, traveler’s checks, or a Western Union money order.”
“Right. Got it,” Corlis replied, digging into the zippered compartment of her leather shoulder bag for the cash that WJAZ issued its reporters, along with their cell phones, for precisely these sorts of emergencies. She’d pay the money first and find out afterward if King would agree to an interview. If he wouldn’t go on camera, she’d simply have to reimburse the station.
Ten minutes later King emerged through a door that led from the holding tanks. A day’s growth of beard shadowed his chiseled jaw. For a split second she imagined what he’d look like in a towel shaving in front of a mirror and was immediately chagrined by the power of such impure thoughts to stir her imagination.
The prisoner halted at the threshold, a pleased look spreading across his features.
“Hey! California! This is great. I got your message that you were coming here, but I never thought you’d get here so fast!” He strode across the linoleum and enfolded her in a bear hug.
She was startled by this effusive display but allowed him to hold her in his arms for several seconds longer than necessary, merely because it felt so good. Then she took a step back and cocked her head to give him the once-over.
“Hi jailbird,” she drawled. “You owe me three hundred bucks.” She lowered her voice and said in a stage whisper, “That is, unless you’re willing to do an exclusive on-camera interview. Then it’s on WJAZ.”
“Ah… I see. You want me to tell your viewers all about the barbaric torture methods I endured in here, is that it?”
“Did you get roughed up?” she asked, taunting him lightly. She guessed from his hearty nature that nothing had happened. As a matter of fact, he looked handsomer than ever with a five o’clock shadow darkening his face.
Cut it out, McCullough. This is business, remember? He’s
just another source.
“Nobody roughed me up, but the food’s lousy here. In New Orleans, that’s news, I suppose.”
“Look, King, all I would like is for you just to give me some idea what it was like in there and what you and your supporters intend to do now that you’ve thrown down the gauntlet. Speaking of which,” she added swiftly, “how come none of your friends or a family member came to bail you out?”
“None of them had three hundred in cash handy, and besides, it’s more fun having you do it, sweetheart,” he shot back.
“Yeah… sure,” she scoffed. “Let’s not forget that the president of the university you work for has had you arrested and thrown in the brig, soldier. What’s your response to all this? Are you going to resign?”
“Hell no!” he said, laughing. “Like some Yankee said up north, ‘I’ve just begun to fight!’”
“So… will you say all this on camera?”
“Depends on what you ask me when the cameras are rolling.”
“Well, just so you know,” she added apologetically, “it’s your pal Andy Zamora’s edict to offer you the bailout in exchange for an exclusive on-camera interview. If you talk to us first… after the piece airs on WJAZ, then you can tell your story to whomever you like.”
“Don’t worry… I’ll give you an interview ’bout some of what you want to know,” King replied obligingly, “but I’ll also pay you back the bond money. They don’t take American Express in this place, and I didn’t have that kind of cash on me when I was arrested.”
“If you want to pay your own bond, that’s totally up to you. It’s WJAZ’s nickel,” Corlis said, shrugging.
“I wouldn’t care if it were Grover Jeffries’s nickel,” he replied, looking at her steadily. “No special interests pay my way, and I’ll talk to whomever I choose whether or not it’s Mr. Z.”
“I’m impressed,” Corlis said in a slightly mocking tone, and privately, she was. “But here’s the deal about the interview. I need something substantive to get Zamora’s attention. Can you advance the story any and let me air the interview before you talk to other reporters? Like, do you feel President Delaney’s latest move is a strategy to shut you guys up and threaten your jobs?”
“As a matter of fact, I do have a few thoughts about that. I also have a great line about lying down in front of bulldozers should Grover Jeffries decide to threaten to demolish any more historic buildings in New Orleans. But first,” he said, chucking her lightly under her chin, “you gotta feed me. Supper here was inedible.”
“Food first. Then we talk?”
“You betcha.”
He tucked his hand under her elbow in a courtly fashion, and added, “But first, do you mind if we swing by your place and let me take a shower?”
“My place!” she said with mild shock.
He rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “I feel—and probably smell—pretty ripe. And I’d just as soon not deal with certain members of my family who are bound to be calling me all night or laying in wait for me at my place,” King disclosed. “And there’s another reason.”
She reminded herself of Aunt Marge’s number one edict: a reporter should never get palsy-walsy with a news source—and allowing King, naked, into her bathroom definitely fell into the even-the-appearance-of-intimacy category.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“You live on Julia Street, correct?”
“You know that.”
“Haven’t you ever noticed who your neighbors are?”
“Yeah. Sort of,” she replied, mystified by his line of questioning. “All those art and photographic galleries on my street… plus, I occasionally run into people going in and out of the row houses next to me—that is, on those few nights when I get home before dark.”
“Ever run into anyone at 604 Julia Street near the river end of that block?”
“King! You make me feel like I don’t have a life! Okay… so, tell me… who lives at 604? Cindy Lou Mallory?” she quipped, and then could have bitten off her tongue.
“Hardly. She’s your Town and Country Garden District type of girl. Seriously, Ace… haven’t you ever noticed the discreet little sign that says ‘The Preservation Resource Center of New Orleans’?”
“Oh? Yeah! Now that you mention it. I just never paid attention.”
“Well… here’s your chance. I need to check in there and find out about any late developments.”
“Sounds good to me,” Corlis replied, salving her conscience somewhat, since allowing King to take a shower at her house was merely in the line of duty. “Could we shoot the interview there… at 604? I’ll call Virgil and Manny on my cell and get them over there in an hour.”
“Tomorrow we shoot the interview,” he countered firmly. “Tonight we eat and drink wine.”
“And tomorrow you also show me the historic buildings on Canal Street you think Grover Jeffries has slated for demolition, agreed?”
“All that for merely bailing me out of jail when I’m paying you your money back?” he said with mock dismay. “You’re one tough cookie, McCullough.”
Corlis shot him an odd look.
“No, I’m not. But do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” he agreed. “Now get me outta here.”
***
In the end, Corlis ran around the corner to the Hummingbird and picked up a big takeout order that included gumbo and corn bread, while King made use of her shower and the pink plastic razor she used on her legs.
Arms full, she used her heel to close her own front door and was mildly unnerved by the way her breath caught when she heard King’s deep baritone singing behind the closed bathroom door.
“Blue eyes… baby has blue eyes…” he warbled in a fair imitation of Elton John’s classic melancholy love song. His loafers were parked beside the white upholstered chaise longue in her bedroom.
Corlis continued down the hallway, through her living room, and into the small kitchen, where she deposited the paper bags containing their dinner. As each minute passed, she became increasingly affected by King’s masculine presence, which seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of her home. She heard the shower water turn off, and after a few minutes, the door to the bathroom open.
From the hallway she heard King chortle, “Well… hello again, big guy! You are by far the largest ol’ tomcat I’ve ever seen. I love that orange fur! Come here, you…”
Corlis peered around the corner. King stood at the threshold of the bathroom with one of her big, fluffy white towels wrapped around his trim waist. The hefty feline looked up at him with a worshipful stare the likes of which Corlis had never witnessed in the animal’s entire life.
And for good reason, too, Corlis thought, swallowing. King looked great in just a towel. Who needed Calvin Kleins?
“I… uh… I’m sorry if he’s bothering you,” she said. “He usually ignores everyone—especially me, so you should consider that adoring gaze a high compliment.”
“What a specimen,” King said, laughing as he bent down to rub Cagney’s belly, which the cat had made completely accessible by flopping on his back and extending his four paws straight into the air. King appeared totally unself-conscious to be standing, nearly naked, in his former adversary’s hallway.
“I don’t believe this,” Corlis murmured. “He’s turned to putty in your hands.”
After a moment King rose to his full height and said, “I’ll just throw on my clothes. You must be famished, too. How’s the gumbo?”
“Totally fabulous,” she replied. “I’ll go heat it up.”
“Great. I’ll be right out,” he promised, and padded toward her bedroom with Cagney Cat trotting obsequiously in his wake.
“Mind if I use your phone to let some folks know I’ve escaped prison?” King called over his shoulder.
“Sure… it’s right beside the bed. Be my guest.”
If he was steering clear of his family, she wondered who he would be calling.
No concern of yours, dearie. Yo
u’re just covering a story, remember?
“Yeah, yeah, Aunt Marge… I hear you!” she muttered under her breath.
Chapter 6
March 9
In Corlis’s bedroom, the telephone next to her massive four-poster bed rang before King could pick up the receiver to make his calls. By this time, however, Corlis was standing in her tiny kitchen on a step stool, attempting to retrieve a seldom-used soup tureen in which to serve their main course.
“Damn!” she muttered, holding the unwieldy piece of crockery in her arms. “King? Can you get that?” she called out.
She gingerly backed down the kitchen stool, speculating that Andy Zamora might be trying to get in touch to see whether or not she’d gotten King to agree to an interview. She set the large bowl gently in the sink to rinse off dust that had undoubtedly made the trip with her from California. She turned on the water full blast, swiftly soaped and rinsed the ceramic interior, and tipped it upside down, expecting to be summoned momentarily to the telephone. From the depths of her bedroom, she heard King chuckling. Tea towel in hand, she walked down the hallway toward the sound of male laughter.
She leaned against the doorframe and whispered curiously, “Who is that?”
King, still wrapped in his bath towel, sat on the edge of her bed, grinning. He put his palm over the mouthpiece and said, “It’s your aunt Marge.”
“Aunt Marge—?”
King laughed again at something Corlis’s great-aunt said, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am… I’ll surely tell her to do that. Absolutely.” He cupped his hand over the receiver again. “When I told her my name, she said she thinks you and I have some sort of a New Orleans ancestral connection, way back when, and she wants you to check it out,” he disclosed with an amused look on his clean-shaven face.
On King’s chest a nap of dark hair spread across an expanse of muscle groups harking back to his days as a U.S. Marine. Now that she stood only two feet away from him, she concluded that the former soldier would have done his drill sergeant proud. Even ten years later Corporal Duvallon had one fabulous body!
Hey, Ms. California! Snap out of it!
Ciji Ware Page 8