Ciji Ware

by Midnight on Julia Street

  A cold rage began to take possession of her. Without warning she slammed her left elbow into Jack’s narrow chest. She heard him grunt and felt his hand loosen on her face.

  “You are such a slime ball!” she screamed.

  She twisted her body with all her strength and brought up her right knee in a swift, sharp, well-aimed blow to his groin.

  “Ahhhh… ohhhh!” he moaned, doubling over.

  Jack fell and rolled into a fetal ball on the grass. Corlis darted around the pitched-roof vault on her right and began to search frantically for the bright orange plastic whistle he had thrown into the turf near the Milling tomb.

  In a panic King called, “Sweet Jesus, Corlis! Are you all right?”

  “Yes!” she shouted triumphantly as she spotted a brilliant flash of color in a tufted hillock near the wrought-iron gate behind which King stood, helpless.

  “Run!” King yelled. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Corlis ignored his command and instead made a grab for the whistle and blew as hard as she could. Within seconds whistle blasts answered her call from the other side of the cemetery. “Over here!” she screamed, waving her arms frantically and not caring whether Jack heard her. “I found King! Over here! Watch out for Jack Ebert!”

  Her foot suddenly encountered something hard. Glancing down, she caught sight of a small stone angel that had fallen off the corner of the adjacent tomb’s caved-in roof and lay half-buried in the grass.

  Next to it laid one of its wings that had been sheared off. Corlis reached down and seized the heavy piece of marble. Suddenly she experienced a piercing memory of Dylan Fouché ringing his little bell in an arc over her head the day he performed the space clearing on Julia Street. “This will keep you surrounded in sacred space,” he’d said by way of benediction. “It is here for you whenever you need protection.” She cast a distracted glance at King and began to creep toward the spot where she had left Jack writhing on the ground.

  “Corlis, don’t!” King hissed, but Corlis ignored his plea, concentrating instead on imagining a bell jar of protective white light encircling her as she cautiously moved forward.

  By this time Ebert had risen to his knees. His pale, slender hands splayed protectively across his groin. Out of the corner of her eye, she was startled to see Virgil’s camera lens nosing its way around the edge of an adjacent tomb, following her every move.

  How long had he been rolling video on this macabre scene? she wondered, her spirits rising. Then she saw Manny, his headset clamped on his ears, holding a boom mike on an extender pole.

  “We were just a couple of rows from here when we heard your whistle,” Manny grinned. “Marchand’s way over on the Washington Avenue side.”

  “You guys are fantastic,” she said, keeping her eye on her cornered prey and clasping the broken piece of angel’s wing in her right hand like a pitcher on the mound. Then she yelled at Jack, “Get up!” Ebert slowly, painfully rose to his feet. “We’ll just let Virgil here take some pretty pictures of you unlocking the Milling tomb,” Corlis said, “so we’ll have them to show the cops and your employer, Mr. Jeffries, to remind him that ordering someone’s kidnapping is a federal offense.”

  From behind his camera Virgil announced triumphantly, “Hey, boss lady! I got great shots of Jack tryin’ to wrestle you to the ground and you givin’ him a chop to his privates.”

  Corlis gave him the thumbs-up sign with her free hand. “Just a little maneuver I learned in LA doing a story about women’s self-defense,” she replied grimly, taking a menacing step toward Jack with her marble weapon still in hand.

  “Way to go,” Virgil said loudly from behind his camera.

  “Would you two have just kept the camera rolling, even if I hadn’t been able to deck the guy?” she asked, never taking her eyes off Jack. “Or would you have rescued me?”

  “Naw… you’re a tough cookie,” Manny called from his position near the corner of the tomb. “We knew you’d deck ’im!”

  “Thanks a bunch,” she muttered, and both men laughed.

  However, Jack Ebert wasn’t laughing. He was staring at her, glassy-eyed. He attempted to shift his weight slightly and cried, “Ohhhhh…”

  Corlis took a step closer and wagged a finger at him. “Now, if you’ll just be a good boy and do exactly as I say,” she declared to King’s abductor, “I’ll consider not broadcasting this on the ten o’clock news. However, if I do put this bit on the air, I’ll just do a voice track at this point so no one can hear me say, ‘Get over here, you rodent, and show me the keys!’”

  Jack remained hunched over in obvious pain. “They’re… in my pocket,” he said, wincing. “The whole idea for this was Grover’s, y’know.”

  “But you just loved writing that garbage about King and me, didn’t you, you hack,” Corlis snapped. “Take the damn keys out of your pocket, and unlock the gate.”

  While Virgil kept his video camera rolling, Jack gingerly extracted a set of keys from his pants pocket and shuffled toward the wrought-iron gate. Behind the rusted filigree, King stared stonily at his adversary but remained silent. With trembling fingers Jack finally got the key in the lock and opened it.

  “Just get out of here before your prisoner flattens you!” Corlis growled at Jack. “And if you tip off Grover Jeffries about what’s happened here, just watch WJAZ news tonight. You and your boss will think the story I did about your wedding was a love letter. Now, beat it!”

  Jack flushed scarlet to the tips of his ratlike ears. “How do I know you won’t just turn me in to the cops?” he asked truculently.

  Before she could answer, King intervened. “You don’t.” He shot Jack a murderous look. “But you’d better just be grateful that I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  Corlis added, “And, in case you’re tempted, later, to get creative, remember something, Jackie boy… we’ve got everything documented on video.”

  While Virgil recorded the man’s departure, Ebert turned and slowly limped in the direction of a small, open gate, sandwiched in the middle of the wall running along a side street. The camera operator swiveled in place just as King ducked under the tomb’s low threshold and stepped onto the grass. He stood to his full height and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. Then, recorded by Virgil for all to see, King pulled Corlis toward him and enfolded her in his arms.

  “What is it with you, Ace?” King murmured into her hair. “You always seem to be bailing me out of jail.” His arms tightened, and she felt all the coursing adrenaline gradually subside.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” she whispered into his chest.

  “I’m fine,” he reassured her soothingly, stroking her hair. Then he held her gently away and stared down at her. “Are you okay?”

  She smiled ruefully. “Barely,” she replied. Now that the danger was over, she was beginning to tremble.

  King kept a steadying arm around her shoulders while he reached over and shook the hands of the television crew. “Hey… Virgil… Manny!” he exclaimed. “You guys are unbelievable!”

  Still peering through his viewfinder, Virgil countered with undisguised admiration, “Yeah… well, maybe… but this lady, here, was nothin’ but balls-to-the-walls.”

  Just at that moment a breathless Lafayette Marchand rounded the corner of the Milling tomb in a dead run. For a while, King and his godfather took each other’s measure. King broke the silence first.

  “Will someone explain to me what in hell he’s doing here?” He turned to address Marchand directly. “You do know, don’t you, Laf,” he declared, his eyes narrowing, “that this little caper could earn your boss Jeffries a criminal indictment?”

  “Well, now… wouldn’t that… be nice?” Lafayette replied, attempting to catch his breath.

  “You could get nailed, too, if you’re an accessory,” King added, his temper barely under control.

  “I wasn’t,” he said shortly. Then he pointed a well-manicured finger in the direction of Corlis and her crew. “What I’ve re
vealed about Kingsbury Duvallon’s… detention… is off the record… and not for attribution. I have given WJAZ-TV this information only as deep background until I lift the embargo regarding today’s events. You have my word I will do so before the final vote is taken this afternoon on the demolition of the Selwyn buildings.”

  “Wait a minute,” Corlis snapped. “What if Jeffries gets Edgar Dumas to postpone the vote again today when he sees King walk in?”

  “You and I will have to negotiate.”

  “Well, then, will you agree that I can broadcast what we have on video concerning Jeffries’s illegal activities within a week—or before a final vote is taken, whichever comes first?”

  “I will agree to your using this material in such a way that the Selwyn buildings will be saved from demolition but that my privacy is maintained. How’s that?”

  “His job is to save the buildings,” she reminded Marchand sharply, indicating King, who was watching their discussion like a spectator at a Ping-Pong match. “My job is to keep the public informed about issues that affect their lives and pocketbooks.”

  “You’re gonna have to trust that I’m keeping both matters clearly in mind,” Marchand countered tersely.

  Before Corlis could reply further to Marchand’s skilled horse trading, King shouted, “Trust? Why in the world would you even consider trusting a guy like this? Will somebody please tell me what’s going on here?”

  “Okay,” Corlis said abruptly to Marchand, ignoring King for the moment. “If this business isn’t settled at city council today, I’ll negotiate with you in the public’s best interest as to how much of what we shot today we put on the air.”

  “And the personal side of this story is strictly confidential, agreed?” Marchand pressed. He held Corlis’s gaze. He had indicated that he was willing to put his personal fate in her hands—if she would risk putting her professional future in his.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ll agree to that, too.”

  “Corlis,” King exclaimed. “What in hell is this all about? And why is Virgil still shooting video?”

  “Because he never stops rolling until I tell him to,” she explained succinctly. “It’s a pact we made when we first started working together.”

  Lafayette Marchand addressed Virgil. “Will you make me a copy of what you’ve shot in your news van right now—for my records?”

  Virgil, still rolling, looked to Corlis for confirmation. After a long pause, she asked Marchand, “You’ll use it to arm-wrestle Jeffries, correct?”

  “Smart lady.”

  “Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t, but okay—if you swear it’s for nonbroadcast purposes.”

  “Agreed.”

  She turned to Virgil and asked, “And we’ve recorded the entire story, including this visual record of our agreement with Mr. Marchand, correct?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then make him a dub of what you got today.”

  “Corlis,” King exclaimed again. “Are you crazy?”

  “It may look that way, but no…” she answered with a sympathetic smile. To her cameraman she said, “You can stop shooting now.”

  Virgil flicked a switch on his camcorder, lowered the piece of equipment from his shoulder, and set it to rest on the grass. Manny pulled his earphones from his head and allowed them to dangle around his neck.

  “Well, then,” Lafayette said with an ironic smile. “It’s nearly three thirty. Let’s see about dubbing the video, gentlemen. Then I say we all hustle down to city hall. This should be a very interestin’ meeting.”

  And with that the nattily attired media expert strode off with Virgil and Manny toward the wrought-iron archway to the cemetery that bore his name, while King stared after him, dumbfounded.

  “We’d better get going, too,” Corlis said.

  “And you’d better tell me what in hell is goin’ on here, Ace,” King said in a low voice etched with anger and fatigue as they, too, began to walk toward the cemetery gates.

  Corlis shook her head regretfully. “I can’t do that,” she replied with an apologetic smile. “Not until after the vote is taken by the city council, and I’m officially off the story.”

  “Oh, come on, Corlis,” King exploded. “I’ve just spent seventeen hours locked up in a graveyard! One of my liberators turns out to be Grover Jeffries’s main lieutenant… and you’re gonna hold to some silly rules of television reporting? Give me a break! There’s a little bit more at stake here than Journalism 101.”

  Twenty feet from the entrance gates, Corlis halted dead in her tracks and turned slowly to face King. “What’s at stake here, Kingsbury Duvallon, is not just the buildings, as precious as they may be,” she retorted, stung. “You are not in possession of all the facts. You’re making judgments based on half the evidence. There’s a lot at stake that you know nothing about.”

  “Then tell me what I need to know,” he exclaimed, exasperated.

  Corlis shook her head, discouraged. She knew they were both exhausted, and their tempers were at the breaking point. Clearly she and King had different agendas this day. King wanted to save irreplaceable Greek Revival buildings from being demolished, while her professional obligations were to the public.

  “Look, King,” she said earnestly. “My mandate is to diligently seek out the facts, protect my sources—and that means all my sources,” she added as an aside, “and to cover the story fairly, regardless of what ultimately happens to the structures on Canal Street. I know that doesn’t seem enough by your standards, but that’s what I’m paid to do.”

  King’s response to this statement was stony silence. Corlis touched his arm, willing him to understand things from her point of view, but he merely stared over her head across the cemetery.

  “I realize,” she said sharply, her exasperation getting the best of her, “that to you, all this might seem a quaint notion in this era of tabloid news, but there it is. Fairness, objectivity, and protecting sources represent everything Aunt Marge and I have always believed in in the news business. It’s my credo, don’t you understand? Just like saving historic buildings from the wrecker’s ball is yours.”

  She waited for him to reply. Nothing.

  “King,” she said softly, reaching for his hand. “I would be lying if I told you that I wasn’t rooting for your side. I hope you win. Having said that, however, I can’t be part of that, and I can’t betray my sources. I can’t use what I know to tilt the balance in your favor… just as I would never pass on the information I gained from you to the other side, even if I happened to think a new high-rise on Canal would be good for the city’s economy—which I don’t.”

  “But this isn’t just a little skirmish,” King said finally, breaking his silence. “This is war. You know it, and I know it. This calls for extraordinary measures, just as Grover Jeffries employed extraordinary measures to keep me away from the crucial city council meetin’.”

  Corlis held his hand more tightly. “I completely understand how you feel! It’s just that I can’t be the one to tell you what I’ve learned from Lafayette Marchand,” she exclaimed, feeling miserable. “Not until it’s over. You’re a source. Marchand is now a source. You two can talk to each other if you like, but I have to respect everybody’s confidentiality. Otherwise I’m just a fact-twisting PR pimp… an information opportunist—and the kind of journalist you and I both despise.”

  “By the time this little shindig is over, none of this hairsplitting will matter. It’ll be too late,” King retorted, abruptly releasing his hand from her grasp. “Those 1840 buildings will be a pile of rubble. Let your overactive reporter’s conscience chew on that for a while.”

  Exasperated, Corlis cried, “Look, King. You have a choice. Either allow me to play by my rules, as I’ve allowed you to play by yours, or… or… you can walk to the goddamned city council meeting!” To her mortification, she was close to tears. She turned her head and wiped her sleeve across her eyes. King took a step closer and put a hand on each of her shoulders.


  “That goon, Grover Jeffries, had me kidnapped and locked in the cemetery so he could run roughshod over everyone else,” he reminded her urgently. “I need to know what kind of lion’s den I’m about to walk into at city hall—and you have that information.”

  “I’m so sorry…” she whispered, “but I can’t tell you why Lafayette Marchand asked me to meet him in the cemetery until all of this is over. Then, if Marchand agrees to release me from our agreement, I’ll tell you absolutely everything. Please understand.”

  And I’m certainly not the one to reveal that he’s your father.

  King’s mouth drew into a straight line. “As far as I’m concerned, my falling out with Lafayette—way back when—is all blood under the bridge. What I need to know from you has to do with Jeffries’s current schemes and why Marchand has pulled this latest stunt involving you.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Corlis shouted, finally at the end of her tether. “All this has nothing to do with me or how I feel about you. I love you, damn it! I was terrified something awful might have happened to you today. But, right now, I cannot tell you everything. I can’t, and I won’t!”

  King’s look hardened. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Well, then, as far as I’m concerned… if you’re using Lafayette Marchand as one of your trusted sources to nail this story and beat your competition,” he said sarcastically, “you’ve either got terrible judgment, or you’ve gone over to the enemy, McCullough.”

  Corlis declared hotly, “Good God, you see everything as black and white!”

  “The same might be said of you and your god-almighty reporters’ rules,” King retorted.

  The pair stared silently at each other for a long moment.

  “I am really sorry…” she repeated forlornly, “but I can’t be the one to help you.”

  King shrugged. “Then I think I’ll just hitch a ride with Virgil and Manny over to city hall. Maybe they hold to journalistic standards a poor mortal like me can hope to comprehend. See ya, sugar.”