As the Wicked Watch(27)

“I haven’t heard you mention Mike in a while. I didn’t know you guys were still talking.”

“It’s been a little off and on lately since he’s been overseas. We’ve never fallen completely out of touch, though,” she said.

“And obviously,” I picked up where she left off, “he’s been thinking about you, because you’re the first person he wants to see when he gets back.”

I liked Mike. He reminded me a little of my college crush, Jake, Justin’s big brother. But unlike Jake, Mike has the blue eyes to go with the blond hair, and a California beach-boy body and the thousand-watt smile. The two men turned and walked toward us as if they had an invitation. Lisette and I didn’t know whether to panic and retreat into the cabin or to thank God. Once they introduced themselves and we decided they weren’t going to kill us, we chose the latter.

Liz hadn’t seen Mike since the two met up in Chicago over the spring.

“He called me last night and said he’d be back in Saugatuck in a couple weeks. That’s right around the time we’d talked about running up there. Are you still game?”

It should have been an easy yes, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Is Carlo going to be there?” I asked.

Carlo and I didn’t stay in touch after he went back to Italy. I got the feeling that Carlo, who was in his late thirties, had a wife back home that he failed to mention.

“No, but Mike said he’s got a friend for you,” Lisette said.

I’m not sure that’s what I want in my life right now.

“When do I need to let you know? Is your friend from Detroit still planning to meet us?”

Does Mike have a “friend” for her, too?

“Yes, and she’s bringing a friend of hers from work. It’ll be fun. Tell me you’re not backing out. Are you?”

“I’d love to go, but there’s so much going on here right now with this murder case,” I said.

“Which one?”

“The missing fifteen-year-old girl. She was found dead the other day,” I said.

“Oh my God! I was praying so hard for her to be okay,” Liz said.

“I know. Me too.”

The last time I mentioned Masey James to my best friend, it was in the present tense.

“What happened?” she asked, but I didn’t have time to go into it. I’d arrived at my destination.

“Hey, Liz, I’m here. I’m going to have to call you later,” I said.

“Okay, don’t forget. Be careful out there,” she said.

“I will.”

By ten o’clock, the parking lot at the District Diner was so full it looked like the Dan Ryan with an accident blocking two of the express lanes during rush-hour traffic. Scott was in the news van and made up a parking space. I pulled up behind him. I wasn’t worried about getting a ticket.

Scott and I walked in and I scanned the cacophonous diner, with its iconic images of local heroes like former mayor Harold Washington; John H. and Eunice Johnson of Ebony and Jet magazine; Mavis Staples and the Staple Singers; and boxer Joe Louis, to name a few. The people’s pride. Depending on the ethnic group, this type of display could be found in diners across America. In Austin, there’d be Willie Nelson and Stevie Ray Vaughan. In Detroit, Aretha Franklin and politicians like John Conyers Jr.; or Frank Sinatra in Hoboken. Each booth and table bore the name of a historic Black figure. There was even a table named for Ida B. Wells-Barnett, the history-making journalist whose name was now linked to an ill-fated playground.

In the far left corner, I spotted a handsome Black man in his late fifties or early sixties who stood out in a maroon suit tailored to accommodate his broad shoulders. The perfectly coifed waves in his hair looked as if he had commanded them: “Don’t move.” Cook County commissioner Curtis “C.W.” Clark looked up. I caught his attention, and he gestured for me to come over.

To my surprise, he was alone, which was rare. He must have just ended a meeting or was waiting for the next one to start. As we made our way through the cramped room and steaming hot plates, I turned to Scott and muttered, “If he invites us to join him, we’re saying yes.”

Commissioner Clark stood up and extended his hand, greeting us both warmly. “Good morning, Jordan,” he said, his mouth barely visible under a thick mustache. “How long has it been?”

Clark held out his arms and enveloped me in a warm embrace as if I were a relative he hadn’t seen for a long while. I’m sure Clark didn’t hug every journalist he encountered. Because I am a Black woman in this job, there is an unspoken acknowledgment by people in my community of the struggle that it took for me to get where I am. I’m media but also kin. They want me here. In moments like this, when I feel people’s distrust of the media melt away, I feel like a local, though their warmth has limits.

“It’s good to see you, too, Commissioner,” I said. “This is my colleague Scott Newell.”

“Hello, young man. Glad to meet you,” Clark said.

“Likewise, sir.”

“Please, have a seat,” Clark said. “So, Mr. Newell, what is it that you do?”

“I’m a cameraman for Channel 8,” Scott said.

“Yes, we’re colleagues,” I reinforced. “Scott’s my favorite cameraman.”