As the Wicked Watch(30)

Clark had her number in his phone. She must’ve picked up on the first or second ring.

“Hi, Louise? It’s Clark. Can you hear me? It’s Clark!” he shouted over the chatter. “Listen, I’m here with Jordan Manning . . . What’s that? . . . Okay, wait, wait. I can barely hear you. I’m over at the District. Look, I called you because I’m sitting here with Jordan Manning, the reporter from Channel 8. She’s going to call you in a few minutes to talk to you, so pick up her call. Okay? . . . Yes, I know about it . . . Okay, well, let’s talk later, okay, dear?”

Dear? After all the shit you just talked about her?

“All right, talk to you later,” Clark said and snapped his flip phone closed.

As Clark was finishing up my introduction to Louise Robinson, Vera brought the check.

“I’ve got this, Commissioner,” I said.

“You owe me,” he said. “We can start with breakfast.” He chuckled.

Scott’s eyes widened. I would have to explain to him that there was nothing lascivious about that remark. Clark, I now know, is a misogynist, but he has always been a gentleman. He’s a politician, so he’s used to people picking up tabs, except Scott reached in and grabbed the check first.

“That’s okay. I’ve got this,” he said.

“Always good to see you, Ms. Manning,” Clark said. He stood up to walk us out and embraced me once more outside the first set of double doors.

“Likewise, Commissioner, and thank you.”

I climbed into the news truck with Scott, cleared my throat, and dialed Ms. Robinson.

“Yes?” she answered inquisitively.

“Hello, is this Ms. Louise Robinson?”

“This is. Is this Jordan Manning?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

“Boy, that was fast!” she said. “I just hung up with C.W. He must like you.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because he called me on your behalf. I’m sure he gave me a glowing review,” she said, dripping with sarcasm. “For C.W. to admit I’m right, you have a better chance of seeing a unicorn walk down Lake Shore Drive.”

“Well, he did have some interesting things to say about you,” I said.

“And the feeling is mutual,” Robinson said. We both giggled knowingly, like two women who were sure we’d been called difficult behind our backs many times before.

This wasn’t the way I’d planned to launch our conversation, but it broke the ice, nonetheless. I explained that her niece had told me about the vigil tonight for Masey James and that Clark had filled me in on her history with the playground.

“If it’s all right, I’d rather talk in person. I’m not far away. I have someone with me, my cameraman, but I’d like to sit down and chat first. He’ll stay in the car.” Scott shot me a look.

My goal was to get her on-camera, but I needed to go in by myself first and build trust. So far, so good.

“Forgive the last-minute notice, but I have an interview at the police station at twelve-thirty and another at three o’clock,” I said.

“That’s fine. Come on.”

I jotted down her address and handed it to Scott.

“If I’m not filming her, why am I going again?” he asked.

“Scott, you don’t just roll up on a woman like Louise Robinson with fifteen or twenty minutes to spare and put a camera in her face. You just don’t.

“But . . . if there’s a breakthrough,” I said, “I wanna be ready.”

At 10:45, the District parking lot was still packed tight, like my skirt, which felt two sizes smaller after that huge breakfast. Just as I was about to give up and drive myself over to Ms. Robinson’s, I got lucky and grabbed a spot as a car was pulling out. Then I hopped back in the truck with Scott.

To be honest, I didn’t want to drive alone through Englewood any more than Scott did. And perhaps if people saw me sitting up front in the passenger seat, nobody would take a shot at the truck, which happened the last time Scott drove through Englewood by himself.

We were only about ten minutes away from Robinson’s house, but I’d promised to give her twenty minutes.

“Let’s drive around a little,” I told Scott. “She probably needs a little time to get herself together.”

We passed three girls who looked to be about eight or nine. They were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

“See there?” Scott pointed. “Now, that’s cute. I wish I could be filming that.”

“Black kids playing hopscotch? What’s unusual about that?”

“It’s cute,” Scott said.

A classic white Chevy Impala drove past us. The music was playing so loudly, I could feel it in my throat.

“Okay, just so you know . . . Black kids have been playing hopscotch for-ever. It’s not new to the hood,” I said.

I don’t know whether he heard me, because he was busy lambasting a person who had no idea they were being lambasted.

“Damn, dude, turn your music down!” he said, and then to me. “How long do you want to drive around?” he asked. “Her house is a block away.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, we passed it already. I just hope those three guys standing on the corner are gone when I pull back around.”