As the Wicked Watch(54)
“Her mother seems like a nice person,” Thomas said, pulling his club jersey over his head.
“She is. That’s not to say Pamela isn’t nice. But I don’t just mean her mother. Her cousin, the one she was with that day. That’s who I want to talk to,” I said. “As soon as possible. Meanwhile, this guy is still out there, and I’m worried he’s going to hurt somebody else.”
“You really get into this stuff, don’t you?” he asked. “Are you a reporter or an investigator?”
“At this point, I’m whatever I need to be to figure this out,” I said.
“Okay, police lady,” he said. Thomas swung his legs to the other side of the bed and yanked on his workout pants in a single rapid motion, then half laid back down.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but along with a journalism degree, I have a degree in forensic science. But not because I want to be a cop. Trust me. I would hope the level of incompetence I’ve seen by police wouldn’t be my MO.”
“Well, yeah, I hear ya,” he said.
I sensed Thomas was starting to lose interest in the conversation. I recognized the shift. This is where I often struggle in relationships, when my job may seem more important than his, and fifteen minutes after “good morning,” we’ve talked only about my job and the story I’m following and my life, but nothing about his. I’ve seen it enough times where a guy feels intimidated or says I think everything revolves around me. I’ve found that the things men love about me are also the things they end up resenting.
Thomas propped himself up on his right elbow to glance at the clock. It was going on eight. “Ah,” he said, dropping back down into the pillow.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’ve gotta get going.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said.
As abruptly as it had started, it ended.
*
As much as I wanted to stay in bed for another two hours, when I arrived at the station, the energy inside the newsroom bolstered my spirits, and so did my colleagues.
“Bravo!” Ellen said, clapping as I walked toward her desk.
“You killed it yesterday!” she said. “Channel 11 ran an interview with the mom, but they didn’t have the community leaders or the great people you interviewed at the vigil. I know Peter wants to talk to you.”
“Great! Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. I wasn’t concerned, though. When Peter Nussbaum, the station’s news director, wanted to have a word with me, it was usually good news. And if he really was as impressed with my performance as Ellen just suggested, it shouldn’t be hard to convince him to allow me to stick with this story exclusively, even if it meant working overtime and on my regular days off, and pushing the day-to-day police blotter crime stories to general assignment reporters.
“How’d you do working with George last night?” Ellen said with a smirk.
“Good! He was late getting there, but it wasn’t his fault,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” Ellen said, twitching her nose.
“Oh, that. It must have been shower day,” I said. “Please don’t share that with anyone. He did a great job last night.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. Never,” Ellen said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Keith Mulvaney, aka Tonya Harding, coming out of Peter’s glassed-in corner office. Ellen and I exchanged dubious looks.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” I said. Ellen shrugged her shoulders just as Peter leaned halfway out the door and waved me over.
“I’ve been summoned,” I said to Ellen. “Talk to you later?”
“Sure.” She smiled, clapped her hands twice, and rested them in a prayer position. I chuckled and headed over to the senior managers’ row overlooking Michigan Avenue, with spectacular views of the Chicago River, the neo-Gothic Tribune Tower, and the Spanish Colonial Wrigley Building. I had a huge smile on my face. I felt good, confident. I lived for days like this and decided to enjoy it. You’re only as good as your last story, and I was already back at the starting block.
Along the way I received accolades from colleagues. I got a thumbs-up, a nod and a smile, a high five, and a verbal “Kudos!” “Nice job last night, Jordan!” “Thank you.” “Great segment last night.” “Thank you.”
As Keith drew nearer, I scanned his appearance, thinking: There is nothing extraordinary about him. Not one thing. He’s not even handsome. He has no striking features. Not even an air of confidence. No it factor. Even among the most generic men, he fails to rise to the top. What he is, though, is masterful at working the reps. He knows whose offices to stay in and how to skillfully stir gossip and besmirch his colleagues, while concealing his own sins but never his motives. In that way, he is transparent as fuck. In others, he’s a human grenade. You don’t notice him until he explodes. And yet he doesn’t have to contemplate going from network to network to advance his career, even with his marginally successful résumé with no exclusives, no awards, just a penis and a lot of fake bravado.
I didn’t expect Keith to congratulate me on my story, nor did I want him to. I didn’t need his false admiration. I felt empowered and greeted him with a genuine smile. “Hi, Keith. How are you?” I said in my best golf-buddy voice.