Backstab

by Elaine Viets

  “There’s a reason he looks like an undertaker,” I said. “He knows where all the bodies are buried.”

  “I wish he’d bury himself. He’s never written one thing I know that’s accurate.”

  “He gets it right often enough,” I said. “I used to sit near him at the CG. It was an education in the art of negotiation. When people complained he had an item wrong, he’d say things like, ‘Okay, sir, maybe I did have a small part incorrect. But I do know for a fact that you are having sex with your new sales associate.’ Suddenly, the guy would drop the complaint.”

  “Speaking of associate, he used to be seen around town with a very handsome young man,” Marlene said. “Babe said the guy was his driver.”

  “There’s a lot of speculation whether Babe is gay,” I said. “I think he gets off on getting information for his column. Sitting near him was like listening outside a bedroom door. It was embarrassing. Someone would call with a hot tip and Babe would be on the phone panting and begging for it. ‘Tell me. You can tell me. Go ahead, tell me,’ he’d say. That would be the seduction, and he’d be good at it. Soon the person would give in. While they were doing it, Babe would say, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’ He had a regular rhythm going. The I love you, I love yous would come harder and faster, until the person reached the climax. Then Babe would shout, ‘Good, Good! Oh, God. Oh, God.’ ”

  “Gross,” said Marlene.

  “I’m sorry to say that once Babe had them, he didn’t respect them. He’d hustle the person off the phone, then slam it down and say, ‘That stupid bitch! Who does she think she is?’ ”

  “It’s nice to know Babe is as attractive inside as outside,” Marlene said. “Why does your newspaper let that slimeball do that to people?”

  “Because Hadley, the managing editor, loves gossip, and Babe tells him everything. Knowledge is power. Babe makes himself useful at work too. He’s a company spy. Anything you tell him, you might as well tell Hadley. Anything he sees or hears goes straight to Hadley. And, since it looks like Charlie’s on his way up, he gives Charlie juicy tidbits too, to keep on his good side.”

  “Did you know they were both in here, Hadley and Charlie?” Marlene said.

  “Together? Now, there’s a scoop!”

  “They didn’t come in together, if that’s what you mean. And they both had different girl friends. But I think Charlie passed off his date on Hadley. Hadley often comes here with his new squeeze. He thinks we’re too dumb to know what he’s up to, and, besides, even if we do know, we don’t count,” Marlene said sourly. “The one I saw him running around with early in February was a looker, by the way, a little blonde with more class than his latest fling.”

  “His latest fling is the comics editor,” I said. “Hadley’s taste is eclectic. If she says yes, he’s in love. At least for three or four weeks.”

  We were interrupted by a lugubrious voice. “Oh, Babe, you don’t want to say that. I know Hadley and I have to tell you, I love him like a brother.”

  Oh, damn. It was Babe, blueberries on his breath, coming down the aisle to our booth. The Gazette gossip columnist looked thinner and more mournful than ever, like a codfish with a secret sorrow.

  “Why, Babe, how nice to see you,” I said, telling my first lie of the day before ten o’clock.

  Marlene didn’t bother to lie politely. She said, “I hope you enjoyed listening to our conversation. We tried to make it entertaining for you.”

  “Now, Babe,” he said. “You shouldn’t talk about people that way.”

  I hung my head. Had Babe heard me making fun of his phone sex routine?

  “Come off it,” Marlene said. “We were just doing what you do—gossiping. Except we don’t have pro status. We don’t get paid for it.”

  “I don’t gossip,” said Babe, looking like an offended codfish. “I present the news in its embryonic form.”

  “Ever think about an abortion?” said Marlene.

  This was getting out of hand. It was fun to score off Babe now, but he would even up the game later. I should stop it. But I’d already screwed myself by yakking about the man’s sex life. Might as well let Marlene have her fun. She was enjoying pinning Babe to the wall.

  “If you’re really presenting the news, why not write about your bosses? Charlie and Hadley bring their girl friends in here all the time, and I’ve seen them with some really strange chicks. I guess boys will be boys. How come you don’t give your readers this scoop: Charlie, editor of the Family section, rarely spends a night at home with his own family. Hadley Harris, the man who writes ad nauseam about the joys of his darling daughters, regularly betrays his wife and children. After all, this was the man who last Sunday said in the Gazette, ‘Family is the only reality. Life is not real until you have children. They fulfill you. When I see my girls play soccer, I don’t see two freckle-faced, skinned-kneed imps at play, I see my future, I see my past.’

  “Maybe if he really thought he’d see his past in the paper, he wouldn’t play around on his wife and those two cute kids.”

  “Hadley really called those two brats ‘imps’?” I said, astounded. “They’ve been thrown out of three schools.”

  Babe and Marlene ignored me and kept glaring at each other. I had to break it up. I tried again. This time I said something diplomatic. “I’m sure an important man like Hadley is used to having his affairs discussed,” I said. Oops. “Affairs” was a poor choice of words. So much for my diplomacy.

  “Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t sneak around on his family so much,” said Marlene.

  “Don’t be so rough on Hadley,” Babe said, looking like a noble cod. “We can’t understand the pressures a great man faces. Sympathetic female companionship can help a man through hard times.” Marlene snorted, but Babe gave no indication that he’d heard her. He continued his history lesson. “Look at Jack Kennedy. Sure, he had a few affairs, but he was still a great president.”

  “He’d have been a greater president if he’d kept his pants zipped,” said Marlene.

  I kicked her under the table. That was no way for an Irish Democrat to talk. Maybe the kick woke up Marlene. She abruptly changed the subject. At first I thought she was pouring on the flattery like maple syrup. “Everyone was talking about your column this morning,” she said. “Congratulations.” They had been too. Customers pointed out three spelling errors, two wrong names and one error of fact—a record, even for a Babe column.

  “What did they say?” asked Babe, hungry for praise.

  “They said, ‘Good is not the word for Babe today.’ ”

  Babe looked at her suspiciously, like a codfish that swallowed a bad worm. Babe was a lot of things, but he was not stupid. He knew when he was being shivvied. Marlene had declared war, and she was going to keep it up. She was fearless. “Look, if Hadley and Charlie didn’t want us talking about their affairs, they wouldn’t flaunt them in public,” she said.

  “They don’t flaunt them. This isn’t public,” said Babe, his voice scornful. He looked around the room at the tables where South Siders were chowing down.

  “You could have surprised me,” Marlene said. “The place is packed.”

  “Nobody goes here,” said Babe snidely. “It’s too crowded.” He stomped out the door.

  Their voices must have gone up during the fight. The skinhead was obviously listening. He had turned his head slightly to get a better earful. I saw he had a cut on his bare dome. He must have cut himself shaving his skull. I wondered if men put toilet paper on a skull-shaving cut like they did when they shaved their face.

  Babe left Marlene fuming. “Well, there’s a little more room now that his swelled head is out of here,” she said.

  I groaned. “There’s another reason he looks like an undertaker. He’ll bury my career,” I said. “He heard me make fun of his phone sex act. He’ll report everything we said to Hadley and Charlie.”

  “He’s doing that anyway,” said Marlene. “You should hear some of the things he says behind you
r back. It’s better to have an open enemy.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I said.

  “Yeah, what can he do to me?” she said. “I’m just a waitress.”

  I’d never heard her sound so bitter. “Guys like him make me sick,” she said. “He comes in here like a big shot, hounds the customers, and mistreats the waitresses. Last week he had Diane, who’s seven months pregnant, running back and forth waiting on him like he was some pasha. The worst was when that poor thing was loaded down with plates and coffeepots and he calls her over and says, ‘Light my cigarette.’ Light his cigarette! What does he think this is—the Four Seasons? Then, after all that, he complained about the blueberry pancakes, but not until he ate every bite. He refused to pay, and didn’t tip Diane. What a pig! Hadley and Charlie aren’t much better, one running the staff ragged and the other tipping fifty cents. If you ask me, the whole City Gazette bunch needs to be taken down a notch or two.”

  Marlene was angry. The laughing waitress who could handle anything was out to lunch, replaced by a furious and frustrated woman. Then the Marlene I knew came back, like the sun breaking through a cloud. “Break’s over,” she said, jumping up. “I’m going to have some fun. You see that skinhead who was sitting by Babe?”

  “How can I miss him? If I didn’t see the shaved head, there’s the motorcycle boots trying to pass as jackboots and the KISS T-shirt with the SS lightning bolts.”

  “Yeah, him. You can’t see his hands, but he has swastikas on his knuckles. They’re not tattoos. Looks like he drew them himself with black ink.”

  “That way he can wash them off before he goes home to his mother.”

  “He’s going to wash them off now,” said Marlene. “I’d march his butt straight back to the men’s room, but I don’t want to make a martyr out of him. It would upset my older customers. Watch this.” She went smiling to his booth. “Can I get you anything else, sir?” she said respectfully. I couldn’t hear what Skinhead mumbled. But Marlene said, “Certainly. Another large milk coming up.” She was back in two minutes with the milk. The glass seemed to slip right out of her hand. It landed on the table, splashed Skinhead’s hands, and flowed into his lap. “Watch it,” he screeched as the cold milk hit his crotch.

  I knew Marlene wasn’t that clumsy. She could carry six loaded platters on her arms. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Let me get you another glass on the house. And the rest room is right over there.” By the time Marlene had mopped up the milk, the skinhead was back at the table with a red face, wet pants, and scrubbed, swastika-free hands.

  Marlene went to the Bunn coffee maker to make a fresh pot. I went into my other office, the one at the newspaper that I visited as little as possible. I called Sam Sharky, the city attorney who’d been at the table with Dunright. He was in. Amazing.

  “Hi, Mr. Sharky,” I said cheerfully. “I hear you’re planning to dump Dunright at the press conference tomorrow.”

  “Where did you hear that?” said Sharky. For once, he sounded surprised.

  “I can’t reveal my sources,” I said piously.

  “It’s Dunright,” he said. “He went whining to the press after I told him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “I can’t say, sir,” I said. “But you’ve just confirmed that it’s true.”

  “I won’t confirm or deny,” he said, which is governmentspeak for yes. I’d quote Sharky accurately and really upset him. Now I had one source, and I needed two for my story. I called Dorreen, my low friend in high places. She was a secretary in the mayor’s press office, shoved off behind a door and a file cabinet. She knew everything and everyone. “They’re dumping Dunright, right?” I said.

  “Just typed the press release,” Dorreen said. “Goes out tomorrow.”

  Marlene was right, but I already knew that. I wrote the column at the CG offices for a change, and smiled all the while I typed. I loved nailing people like Dunright. His exit was literally a back-room deal. Too bad word would get out in my column before the big press conference. If those lawyers had tipped waitresses like Marlene a little more and treated them a little better, I wouldn’t find out so much. I finished the story early and sent it off to Charlie.

  He came back an hour later, while I was answering some letters. “Hadley is running your column on the front page instead of in my section,” he said. “Congratulations.” He said the word as if he were spitting out something sour.

  Sorry, Charlie. You’ll get the credit for having a columnist who can get the big stories. But you won’t be happy. I know your secret. You don’t have the guts to do what I do.

  Charlie used to be a good writer when he started at the CG. But he’d sold out his craft to become a corporate coat-holder. It was easier for him to sit in meetings and write memos than write stories. Charlie once told me he could do the reporting, but he couldn’t take what he called the three A.M.’s—those nagging doubts all writers have in the middle of the night: Did I spell her name right? Did I quote him right? Did I check that one last fact? We all knew the old saw: “Doctors bury their mistakes. Lawyers put theirs in jail. Reporters put theirs on the front page.” Everyone knew when we screwed up.

  “I couldn’t stand second-guessing myself,” Charlie confessed to me once, and then instantly regretted it. In his eyes, he thought he’d revealed a weakness. Now my success was a reproach to him. It increased the tension between us. Sometimes he tried to write a feature story, but his work was flat and lifeless. It lacked a point of view. He didn’t have one anymore. Charlie looked like he had a lot of power, but he did as he was told.

  And he’d been told to tell me I did a good job. So he swallowed his pride, and grudgingly gave me a verbal pat. I took it. “Does city desk have any questions?” I asked.

  “You’re fine,” he said. “Go home.” He wanted me out of his sight. I was glad to go. It was three in the afternoon. I went home early for the first time in months. Home for the last week or so had been Lyle’s house. He was in the dark paneled living room, reading a Lawrence Block mystery and wearing my favorite blue sweater. He looked lean and relaxed.

  I told him about my triumph, and then my failure—the fight with Babe. He thought the scene with Marlene and Babe was funny. “I’m not laughing,” I said. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have said those things. I know Babe is a snake. He’ll report everything that was said to Hadley and Charlie.”

  “Come on, you’re too rough on Babe,” Lyle said. “He’s a pretty good guy. He’ll cool off. He always does. And you didn’t say anything derogatory about Hadley and Charlie, Marlene did. Besides, Babe’s not going to go running to Hadley and Charlie over what a waitress at Uncle Bob’s said about them. And even if he does, they have more important things to worry about.”

  “But I made fun of his phone sex routine,” I said.

  “So, he’s a sexy writer. He’ll be flattered. At least you didn’t call him a closet queen, like most of the staff. Get your coat. It’s too nice a day to sit around here and worry.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the zoo,” he said. “We haven’t seen the bears yet this year.”

  He was right. St. Louis has a really world-class zoo. It’s one of the last free zoos in the country. It was also one of the few zoos where I didn’t feel sorry for the animals. These weren’t cages full of listless creatures. They were lively. Well, some were. An enormous brown bear was spread-eagled by the pool in his outdoor area, soaking up the rays like a sunbather. His bearish neighbors two doors down had a better idea of how to spend the afternoon. They were humping away to the cheers of the crowd.

  “Three times,” said Lyle admiringly.

  The male bear swatted the female playfully on the rump, and they ambled inside away from the curious humans. We went on to see the penguins.

  “They’re behaving in a far more dignified way,” I said.

  “Must be the tux,” said Lyle.

  We saw Rajah, the baby elephant, and the first elephant born at the zoo. The zoo was immensely
proud of the little fellow. Then we strolled through the cast-iron outdoor birdcage, a graceful structure left over from the 1904 World’s Fair. If you imagined a giant platter, the birdcage was shaped like its huge cover. The high, airy structure was big enough to house whole trees and flocks of birds. Walking through it was an exotic experience, provided you didn’t take any direct hits from the flying residents. I was staring at the pink flamingos wading in the pool in the cage. They looked amazingly like the plastic ones on lawns, only not as smart.

  “Hello,” said Lyle. “Are you in there?” He put his arm around me and drew me close. He smelled good, like coffee and Crabtree & Evelyn sandalwood soap. “You’ve been lost in thought all afternoon,” he said. “You’re not still brooding about Babe, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “A little fresh air blew him out of my mind. I’m thinking about Ralph and Burt.”

  “You miss them,” he said.

  “I do. But that’s not the only reason. I keep thinking there’s something wrong with their deaths. I still believe they were murdered. You think I’m nuts on the subject, don’t you?”

  “Not necessarily. Why do you feel that way?”

  “I don’t know. There’s nothing I can put my finger on. People I respect, like Mark and Marlene, give me good reasons why their deaths were what they appear to be: a stabbing during a robbery and an asthma attack.”

  “But you don’t think they were,” Lyle said.

  “No. I don’t. And I have nothing to go by but my feelings.”

  “Then follow your feelings,” said Lyle.

  “But all I have are some nagging doubts. Where do I go from here?”

  “You’re a reporter,” Lyle said. “Start asking questions. When you get the answers you want, you’ll have the facts to go with those feelings.”

  That was what I needed to do: treat their deaths like another story. Start interviewing the people involved: Burt’s wife, Ralph’s mother. I felt better now that I had a plan. I would find out who murdered them and why.

  I smiled up at Lyle and picked a small bit of bird fluff off his blue sweater. “I love you,” I said. “You’re wonderful.”