Dead Last

by Amanda Lamb

  There is was again, that word, amazing. For once I wanted Janie to bring me a story and be honest with me and say, This story sucks, but we’re going to do it anyway. So good luck with it. Do the best you can.

  These days if anyone had video of something dramatic, it was automatically a story. It didn’t matter what the quality of the video was or what it was about. If it was sensational, we wanted it. Facebook and Twitter videos often became stories that took precedence over real news coverage.

  I always tried to do the best I could with whatever story I was assigned. It was in my DNA. But some stories were harder than others for me to make relevant and interesting. Sometimes a hamburger was just a hamburger, and it was never going to be a steak. But at least we had video of the dolphins. That was something. Janie was right about that. People would watch an hour of a shark trying to crash through a school of dolphins to get to a man before they would watch a boring, but important, story about the school board or health care.

  I had hoped to have an easy day, a mindless story that I could put together with minimal effort so I might squeeze in another visit with Suzanne and get some more information out of her. After all, what in the world did she expect me to do without Tanner’s last name or the name of his medical practice? How was I supposed to find out anything about this man if she wouldn’t give me any real information to go on? To be fair, I hadn’t asked the right questions. Suzanne was so focused on G6 in our last meeting that I forgot my journalist hat and left the coffee shop with only a handful of details about Tanner. It wasn’t like me to be so careless, but when I was with Suzanne I wasn’t a reporter. I wasn’t sure exactly who I was.

  “Okay, so you’re set up with shark guy at one o’clock. He thought we might buy this video from him, but I explained to him that local news organizations don’t buy stories, that we’re not like the tabloid shows that pay people for stuff. I think he’s cool with just giving it to us now.”

  “You think he’s cool with it?” I sounded more incredulous than I intended. I knew it wasn’t Janie’s fault, but I really didn’t want to go all the way to this guy’s house only to discover he had sold the footage to TMZ and our story was dead in the water, pardon the pun.

  “No, I am sure. I’m sure of it.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “He’s cool. He wants to do the interview with you, you specifically. He’s a big fan.”

  “Amazing,” I quipped.

  Big fan was a euphemism we used for people who were starstruck by local TV personalities. Given that Channel 8 had always been a powerhouse news organization in the community, with a dedicated following, there were many viewers who grew up watching the station and felt like the reporters and anchors were part of their family. In short, this often helped us get interviews.

  As soon as Janie rounded the corner away from my cubicle, I decided I was going to call Suzanne and lay it on the line. I was going to tell her I needed more information, that I couldn’t help her unravel her situation without it. I was going to be clear this time. I would put my journalist hat on and demand what I needed in order to help her. Just as I was running the dialogue for the call in my head, my phone rang.

  “Kid, it’s me,” Kojak bellowed, in a scratchy voice, sounding like he had just coughed up a lung. I knew it was him because his profile picture of a smirking face with a lollipop dangling from his lips popped up on my screen.

  “Hey, you. I was just about to call my friend and prod her for some more information you might be able to use in your search.”

  “Well, I got something. I found G6.”

  “No way. That was fast. How in the world?”

  “Well, I started thinking that had to be a hooker name. I mean, come on. Who refers to herself as a G6 but a hooker? So I asked my buddies in vice, and they were like, ‘Oh yeah, we know her. She works at a restaurant on the southeast side, Mexican joint. She’s real pretty and real popular.’ Apparently she’s out of the business now, recently retired, but everyone still knows her by that nickname.”

  “What’s the name of the restaurant?”

  “It’s called La Fiesta. A hole-in-the-wall joint, but great food. Lot of cops eat there. That’s probably why she never got busted. My guess is that she had a quid pro quo deal. They get good lunches, maybe a little street intel on drug dealers and such. She stays out of the slammer.”

  “And maybe a little something else?”

  “Nope, not going there. She’s no street hooker. She’s one of those chicks that advertised on a website. They pretend to be a lonely suburban soccer mom, and then the guys get hooked after one meeting with her and are forced into coughing up five hundred dollars for a brief roll in the hay in a cheap motel room. I’m telling you, there are a lot of idiots who fall for that crap. Seriously, a beautiful brunette minivan-driving soccer mom wants to hook up with your pasty, white, fat, middle-aged ass? You got to be kidding me. How dumb can these guys be? Women don’t need to go on a website to find sex. If they’re on a site like that, they’re selling something.”

  Kojak had a tendency to sound-off on lofty platitudes, like he was giving a monologue as the star of his very own crime drama. While I agreed with many of his tirades, I didn’t have the time or patience to deal with this one right now. But I knew enough to humor him until he got to his point.

  “I get it. But in many cases there’s a pimp, a ringleader, someone who is taking the money from these women as soon as they make it. They’re not doing it willingly. No one chooses that life. It’s called human trafficking. Ever hear of it?”

  “Yes, smart ass. All I’m saying is the johns are the worst part of the equation. Without the demand, the sex trade would not exist. I’m not criticizing the women who do it.”

  “I hear you. Okay, well I’ve got to go because I have to interview a guy who almost got killed by a shark, but was saved by dolphins, and then I will head over to the restaurant to check her out.”

  “I can’t believe you gave up the glory of autopsies and gunpowder residue for that shit. You’re wasting your talent.”

  “No, I’m preserving my sanity.”

  “Maybe. But then why can’t you walk away from this lady and her crazy story?”

  “I just want to help her. That’s all.” It irked me sometimes that he knew me so well.

  “A likely story. Call me when you’re ready to go to the restaurant. I’ll go with you. She runs with a pretty rough crowd. Don’t think you should go alone. If she figures out you’re spying on her, her cohorts won’t be happy. She’s got some brothers who have spent plenty of time behind bars. They’re the kind of people who cut people’s fingers off when they owe them money and don’t pay.”

  “No way. I need to do this alone,” I said. And I meant it.

  O

  When I first met Hal the shark guy I was pretty sure that despite what Janie had told me, his motivation for doing the interview was money. It was my job to sell him on the idea that fame in his hometown was much more valuable than the few thousand dollars that some tabloid show might pay him.

  “Hal, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Wow, what an experience you had. Lucky to be alive. I know our viewers are going to be amazed by your story.”

  Hal ushered Buster and me into his house and motioned for us to sit on a big comfortable brown couch in his large spartan den. Buster left the camera equipment in the car until we knew for sure if Hal was going to play ball.

  “Oh, you want to talk to me on camera?” the interview subject often asked. “I thought this was going to be in the newspaper.”

  On one occasion, a pizza delivery woman who was robbed at gunpoint and ironically had a large tattoo above her breasts that read Unbreakable, called the newsroom to tell them I had tricked her into doing an interview.

  “Was there a large camera there, and were you wearing a microphone, ma’am?” Janie asked the woman.

  The answer, of course, was yes, but the woman still insisted she didn’t know she was being interviewed on TV. She also
said we had promised to crop out the tattoo from our shot, which would have been impossible considering its placement. The interview aired, tattoo and all. She ended the phone conversation with Janie by referring to me as a scrawny little white bitch.

  Like the pizza delivery lady, I was sure Hal knew exactly why we were there and what our intentions were.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about it, and while I love your station, I’m not sure this is the way I want to go,” Hal said hesitantly. I tried not to let my face reveal my disappointment. Now I was going to have to grovel. I spent far too much time in my job operating in what I called desperation mode. I was often desperate for an interview, yet I couldn’t let the person I was trying to get on camera see my desperation. It was exhausting.

  “I grew up watching you guys. Used to sit with my dad at night while he watched the eleven o’clock news. He drank a beer, smoked a cigar, and always had a stack of three Oreos. If I was real quiet and didn’t tell Mama about the beer or the cigar, he’d let me have one of those Oreos.” He shook his head as if he were right there in that moment, curled up in the chair with his father’s arms around him, puffs of cigar smoke swirling above his head, licking the silky white cream from chocolate cookies.

  Hal, a lanky, leathered man in his early forties, wore a sleeveless shirt and cut-off faded jeans. The jagged edges of the material skimmed his tanned shoulders. The pale blue shirt was faded by years of wear and bore a pink palm tree logo. I could just make out the faint peeling outline of a surfer beneath the tree, riding the crest of a wave. Just above Hal’s mop of sandy blond hair, to the right, was a photo on a wooden shelf of Hal, a woman in a flowered turtleneck dress, and a baby in full football regalia. The baby wore a black and blue sweatshirt and knit hat bearing the logo of the Carolina Panthers.

  “See, your little guy is a Panthers’ fan?” I pointed at the photo.

  “He’s ten now. Loves football. Absolutely loves it.”

  “Is he a surfer like his dad?” I took a stab, assuming from his look and the shirt, that’s how he wound up in a circle of dolphins fending off a shark.

  “Little scared of the water still, believe it or not, given how crazy his old man is about it. I’ve tried, believe me, I have. Got him a longboard. Even took him to a surf camp one summer. Didn’t stick. Didn’t like how the waves crashed over his board while he was trying to get out past the break.”

  I could feel Hal’s resolve melting. We had gone off-topic, away from his reluctance and toward something relatable—children. Once I became a mother I discovered that talking about children was the great equalizer. No matter how different I was from the person I was interviewing, that we were both parents gave us common ground.

  “Bet he’s proud of you though. Surfing huge waves, way out there where the sharks are. Not a big fan of sharks, myself.”

  “Yes, he thinks it’s pretty cool that his old man is a surfer,” Hal said, with a spreading grin.

  “Well, the great thing about talking to us is that we’re going to give you plenty of time to tell your story, unlike a tabloid show that just wants your video and not your story. They’d show like fifteen seconds of it and move on to the Hollywood celebrity moment of the day. We’ll give you a chance to tell your story step-by-step. Tell us exactly what happened, what you were thinking when you were out there. If your son was proud of you before, imagine how he will feel after seeing you on the eleven o’clock news—the same news you watched with your dad at his age.”

  I was proud of myself for bringing it full circle. I was telling the truth about how we would couch the story, versus how a national show with no local connection would tell the story. Was I massaging him to try and get him to talk to me instead of taking the paying gig? Absolutely. Was it unethical? Not at all. It was unethical to pay people for a news story, not to convince them to do it for free.

  “You’re right. I’ll do it. Get the camera.” Hal stood up and shook my hand as if we were about to sign a multi-million-dollar contract. Buster was already out the door before Hal was on his feet, heading to the car to get the gear. He knew as well as I did that people were fickle and could change their minds about an interview in just a few seconds.

  “Amazing, Hal. That’s great news,” I said, relieved as we shared a firm handshake.

  Maybe Janie was right. Maybe it really was about finding something amazing in every single story.

  O

  La Fiesta was one of those restaurants that was hard to classify. It was certainly a Mexican-themed venue, as the name revealed, but there were also large stuffed llamas in a cage near the entrance, with a sign that read Don’t feed the animals! Piñatas and traditional wide-brimmed velvet hats with gold and silver embroidery adorned the walls. Dusty multi-colored crepe paper streamers hung from the ceiling looking like remnants of an ancient birthday party that someone forgot to remove.

  Kojak told me G6’s real name was Maria Lopez, and that she was the main hostess and cashier at the restaurant, which belonged to her family. When I first walked inside, it was so packed I couldn’t see anyone who matched Maria’s description. A young Hispanic girl with dark hair in long braids that went halfway down her back met me at the hostess stand. She was wearing heavy black eye makeup and large, dangly silver hoops. Despite her attempt at looking older, I doubted she could be more than fourteen years old. She showed me to a small corner table and handed me a worn plastic menu, its edges frayed and peeling back. The surface of the table was wet, having just been wiped down, and crumbs of tortilla chips littered the floor beneath the table, a sign that the pace of their lunch rush was so frantic they’d had little time to clean up in between customers.

  The energy of the restaurant was upbeat and warm. Men in work boots, wearing paint-splattered pants and shirts with their names on them crowded around bowls of chips and salsa, laughing, talking, and dipping. Waitresses edged around the tight spaced tables, holding brightly colored trays of hot food above their heads. Beneath the din of chatter and dirty dishes clattering into the busboy’s bin, was the subtle beat of Mariachi band music playing through the overhead speakers.

  I peered over the top of the menu and scanned the restaurant for a woman fitting Maria’s description. After surveying the busy room several times, I finally spotted what I thought might be the top of her head behind the cash register at the far end of the room. Her hair was dark and sleek and hung in a side ponytail across her right shoulder. A long line of customers waiting to pay obscured my view of her, but I caught glimpses of the woman’s pleasant round face and her eyes adorned in the jet-black eyeliner that came out at the corners like wings. It was a look a lot of women favored these days, but like most new fashion trends, I was still on the fence about it. Yet she wore it well. She paired it with bright red lipstick on her plump limps that parted in a half-smile when a customer would speak with her at the counter. It struck me that with the exception of her olive complexion, she looked a lot like a younger version of Suzanne. Maybe that’s what Tanner found attractive about her. I was sure, based on the description Kojak gave me, that it was Maria.

  There were too many people around Maria for me to approach her, so I decided to order some lunch and observe. I also needed more time to formulate a plan. What would I say if I got a chance to speak with her? Would I ask her outright if she knew Tanner? That would be way out of left field. I couldn’t imagine that conversation going well.

  One thing I knew for sure, the food had to be good based on the number of people crowded around tiny tables covering every square inch of the room.

  After a young, hurried male waiter with a stressed smile, dressed in a white button-down shirt, black pants, and a red vest took my order, I began scrolling through my emails while I waited for my food. Almost instantly, my phone rang. I quickly silenced the ringer, although the restaurant was so loud I was pretty sure it wasn’t disturbing anyone. It was the twins’ school calling.

  “Hello,” I answered nervously, always expecting the worst when schoo
l called.

  A call from school usually meant someone was sick and needed to be picked up.

  “Mom, it’s a real emergency,” my son, Blake, bellowed over the phone, tears in his voice.

  “Sweetie, what is it?”

  “Mom, I left my gym clothes at home!” he said, with an end of the world tone.

  “Honey, it’s okay. Just borrow someone else’s who has P.E. another period. Or just explain it to your teacher and wear what you have on.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I had said the wrong thing. Blake was my anxious child and a rule follower. He was not about to tell his teacher he forgot his gym clothes, or borrow some smelly clothes from another boy.

  “Mom, you don’t understand. This is very important. I’ll be in so much trouble if I don’t have them!”

  This would have been the typical situation that Adam would have handled. He would have left work, located the gym clothes in the laundry or in Blake’s room, under my direction, and taken them to school after saying to me, “Just tell me what I need to do,” knowing that I didn’t have that kind of flexibility in my job. But Adam was gone now and it was my problem to solve alone.

  “Buddy, Mom’s at work.”

  “Seriously, Mom, you just don’t get it, do you? This is non-negligible.”

  I chuckled inside, realizing he meant to say negotiable.

  “Okay, I’ll have to go to the house and get them, and then I will head your way. I’m about twenty minutes from the house, so it will take a little while,” I said, infused with as much cheerfulness as I could muster, given that I was on a stakeout of sorts that I was about to ditch.

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”

  I was still smiling when I hung up, feeling like Superwoman. It felt good to be needed again. Adam had needed me so much when he was sick that I felt a huge void when he died. What was I supposed to do with all those hours that I had spent changing bed pans and cutting food into tiny bits and measuring out and recording endless doses of medicine in a little notebook? It felt good to be able to help again, even if it was just something small like bringing Blake’s gym clothes to school.