Boom-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  I bought Kerry and Sandra — Linda’s daughter — each a carton of milk, got bottled waters for Linda and me, and filled my tray with more than enough selections of goodies for all four of us. While carrying the tray in one hand, I pushed Kerry in her stroller through a doorway to the right of the last glass case, where we entered into a second bay about 1500 square feet in size.

  Sound reverberated through the minimally decorated room making conversation difficult, especially when kids began crying. I selected a four-top table in the corner hoping it wouldn’t be too noisy. I needed to talk to Linda.

  Setting the tray on the table, I secured Kerry in a booster chair. I sat down as Linda walked in. She pushed Sandra — a toddler the same age as Kerry — in a stroller.

  I’d met Linda at Hamlin Park a little over a year ago. A University of Chicago-trained attorney, with an undergraduate degree in accounting and computer science from the same institution, she worked at defending people accused of white-collar computer crime before she went on a stay-at-home-mommy hiatus.

  She is a woman who is comfortable in a black power suit, black pumps, and a high neck, white blouse, carrying a designer briefcase into a courtroom. Now in the middle trimester of her second pregnancy, she wore a shapeless, green maternity top and white shorts. She looked like a plump olive stuck on a long toothpick.

  “I need your expertise with the financial research on a potential story,” I said, diving right into the reason we were there.

  Kerry and Sandra munched on their donuts and drank their milk. Linda took a yellow legal pad and pen out of her backpack and put the items on the table. And then she stopped.

  “A problem?” I asked.

  “A tiny one. What does this pay?”

  “Pay?”

  “Yes, as in billable hours. I usually charge seven hundred fifty dollars an hour. Because you’re my best friend, I’ll discount the fee to five hundred dollars an hour.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  She swept her shoulder-length hair behind both ears. “I never kid about billable hours.”

  15

  I pulled out two eleven-inch metal knitting needles, a ball of yarn, and Kerry’s partially finished baby blanket from my backpack.

  Linda stared at my knitting. “Oh my God! Tina, you’re pregnant! I’m so happy for you!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In your March article, you wrote how — when Kerry was born — your mother expected you to bring your new baby home from the hospital in a blanket you’d knitted. You’re knitting. There’s only one logical conclusion.”

  “Yeah, about that. I bought Kerry’s blanket on Amazon. It even had her name added to the border. But don’t tell my mother that the next time you see her.”

  “Then you’re not pregnant?”

  “Nope, but Carter wishes I were. He wants a son, but I’m not ready to have a baby.”

  “Why not?”

  “Good question. Not sure.”

  She pointed at the needles in my hands. “Then why are you knitting?”

  “It relaxes me.”

  “Is our discussion causing you to feel stressed?”

  “A little. I can’t afford your fee, and I’m worried you won’t help me.”

  “If you want me to work pro bono, what’s in it for me?”

  “How about being part of a fabulous story? Won’t that be enough?”

  “Please. This is billable hours you’re talking about.” She tapped her pen on the legal pad. “I assume this for your local column.”

  “It might be.”

  “But could it be for a real newspaper?”

  “Maybe, but researching and writing it would take an enormous amount of my time.”

  She doodled on the pad. “What about book or film rights?”

  Every lawyer I know is an aspiring author or screenwriter.

  “If the story turns out to be the real deal, it could be a fabulous book or a movie.”

  “I would be interested in that.”

  “Okay. If a newspaper wants to publish my story, I’ll make sure to retain film and book rights. If you do this research for me, I’ll give them to you for free. But only if you hire me to write the book or screenplay.”

  “I can work with that. I’ll retain the ownership and give you a percentage of the profits instead of a fee for writing the manuscript or screen play.”

  I knew my friend and didn’t need to ask if she was talking about gross or net profits. It would be net, the much smaller amount.

  “Great.”

  “I’ll type up a contract for you to sign.” She made a note on her yellow legal pad and then raised her head. “Give me a dollar.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  I reached in my backpack and pulled out a dollar. I handed it to her.

  “I’m now your lawyer of record. What we discuss about this case is a privileged communication.”

  “Meaning you can’t tell anyone about it without my permission.”

  “You got it.”

  16

  “Since we’re talking about money, what do you get paid by the Lakeview Times?” Linda asked.

  “One hundred dollars for each published story,” I said.

  “That’s all?” She made a note on her pad. “I wouldn’t turn my computer on for that. Why bother?”

  “After not being in a newsroom for almost five years, I realized writing is who I am. Being a mommy and a wife is fabulous, but if I can’t write stories, there’s a huge hole in my life.”

  “I get that. I lived for depositions when I kicked ass. I also miss the money.”

  Kerry began to fidget. “Honey, would you like to do a coloring book?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh, Momma.”

  I pulled out a Dora the Explorer coloring book and crayons from my backpack and put them on the table in front of her. Before Sandra began complaining, Linda did the same thing with a Curious George sticker book.

  “Where were we?” She glanced at her yellow pad. “Okay, here it is. Why are you working for the Lakeview Times?”

  “It was the only job I could find.”

  “That’s hard to believe. When I first met you, I researched you online. You were nominated for two Pulitzer Prizes.”

  “My stories were critically acclaimed, but Carter won the Pulitzer.”

  “I saw that too. But that doesn’t explain why you would ever work for one hundred dollars a story. It’s insulting.”

  “Because of what happened in Arlington, the Suits at the Post canned me.”

  Linda and Lyndell were my only Chicago friends who knew about my debacle in Arlington, but I hadn’t told her this part.

  “You were fired for being blown up? That’s preposterous. I should have been your lawyer for that one. When I’d finished with them, we would have been rich.”

  “In D.C. the FBI carries a lot of weight. The FBI agent told me not to go into the abortion clinic, but I did anyway. The agent claimed that when the bomber saw me he prematurely detonated the bomb.”

  I didn’t tell her that I’d hesitated when I had the chance to shoot the bomber, giving him time to grab the girl and then blow the device. My surgery scars were a constant reminder I should have pulled the trigger when I had a clear shot.

  If I ever get a chance like that again, I won’t hesitate.

  “The entire newspaper industry knew what had happened to me,” I continued. “I quit writing, but not to have a baby or write a book. The bosses at the Post threw me out because I made a mistake chasing a story. And then I had Kerry and was content until I met you in the park last year and decided to write about it.”

  She tapped her pen on the yellow pad. “Redemption.”

  “What?”

  “You want to write this story, or one like it, to redeem yourself in the industry.”

  “I guess I never thought about it like that, but you’re right. I want to prove I still have it, and they made a mistake firing me.”<
br />
  “Then let’s get to work. But give me another donut first. I’m pregnant. I can’t think with low blood sugar.”

  17

  Linda munched on a glazed donut.

  “For starters, I need the details about the finances of a corporation listed as the owner of a residential house,” I said.

  Beginning with the address of my newest neighbor’s house, I told her what I’d discovered about the Arun Corporation in Delaware.

  “But I don’t know his name and how to hack into the company’s computers to follow the money trail,” I continued.

  Linda furrowed her brow. “Do you think you’re trying too hard to find a story here?”

  Hate to admit it but she might be right.

  “I hope not, but I really need a real story.”

  “What else do you have?”

  “Ten boxes of computer screens and other electronic gear were delivered to his garage.”

  “Now, that is interesting.” She tapped her pen on the pad. “He could be into online fraud or credit card theft. Or gambling, either online or old-fashioned bookmaking. Or drugs, street or prescription, but in our neighborhood most likely prescription. Could be a bookie, and there’s an outside chance he’s handling online prostitution.”

  “Best guess?”

  “Computer fraud.” She checked her notes and then looked up. “As your lawyer, I have to advise you that he’s likely computer savvy, and he won’t like us snooping into his files.”

  “Are you suggesting this could be dangerous?”

  “I am, especially if it involves sizable sums of money. If he discovers what I’m doing, I’ll quit. It isn’t worth the risk.”

  “If I were paying you seven hundred fifty dollars per hour, would you still say that to me?”

  “Of course not. But I would demand a sizable upfront cash retainer.”

  Gotta love Linda.

  18

  On Wednesday morning, I was about three miles into my run when my cell phone rang. I pulled out the ear buds and put the phone on speaker allowing me to keep running.

  “Tina, this is Gayle.”

  Oh, boy.

  I stopped running.

  Gayle Nystrom is the publisher and sole editor of the Lakeview Times. She has never worked on any newspaper with a circulation bigger than her college daily. And her job there involved the money side of publishing, not the editorial content. Initially, my writing experience had awed her, but she wasn’t intimidated any longer. From the icy tone of her voice, there was only one reason she’d called me.

  Earlier that morning, before Kerry and Carter were awake, I’d emailed her the Mixmaster story for my column even though it wasn’t due until July fourteenth. I had submitted it because I didn’t have any more creative ideas about what I could do to fix it. I hated the piece and wanted it out of my sight. I hadn’t even considered asking Carter to read the final version, which I usually did.

  “Did you like it?” I asked, hoping she saw something in it I’d missed.

  “It’s worse than your karaoke story, which I reluctantly printed. I’m completely underwhelmed by your Mixmaster story.”

  “Were there specific parts that bothered you?”

  The line was silent a few seconds. “It lacked the warm emotions you displayed in the marvelous baby blanket column in March,” she said. “Your voice in this article is almost detached.”

  Because it bored me to tears.

  “And you turned in the story before your deadline,” she continued. “Does this mean you feel it’s finished?”

  “I do.”

  “Then, I’m sorry, but I won’t print your July column.”

  Gayle hadn’t liked any of the stories I’d written since the knitting baby blankets story in March. She’d published my April column, which she had called “lackluster,” but she didn’t run the May story about women who played bridge in Lakeview.

  “I expect more from a writer with your background and experience.”

  She is pissed.

  “Work with me here.”

  I remained silent.

  “If you can’t come up with better stories, I’ll terminate your contract.”

  She disconnected before I could defend myself. If I didn’t find a first-rate story before my August eleventh deadline, I would be canned from the only writing job I could find.

  I called Linda and told her what had happened.

  “She can’t fire you,” she said. “I won’t let her.” She began talking faster. “When I get done with her, she won’t even have a newspaper.”

  “Might want to back off on that right now. What I need is a story, and the sooner the better.”

  “It would be more fun to sue her, but I’ll start working on it this afternoon.”

  19

  I started to run again and called Lyndell on speaker phone. I didn’t mention Gayle Nystrom’s threat to fire me because it was embarrassing. Telling Linda was different. She was my BFF and now my lawyer.

  “Any new information on the neighbor?” I asked, hoping to push the story forward.

  “He doesn’t leave through the front door of the house,” she said. “I saw the black Mercedes drive in and out of his alley early in the morning, at noon, and then, again, later in the afternoon. The car’s windows are dark so I can’t see who is driving. And I still can’t read the license plate.”

  “What about the white van?”

  “I haven’t seen it again.”

  “You are so sweet to do this. Keep it up. It’s exactly what I need.”

  As I ran home, I began scoping out cars whizzing by me. Running south on Paulina toward our house, a black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows passed by me and turned into the alley behind the new neighbor’s house.

  Is it his car?

  Jogging in place on the north side of the alley’s entrance, I peeked around the corner and watched as the Mercedes pulled into the garage of the fourth house on the left.

  His house!

  If I could snag his license plate number, I was in business. I would run a DMV search for his name and follow that with a background investigation on him.

  I waited to see if the driver exited into the alley or the garage’s side door behind the fence. When the garage door began to go down, I had my answer. He’d gone in through the side door, and because of the fence, he couldn’t see what I was about to do.

  Sprinting down the alley, I screeched to a halt in front of his garage.

  Security cameras?

  I didn’t have time to do more than a cursory scan of the eaves on the garage and didn’t see any cameras.

  Go for it!

  Grabbing the trash can next to me, I shoved it under the door. When the bottom of the door hit the top of the can, the door stopped closing and creaked back up. There were two vehicles: the black Mercedes I’d seen and a black Range Rover. There were still several boxes stacked against the sidewalls of the garage next to the Range Rover.

  Pulling out my cell phone, I snapped a picture of the rear license plate on each vehicle and the boxes and slid the can back into its original position. As I did, I heard the back door of the house open and then close.

  Run!

  I made a mad dash toward the end of the alley, sprinting on my toes to dampen the sound of my footfalls. When I whipped around the corner of the alley toward our house, a car engine fired up behind me.

  Yikes!

  Lowering my head, I pumped my arms harder, racing at full speed past the front of our home and into our alley. I hid behind our trash cans for ten minutes.

  If the man thought he forgot to push the switch to lower his garage door, he wouldn’t be troubled when he climbed into his car and discovered the open door. If not, or if he’d seen me on a security camera I hadn’t spotted, I might have a problem.

  20

  Thursday morning, I finally found time to go down to the office and boot up my computer while Kerry took her morning nap. I downloaded the pictures I’d taken of the vehic
les and boxes in the garage. The Range Rover blocked the writing printed on the boxes.

  No help there.

  I entered the plate numbers on the Illinois DMV website. In thirty seconds, I had the registrations for the Mercedes and the Range Rover on the screen in front of me. The Arun Corporation owned both vehicles. I called Linda.

  “Are you going to spinning class?” I asked.

  “I am.”

  “We need to talk. See you there.”

  After Kerry woke up, I took her and her two friends and headed for the eleven o’clock spinning class at XSport Fitness, our neighborhood exercise club. It’s on North Ashland, two blocks east of our front door. It has all the gear a fitness junkie could want, advertising more exercise equipment per square foot than any other club in the North Side of Chicago. There is the added benefit of cheap and reliable childcare for Kerry while I work out.

  Linda and I walked to the back of the packed spinning room. The irritating odor of cleaning products and hand sanitizer collided with the pleasant smell of hair sprays and colognes brought in by the riders, the majority of whom were female. Our spinning instructor, Cassandra Olson, wanted the room temperature frigid. The goose bumps on my arms proved she got what she wanted.

  I’d met Cas at Hamlin Park shortly after my first encounter there with Linda. She is about six inches shorter than my five feet eight. She has minimal body fat and chiseled muscles, especially her legs and shoulders. With her dark-brown eyes, black hair, and olive skin she resembles Eva Longoria on steroids.