Shot Girl

by Karen E. Olson

  I sighed. "On the advice of my attorney, I can’t say." Okay, so my mother might have told Bill Bennett, Charlie’s boss, about what was going down last night, but then again, she might not have. I wasn’t going to spill the beans if I didn’t have to.

  "You won’t tell us?" Charlie was incredulous; Marty still hadn’t said anything.

  "All you have to know is that they let me go. I wasn’t charged with anything. Ralph was not murdered. There is no problem." I wasn’t sure about that last one, but hell, it sounded good.

  Charlie didn’t think so. He puffed up his cheeks and blew a blast of air out at me. He’d had garlic the night before, no mistaking that. "Well, Annie, I’m going to have to do something you won’t like."

  My entire body tensed as my stomach dropped.

  "I think it might be best to give you a break from the police beat for a while. Dick Whitfield can cover for you. With Renee Chittenden off for three weeks, you can fill her beat until she returns. When she returns, we can reassess the situation."

  Marty’s face was blank. I wanted him to stand up and say, "No, this wasn’t Annie’s fault. She doesn’t have to be punished." But he didn’t. He just sat there, picking at imaginary lint on his trouser leg, not even looking at me. Coward.

  Renee covered the social services beat. That meant stories about the homeless and benefits for sick children and dealing with the local clergy. All things that require compassion. I wasn’t good at compassion. I opened my mouth to say so, but instead of my voice, I heard Marty say, "Annie will do whatever you want, Charlie."

  Within seconds, Marty was pushing me out the door and back into the newsroom, through the sports department, and around the corner toward the cafeteria. He stopped in front of all the plaques declaring various people EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH. The way my life was going, I’d never see that. I told people it was a stupid award, but secretly I’d always wanted to be recognized for doing a kick-ass job. Unfortunately, my ass was usually the one that got kicked, and I was feeling the pain of that today.

  "You will do Renee’s job," Marty said softly, shaking his head when I opened my mouth to speak. I shut my mouth and listened. I don’t do that much, but Marty rarely looked as concerned as he did right then. "I don’t know what’s going on, but if you want to keep your job here, you’d better do what Charlie says." He paused, looking around a second to make sure no one was coming, then added, "He wanted to suspend you."

  Anger rose in my chest. I hadn’t been charged; this was ridiculous. If Charlie had suspended me, I would’ve had my mother find me a good labor lawyer and sued his ass. Maybe I should just quit.

  But then what would I do? I wasn’t cut out for doing anything else. Being a journalist was all I knew. This was all I ever wanted to do. And with newspaper cut-backs and layoffs lately, where else would I find a job?

  Marty knew what I was thinking—we’d known each other a long time—and he nodded. The anger subsided. He’d gone to bat for me, and I owed him big-time, so much so that I’d have to look deep into my soul and see if any compassion existed there. And if it didn’t, I’d have to pretend.

  "Thanks, Marty."

  "What the hell’s going on?"

  "Tom found my gun in my car. There were .22 shell casings in the street near Ralph’s body. But Ralph wasn’t shot." I paused, thinking about what Tom had said on the phone. "Something was up with Ralph, though. Tom was evasive when I asked, said they’re looking for his girlfriend. Even though he died of natural causes, something was going on, and it’s not over yet."

  That got his attention.

  "But since I’m not covering cops right now, I can’t really get into it." I looked into Marty’s eyes. "Can I?"

  Marty bit his lip; he was wondering if I could. Finally, "Lay off this weekend, but if you ask around, I don’t know about it, okay?"

  I nodded. "Know about what?"

  He smirked.

  We started back toward the newsroom.

  "So what should I work on?" I had no clue how to cover social services. The thought of Dick Whitfield finally getting my beat, even temporarily, was getting in the way of finding compassion. I bit back a snide remark.

  "Reverend Shaw is working with high school students from the West Rock projects at the nature center there. They’ve planted a community garden. We need a story for Monday, and I know you’re on the weekend shift, so you can work on that today and tomorrow." Marty’s eyes conveyed his apologies. "You can do it," he said, and I felt like Rocky when Burgess Meredith was encouraging him to get back in the ring even though he was beat-up and bleeding.

  "The good reverend is a fraud," I said quietly. No one knew if Shaw was really a minister; he had no church, appearing out of nowhere a year ago to "give to the community." With a flamboyant air, he crashed into our little city like he was getting Jesse Jackson’s speaking fees. He’d become a victims’ advocate, a gadfly with a loud voice throughout the city. He fought with the city for money for after-school programs for underprivileged kids and raised hell when it was suggested the cops wanted a lockdown at one of the city projects. No one knew how he made a living; he seemed to have a stream of unlimited cash, but no one questioned as long as he helped. I’d Googled him at one point, after the lockdown rumors, but nothing came up except stories from the Herald; it was like he’d never existed before he came to New Haven.

  He nodded. "Yeah, I know. But it’s a story, and if you do it, you’ll redeem yourself."

  We walked slowly back to the newsroom, trying to act casual but without any food or drink from the cafeteria, which would’ve raised red flags if anyone had been paying attention. Dick was still at his desk, Charlie still in his office. The other metro editors were doing whatever they did at this time of day, and no other reporters had come in yet. The business editor was hunched over his desk, the Wall Street Journal spread out in front of him, the features editor was on the phone, and the clerk was silently putting mail in everyone’s slots along the side wall.

  Marty found the Reverend Shaw’s phone number in Renee’s Rolodex and brought it over to me. He was doing that only because he was feeling like shit.

  "Thanks," I said to him again, wondering if I was going to have to keep apologizing forever.

  I itched to call Vinny, just to hear a friendly voice, but dialed Shaw instead.

  "Yes, how can I help you?" he asked when I identified myself. His voice was deep, smooth as chocolate. It was a voice that sounded trustworthy, but I wasn’t going to let myself get sucked in.

  "I’m doing a story about the community garden," I said, my voice stiff. Hell, I can ask the medical examiner about cause of death, how deep those stab wounds were, but this was completely unnatural for me. For a brief second I wondered if I’d been a cop reporter too long.

  Nah.

  "I was hoping we could get together sometime today and talk about it." Nothing like perseverance and Charlie Simmons watching me from the doorway of his office.

  "We can meet at the garden. How delightful." Who the hell talks like that? "How about in an hour? There are several young people I’d love for you to meet."

  Yeah, and I’d probably be the fucking highlight of their day, too. I agreed and hung up, realizing it was lunchtime and I’d have to get something to eat before I met with Shaw. I picked up my bag but had one more thing to do before I left. I’d need a photographer. This could be dicey, since Ben Riordan, the photo editor, liked everything scheduled by three p.m. the day before. Unless it was breaking news, getting a photographer to actually shoot something without a formal typewritten photo assignment was like getting management to give us a ten percent pay increase.

  Fortunately, the photo editor was nowhere to be seen. But photographer/miracle worker Wesley Bell was Photoshopping an illustration for the Sunday health and science page. It was obviously a story about the dangers of poison ivy, because the young woman in the illustration was shown from the back, naked except for a trail of poison ivy from her shoulder to her ass. It was pretty provocat
ive, but at the same time pretty cool. I wondered how the public would take it while drinking their Sunday morning coffee.

  "Neat picture," I said, looking over Wesley’s shoulder. "Who’s the girl?" The photographers liked to use the rest of us as their guinea pigs for these illustrations. We had a lot of fun trying to figure out whose eyes were in the picture for the glaucoma story or whose biceps were accompanying the piece about how to stay fit after the holidays.

  "Intern," Wesley said, adding a few more leaves to make sure the girl’s ass crack was covered up.

  The Herald hired college journalism students for the summer as unpaid interns. They would get class credit, but no cash for their efforts. They were like child labor, writing actual stories because our staff was so depleted because of vacations. This girl was hard to recognize, since her face wasn’t showing. Her mass of dark hair was pulled up in a makeshift bun. But the one thing that wasn’t left to the imagination was the slender body that the swag of poison ivy couldn’t disguise.

  "Who is she?" I asked. "Haven’t seen her around here yet."

  Wesley clicked the mouse and said, "She just started this week, but she’s only working half-time because she’s got some paying job at night. Goes to Southern. Name’s Felicia."

  Chapter 8

  "Felicia" isn’t one of those popular names. And a night job? Shot girls work at night.

  Because I’m socially inept, Tom had to explain that a shot girl works at a bar, buying shots in test tubes at cost and then selling them independently for the same price but getting huge tips because the girls are usually attractive. They also allow the men in the bar to buy them shots, which means they get shitfaced and, ultimately, pretty friendly with their clientele. Tom also said shot girls are usually college students who can make upwards of three hundred dollars in profit every night.

  Nice money if you can stand the work.

  I wondered if the Herald’s Felicia was Ralph’s Felicia. Damn Tom and Jack Hammer for making me curious about the girl. Tom seemed to have a real reason to try to find her, but why would Jack even bring her up? What did he know? I should’ve pressed him for his phone number.

  But right now I couldn’t worry about that. I had to get someone out to shoot the garden. I explained the situation to Wesley, who knit his brow in a frown.

  "Not supposed to do that without an assignment," he said.

  "Where’s Ben?"

  "Lunch."

  I had a shot. "Come on, Wesley. I just found out about this assignment, and you’d do a great job with it." I wasn’t bullshitting, either. I knew if anyone could make this interesting, he could.

  Wesley sighed. "I’ve got a little time before my next assignment. I could run over there. But if anyone’s running late, I won’t be able to stay."

  I had a feeling Shaw would make sure everyone was there when he said they would be. I nodded and thanked him, stopping by Marty’s desk on the way out.

  "Going to meet with Shaw in an hour. Wesley’s going to shoot something."

  Marty smiled. "That’s great, Annie," he said, like he was praising a goddamn puppy. "I’ll make sure to fill out an assignment sheet to cover our asses with Ben." I knew he was doing that to try to make me feel better that I was being forced into it. I wasn’t going to argue with him.

  I started to leave, but then stopped. "Wesley says we’ve hired some intern named Felicia."

  Jane Ferraro, one of the paper’s three suburban editors, swiveled in her chair so fast I thought she was going to get whiplash. "Have you seen her?" she demanded, but not in a bad way. I liked Jane; she’d been hired about six months before and had the type of Mary Pop-pins /no-nonsense attitude that was necessary when dealing with bureau reporters just out of college who thought they were the next Anderson Cooper and why-the-hell-did-they-have-to-work-in-this-shithole-for-nothing- wasting-their-talents. Most of them had a long way to go, and Jane was doing the best she could to bring them along and turn them into real journalists.

  "I saw a picture of her naked with poison ivy on her ass," I offered. "But that’s about it."

  Jane shook her head. "We need to pay these interns," she lamented. "Sometimes they show up, sometimes they don’t. Felicia was supposed to be at a chamber of commerce meeting this morning in Ansonia but didn’t show. Can’t get her on her cell, and that’s the only number I’ve got for her. I tried to find her parents in the book, but no dice."

  "What’s her last name?" I asked, immediately regretting it when I saw Jane’s expression change.

  "Why?"

  I shrugged. "Just curious."

  "Kowalski."

  "From the Valley?"

  Jane nodded. Figured. The Naugatuck Valley was full of people of Polish descent. At least this name was easy to pronounce and spell. Some of them, we just had to wing it. "I’m surprised her first name isn’t Sonia."

  Jane chuckled. "She told me her mother named her after some character on a soap opera."

  I knew immediately what she was talking about. I’d been a General Hospital addict for a while back in the late 1980s, and Frisco and Felicia were the new Luke and Laura when that plot got too old. But I wasn’t going to admit that to Jane—or Marty, who was listening to the conversation.

  "Why the interest, Annie?" Marty asked.

  I shrugged. "Someone at the Rouge Lounge mentioned a Felicia. Tom said she was a shot girl."

  Jane and Marty exchanged a look I couldn’t read.

  "She wasn’t involved, was she?" Jane asked.

  "So our Felicia is a shot girl at night?"

  Jane nodded. "Did you see her there?"

  I shook my head. "No. Someone told me she knew Ralph, the manager who died."

  "I thought he was murdered," Jane said.

  I looked at Marty. I didn’t want to get into it. "Listen, I have to get going. I need to meet Shaw in less than an hour."

  "If you hear anything else about her," Jane said, "let me know. The mayor was pretty pissed no one showed this morning. If she wants to be a reporter, she’s got to learn she can’t blow shit off just because she might have had a late night."

  Halfway through the sandwich, my cell phone rang. Pulling it out of my bag, I glanced at the number.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Hey, yourself." Vinny’s voice was playful. "How are you?"

  I told him about my "demotion" and that I was heading to meet up with Shaw. "This sucks," I said, finishing the last of my pastrami.

  "You’re expanding your horizons," he suggested.

  "Fuck you."

  "Come on, Annie, it’s not forever."

  "Yeah, I guess." I downed the last of my iced tea. "You know, there’s this girl Ralph was seeing. Tom was really interested in trying to find her, and one of those strippers last night, Jack Hammer—I think I told you about him—he said I might want to find her. I may have a lead on her. She’s one of our interns from Southern. And it seems she didn’t show up this morning for an assignment."

  Vinny was so quiet I thought I lost him. "Hello?" I asked.

  "I’m here. You’re sure no one’s heard from Felicia?" "No," I said automatically before it struck me. I hadn’t said her name. Just as I was about to ask how he knew it, he said, "I’ll see you around seven," and the call really did end.

  Chapter 9

  I tried to call Vinny back, but his voice mail picked up. I put the phone down on the table. How the hell would Vinny be involved with this? How did he know her name? The questions swirled around in my head, landing somewhere unexpected. Why had Vinny been in my apartment yesterday morning when I wasn’t there? Walter said he saw him. Even though Vinny and I had exchanged keys, we were pretty respectful of each other’s privacy.

  I pushed my thoughts aside—there was nothing I could do about it now—and concentrated on where I was heading: West Rock. To get there, I’d have to go through the campus of Southern Connecticut State University, where Felicia Kowalski was matriculated. If I had time after my interview with Shaw, maybe I’d stop over at the
journalism department, see if I could find Ned Winters or someone else who could shed some light on this girl. It wasn’t like I wasn’t familiar with the territory. I’d gotten my journalism degree there—two years after Ralph got his.

  My mother hadn’t been too happy I went to a state school. She’d had bigger plans for me: Yale, Harvard, Princeton—even New York University would’ve been more acceptable. But I wasn’t smart enough, not in that way you needed to be to get into schools like that. My high school grades were passable, but even then I wanted to be a journalist and spent a lot of my time putting together the school newspaper rather than studying science or math.

  I’m sure Vinny would’ve been happy to tutor me—he admitted he’d had a crush on me back then—but I just wasn’t interested in anything else.

  I snorted. Wouldn’t you know I’d end up with some shit beat because of Ralph. He’d always outshone me. I stayed in the background, letting him be first, allowing myself to wait for my own chance, once he had his. What an idiot I’d been.

  I took a deep breath, not wanting to remember. Not wanting to bring it all back. But the emotions that hadn’t come while I saw his body on the sidewalk came rushing at me now, and I knew the wounds hadn’t healed like I’d thought; maybe that was why I’d been so commitment phobic with Tom and I couldn’t use the right words to tell Vinny how I felt about him.

  I should get a goddamn Ph.D. for figuring that out.

  Ralph had fucked me up big-time. I was glad I’d at least had the last word.

  I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.

  Shaw pulled off thick gardening gloves to shake my hand.

  "I’ve read your articles, Ms. Seymour. You’re doing a fine job," he praised, his white teeth gleaming. He’d had money at some point for braces. No one had teeth that straight naturally.

  "Thank you, but please call me Annie," I said, trying to keep my voice light, like I didn’t think he was going to pickpocket me at any second. It didn’t matter that he looked like a regular guy—that was the problem. He wasn’t a regular guy, but he wanted me to think he was.