Turning around, he scanned the restaurant in search of a waitress. Beyond the red vinyl booths he saw the hostess and a couple of waitresses huddled and talking. One of them looked at him, said something to the others, and started in his direction. Todd glanced quickly at his menu, wondering at the same time if they'd been back there talking about him.
“Good evening, sir,” said the waitress, a young blond woman with too much enthusiasm.
“Hi. I'd like—”
“How are you this evening?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Tonight's special is—”
“Just a bowl of chili and coffee, please.”
“Regular or decaf?”
If he were a born-and-bred Minnesotan he would have had the real stuff, but he wasn't. “Decaf.”
“Oh, sure.” She hesitated, seemed as if she were about to say something else, then scurried off.
Todd leaned forward, bowed his head into his hands, and contemplated not only what he'd been doing all his life but what had gotten him into this predicament in the first place. Ever since he'd gone into broadcast journalism—he'd taken his first job at a public television station in Peoria, Illinois, just two weeks after getting his degree from Northwestern University—he'd had but one agenda: the top. And all along he'd done everything that it took to get there, from going to the gym three times a week to recently dyeing his graying hair to being there, front and ready, for any story at any time of day, no matter if it was only a cat in distress. His former wife had said his ambition was what caused their divorce, but of course that hadn't been the case.
The waitress reappeared, placing a cup and a Thermos pitcher in front of him. She smiled, took a couple of creamers from a pouch tied around her waist, and slid them across the table.
“Say,” she started, “aren't you …”
Her words trailed off as she nodded out the window. He glanced to his left, looked past the parking lot at that frigging billboard.
“Yeah, that's me.”
She giggled, blushed, and said, “Oh, that's what we thought, the other girls and me. Gee, I've seen you on the TV too. Cool. I don't think there's ever been a celebrity in here before.”
“Oh.”
Such notoriety and adoration was all he'd wanted before, but now he understood what one worn-out television personality had once told him. Buddy, he'd said, the difference between being famous and not is the difference between making a conversation and having one. And he'd been totally right, Todd realized, for there was no way he could tell this young woman to hush up and get him his food.
The waitress hovered, asking, “Like, are you out here to do some exposé or something?” She glanced around nervously. “Wow, like, the television crew isn't going to burst through the doors and start filming a crime or something, is it? There really isn't much going on here. Our kitchen's really clean too. The health inspector was just here. I mean, he even ate here. And he paid. I took his money.” Her eyes opened wide. “Oh, my God, like, you don't think we're about to be robbed or anything, do you?”
“No, not at all. I'm not here to do a story.” He caught his breath, clenched his jaw, and as politely as he could at this particular time said, “I'm just here to have a nice, quiet meal.”
“Well, then, did you just come from something? You do a lot of the murder stuff, don't you? Was there another murder? Someone said there was a shooting out at the megamall again.”
“No, not that I know of.” Unable to keep up any pretense, his smile vanished.
“God, it's so cool that you're here and I'm waiting on you.”
“You don't suppose my order's ready, do you?”
“What?”
“Would you get my chili?”
“Oh, your chili. Oh, sure,” she said, turning and practically bouncing off.
He turned away, gazed outside at the huge image of himself. What had he been hoping? What had he wanted out of life? He'd been in therapy for over a year now, discussing every aspect of his childhood in a Polish neighborhood in Chicago, and his shrink was right. He didn't seek simply mass appeal, but mass approval. That was his secret fuel, the one that kept him going when things looked beyond hopeless. Then again, hadn't his father, a one-time medical student who'd emigrated to America after World War II and ended up a laborer in an automobile parts plant, also sought such a thing? Of course, that was where Todd had learned it. It was his father, after all, who'd changed the family name from Milkowski to Mills. It was his dad who had pushed Todd as well. Pushed and pushed, criticizing Todd when his grades weren't at the top, chastising him when he flubbed on the football team, and telling Todd whenever he simply wasn't good enough, for he'd been certain his boy Todd was to be the family hero, soaring to the highest heights in the New World.
Well, even though his dad had died four years ago, Todd had made it to those heights. Yesterday Stella, his agent, had called, informing him of what Todd already knew: Channel 7 was not just thrilled with Todd Mills, they were in love with him. And Todd Mills wasn't going merely to the top of Channel 7, he was going all the way. Big time. The nationals would take notice of him now, said Stella with complete conviction. The snowball had started rolling when Todd was nominated for the Emmys, then barreled along when he'd won them both, one for the report on the cop killing, the other for the story on that murdered kid. So now Channel 7 was about to offer him the anchor position, the one that would be opening up on the 6:00 P.M. news. He'd already filled in several times, proved that he could handle it with aplomb, so when the fabled Dave Ness, who'd already been anchor for a generation, retired, Todd Mills would step in and fill the legend. An announcement was to be made by the end of the week, and a publicity party was already in the works. A year or two there, Stella said, and then he'd be on his way. No CNN for you, she had said. Doll, you're going all the way—CBS, NBC, ABC, what's the diff.
Shit, thought Todd as he waited for that bowl of chili, how could he be so dumb? How could they? He'd hidden so long behind the word divorced, played up that image of the dashing jock reporter, his beautiful friend Janice Gray, a high-powered attorney, always on his arm, that he'd caught himself in a trap of his own making. He had to tell them now, blurt it out to his boss at the station. It wasn't too late. Not in the grand scheme of things.
Todd eyed the waitress, who was coming toward him with a beaming grin and a steaming bowl. Suddenly he knew he wouldn't be able to eat. In a burst of resolution he scooted out of the booth, took ten bucks, and slapped it down on the table. For the first time in his life he knew what he had to do, saw it before him with astonishing clarity. There it was, right in front of him, the cloud of fear finally lifting and exposing the answer.
There was still time to fix things. Absolutely. Last night they'd had a terrible fight. Last night he'd been certain that there was no other recourse but to break it off. But that wasn't right. Of course not. Love was love. And full of a giddy kind of excitement, he rushed out of the restaurant, surprisingly eager not only to apologize to Michael Carter, his secret lover of four years now, but to let Michael know that he was ready to come out of the closet. There was no other choice, none at all. Tonight he'd make up with Michael, and tomorrow he was going to tell Channel 7 that he, Todd Mills, was queer, queer, queer.
3
Just past nine that night one of the phones in the control room at Channel 7 started ringing, its shrill sound going on for nearly a minute. Finally, Brad Lewis, a young, red-haired technician who worked as the switcher, gave a good solid push with his feet and his four-wheeled chair went flying across the room.
Scooping up the receiver, Brad said, “Yo, control room.”
The line was quiet until a low voice said, “Go to 1603 West 23rd Street.”
Brad, who was gearing up for the 10:00 P.M. news, set down his Mountain Dew, which he'd been drinking nonstop for several hours. Immediately he started searching around the control panel for a pen. He found an old Bic, but there wasn't any paper, and he started mumbling
, for he hated it when outside calls were somehow routed through the control room. What was he, a receptionist?
He gave up on finding something to write on, and said, “Say what?”
“Go to 1603 West 23rd Street.” The voice paused. “Someone's been killed.”
Something within him tightened, sensing this was no prankster. He caught his breath. Damn it, what had they said at that meeting? In a saving moment, it all came back. Yes, he thought, his heart shot with an exhilarating fear. He knew what to do, for with the success of CrimeEye they'd all been warned. He hesitated as he wondered why anyone at the front desk hadn't caught this one.
Finally he scribbled the address on the palm of his hand and blurted, “I'm going to connect you to the CrimeEye line.” When there was only heavy breathing in reply, Brad added, “Don't hang up.”
He punched the hold button, dropped the receiver. Oh, shit, he thought, staring at the phone. Holy shit. He was a consummate switcher—he operated the control panel and would follow the news director's every command, switching from camera one to camera two to camera three, doing dissolves and fade-ups. But he regularly fucked up on the phone. Just last week he disconnected the phone twice. And something told him this time that he couldn't screw up. Pushing back his chair, he leapt to his feet, bolted out of the newsroom, and ran across the set of the 10:00 P.M. news.
Cindy Wilson was sitting in the CrimeEye office, quite bored and thinking about Todd Mills, hoping his time had come. She'd recently heard the rumor that he was to be promoted to the evening news, which would be fantastic, for that could only mean great things for her. Todd was the lead reporter on the CrimeEye team, and he always made sure he got the best stories. So if he was gone, didn't she have a reasonable shot at promotion? Hell, yes. In fact, they almost had to move her up into the lead position; otherwise she'd cry foul, loud and clear. Todd had been in on the initial planning of the show and he'd launched it, but after the first four months she'd been brought in for political reasons.
Although it was never stated forthrightly, the producers and management at Channel 7 needed a woman—not to mention an attractive, blond woman such as Cindy—on the CrimeEye team to present a more balanced and up-to-date approach in the male-dominated world of crime reporting. It wouldn't do to have cries of sexism. Absolutely not. So she was hired with a due amount of fanfare and was used often enough, although rarely on any of the violent, gory stories. She knew she was being used to rope in female viewership— or had she yet again been cast as the bimbo to lure the male audience?—but she was using the situation as well, reporting fairly and making a good living. And now that Todd was moving up, so would she, Cindy assumed. She'd have to work like hell, which she most certainly could, and as lead reporter on the CrimeEye team she hoped to God she'd earn herself at least one Emmy. Then her career would blast off just like Todd's.
She glanced at the clock, yawned, and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Either Todd or she was always at the station until midnight, because, of course, the dark hours were the witching ones. Tonight was awfully quiet, not like a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night, especially when the bars closed. Last month when everything was shutting down for the night she'd been called to the scene of a fight in a parking lot next to a biker bar.
She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a copy of Vogue. They should have an answering service for taking these calls, thought Cindy. They'd talked about that. Someone at a special switchboard twenty-four hours a day. Then one of them could be on call at home. She and Todd both lived in the city. It didn't take them long to get anywhere, particularly since they lived in different neighborhoods. Or forget that, she thought. They could be outfitted with cellular phones. That way they wouldn't have to be so tied to—
Her office door exploded open, and one of the switchers from the control room came charging in.
“Line three!” he shouted.
She saw his reddened face, heard his desperation, and knew this was a live one. And instinctively Cindy Wilson was calm, which was her best quality as a television journalist. She didn't overreact, didn't get nervous. No, in a tense or demanding situation something else within her kicked in. Control. Her baby brother had suffered severely from Down syndrome, finally dying from an enlarged heart at age seventeen. Yet dear, sweet Eddie hadn't been the hard one to deal with. No, it had been his and Cindy's mother, who alternated between hysteria and depression, so distressed was she by the child she had borne. And with Cindy's father absent more often than not, it had been Cindy herself who had kept the household on track. So whatever this now was, whoever was calling, she'd handle it. Hell, yes. That inner strength clicked on, that one that told her she was going somewhere, right to the top.
She reached for the phone, took the receiver, and saw the tape machine automatically kick on, not only for accuracy but also for legal protection. She cleared her throat, for she'd learned long ago that whoever was calmest usually was victorious. That, and the tape of this emergency call might be used in the report. And she was damn sure going to come across as the ace reporter. A woman who could handle it all.
But when she went to press line three, there was no light. Her heart quivered with a ping of electricity, for she saw that in fact none of the lines was lit. Fearing they'd lost this one, she quickly punched the button for the third line, pressed the receiver close to her ear.
“Hello?” she demanded. “Hello? This is the CrimeEye line. Is …”
Nothing. Only the drone of a dial tone. Like a speed typist, she hit the next button. Then the next. Moving all across the phone, all through the lines.
“Shit,” she gasped, looking up at the red-headed Brad. “There's no one there. They hung up.”
“Oh, man. Oh, no.”
She saw the panic in Brad's face and knew it had been a hot one.
Cindy kept her voice even and steady, and asked, “What did they say?”
“I … I was in there. In the control room. And the phone rang. I mean, I just thought it was a normal call for someone and—”
“Brad, what did they say?”
“Someone was killed.”
A murder. They were the best, really juiced up the viewership. And he'd lost the damn call. She bit her bottom lip, clenched a fist in her lap. It wouldn't do any good to get mad at Brad. Not until she'd gotten as much out of him as possible.
“Who was it, a man or a woman?” demanded Cindy.
“A … a …” Brad jammed a hand into his hair, looked up with a sudden shot of fear. “Fuck, I don't know. It was just a deep voice. I thought it was a man, but I don't know. It could have been a woman, you know, someone with a smoky voice. But I don't know. I don't. I mean, I'm not sure.”
“Well, what did they say? Think real carefully. Just calm down. You picked up the phone and … and …”
“I picked it up and … and they said someone was killed.”
“Just like that? Did they say where? Did they say anything else, like where it happened or where they were calling from?”
Brad froze. He took his hand from his hair, dropped the hand, opened it. And stared into his palm.
Finally he looked up at Cindy and muttered, “From 1603 23rd Street.”
“Perfect,” she said, her face blooming into a broad smile. “What else?”
“No, nothing. Just 1603 23rd Street, someone's been killed. Wait, I think they said west. Right, 1603 West 23rd Street.”
“No, shit. West? You're sure of that?”
“Yeah.”
That would be Kenwood. A murder in Kenwood was big time.
“This is hot, way hot.” Quickly reaching for the phone, Cindy glanced up at Brad, who just stood there, not sure what to do, and she snapped, “Go on, get Mark! He's still around somewhere. Tell him to get his camera. The van's in the back. Just don't stand there, we've got a murder!”
Brad bolted from the doorway. “Right.”
Hesitantly, she added, “And get someone to page Todd!”
“Sure.�
�
“Hurry, I want to try and get there before the police!”
She knew the procedure all too well. They had it all planned out. It was always tempting not to call the police until they were already at the scene. But the lawyers wouldn't have it. Nor the producers. If they obstructed anything or delayed the police even for one instant, they could get their asses sued backward and forward. So she cleared her voice. Steadied herself. Damn, but she loved this, getting a hot one before the police. And she was sure she was getting it first. Why else the odd phone call and the hang up? Maybe it was even the murderer. That would be only too great.
As she dialed 911, she looked over, saw the tape recorder click on, and knew they'd probably be using this in the report. She thought of calling in her cameraman, Mark, and getting him to film her while she was on the phone. But they could do that later, reenact her picking up the phone and calling the cops. That could be the lead-in for the story. And they could do a voice-over of the actual recording of her phoning in the murder.
When the emergency operator picked up, Cindy reported, “Hello, this is Cindy Wilson from the Channel Seven CrimeEye team.” She sounded professional, trustworthy, and exactly what white Middle America wanted on their late news. “We've just received an emergency call from the city's blue-heeled Kenwood area. We have a report of a murder at 1603 West 23rd Street. Are you aware of the crime?”
The operator coolly replied, “That's not information I'm allowed to give out. Let me repeat the address you gave me.”
Cindy listened and replied, “That's correct.” Then for drama she tossed in, “The CrimeEye team is on the way. We'll meet and assist the police at the scene of the crime.”
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