by Clea Simon
He was right, of course. Hearing them again – that combo of hooks and rhythm, the whiplash guitar and Phil’s command of the stage – helped hone her sensibilities. Not so much her critical abilities – she always knew what she liked, right from the start – but what worked. What would connect with the leather and denim crowd she was so eager to join. By comparing the Whirled Shakers with the Exiles, she learned about the range of the rock world. Its capabilities, so that by the time she heard the Aught Nines – the new Aught Nines, with Chris Crack – she could speak with authority.
She thinks of that, on her way back to Zeron. Remembers the thrill. Being lightheaded from forgetting to breathe.
‘They’re something, huh?’ Gina, slimmer then. Her lipstick wet and bright.
‘Really.’ It was all the response she could conjure but it was enough. Gina had taken her hand and dragged her out, the floor already filling up.
Maybe Phil was right, she thinks now, as she enters the antiseptic office building. As she returns to her current job. The day job. Maybe she should call Gina. But he’s wrong that they were his only fans. Scott knew. He always knew the band was great. He was the one who had sent her there to cover them.
Her cell begins ringing as she gets off the elevator, but she reaches into her bag to silence it. She’s been out for nearly two hours, and she doesn’t like the looks.
‘Dentist.’ She mouths the word as she walks by Rebecca’s desk. Only after does she realize that anyone walking by would have seen her, sitting by that big window. Fuck it, she tries to buck herself up. Wasn’t it Rebecca who was pushing her to join that lunch dates club? Wasn’t she wondering if she was sick of this job anyway?
As she walks to her office, she hears that phone begin to ring. For an awful moment she fears the worst. Her parents, back in Ohio. Peter. Min. She races the last few steps and grabs it, breathless from the fear.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, you’re answering now.’ Peter, so annoyed he could be the one vibrating. Not an emergency then.
‘Did you just try my cell?’ She fishes it out of her bag. No, it’s another number – no ID. Local.
‘Please.’ Peter’s voice drips acid. ‘You’re in enough trouble there. What the fuck, Tara? That’s a good gig you’ve got.’
‘Excuse me?’ She keeps her voice down as she walks to the door. Closes it as much as she dares, then returns to her desk, turning her chair to face the wall. ‘May I ask what you’re talking about?’ She’s not whispering, but her voice is low. Inaudible, she hopes, from the hall, and chilly. She knows Peter, and she can do cool, too.
‘Your job.’ He’s practically hissing. ‘I’m not going to call you on your cell on work time unless I know you’re out of the office. You’re already doing freelance on company time and—’
‘Hang on.’ She cuts him off. ‘What are you talking about?’ She rummages through her memories. Monday, she was distraught. Overwhelmed, when he came over. What did she tell him?
‘Look,’ says Peter, ‘I know Rudy, OK? He called me to see if I could talk some sense to you.’ She sits down hard. Unable to respond. ‘He likes you. He likes that you come from a newspaper background. He knows that makes you … different from the corporate clones. Only—’
‘Wait.’ She puts up a hand, as if she could stop him. ‘You know Rudy? My boss?’
‘Slightly. From when I was in the business section. He was a source.’
‘So, my job …’ She closes her eyes against the dizziness.
‘You knew I recommended you. And I knew you’d be good for the job.’ He pauses. She’s supposed to respond. To thank him. Only she feels sick.
‘Did you tell him I was working on a story – on the piece for City?’
‘What? No.’ He scoffs. ‘I’m not going to sabotage you. I’m trying to help you here, Tara. This is a good gig.’ His voice drops to a whisper. Urgent, almost pleading. ‘Tit jobs like this aren’t easy to find anymore.’
‘Why’d you leave journalism, Peter?’ He starts to speak, but she keeps talking. ‘I know the Dot was failing. I’m not a fool. But why didn’t you go someplace else? Someplace bigger? New York or—’
‘Tara, please.’ Calmer again, but contemptuous. ‘We were married. We were building a life.’
‘I would’ve moved.’ She’s never thought of it before. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. ‘Was it the money? Or were you afraid?’ Silence. She knows some things about this man. ‘You were afraid you weren’t good enough.’
‘That’s preposterous.’ Scorn, but sadness too. ‘I broke some great stories.’
‘Yeah, but your biggest – the heroin connection – never panned out. Hell, your best source was an ex-cop. Oh, and your girlfriend.’
‘Tara.’ He’s not arguing, and she spins her chair around. Pulls a pad from her desk drawer.
‘Tell me what your connection said. Timilty, his name was? I have no doubt you remember everything.’ She grabs a pen. ‘Clubland’, she writes. ‘And while you’re at it, what did you find out about Frank Turcotte’s death?’
He doesn’t give her much, but it’s likely all he has. This many years in, she knows his voice. His tells, his pride.
There aren’t many details in the tale he spins her. He claims he can’t remember, but the gist is there. That heroin was flooding the clubs wasn’t news to her. She’d been there, she reminds him. She’d seen the transformation. What she hadn’t known was that it was spreading. A bus boy from a local burger joint was found unconscious by the dumpster. A cabbie. Then some college kid, whose panicked friends dropped him off at the ER when he started turning blue.
‘That’s when the heat came down,’ said Peter. He couldn’t see as Tara rolled her eyes.
It was Timilty who called him first, he confessed. Remembered him from his days on the police beat. The eager pup who came out to every call. Timilty had been old school. An Irish beat cop who’d worked his way up. Who’d wanted to get the word out, he’d told Peter. Spread the news. ‘The shit you’re snorting? It’s not fun anymore,’ the grizzled detective had said. ‘It never was.’
He’d not been able to give him names. The bus boy had been busted. The cabbie, too, and the college kid had disappeared back to some suburban rehab joint. The one connector was the club scene, Timilty had told him, but she knew that. He wanted an in. She’d known that from that first night he’d asked her out.
He needed her. Even more so once Timilty had stopped talking to him. Stopped feeding him news of the investigation. The leak about the snitch had been stupid, and the veteran cop had taken flack for it. A brag, said Peter, though Tara saw it more as incentive – a way to keep the bored young reporter going. When that fell through, so did the tips. Reprimanded, moved, or maybe disenchanted, the cop had clammed up and retired soon after, beaten by the scourge. It was only after Frank Turcotte’s funeral that Peter had reached out to him again.
‘So you called him?’ Tara wanted to be clear.
‘I was curious. Seeing all those people again. Your old friends.’ The malice gone, he sounded tired. ‘I wanted to know if they’d ever figured it out. You know, found the source.’
‘You’re bored too.’ A simple fact.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I do know I’m not going to fuck up a good job for some freelance story.’
‘Oh, Peter.’ She couldn’t hide her sadness. ‘It’s not that good a job.’
Now, looking over her notes, she sees the pattern. Peter, wanting to investigate, saw it too. The clubs were the perfect conduit – young people looking to get high and a business model based on cash. Bands, bartenders – anyone could have been dealing. She could’ve helped Peter more, she realized. Could have asked Min where she scored. Asked any of a dozen scenesters. But it wasn’t her story. And she had wanted to belong.
She opens the desk drawer to put away the pad. It’s time for her to focus. To salvage the Zeron job and then, maybe, figure out what to tell Scott. The piece is going nowhere. She’s enoug
h of a reporter to know that. A bunch of memories is all. An interlude before real life. She clicks the pen closed. Reaches for the mouse.
And then she retrieves the pad again. The investigation on Frank Turcotte’s death hasn’t been closed. ‘Inconclusive,’ she has written, quoting Peter who was quoting someone – Timilty? – about a clock running out. Only that’s not the question in Tara’s mind as she stares at the sheet of paper. As she grabs her phone and punches in the number for Peter’s cell.
‘Tara?’ He sounds beaten. Tired. But at least he doesn’t reprimand her for the call.
‘Peter, why did you call Timilty?’
‘You asked, Tara, and I thought – after Saturday—’
‘No, I mean, after the funeral.’ She knew he was bored. That these weren’t his people. ‘You said you saw the old crowd and you thought of the case, I know, but …’ She’s not sure what she’s going for. ‘But, why?’
‘It’s silly.’ She waits. Lets the silence do its job. ‘I just remember talking to Frank one night when we were out. You’d gone to talk to some band guy or other, and I asked him, you know, about the drugs and shit. I figured he knew what was going on. I thought he might even be the snitch. Only of course he wasn’t, right? And, anyway, now he’s dead.’
‘Everything OK?’ Rebecca is at the door. Has been standing there a while, if that furrow of concern between her brows is any sign. Waiting while Tara digested that last call, silent at her desk. The secretary has a paper in her hand, which she holds out as an offering.
‘Yeah.’ Tara sits up. Wakes up, more like it, from her stupor and reaches for the sheet. Vacation policies have changed. Or, no, the policy for requesting them, she reads. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.’
She isn’t, though. And while she wants to follow up, she’s not sure how. So Peter and Rudy are friends? Or, no, contacts? She sighs heavily, all the disappointment flooding out, and then looks up quickly. Yes, Rebecca has retreated. Wouldn’t do to tarnish her reputation further.
Twenty years, more or less, she’s been with Peter. On and off, sure, but … She’s not sure what surprises her more. She knew he was a hustler. That he worried about her, that he tried to fix her – fix her up. His ongoing crusade to get her to purchase a condo is only the latest manifestation.
What she didn’t expect was his insecurity. His fear. It’s as if he doesn’t believe he was ever a good reporter, when she knows how dogged he was at getting at the truth. At putting the facts together.
Or was he? She thinks about his last admission – the one that left her speechless and led to his stumbling apology. That led to him ending their brief second call. He’d reached out to his old contact on the force because of Frank. Because he’d thought of Frank as the potential informer. Not Chris.
Tara can’t take that in. If Frank was the informer, then why did he back out? And did that mean that Chris Crack’s death was either the conscious or inevitable result of the slow suicide of addiction?
There’s another question, though. One that’s more to the point, and that dawns on her as she reads and re-reads her notes. Why did Peter think Frank might be the informant? She should have asked. And although she knows she’s being a nudge, she can’t resist. She reaches once more for the phone.
Which rings in her hand. Not Peter, she sees – that other number, from before. City.
‘Scott?’ She remembers that she called him. It feels like years before. ‘I’m sorry. I know I was trying to reach you before.’ She pauses. How to say that she’s distracted. ‘Now’s not a great time.’ The advantage of a job.
‘Yeah.’ One syllable, but as flat as she can imagine.
‘Scott, you OK?’ She pushes the pad aside. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Did I say …?’ He stops himself, halting his disclaimer half formed. ‘I’m sorry. Today isn’t turning out well here, either.’
‘I’m sorry I bothered you then. I mean, earlier. It wasn’t important.’
‘No.’ His voice is thoughtful. ‘It is. And we should talk.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’ She knows this man. She can say things like that.
‘It’s not that bad. Why don’t you come over for dinner?’ He’s not convincing. She knows him too well.
‘Sure,’ she responds. Knows him well enough to not press – not now. ‘I’ll bring wine. Lots of it.’
It’s the kind of thing they used to say – though she’s switched in ‘wine’ for ‘beer’. The kind of thing that used to get a smart retort. Only Scott doesn’t, and she remembers. ‘Sorry, I mean, I’ll bring soda.’
A soft laugh. ‘Thanks, Tara. But you can bring a bottle. You might want some,’ he says, and she realizes that he’s serious. ‘See you tonight.’
There’s no working after that. Her concentration is shot. Even calling Peter back is out of the question – the urgency is gone. The question on the tip of her tongue confused now. What exactly did she want to know? Besides, she’s done nothing related to her job since the morning. She might as well not be here.
The sheet. The new instructions. It’s all on-line, the page explains. Requests going into a central calendar that tallies up available days, ‘keeping supervisors informed’, she reads. A few clicks and she’s in. There’s Rudy – marked in red – out until Monday, the third.
An urge takes her and she starts to type. She’s got more vacation time than she can use. Loses days each year, but not this time. A few keystrokes and it’s done. She’s requested the next week off. There’s no form to fill in about why; no curious glances from HR. She simply wants to. She can work on the piece, at her leisure. And she can avoid talking to Rudy for one more week.
The job is more pleasant knowing she’s got only two days left. She files some old releases, the ones that have already been distributed. She even manages a jaunty email, alerting her colleagues of her impending time off.
‘Please send along any time-sensitive material by Thursday EOD,’ she writes, and resists the urge to tack on an apology.
Before she knows it, the day is gone. Quarter to five, she realizes, when she hears Rebecca washing out the coffee pot in the break room. Fifteen minutes later, she steps out, in time to see the secretary donning her coat.
‘Have a good one,’ she calls.
The secretary looks up, a little startled, although it could be that tight bun that makes her eyes so wide.
‘I’m just going to finish up some work,’ adds Tara, a tilt of her head back to her office. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll be the last one out tonight.’
In truth, she waits only until the dark-haired secretary has gone before she prepares to leave. The computer, a company desktop, she powers down. The pad she starts to pack, folding it to fit into her bag. It’s too big – a yellow, legal pad leftover from some earlier era – and finally she rips out the sheets she’s written on. They fold neatly and she slips them into her pants pocket. Better she shouldn’t be seen removing company property. A joke she can’t share, bitter with rue. But then she’s out. The sun’s still up, and she’s got plans to keep.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘I brought two bottles. Red and white.’ She holds them up as evidence when Scott opens the door. ‘I didn’t know what you were cooking.’
‘Thanks.’ He doesn’t look at them, and as she follows him into the kitchen she sees why. He’s got another open, a full glass on the counter. ‘I’ve already started,’ he says.
‘OK then.’ She watches him. His hands are steady as he pours her one, as he puts her white into the fridge. Something is wrong. That’s clear. She’s later than she’d said she’d be, and she wonders if he’s bothered. She’d made a detour for the wine – gotten it downtown and then turned herself around in her attempts to walk from Zeron over here. Not turned around, she corrects herself – she admits, but spooked as she walked past another construction site. The crew had cleared out by then. The shadows were just long enough. And once she’d passed the T, all the other office drones were gone, draine
d into the station like so much runoff.
If it were earlier, she’d have kept walking. Fewer shadows, or maybe the scare of the week before. As it was, she’d spun around. Hurried as if she were running late and caught the T inbound several stops before realizing that Scott’s place was actually one stop the other way. She’d felt funny about the wine, what with Scott not drinking and all. Funnier still, now that she’s shown up and he’s already poured himself a glass. Her old friend is avoiding her gaze, and she decides to be honest. With herself, for a start.
‘Scott, what’s going on?’ He’s chopping vegetables. Onions and now celery. A pan on the stove glistening with oil. In the pause, she pours herself a glass from the open bottle on the counter. The wine was cold and warming both. Better, probably, than the bottles she has brought. She drinks some more. ‘It will be easier if you just say it.’
‘It’s the piece,’ he says, brushing the vegetables into the pan with the blade of the knife. ‘I mean, I know you’ve been ambivalent about it, and I’ve been wrong to push.’
‘The story?’ She wants to ask him about the wine. About his drinking. He’s deflecting. She knows he wants to kill the piece. Maybe he has to, but his reaction is too strong. ‘Yeah – I mean, maybe you’ve pushed me. But, Scott, this isn’t like you.’
Even as she says it, she knows that’s wrong. The old Scott, the one who sat up drinking with her, would pick apart a story just for fun. Hers, anyone’s. Even pieces in the Dot – no, especially pieces in the Dot. ‘Pretentious claptrap,’ he’d snort. Then, wiping the beer from his beard, he’d point out the flaws in the argument. The hyperbole and the cliché. The old Scott didn’t care about her feelings. He cared about her copy – and respect. But this new guy? Even the way he drinks is different, and she’s no longer sure what he was about.
It isn’t dinner. He’s put the knife down. His back is toward her, and he stares at the pan as if the sizzle speaks to him. She sees his shoulders rise and fall. This new Scott wears form-fitting clothes, the kind of long-sleeve T she suspects cost more than that wine.
