Wing Girl

by Nic Tatano

  So I bounced into the shelter, hair all done up, eighty-dollar skinny jeans that made my spunky ass pop, tight turquoise gathered top, eyes decorated.

  Diane lit up as I moved toward the counter. “Well, I was waiting to see if the new you looked as good in person as you do on my high-def flat screen.”

  “And?”

  “Amazing. I had no idea you were a beautiful swan. That’s not to imply you were an ugly duckling.”

  “I didn’t think that’s what you meant. Thank you for the compliment.”

  “You’ll be beating them off with a stick.”

  “Already am, and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, as I headed for the back wearing a huge smile.

  “By the way, he’s not coming today.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Use whatever image you want. Air coming out of a balloon, wind out of sails, man’s dose of Viagra running out, whatever. My perfectly made-up face dropped. “He quit already?”

  “No, he had another family thing today so he came in yesterday.”

  Yesterday? Shit. “Oh. Did he, uh, say anything?”

  “About what?”

  “Never mind. Lemme go play with my cats.”

  “Hey, that old Siamese you liked got adopted. Nice couple with a kid in a wheelchair that wanted a quiet cat.”

  My favorite cat, Pandora, wasn’t there either. “Aw, I’ll miss her. But glad she found a good home.”

  I shuffled down the hall, head down, the spring in my step gone. Most of the cats perked up as I turned the corner, and I did as well.

  I crouched down and began to give some attention to each cat, getting purrs and licks in return. I was beginning to feel a little better.

  And then I saw it.

  A yellow sticky note with my name on it attached to the giant bin of cat food. I jumped up and grabbed it, then turned it over.

  Sorry I missed you. Rain check?

  -Scott

  The smile I had earlier returned. I picked up a Himalayan kitten and hugged her close to my new blouse, which was immediately covered with fur. “What the hell, kitty,” I said. “Go ahead and shed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Oh, shit. Already?”

  The tip line was already wailing when I emerged from the morning meeting shortly after nine-thirty Monday morning. I would have let it ring but the ancient answering machine that had never flashed a number higher than three had apparently given up the ghost when the tape broke over the weekend. I had no idea who called, how many had called, or what they had to say, and frankly I didn’t care because no one had ever called with a legit tip on the weekend. The machine flashed hieroglyphics until I mercifully unplugged the thing to put it out of its misery and tossed it in the trash. Harry placed a call to the IT geek to set up voicemail on the number. No one ever thought to do it before because it was never necessary.

  But the IT guy hadn’t arrived yet.

  Stan Harvey occupied the neat desk opposite my pile of clutter, Harry’s theory being that the hardest reporter and softest reporter should “room” together and therefore balance things out as far as newsroom camaraderie was concerned. Stan, as you might imagine, is a character with a warped sense of humor common to most feature people. Around forty, with receding sandy hair and piercing deep-set blue eyes, he’s my height (well, before the heels, anyway) and thin, with that built-in mischievous look similar to Roxanne’s. Stan flashed his crooked smile at me as I arrived at my station. “Looks like your fan club is already fired up.”

  “I’m never gonna get any work done.”

  “It might help if you change your new recording with updated information each morning about your outfit, makeup and shoe preference of the day. Am I mistaken or is that shade of lipstick Desert Rose?”

  “Bite me, Stan.”

  I started to sit down and grab the phone, but Stan reached across the desk and beat me to it. “Allow me. Operators are standing by,” he said, as he answered it. “Tip line, this is Stan.” He listened a moment, his smile faded. He nodded and handed the phone to me. “Sounds like a legit one.”

  My eyes narrowed as I knew Stan’s penchant for practical jokes. He recently Saran-wrapped the toilet bowl and shoe polished the seat in the private bathroom of the Inhuman Resources troll. Believe me, you don’t want to get on Stan’s bad side. Thankfully, we’re good friends. “It had better be,” I said, as I took the phone. “Belinda Carson.”

  “Belinda, this is Councilman Jagger. How are you this morning?”

  I rolled my eyes. The only time politicians call is to rat out people in the other party. “I’m fine, Sir. How can I help you?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Sir, if it’s about your opponent in the upcoming election—”

  “It’s not,” he said, just before he dropped a phrase that made my reporter’s radar go up. “It’s about something illegal I think is going on in my own office. And I need your help.”

  ***

  Serena called right after the Councilman, asking if I could sneak away for a few minutes before lunch to watch her cross-examine a witness. I’d covered trials she’s been an attorney in before, and she’s very impressive. I had no idea why she wanted me at this particular run-of-the-mill hearing, since it had no news value whatsoever. But she said she needed to demonstrate something for me. Since the old courthouse was just a block from Jagger’s office and I was going to be in the neighborhood anyway, I hit her courtroom a few minutes before the judge hit the bench.

  My heels echoed as I walked across the tiled white marble floor and slid into the row behind Serena. The ancient wooden bench was as comfortable as a church pew. “So, what’s so important about a harassment lawsuit? You’re not setting some precedent, are you?”

  “Legally? No. For you? Yes. Watch and learn.”

  “You got the plaintiff or defendant on this one?”

  “Plaintiff.” She nodded toward an attractive thirtyish blonde sitting next to her. “Her former boss is a slimeball. She wouldn’t give him a tumble so he fired her.”

  “And this is important to me … why?”

  “Patience, grasshopper.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by the bailiff. “All rise! The honorable Jennifer Trapp presiding.”

  I’d been in Judge Trapp’s court before, and always enjoyed covering her trials. She’s a no-bullshit judge who’s probably the best-looking jurist in town. A redhead in her mid-forties, she looks thirty and has a body of a twenty-year-old, along with a taste for men in that latter age range. Her photo once ended up on Page Six in which she was accompanied by a guy right out of college with the caption Cougar Trapp.

  Anyway, chances are Her Honor was wearing a skirt as short as Serena’s under her robes as she headed up the creaky steps and took a seat. (I noted she had those shoes with the red soles which I now refer to as anti-Christian Bales. Interesting.) Everyone else in the courtroom followed suit and sat down as the judge adjusted her robes and looked at Serena. Her red hair made a striking contrast against her black robe and the huge wooden seal of the state of New York hanging on the wall behind her. “Ms. Dash, you may continue your cross-examination.” She turned to the man who approached the witness stand, a scrawny, chinless forty-year-old poster child for male-pattern creepiness and reminded him he was still under oath.

  “Thank you, your honor,” said Serena, who got up and started to strut toward the witness stand. Her tight black leather skirt was about six inches above the knee and her candy-apple red blouse low-cut enough to make any man consider (and hope for) the possibility of a wardrobe malfunction.

  The seven male members of the jury were locked on her as she reached the witness. Conveniently, his eyes were at the level of her chest.

  “So, Mr Harrolds, where were we?” she said. “Ah, yes, time to look at your personal life. Ever been married?”

  “No,” he said.

  She turned her body slightly so that the judge couldn’t see her lick he
r ruby-red lips. “Ah, single and available.”

  The witness gulped. “Well, yeah.”

  “My client is single as well.” She cocked her head toward her client. “Find her attractive?”

  The man looked at his own lawyer, a portly older man with a gray beard, then back to Serena. “I suppose. That’s not why I hired her, though.”

  “I see. She had excellent references from her previous employers, did she not?”

  “She did.”

  Serena moved back to her long wooden desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Exhibit five, your honor.” The judge nodded as she held up the paper. “This is a six-month review you gave my client one month before you fired her. Would you mind reading it for the jury?”

  I thought she was going to hand the paper to the man, but instead she moved very close to the witness stand and held it just below her chest in such a way that it covered everything below.

  The man’s eyes darted between the paper and her boobs, both inches away. “Danielle is a … very resourceful employee who is very … thorough. She has great … attention to detail and is an asset to the company. She … uh … has great skills.”

  Serena then whipped the paper away from her body and fired a quick question. Now the only thing in his line of sight was her cleavage. “So, they’re impressive.”

  The man’s eyes didn’t move. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. “Uh … ”

  Serena then pointed to her face. “My eyes are up here, Mr Harrolds.”

  Snickers filled the room. The judge bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  The defense attorney stood up. “Your honor … ” he said in a pleading tone.

  The judge turned toward Serena. “Ms. Dash, let’s stick to the questions.”

  “Sorry, your honor.”

  “Like hell you’re sorry,” said the judge. “But continue.”

  She backed up toward the desk, dropped the paper along the way and crouched down to pick it up, giving the witness an exclusive shot down her blouse. “So, my client’s skills … ” The witness leaned forward to get a closer look. She looked up to face him from the floor. “They’re impressive.”

  He was riveted to her chest. “Oh yeah.”

  She stood up, turned and marched toward the witness. “I’m glad you find certain … skills … impressive.” More snickers in the courtroom. She walked back to her desk and turned to the defendant’s attorney. “Your witness.”

  The defense attorney stood up, took one look at his sweaty client and said, “Your honor, a brief recess?”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later I was having lunch with Serena in a bright, airy restaurant with lots of ferns, ceiling fans and flat-screen televisions broadcasting baseball. She got an early reprieve from court when the defense attorney realized his client had sent his case headlong into the shitter and wanted to settle.

  “So,” I asked, taking great care to handle my fork correctly as my salad arrived. “How much was your commission on that one?”

  “Can’t tell you since it’s an out-of-court settlement. But you knew that.”

  “Yeah, I did. Just thought you might slip up and I could do the math.”

  “You know better than to try reporter’s tricks on me. Let’s just say my client can buy a new car for every member of her family. And I’m picking up the check for lunch.”

  “Why, thank you.” I gently speared some spinach leaves and slowly brought them to my mouth. I noticed she was watching closely. “I’m doing it right. Right?”

  She reached over and patted my free hand. “Absolutely. I’m so proud of you, Wing Girl. Learning to feed yourself! It’s like a kitten drinking from the bowl for the first time.”

  I smiled as I chewed, resisting the temptation for a snappy comeback with my mouth open. I swallowed, gently lifted my glass and took a sip of water. “So, mind telling me why I needed to see your flagrant manipulation of the justice system?”

  “So that you’ll understand the flagrant manipulation of the dating system.”

  “Wow, men like to look at boobs. Let me call the station so we can break into programming.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “I get it.”

  “No, you don’t. Men are already looking at you, but you have no idea what to do with that power.”

  “Excuse me? Power?”

  “Sweetie, you have the upper hand. And you can use it to weed out the clunkers. I used that power to win a trial back there. You can use it to thin the herd of prospective boyfriends.”

  “So I want a man who doesn’t look at my boobs? Why don’t I just go to a gay bar? I thought the whole idea of this makeover thing and learning to drink tea with my pinkie sticking out was to get men to pay attention to me.”

  “That’s just part of it. Phase two of your training begins tonight.”

  “Phase two? What the hell is that?”

  “Catch and release.”

  ***

  Councilman Jagger’s massive office in the old municipal building looked like a sports museum. He’s an admitted fanatic of baseball and football, so the place is crammed with autographed baseballs, footballs, helmets, gloves and jerseys. Where most politicians have photos of themselves with presidents and heads of state, Jagger has nothing but pictures of himself with athletes. He’s pretty much out of wall space, as the numerous eight-by-tens have been haphazardly hung in a fashion only a man (or myself) would deem acceptable. The massive antique oak desk has a glass top, under which are so many signed trading cards you can’t see the wood.

  All the guy needs is a pool table and a flat screen and he’s got the perfect man cave.

  What makes Jagger different is that I’ve never had to investigate the guy. I may not agree with a lot of his politics, but he’s either squeaky clean or the best I’ve ever seen at covering his tracks. To be honest, I don’t really “like” any politicians; despite what you hear about all journalists being flaming liberals, I’m middle of the road because I’ve realized they’re all a bunch of egomaniacs who are full of shit, regardless of their party affiliation. But at least this guy has always been pleasant and treated me like a professional on the rare occasions we’ve crossed paths, usually at charity fundraisers. As opposed to perp walks, during which I’ve run into a few other elected officials.

  “Belinda, thanks for coming by,” he said, as he got out from behind his desk to greet me. He’s too much of a gentleman and knows I’m a serious reporter, so while he noticed the obvious change in my appearance he said nothing.

  He extended his hand and I shook it. “Nice to see you, Councilman. It’s been a while.”

  “I guess that’s good considering the stories you do,” he said with a slight smile. He gestured toward the old maple chair in front of his desk and I took a seat as he moved back behind his desk. Jagger was in his late fifties, tall and fit, an ex-Marine who still sported a salt and pepper crew cut. His lean, rugged face and strong chin, along with piercing steel-blue eyes made me think he could re-enlist and head right back into battle without missing a beat. His tough gravel voice went nicely with the look, and has always conveyed the straight shooter attitude he’s had as a politician.

  “I must say this is a first. I’ve never had an elected official call and ask me to investigate his own office,” I said, taking a notepad out of my satchel. “As you would expect, I’ve been trying to figure out any political motive you might possibly have.”

  “Full disclosure, Belinda. You know I’ve never had a scandal attached to this office, and one now would hurt my re-election chances. I’d just as soon take care of this before it gets out of control. So you’re right, uncovering any wrongdoing would be to my benefit. But what’s going on is still wrong.”

  “You do realize if I break a story about something shady in your office it will make you look bad anyway.”

  “Not if you tell viewers that I tipped you off.” He didn’t have to say the word deal.

  “Okay,” I said. “If
I turn a story I’ll include that. It’s the truth, after all, since you did call me.”

  “Fine,” he said, then reached into his desk and pulled out a zip drive. “You’re familiar with the change we instituted a few years ago about the pension plan for municipal workers, right?”

  I nodded. “Sure. You switched all the new employees to a 401k, and the costs of the pension would eventually decline as people … you know … died off.”

  “Right.” He handed me the zip drive. “All the books relating to the pension are on that drive, and it’s up to date as of today. I didn’t give you that by the way.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Here’s the curious thing, Belinda. In the last three years, the costs of the pension have remained almost the same.”

  I furrowed my brow. “I don’t understand. I thought as people passed away—”

  “One would think. But the expenditures have barely dropped at all. That makes absolutely no sense.”

  “Could it be management fees or something like that?”

  “No, we have a fixed-fee contract with the management company. It hasn’t changed since we implemented the 401k.”

  “Have you had your accounting people look at this?”

  “No. I don’t want to tip anyone off that I’m investigating this, since I have no idea who might be cooking the books. But something doesn’t add up, Belinda. And I’d like you to find out what it is. Because I sure as hell can’t.”

  I tucked the zip drive into my purse. “Well, I do love a challenge.”

  He stood up and walked around his desk. “I appreciate your efforts, Belinda. Oh, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Be very discreet. If this involves the kind of money I think it involves, someone’s going to be very upset if we start poking around.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Apparently the social skills Harry says I lack are not as easily fixable as my hair and wardrobe. When you grow up without any other women in the household, then spend your career as “one of the guys”, it’s only natural that you think a fly pattern is something from an NFL playbook instead of a Simplicity catalogue.