Looking over at Shirley, I watched her “seeing” whatever history the key held. Apparently, there was a great deal because she didn’t blink as she stared at it. She was definitely picking something up. The energy around her was palpable, her animals moved away.
When at last she turned to me, she inhaled slowly and handed the key back to me. “There is definitely trouble afoot where Smiley is concerned, but I’m afraid I can’t uncover any of it right now.”
“Damn. I was hoping—”
“Don’t throw in the towel yet, my dear. I may not to be able to tell you what happened to Smiley, but I can tell you what he was doing just before he disappeared.” Shirley wiped her hand off. “He gave the key to some older man with a historical name.”
“Dante.”
“Yes, that’s it. The key is to a bike lock.”
I nodded. She was good. “A bike lock.”
Shirley nodded. “It’s a red bike and is locked next to a blue fire hydrant in front of a building with a green awning. I tried to get a better read on where the bike is, but that’s the best I could do for the moment. Sometimes, images come later, but for now, that’s all I can see.”
I remembered Carter’s words about commonalities. “Was he a drinker?”
“Of course.” Shirley put her hand on my leg. “Who isn’t out here? If his bike is near a liquor store, he’ll always know where it is and if he doesn’t, he’ll eventually stumble upon it. That’s where I’d look first.”
I rose. “You know, if I was half the reporter Carter is, I would have figured that out on my own. Thank you.”
Reaching out, she touched my wrist. “Wait. There’s one more thing.” Closing her eyes, she said, “I couldn’t tell what he was doing at first, but I think…yes…I’m pretty sure he…it was such an odd image, and please remember that I am unsure of the order of things, but I believe he was kneeling down next to the bike. I don’t know if he was working on it or what but he stayed down there quite a while, and did so more than once. There is something…yes…there is something on the bike that is important to him.”
My heart picked up a beat. “He’s looking at something?”
“More like reading it. I wish I saw more, but his drunkenness blurs everything.”
I nodded. “Red bike, green trash can, blue awning. Hell, that could be anywhere in this city.”
“Could be, but isn’t. Homeless people have a certain territory we feel comfortable in. Unless you have family like Smiley, you’ll rarely see us on a bus or on BART. Smiley must take BART under the water to Oakland, right? You can rest assured that his bike is one of two places: near his watering hole or near a BART station; possibly both. I wish I could have given you more, but that’s the best this foggy mind can do.”
“You did really well. Thanks.”
“I want to help, Echo. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not good. You know, it’s hard enough being a homeless, jobless, loveless person, but being friendless…well that would push those of us with a tenuous grasp on reality right over the edge.”
“Hang on a sec, will you?” Running to my car, I grabbed the day olds and a small paper bag I had filled up at home. “These bagels are for you and your friends.” I handed her the bag. “But the catnip is something I snatched from my cat. There’s catnip and two cans of cat food in there…as a way of appreciating all you’ve done.”
I turned to leave, but she called out. “It was a wonderful story, Echo.”
I stopped and looked at her as she pulled the paper out from inside her coat.
I called to see if Finn was in. I knew it was too early for her shift, but some cops practically live at the station. I wasn’t able to reach Finn, but they did patch me over to Jardine.
“Echo Branson, famous journalist. Great article, girl. You should be proud.”
“Thank you.” I smiled as I leaned back in the luxury seat of the Lexus.
“I’ve put a few calls in and after your article this morning, everyone has been told to make contact with the homeless on their beat and see if they can’t rustle up some real names.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“You come file a report, I’ll make sure someone besides me reads it.”
“You are the bomb.”
I went to the police station. Once the report was finished, I jumped in the Lexus I was quickly falling in love with and drove back across the Bay. Since it was after rush hour, the bridge flowed a little bit easier and I reached the hospital in no time at all. Time is a blur when you’re sitting in the comfort of a Lexus. I almost had second thoughts. Almost. This was the first time I had been back since that night I escaped. Well…actually…Echo Branson escaped. Jane Doe was forever left behind, never to be heard from again.
Big George and I had seen each other off and on in the years since I had left, but never here. He came to the Bayou at least twice a year to visit Melika and his grandmother. When I was at Mills, we had dinner together once a month and I would see him at special events on campus. Hospital orderlies don’t make a lot of money, so I would always give him tickets to any of Mills’ plays, dance performances and athletic events. Big George loved it, and Mills loved him. I explained his presence in my life by calling him my uncle, and Mills being what it is, didn’t bat an eye that my “uncle” was a huge black man.
Big George even came to my graduation, bringing with him the best graduation present ever; Melika, Bishop and Zack, who had left the Bayou only months before. It was more fun than I could have ever imagined, as we showed them our own inner city Bayou.
I couldn’t believe how incredibly excited I was. You know how it is when you’ve bought someone you love the perfect gift? When you know how happy it’s going to make them? Big George drove a Plymouth Duster that looked like it was out-of-date two years before it came off the assembly line, a broken brown wreck, dog poo brown with areas of rust and an interior that looked like wild tigers had a fight in there. It needed to be put down.
But Big George wasn’t working for money. He was a spotter. Melika’s three other sons worked comparable jobs and were also spotters in different parts of the country. One is a very powerful TK, but I never met him. In my four years on the river, he had never come home. I think there were some mother issues. I’d never met her daughter, Jasmine, because she was over in Europe painting. Little was said about Jasmine; only that she was a fine artist with extraordinary powers. I had lain in bed many nights wondering what Melika’s daughter was like. If she was anything like Big George, she had a heart of gold.
I took the stairs up and went straight to the front desk.
I waited less than a minute before Big George came out. As usual, he was all smiles. “Echo! How are you doing, sweetpea?” He came over and gave me one of his famous bear hugs that made my ribs crack.
“I’m employed. I’ve lost five pounds and I think I’ve met a woman I might like.”
Big George threw his head back and laughed. “Sweetpea, she must not be all that if she came in third behind weight loss.”
Grinning, I took his big hand. “Come downstairs for a minute. There’s something I want to show you.”
“What you got up your sleeve, girl?”
When the elevator door opened, we walked out to the parking lot. “Wait till you see this.” I pointed my keys at the silver Lexus and it made that fun whooping sound.
“Holy mother of Mary, sweetpea. You done bought yourself a beautiful car!” Big George walked up to the car, his face lit up and he touched it like a man touching a naked woman. “It’s beautiful.” Stepping up to the window, he peered in. “Ah man…”
Tears came to my eyes. He was so excited about the car my heart felt like it would burst. “You’ve got to sit in her, Big George. Those seats are like butter.”
“What are they paying you at the paper? Oh, and congratulations on your story. Is this how you paid yourself for a job well done?” Big George slid into the driver’s seat while I eased myself into the
passenger side. He was in awe.
“Oh, it’s repayment, to be sure. So, what do you think? You like it?”
“Like it? Girl, this is something else.” Big George looked all over the inside, shaking his head. “This car could be somebody’s mistress, she’s so damn gorgeous.”
I handed him the keys. “She’s not somebody’s mistress, Big George. She’s yours.”
He took the keys and laughed. “Yeah, right. Her and Halle Berry.”
Reaching out, I touched his thick forearm. “I’m not kidding. I won this car in a bet and I’m giving it to you…for all you’ve done for me.”
Big George opened his mouth and blinked, but that was all.
“I want you to have it. You saved my life. I waited all these years to find the perfect gift that could possibly convey to you how deeply I care and how much it means to me that you reached out when I needed it most. Not one day goes by that I don’t think about that Rachel girl and how close I came to ending up like her. You gave me my life. My life, Big George. This car is the very least I could do to repay you for that gift.”
“But sweetpea—”
“I already have a car that I love and is me. And since it was the first thing I bought with my own money, I love it too much to part with it. But you…for as long as I’ve known you, you have always needed a car. Now you have one befitting the kind of man you are.”
Tears came to his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll drive me to BART so I can get back to work.”
And that’s exactly what he did putting the car through its paces, murmuring all the way there as if he were enjoying an expensive meal. When we got to the station, he turned to me with such warmth and tenderness in his eyes. “My mama…my mama told me the first time she laid eyes on you that you were special. Not just because you’re a super, but because of what’s in here.” He pointed to my heart. “You’re one special sweetpea, girl. No matter what happens in our lives, Big George will always have your back.”
I kissed his cheek and got out, watching with joy as he drove away. It may have taken nearly fifteen years for me to pay him back, but I was pretty sure he thought it was well worth the wait.
I know I did.
I made it home, got Ladybug, and was back in traffic when my cell phone rang. Wes Bentley.
“Branson! I can’t tell you how many calls I’ve received about this homeless piece. I just wanted to let you know it was a great job.”
“It sure looks good on the front page, Wes. Thanks for putting me there.”
“I expected to go with Carter, but when that fell through, I felt your piece had heartstring merit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Carter even thought it is a good start, which is high praise coming from him. So where do you plan on going with it?”
“Homeless people are still missing in the city and now I’ve discovered they’re also missing in Oakland. They’re vanishing without a trace. I think there is someone hunting them and I’m going to prove it.”
“Hunting them?” His voice rose. “Now that sounds like a story that can go somewhere. I like it.
“You gotta be able to juggle more than one ball. A good reporter has a bunch of stories in the air at once. Missing homeless is soft and fuzzy, but it’s a dead end unless you have some sort of follow up. If you follow up with the idea there’s a killer on the street, you’ll have more front page exposure in your future.”
“As much as I hope it’s not true, I am leaning in that direction.”
“Excellent. Just remember who your audience is. This isn’t a community who particularly loves their streets littered with human debris.”
Human debris?
“The missing people are a community, and as hard as it may be for regular folks to believe, they are their own social unit who deserve the same respect and legal help as any other. They know what’s going on out there. They have friends. They pull together. Just because it isn’t your community or one that our pristine community doesn’t care about doesn’t mean we can’t make them care.”
The line was silent on the other end.
Wes cleared his throat. “You say this is happening in Oakland as well? Prove it then. Get a jump on what’s behind this before the Trib does. This is your story to tell, Branson. Be the first to tell it.” If anything motivated Wes Bentley it was scooping the Oakland Tribune.
“I’ve done my legwork. We’re talking about at least a dozen, maybe more on both sides of the bridge. No one has seen or heard a thing, yet there is no blood, no sign of a struggle and no bodies. These people are there one night and gone the next morning. If you were just robbing the homeless, or hell, even killing them for sport, you wouldn’t waste time with body disposal.”
“Go on.”
“That may mean they’ve taken them somewhere. It may mean they are still alive. I don’t know yet, but I will find out.”
“All right. While this story of yours unfolds, I want you to write a series of articles putting a face to the homeless. You want our readers to care Miss Branson? Then make them care. Give them something or someone to care about. You say they are a community? Then I want a story about this community on my desk before the morning. Oh…and no mention of Oakland. Stick with our homeless. Do interviews, get some photos of them that will grab people’s hearts. Think of this as a three-or four-part series before your story breaks. You need to grab their interest, put a face on the issue, warm the cockles of their goddamn hearts, and by that time you had better have something that blows the story wide open.”
The news industry has no soft side, no tenderness. You’re only as good as your last good story. No one cares about what you did do or are going to do. It’s all about the here and now. Unless you won one of the few prizes reserved for journalists, you’re jumping from one story to the next. This is an unforgiving profession where precision is vital, where research must be impeccable, and the truth is everything.
“Fine. I can do that. You going to keep sitting on Carter’s story as well?”
“I’ve given him time to rethink it, yes.”
“Trust me, Wes. The story is not solid. Let it go.”
“Ms. Branson, you are just a rookie. And while I appreciate you catching the error in the Glasco story, that does not give you carte blanc to dip into every story he is working on. Carter seems to think there is probably a lot of dirt under the rug, and I have to agree.”
“Carter needs to go back to school. San Franciscans love the mayor. He has done so much for this city. He deserves more than being muck-raked. He—”
“Is a politician, not a saint. “You focus on your story and let me worry about Carter Ellsworth.”
“But Mayor Lee is—”
“Don’t be so naive. Just because the people like him doesn’t mean he is a good politician. I don’t care if Mayor Lee is well-liked. It’s our job to churn up the crystal-clear water to see what really lies beneath it. You have to get your hands dirty in the process.”
“Getting your hands dirty is very different than smearing someone’s good name for the sake of journalistic revenue, especially if your information is not correct or factual. Whatever Carter thinks is happening, isn’t.”
“Perhaps you were absent that day in Journalism one-oh-one when they told you that the bottom line is about selling papers. Selling papers is about making money. Money is what we give you for a good story. If a story on your good Mayor Lee sells papers, then that is the story we’ll run with. Put your philosophic side in your briefcase and try to remember the bottom line: money. I’ll quash that story for two more days. In the meantime, get some human interest on my desk.”
My profession could be really ugly. My only hope was to counter some of that ugliness with a more caring angle…or the truth, whichever came first.
Grabbing my notes and calling in for a photographer, I headed out to find just that.
“Why don’t you just use stock photos of homeless people? I’ve go
t bigger fish to shoot.” Jeff Simmons was one of the best photographers at the paper. He and I had taken a journalism course together at Cal.
“I don’t want stocks, Jeff. I need one really powerful image that will make San Franciscans care…really care, but first, I need your drawing expertise.”
“Drawing? What the hell for?”
“I need something that’s in someone’s head. Just go with me on this.”
We walked to the park and I had him wait a little behind me to make sure Shirley wasn’t having one of her moments. She wasn’t.
I looked over at Jeff, who was walking toward Cotton. “I’m a dog person, ma’am,” Jeff explained, holding one hand out for Cotton to sniff. “They love me.” It appeared he was right because Cotton sniffed his hand before wagging his long tail. “Cool dog. I’ve never seen one so white.” Jeff wandered over and extended his hand to Shirley. “String Bean,” he said, taking her hand.
Shirley laughed. “I’m Shirley. That’s Cotton, Midnight and Emerald. You came here to take pictures right?”
He nodded. “And to draw.”
“Draw?” She cut her eyes over to me.
I nodded. “What I need for you to describe is the image you got of the bike and the surrounding areas. He’ll draw a picture so I have something better to go on.”
Shirley nodded. “You just sit here next to old Shirley, String Bean, and listen carefully.”
More Than an Echo (Echo Branson Series) Page 20
