Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  “Forty-two,” I snapped, in spite of myself.

  She tapped the numbers onto the screen.

  “Trish! That was my story. I was on top of it. Watson was supposed to call me. Why wasn’t I called?”

  She looked from the screen to me, mouth open in an expression of wonderment “Britt, I didn’t know you had dibs on it. You weren’t here.” She jerked her fingertips from the keyboard as though it was hot

  “Did the desk assign you?” I thought venomously about Tubbs, unable to conceal the hostility in my voice.

  “No. I just picked up the city desk phone and it was Annalee Watson. She wanted to let us know the children had been found alive and well. I told Tubbs and he said to run with it.”

  “She was supposed to call me, then beep me if I wasn’t here.”

  “Maybe she lost your number and just dialed the main.” Her voice was meek as she pushed her chair back, as though distancing herself from the story on her screen. “I never would have worked it if I thought you—”

  “You saw my story this morning. You had to know I was following it,” I said bitterly.

  “I didn’t even know when you’d be in.”

  “You should have asked!” About to stalk away, I couldn’t resist, “Where were they? Who had them?”

  “Oh, Britt, it’s the neatest story.” She hesitated, realizing those were the wrong words to use in my current state of agitation. “There are tons of kids in that neighborhood, mostly latchkey, a lot of migrant kids raising themselves—and each other.”

  Apparently Janice had handed the babies to two little girls, nine and ten years old, to hold. When she went off and didn’t come back, the kids eventually took them home to play house. Both households were disorganized, to say the least, and so full of kids of all ages, siblings, cousins, and friends, that no adults paid much attention. The children who cared for the little ones cared for them all. Amazingly, no one had noticed an extra baby or two.

  A cop canvassing that morning had asked a child near the store if she had seen the missing babies. She led him to one and pointed out the place where the other had been taken. They were well fed and wearing clean diapers, all due to the care and kindness of children old beyond their years.

  A touching, happy ending. Except for me.

  “Britt,” Trish said firmly, “you want the story, you take it.”

  “Obviously that’s impossible, twenty-five minutes from deadline, after you’ve done all the reporting,” I said, voice tight. “I want you to know that I resent it.”

  I stomped off and wrote the FMJ story quickly, pounding the keyboard like it had offended me.

  Howie called as I finished.

  “Hi, guy, how you doing?” I hit the send button. “Good to hear your voice.”

  “I gotta get outa here, Britt.”

  “Rakestraw says things are moving along, your stuff is safe in my apartment, Miss Mayberry sends her love. She’s baking brownies for when you get to the Crossing.”

  “There’s a couple of dudes here who run with FMJ.” He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear. “They know me.”

  “But they don’t know you’re gonna testify—”

  “Oh, right. They got me all by myself instead of wid everybody else. Whatcha think that tells ’em?”

  “You should be out of there and in the Crossing in the next day or two.”

  “I don’t know, man,” he fretted. “The dudes know me. It’s like a telegraph system. FMJ’s gotta know by now.”

  “What are their names?” I scrawled Cat Eye and Little Willie in my notebook. “I’ll get hold of Rakestraw. Don’t worry, he wants you safe and in one piece.”

  “Yeah, till I do what he want. What happens then?”

  “You finish your education and live the good life.”

  “Happy ever after?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hate being locked up. Wish I had my books.” He sounded miserable. “You should see the books they got here. Nothing. Moby Dick, The Three Mouseketeers.”

  “Try one, you might like it.”

  “What’s the matter, Britt? You bummed?”

  “The job. A bad day.”

  “Somebody got a beef?” He sounded indignant. “Don’ let ’em push you around, Britt.”

  “No way. How’s the food?”

  “Regular. I really want outa here.”

  “I hear you. But hang in there. Promise me, Howie, that if you have any problems you’ll talk them over with me before you do anything. I’ll be here for you, I promise.”

  “Okay, Britt. Hope this works out.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. Do what they tell you and it’ll be soon.”

  “Uh-oh, gotta go now.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  He said he would.

  I headed for the cafeteria. Trish followed. I punched the elevator button. “Britt?”

  I turned my back on her and headed for the escalator. She followed.

  “Britt!”

  “Would you leave me alone right now?”

  She persisted. Had to give her credit for that. Great attribute for a reporter.

  “You shouldn’t lash out at people who care about you.” She joined me on the moving metal stairs.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You know better than anyone that there are enough hassles in this business,” she said. “It’s horrible to hassle with someone you consider a friend.”

  I couldn’t shake this woman, and she was succeeding in making me feel guilty.

  “I’m not dying for a byline or desperate for a story,” she said, voice rising. “No story is worth a hassle with you. I’m as territorial about my job as you are. But I am not interested in stepping on toes or intruding.”

  We had hit the fourth floor landing. She tagged along onto the next flight of moving stairs, stepping up her little diatribe, ignoring others around us.

  “Nor am I interested in having to walk on eggshells around you. If we’re friends and there’s something you don’t like, speak up—before it gets out of hand,” she snapped.

  She trotted off the escalator to keep up with me at the third floor. I turned and looked her in the eye. “Okay, Trish. It was a misunderstanding, more Watson’s fault and the desk’s than yours. But you are right about me being territorial. Don’t step on one of my stories again.”

  Face flushed, she nodded. “Still friends?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go have coffee.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Saw you having coffee with Trish,” Janowitz said, wearing his usual troublemaking grin. Sometimes he reminded me of a manure salesman with a mouth full of samples. “She tell you about her raise?”

  “What raise?”

  “Because of the Linwood story,” he said smugly. “She got hers early. Probably unprecedented for somebody to get a merit raise so soon in this newsroom.”

  New hires are not reviewed for raises until after six months on the job. He watched expectantly for my reaction.

  “Nice,” I said affably. “She didn’t mention it.”

  “She’s the golden-haired girl around here right now. Can do no wrong. Hear they assigned her to interview Gloria Estefan on her yacht.”

  “Somebody’s gotta do it.” I smiled sweetly.

  “Why don’t I get those kinda plums?”

  Every new reporter who creates a splash with a good run of stories enjoys a honeymoon during which the desk showers him or her with the best assignments. It never lasts, and soon it’s someone else’s turn.

  Trish was on a roll. Her touching twins story, with its great color photo, landed on the front page. Officer Annalee Watson was quoted liberally. That bitch, I thought. Why hadn’t she kept her word? I called to ask, but she wasn’t in.

  I mined my beat diligently for the next few days but hit no mother lode. This had to be the lowest point in the cycles all reporters experience. I had the
pedal to the metal and was spinning my wheels—getting nowhere. I got several tips on FMJ sightings. Even had a message purportedly from one of his crew and drove through rush hour all the way down to South Miami to meet him at a diner where I drank too much coffee and waited for hours, but he never showed. I hate waiting. It’s not what I do best.

  Hard to believe that a kid so bold and violent, responsible for so much pain and so many crimes, could continue to cruise South Florida, shooting strangers and thumbing his nose at law enforcement. Sooner or later a cop would stop him on a traffic violation or at the wheel of a stolen car. I hoped that man or woman would be alert and prepared when walking into his sights.

  Howie didn’t call again, which meant he must be doing fine. Rakestraw told me after three days that he had been moved to the Crossing, where I assumed he was being kept busy in a wholesome, structured environment. By now, I hoped, he had put a little meat on his bones, was hooked on Herman Melville, and had discovered that Alexander Dumas was not Walt Disney. In his case, no news was good news.

  By the time Martin Anderson, an old buddy from J-school, called to say he was in town on a story, I was ready to relax with some good food and conversation. Marty and I had dated at Northwestern until we realized that our friendship was stronger than our physical attraction. He is on an investigative reporting team at the Chicago Tribune, the latest in a series of bigger and better newspaper jobs.

  “Whatcha working on, Marty?”

  “Between us?”

  “For sure, unless it’s on my beat.”

  “If it was on your beat I’d never tell. I know how you are; you’d ravish my body and steal my notes.”

  “You wish.”

  He was working on a piece about TV Marti and had been in town for nearly a week before we got together for dinner.

  It was my day off and I pampered myself with an aerobics class in the morning, followed by a walk on the beach. Instead of a fast shower, I luxuriated in a bubbly tub as Bitsy and Billy Boots watched balefully, certain I had gone mad. For lunch, I ate half a dozen cookies, Rocky Roads studded with huge chunks of chocolate and walnuts and dunked in a glass of milk.

  Lottie called at three o’clock to invite me to join her and Trish for dinner.

  “Can’t. I have a date.”

  “Who? Who? Who? You didn’t tell me!” she accused. “Somebody sexy?”

  “No,” I said sheepishly. “No big deal. A reporter from the Chicago Trib. We’re old friends.”

  I wore white with a crimson sash to show off my tan. He whistled, then hugged me, as Bitsy broke into furious barks and Billy Boots stared with silent malice from the high back of a chair.

  Marty hadn’t changed. Conservatively dressed, nice face, medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. A man no one would notice in a crowd, perfect for an investigative reporter.

  “Blondie, you’re as gorgeous as ever.”

  “You say that to all the girls.”

  “But this time I mean it. I’m serious, you do look great.”

  Bitsy continued to bark.

  He winced. “Didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “Don’t ask,” I said. “Long story.”

  We went to South Beach and strolled Ocean Drive dodging in-line skaters, Spandex-clad nightclubbers, and stunningly snooty models, male and female. We had drinks at the pool bar at the Carlyle Hotel, watching the full moon rise, and ate dinner at Amnesia.

  “The change in this place is astonishing,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “First time I saw the Beach it was Geritol Junction, God’s waiting room. Now it’s the world’s new epicenter of cool.”

  “It does have everything,” I said, gazing affectionately at the endless street procession. “Fun seekers, sun worshipers, serial killers, America’s most wanted. We’ve got them all.”

  “I take it you haven’t become bored by blue sky and ocean beach yet.”

  I shook my head. “I love the heat, the humidity, and the screaming.” Marty had been a lifesaver at school, a blessing when I felt terminally wind-chilled and homicidally homesick for Miami in all its warmth and living color.

  “No better place to be a reporter.”

  “Yeah, that reminds me. I saw the Gloria Estefan piece on One-A in the News. That Trish Tierney byline looked familiar. I wondered if she’s the same one I worked with once.”

  “Small, real pretty, black-haired, gray eyes?”

  “Sounds like her.”

  “From Oklahoma?”

  “Bingo.”

  “What’s the story?” I was more curious than I liked to admit, even to myself.

  Marty put down his drink and seemed to be thinking. “We worked on the same little paper for a time, out west. Obsessive, ambitious overachiever? Nothing ever enough?”

  “Sounds like her. She’s made quite a splash.”

  “I wondered whatever happened to Trish. Didn’t expect to see her byline here.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Wasn’t well liked, as I recall. Thought she’d either soar right to the top or drop out of the business. I moved on not long after she was hired.”

  “She left her last job in fear, trouble with a stalker. It wasn’t you, was it?”

  He laughed, tore off a chunk of crusty roll, and slathered it with herbed butter. Marty never worried about cholesterol or major coronaries. “If you ask me, any stalker would be crazy to take her on.”

  “Well, this one apparently had connections and wound up running her out of town.”

  “Humph. Hadn’t heard about that. How’s the job treating you?”

  “Great, except I’m going through a dry spell lately.” I frowned. “You know how that can be.”

  “How’d you feel if you were on an investigative team and only broke into the paper every three–four months or so?”

  “Very nervous. I guess I have to justify my existence every day to prove I’m worth the salary. I love breaking news, lots of stories in the paper. I like feedback. Even my crank mail. But maybe I need a project to break me out of this rut. Fred Douglas, the city editor, is always pressing me to do more takeouts, more big weekend pieces. He says I’m like a runaway freight train, trying to cover every purse snatch in Miami. My problem is I hate to miss anything.”

  We walked and talked, then drove over to Tobacco Road for a nightcap. The room melted with happy conversation. I learned about the current woman in his life, an entertainment writer at the Trib, and we joked about the sorry state of my love life. That’s what’s wrong, I told myself on the way home. When my personal life is great I have no trouble enduring a negative turn on the job—and vice versa. When both are on a high, it is heaven. When both run dry it was what I had now. Both were due for an upswing. Talking it out with a friend made me feel better.

  I wasn’t even vexed by Trish’s byline on the front page next morning. By now it was routine.

  A Hialeah man trying to mediate marital problems between his daughter and son-in-law lost patience and pulled a nine-millimeter Luger. In the ensuing struggle he shot them both, then turned the gun on himself. Nothing like a marriage counselor with a gun.

  The story was the only thing that didn’t have any holes in it. Trish had done a good job. Even Lieutenant Kendall McDonald had been quoted on the virtues of professional marriage counseling and tougher gun control. I sighed and closed the paper.

  The beat was quiet so I went to the office earlier than usual, primed to start work on a project. The problem is me, not Trish, I thought. There were certainly enough stories in this town for everybody. I had a couple of ideas in mind and thought I’d bounce them off whoever was on the desk.

  “Saw Trish landed another great story off your beat,” Janowitz gloated as I walked into the newsroom. I had no time to answer. My phone was ringing and I snatched it up.

  I didn’t recognize the frantic, shouting voice at first.

  “How could you, Britt!” There was a ragged sob. “I tr
usted you! How could you do this shit to me?”

  “Howie? Is that you? What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah! Like you care.” He snorted and sniffed, like he was wiping his nose.

  Horns blared and there were traffic sounds in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “You think I’m goddamn crazy? Tell you anything?”

  Oh, shit, I thought.

  “You’re not at the Crossing,” I said flatly.

  “Damn straight! Why’ dja do me this way, Britt? Pretend to be my friend?”

  “I am your friend.”

  That only agitated him. “Don’t fucking give me that shit!” he shouted. “You said you was with me.”

  “I am.”

  His bitter laugh ended in a sob.

  “What the heck has happened?” I pleaded.

  “This was my chance, Britt! My chance for school. To be somethin’.” He was crying. “Why didn’tcha answer my calls? I needed help! Goddammit!”

  “I would have if I got any, Howie.” I spoke slowly and distinctly, hoping he wouldn’t hang up until he told me where he was. “This is the first call I’ve had from you since you went to the Crossing. I thought everything was okay.”

  “Don’t lie to me, goddammit! You said you wuz my friend! I left a dozen goddamn messages on your machine, that fucking voice-tape thing! I been calling since the first day I was here!”

  “Howie, I swear, I was off yesterday, but I checked my messages and there was nothing. Today there was one from my mother. That was it. What number did you call?”

  “Don’t lie like that! Nobody will listen! I didn’t know what to do!” The raw pain in his voice cut through me like a blade. “They knew I was here from the first day.”

  “Who?”

  “FMJ! They say they gonna shoot Miz Mayberry if I didn’t take off and go with them. I couldn’t let ’em. She was the only person, the only friend I had.” He gasped. “I thought you—”

  “Howie, I follow you.” I was on my feet now, unable to sit through this conversation. “I don’t know why on earth I didn’t get your messages. But I’ll come meet you right now. Where are you?”