A nervous smile flitted across his face when he saw me. He gave me a polite kiss on the cheek and helped me out of my coat.
“Glad you made it,” he said.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He deliberated, choosing his words. “I would say that at the moment, you have a lot on your mind. And maybe dinner with me isn’t at the top of your list.”
His humility surprised me. I didn’t know how to answer. A waiter coming to take our order saved me from having to. Neither of us looked at the menu. We’d each been to the Bamboo Inn so often we knew the bill of fare by heart. I ordered beef with broccoli and Sam had prawns. The waiter took the menus, leaving us alone and feeling awkward.
“Lanie,” he began, “one reasons I invited you here was to repair our relationship. I have the feeling that somewhere along the line, we got off on the wrong foot.”
“No—”
He held a hand up. “Please. I thought if we talked, met outside the office, we might … oh, I don’t know, get to know one another better. Find some common approach.”
“Well,” I shrugged, “Sure. Where do you want to begin?” Before he could answer, I said, “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? You’re a big mystery to everyone on staff.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about me. I’m just a regular guy.”
Despite my general disinterest in men, I did sometimes wonder about Sam. He was even more close-mouthed than I about personal history. So now, I listened carefully.
He’d grown up in Washington, DC, he said, attended Howard. Had fought in the war. Never married.
“Never wanted to?”
Wistfulness touched his voice. “Oh, I wanted to all right. Just never made it that far.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“We’re talking about someone specific?”
“The day before the wedding, she called it off.”
“Why?”
“Doubts, she said. Hers—not mine.”
“Was there somebody else?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Sam was silent for a moment, away with his thoughts. Then he came back and gave me a warm smile. “Enough about me. I want to hear about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not all that interesting.”
But Sam persisted. I tried to tell just the bare outlines, but he wanted more. So I mentioned how my husband died and I found my way to the paper.
“When I first started at the Chronicle, it didn’t have a social column. The column was my idea. But the powers-that-be didn’t want to hear about it. They wanted the paper to be taken seriously and, for them, that meant hard news.”
“How’d you get them to change their mind?”
“I told them there was already too much focus on crime, on the bad things happening in our community. We should write about the professionals who’re doing well. We should write about the dignity of our people.”
“And that got ‘em?”
I laughed. “Well, it helped when circulation started going up. It proved that we could compete with the Tattler and the Amsterdam News. People could buy the Chronicle and get both hard news and soft features for the price of one.”
“Smart move.”
The waiter arrived with our food. I requested chopsticks and Sam looked surprised.
“I’d starve if I had to use those things.”
“They’re easy, if you know what you’re doing.”
I got chopsticks for Sam, too, and tried to show him how to use them. That result was hilarious, with very little food making it to his mouth. Sam finally declared that he just wasn’t a chopsticks kind of guy. He took up his knife and fork with relief.
Conversation paused while we ate. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. We both came up for air at about the same time. After a moment, he laid aside his fork and fingered his glass.
“Lanie,” he said, “I want to apologize.”
“What for?”
He sighed. “For coming down so hard on you. It’s just that I’m worried. These are not always nice people. They could hurt you.”
“I understand. But I’ll be fine.”
He obviously didn’t think so. His eyes told me as much.
“Tell me, why’re you so fixed on this Esther Todd thing?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t even know her. You weren’t related to her.”
“But I don’t know any of the people I write about. Not really. And yet I’m expected to write about them with feeling. The difference is that they’re famous and Esther wasn’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is to me. Why should I care more about the partying of a rich woman than the disappearance of a poor one? Who do you think I most identify with?”
“But it’s not a matter of who you most identify with. It’s not even about whom your readers identify with. That’s never what your column’s been about.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Fantasy, entertainment, escape. Places like this, where people can forget about day-to-day reality.” He gestured toward our elegant surroundings.
He was right. Absolutely, totally right.
“Then it’s too little,” I said. “Way too little.”
“You don’t like your job, anymore.”
“I do. At least, most of the time I do. But sometimes … sometimes I get so sick of listening to people whine about nothing. And I get so angry with myself for just focusing on the superficial. Everybody’s talking about the Renaissance that’s come to Harlem. It’s great, yes it is. But there’s another Harlem, some would say the greater part, and the people who live in it are struggling to survive.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is. Esther was one of those people. Maybe the folks outside of Harlem don’t care about her—why should they? They’ve got cares of their own. But we should care. She was one of us.”
“Lanie, it sounds great in theory, but—”
“Theory? All right, how about something that’s not a theory: I gave Esther’s family—her son—my word. I promised that little boy that I’d do everything I could to bring his mother home.”
Sam drew a deep breath. “But nobody expects-–”
“He does. Or did.” I remembered the look on Job’s face when I last saw him, the battle against losing hope, the skepticism and cynicism. A young face grown old.
Sam looked worried. “Lanie, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I agree with you one hundred percent. However,” he held a hand up, “the job you have, at this paper, at this time, does not permit you to go on a personal crusade for justice.”
“I’m just trying to find out the truth.”
“I heard that you talked to Bellamy.”
“You mean you got a call on that, too?”
“These things get around.” Care lines had cut furrows in his forehead. “I’m concerned about you doing too much work on this. And not the right kind of work. Talking to ex-cops and old witnesses isn’t quite what I want my society reporter to be up to.”
“I’m trying to do a thorough job.”
“You’re a perfectionist. I commend that. It’s one of the things I admire about you. But this job requires superficiality. The column’s supposed to be light and bright. But sometimes you over-think things; you lose track of the forest.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you’re learning more than you need to know. And that could mean trouble.”
“For you or for me?”
“Both. I told you, our readers don’t want a sad story for Christmas—and I don’t want my reporters going out on a limb.”
“But that’s what I do. Take chances. It’s part of my job.”
“No it’s not. You’re not an investigator. You write gossip. That’s what you’re paid to do. Write light-hearted gossip.”
&nb
sp; “I don’t see it that way.”
He put down his fork and studied me. “For a while now, I’ve wondered: What’s a smart reporter like you doing writing a column about people partying all night?”
“I told you—”
“I know what you said, about your husband and all. But that was then. Maybe you’ve healed and maybe it’s time for you to move on.”
“Move on? How?”
“Write something else.”
I had a sudden suspicion. “Is that what this was all about? So you could fire me? Do it in public so I wouldn’t make a scene?”
“No, of course not.”
His denial went right past me.
“Your job is to protect the paper. Instead you’re …” I was so hurt, I couldn’t find the words.
“I’m what? Yes, my job is to protect the paper. It’s to make sure it makes money and gets funding.”
“And you do that by kissing up to rich people and big shots?”
“I do it by not alienating the very people who support us.”
“That sounds fine and good, but it’s like they say: a man can’t serve two masters.”
“Lanie, you and I have different responsibilities. I have to see the whole picture. I don’t have the luxury of concentrating on just your column. Lanie’s World might be your world. But it’s not mine. And I can’t afford to let it be.”
His words hit like a hammer. A bolt of pain shot through my head. His eyes reflected instant regret, but the damage was done. A crevice had opened between us. A few minutes ago, we’d stood shoulder to shoulder. Now, we were on opposite sides of a divide.
“We’d better call it a night.” I grabbed my purse, pushed my chair back and stood up, not just hurt but angry and disappointed. And suddenly, very very tired.
He was on his feet in an instant. “I’m sorry. It seems like tonight, I do nothing but apologize.”
“That’s okay. I appreciate your honesty.”
“Let me take you home.”
I shook my head, wanting only to get back to the sanctuary of solitude. “I’ll take a taxi.”
Chapter 20
You should’ve known better, an inner voice scolded. In the informal atmosphere of the restaurant, I’d let my guard down, something I never would’ve done at the office. I’d allowed myself to forget that he was my boss. I’d let myself get seduced into seeing him as a man, and into enjoying his company as such. At home, as I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I vowed to never make that mistake again.
Midway up the stairs, the upstairs hallway light went out. If it hadn’t been for the pale moonlight shining the skylight over the stairwell, I would’ve been in utter darkness. As it was, the moon lit the way to the landing. I felt for the light switch on the wall and flipped it. Nothing happened. Darn. No way was I going to replace a blown fuse or light bulb at that time of night.
Holding onto the stairway railing, I made my way down the short dark corridor to my bedroom door. As I put my hand on the knob, the point of a something hard and sharp was pressed against my lower back. I froze.
“Go on inside,” said a muffled male voice. “Go on.”
“Who are you? What do you want? If it’s money, I—”
“Bitch, open the door and get inside.”
I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “No.”
“What?”
“No!”
I raised my right foot and slammed it down on where I hoped his instep would be, but I hit the hardwood floor instead. He swung me around and slapped me so hard I fell back against the wall. I had a brief impression of bright, pale eyes—Echo’s eyes—before he punched me in my side. I cried out and buckled over in pain.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “If I meant to kill you, you’d be dead by now. If I wanted to fuck you, I would’ve done that, too.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I still might.”
“What do you want?”
“For you to mind your own business. If you don’t, then what happened to Esther Todd will happen to you.”
Terror stabbed my heart.
“Tell Whitfield,” I said through clenched teeth, “that I am not afraid. I—”
“You stupid, stupid bitch!”
He shoved me to the floor, face down, and dropped down on top of me, forcing my arms to the floor. He was lithe and agile and strong. Straddling me, he clamped a large, leather-clad hand around the back of my neck and pressed the tip of a blade against the right side of my throat.
“You think this is some kind of fucking game?”
I swallowed, unable to answer.
“If it was up to me,” he hissed in my ear, “I’d do you right here, right now and get it over with, but Mr. Whitfield wants to give you a second chance. Just step out of line again, and I’ll be back. And next time, I’ll make sure it’s worth my time.” He licked the side of my face. “You got me?”
Nauseated, I gave a shuddering nod.
“Good.”
The next instant, he was gone. I looked up in time to see a black shadow deeper than darkness move swiftly down the stairs. Seconds later came the sound of the front door closing.
Trembling, I pushed myself to my feet. My head throbbed and I felt sick to my stomach. With shaking hands I pushed open my bedroom door and slipped inside. I closed the door and sagged against it, letting my purse slide to the floor. I was trembling so badly I could barely stand. Nausea hit me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and scrambled down the hall to the bathroom, making it just in time.
After rinsing my mouth and dousing my face with cool water, I leaned on the washbasin. For a couple of minutes, I had to grip the wash sink. I’d expected Whitfield to retaliate, but not like that. Given Hilda Coleman’s warnings, maybe I should’ve. But I hadn’t expected him to choose violence. Not as his first recourse.
Then again, maybe he’d thought he had no choice. He must’ve figured out that I was writing under deadline. He didn’t have time for niceties.
Should I call the police? But what would that bring? I’d say Whitfield was behind it; he would deny it. It would be his word against mine. I decided not to call the police. I would fight with the one weapon I had.
My column.
Chapter 21
A newsroom can be an eerie place at night. After the constant din of thirty typewriters going during the day, the silence of an empty newsroom can be deafening.
But I was grateful for it.
I thanked my lucky stars that I worked at a weekly. If the Chronicle had been a daily, those typewriters would’ve been clacking twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. As it was, the Chronicle was put to bed every Wednesday night to appear bright and fresh on newsstands every Thursday morning. Staff could afford to go home in the evenings.
Except for those like me. Who couldn’t sleep. Who had work to be done.
With the icy weather outside and the lack of busy human bodies inside, the newsroom had grown cold. I made myself a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, then sat at my desk and took out the draft column I’d written earlier. I reread it, and laid it aside. This soft version would not do. I meant to pin Whitfield to the wall, but faced the same issues as earlier. Just what did I have in terms of information and evidence? And, most importantly, how far could I go with it?
My hands absorbed the soothing warmth of the cup. I took a deep breath. Good writing, effective writing required a passionate heart and a rational head.
Mabel Dean’s account was a strong point, but it could not be used in its entirety or even in detail. Her name could not be used at all. Without her, I had only Hilda Coleman’s assertion of Whitfield's cruelty—but that was basically rumor—and Beth’s statement about his affair with Esther—again, secondhand information, hearsay.
I set my cup aside, took out the typed notes I’d made that afternoon and reread them. Then I selected a fresh sheet of typing paper, rolled it into the machine and set to work. I wrote about the night Esther disappeared, how she started the evening with
so much anticipation, only to end it absorbed by the darkness. I wrote about the boyfriend and how my investigation had turned up information that Esther was indeed involved with a man who had a reputation for violence. I put down everything I knew about him, but did not give him a name. Whitfield would certainly recognize himself, as would those who knew him. But even those in his intimate circle might hesitate to acknowledge that he fit the picture of the monster portrayed. I needed to flush him out, to provoke him into striking out at me again and making a mistake—one that would cost him.
After I finished writing, I felt emptied. I read through the column one last time and made my last changes. I put the copy in the middle of my desk and was about to put the dust cover on my Underwood when the door opened. Sam walked in, looking puzzled and concerned. Seeing me, his expression changed to one of surprise.
“Weren’t you going home?” he asked.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I only live about a block away. I went out for cigarettes and saw the light. What’re you doing here?”
I couldn’t tell him what had happened. He might blame himself and it wasn’t his fault. Worse, he might give me an I-told-you-so. He’d warned me that I was treading on dangerous water, although I thought he had no idea the danger would turn physical. If he found out that I’d been attacked, he might fully block me.
“Lanie, are you okay?”
“Sure? Why?”
“Because you’re sitting here working when you should be at home asleep. And you’re whiter than one of my grandmother’s bleached sheets. Now what’s going on?”
For one moment, I was strongly tempted to tell him. I wanted to, but then I wondered, What good will it bring? And, to be honest, I wasn’t sure what Sam’s reaction might be. After all, Whitfield was another one of those people who could call up Canfield and bring down a ton of trouble, not just on me, but on Same and the paper as well. I’d already seen how Sam reacted after my visit to Katherine Goodfellowe. If I told him that Whitfield had sent Echo after me, would Sam actually stand up for me? Or would he basically blame me for having poked the dragon?
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