Wendy Hornsby - Bad Intent

“What the hell is going on out there?” Scotty ranted. “I saw the news. I want you to put Casey on a plane for Denver right now, Maggie, get her out of that overheated environment.”

“Hello, Scotty,” I said. “How are the wife and kids?”

“Merely contemplating the implications of what I just heard is like a knife through my heart.”

“Through your what?” I didn’t think he heard me.

“It’s one thing if you want to destroy your reputation,” he roared. “But to leave Casey vulnerable to the storm of criticism this mess will generate is absolutely unconscionable.”

“How’s the golf game?”

“The first time I hear my daughter’s name linked in public in association with that reprobate Flint, I will haul you into court. With custody comes certain obligations, Maggie, that I seriously doubt you are fulfilling.”

“Heard any good jokes?” I said calmly. Casey was watching me closely. “I heard one. What do you call a lawyer who can tie his own shoes?”

There was a pregnant silence.

“Gifted,” I said. “I thought you might like to try that one at the office tomorrow. Let me know if anyone gets it.”

“Are you insane?” He wasn’t shouting any more so it was safe to pass him on to Casey.

“Yes, everything is fine.” I smiled at Casey. “Casey had school orientation today. Here, I’ll let her tell you all about it.”

I handed the receiver to Casey. She covered the mouthpiece and said to me, “I could hear every word he said.”

I whispered, “And he can tie his own shoes.”

She took a breath. “Hi, Dad.”

After that opening, Casey did a lot of listening, with a few “Uh huhs” and “uh uhs” wedged in, because she had no alternative other than hanging up. I could hear Scotty, but I didn’t listen hard enough to discern what he was saying. I didn’t need to. During our twelve years of marriage, I heard everything I ever wanted to hear from him. And more.

I went back to work cataloguing tapes, stowing them away. Now and then I glanced up at Casey to make sure she was all right. I watched her expression change from bored resignation to anger.

I said, “Remind him how much the call is costing.”

She grimaced, took a breath, and said very loudly, “Dad! Will you listen to me?”

Apparently he wouldn’t listen. She tried again.

“You don’t know anything about it, Dad.” Her assertiveness made me proud. “You don’t know anything about Mike, either. Those people are just distorting everything for their own purposes.”

She listened to some flak, then cut in again.

“You’re wrong, Dad. Anyway, who are you gonna believe? Me, or your own lyin’ eyes?” She slammed down the receiver. I saw right away that the slam had been dramatics as much as frustration. She wasn’t crying and that was a hopeful sign.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay.” She stretched, reached up and touched the rim of the ceiling light fixture with her fingertips. “Dad’s the one with the problem, Mom. I think he’s jealous.”

An odd idea. “Jealous of what?” I asked.

“Mike.”

An odd idea that grew on me. Scott MacGowen had waited almost thirty minutes after our divorce was final before he married the lovely young Linda. Now she was pregnant with their second child. Pregnancy can be rough on men. Especially when they’re over forty years old and facing a second go-round on the child-raising process that they hadn’t much liked the first time. Too confining, according to old Scotty. Very messy.

I reached up and tickled the hard midsection of my one and only, nearly grown offspring, feeling a haughty smugness.

You make your bed, you lie in it. Four more years and Casey would be an adult, my daily mother work essentially finished. In four more years, in the matter of children, old Scotty would have barely climbed between the sheets.

“You ready to go home?” I asked. “Take a swim with me?”

She shrugged. “I’d rather go for pizza.”

“Fine,” I said. I didn’t feel like eating, but I didn’t feel like going straight home, either. While we straightened the room and turned out lights, I dialed Guido.

“Mpfh?” he said, picking up on the third ring.

“Sorry to wake you,” I said. “You could have left the machine on. I just wanted to remind you we’re going out to Central Juvenile Hall in the morning. I’ll be by before nine.”

“Nine’s more civilized than three. Etta coming?”

“She didn’t say one way or the other. If she wants a ride, she’ll call.”

He said something like mpfh again. I took it for good-bye and hung up.

The building was full of activity. Most of the tenants were free-lancers who rented offices downstairs and studio space upstairs by the hour. The studios were in use around the clock, usually bigger productions by day, small stuff at night whenever time became available.

Because the elections were only a month and a half away, the studios were solidly booked by political hack crews producing spots for the end-of-campaign TV blitz. All night long candidates walked the corridors in heavy makeup and perfect light-blue shirts. Working vampire hours.

I knew the people across the hall were doing spots for Marovich. I had seen them hard at it. After I locked my door, I stopped outside their office and listened. Someone was tuned to Satellite Network News, doubtless on the lookout for usable video bites to cannibalize from Ralph. Because Marovich would be footing the bills, I hoped Ralph gouged them more deeply for anything they used than the fifteen hundred I had cut for thirty seconds of Etta.

That was a cruel thought, I thought. I should give Mr. District Attorney Marovich a chance. Thinking, no time like the present, I knocked on the neighbors’ door.

I gained entry to my neighbors’ office by pulling out a Pass Go card. That is, my business card. I knew my name would carry some cachet with another filmmaker, entree at least, but the version I handed him read: Countryside Film Productions, Margot E. Duchamps-it’s my legal name-and my San Francisco number. I also carry a version with my professional name-Maggie MacGowen-the one I acquired when a TV station genius at my first job decided that Margot Duchamps wasn’t perky enough for western Kansas, and stamped me with my husband’s name.

Circumstances define which card I pull out. Name recognition that might open certain doors, might get other doors slammed in my face. I play it by ear. My ear said Baron Marovich had acquired some idea who Maggie MacGowen was and would not be especially eager to speak with me, perky or not.

I learned from my across-the-hall colleagues that Marovich had a taping scheduled upstairs at ten-thirty. That gave me time to get pizza, take Casey home, and drive back again.

I needn’t have hurried; it was nearly eleven before Marovich dragged into the studio for retooling-a fresh shirt and new makeup.

My card was on the makeup table among half-a-dozen messages when Marovich sat down on a high wooden stool and gave his face to the makeup woman.

Marovich was a surprise to me. I had expected the D.A. to be slicker than snot. Face to face, I found him to be very bright, very attractive, and thoroughly personable. We hit it off right away. I think that I represented to him the possibility of some free media exposure, which he cannily courted. He also seemed to like my legs, though he was having some trouble buying my reasons for wanting a word with him.

“I’m working on a documentary about a group of kids who grew up in the projects,” I said. “Seems to me that every time I turn around I bump into Charles Conklin, or his tailings. If he’s going to be a recurring presence, I need to have some blanks filled in. You probably know more about him right now than anyone. I’d like to use you as a source.”