Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

“Sorry. For the moment I’m not free to say. I’ll probably be able to tell you more this afternoon.”

He stared at me. His face was red, and I could see the veins in his neck and forehead. “Come into my office,” he said gruffly.

I followed him across the newsroom, which had fallen silent in the wake of our exchange. As I watched his huge behind waddle in front of me, I wondered what bug could have possibly crawled up it so early in the day.

He opened the office door, ushered me in with a mocking bow, turned to the newsroom, and shouted “Work, damn it!” at the top of his lungs. Then he slammed the door shut so hard everything on his desk jumped.

He turned to me and scowled, but didn’t say anything. I decided the best defense was a good offense, mainly because I was pissed. But I kept my voice calm and low.

“You know, John, I really don’t mind being paraded through the newsroom like an errant child – you’ve got a nasty reputation to protect, and as staff curmudgeon it’s almost your duty to throw a fit now and then. I’m happy to be of help. But usually, underneath it all, you’ve got some reason for getting angry. I can’t figure out what it is this time. Have I let you down somehow? Is there a problem with the way I’ve covered the election?”

He sat down. The flush of anger left his face and he started fooling around with a ballpoint pen, stabbing it into the blotter on his desk. He was actually silent. Something was wrong.

“What’s going on, John?”

“I don’t have any problems with your coverage of the election. As usual, you’ve done an ace job. You haven’t let me down in any way.”

“So what is it?”

“Wrigley is on my case all the time. He wants me to hand over some of your work to Stacee.”

I felt my fists clench. Winston Wrigley III was an ass-pinching SOB who had inherited a job as editor. The publications board could still outvote him, or the staff would have walked out a long time ago. In fact, two years before, I had quit the Express after a loud argument with him. He had wanted me to come back but I turned him down until O’Connor was killed. I came back to finish the stories O’Connor was working on when he died, and in the process ended up hooked on reporting again.

“My work to Stacee? Stacee who couldn’t find her way around City Hall with a map? Stacee who’s so adorable she spells her name in a cutesy kind of way? Stacee who has spent all of six months out of J school?”

“You’ve forgotten five months of grad school under Professor Wrigley’s private tutelage.”

“Goddamn that bastard! He questions my ethics – bans me from crime stories because of Frank-”

“Wait a minute, you know he’s entitled to do that under the circumstances.”

“Oh hell, John. I’ve heard it all before – if I’m going to bed with a cop, you’re not going to put me on a crime story. I might not be able to stay objective if the cops are due for some criticism. Never mind that you and half the reporters on this paper are drinking buddies with these same cops – sex somehow will ruin my brain for being a crime reporter. But you know what, John? It’s worse for Frank. Who do you suppose they’re going to go looking for the first time somebody in the department leaks some story to the paper?”

“Look, Irene, if you think I don’t trust you-”

“I hope it hasn’t come to that.”

“It hasn’t.”

I settled down a little. “I’ve never made a stink out of being forbidden to do stories that involve the cops. I can live with it. I knew that something like that might happen if Frank and I got involved-”

“Yeah, yeah, but you can’t help yourselves. Look, don’t make me sick, okay? I don’t like what Wrigley’s trying to pull with Stacee any more than you do. She’s not a bad kid, she just seems to be so used to getting her way by using that saucy little body that it hasn’t occurred to her yet to use her brains.”

“Yeah, well, anyone who lets Wrigley into her underpants can’t be the next Einstein.”

“Oh, so you’ve been wise all your life? Shall I talk about a couple of the losers I’ve seen you hook up with over the years?”

I flinched. “No thanks. Point taken. So what are you getting at, John?”

“Starting tomorrow, why don’t you try to let her help you out?”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“I’m not. You know it’s too much to cover on your own. You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

There was some truth in this, I thought. In the past, O’Connor and I had covered things together. When I quit, other reporters had worked with him off and on, but no one had really made the contacts and connections I had. When I first came back to work at the paper, I had been glad to have the distraction the long hours gave me. But now, if I was honest with myself, I had to admit I was wearing down. Still – Stacee? John was looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“So you think Stacee has talent – outside of the type Wrigley appreciates so much?”

John grinned. “I knew you’d be fair about this, Irene. The kid needs a mentor – someone to show her the ropes. Her writing is okay. Needs a little polishing, but that takes time.”

“Hold on, John. This is not an unconditional surrender. I’m not signing up to be a mentor. I’ve worked hard to build up the trust and confidence of my sources in Las Piernas, and I’m not just going to hand it all to her on a silver platter. If she works with me, I choose what I’m going to let her cover. The paper has as much or more to lose than I do if she starts pissing people off.”

“You are getting very uppity in your old age.”

“I have a great role model.”

“Hmmph.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, but finally he agreed.

As I left his office, my eyes came to rest on a woman who looked like she was made to order should central casting call up and say, “We need a bimbo.” It was Stacee Martin. She looked up at me and smiled a 400-watt, totally phony smile.

What the hell had I gotten myself into now?

MEANING TO RETURN the smile, I believe I ended up grimacing, since she looked puzzled in response. I turned and made my way over to my desk, which had once been O’Connor’s own. I admit it – I was pouting. I thought about Stacee and her way of reaching whatever goals she had at the paper, comparing it to my own time as a green reporter. I had spent my first two years up in Bakersfield covering a crime beat. And the first stories I took on at the Express weren’t glamorous. Pet vaccination clinics, shopping center openings – and lots of crime stories, everything from break-ins to paramedic stories. If it was really juicy, they gave it to a veteran – which is how I met O’Connor. He had chosen me to work with him after I had paid some dues.

Now, at the time when maybe I would have picked somebody out on my own, I was going to be stuck with double-e Stacee. Hell if I was going to take responsibility for thrusting her career forward.

But as I thought about it, a little smile began to form on my lips. There were lots of ways to pay dues. I was going to run her ass so ragged she wouldn’t have enough time or energy to warm Wrigley’s bed. God, what a great way to pay Wrigley back.

THAT DECIDED, I called the Montgomery campaign to see what I could learn. I asked for Brady Scott, Montgomery’s press manager.

“Irene! What a pleasant surprise!” An unsolicited call from the local press. He was gushing all over himself.

“How’s it going, Brady?”

“Very well, very well. Monty will make a great D.A.”

“Any special reason for all of this optimism?”

“Oh, just faith in the voters,” he said, and I could hear the note of caution creeping into his voice.