Jan Burke - Remember Me, Irene

In spite of the actual words spoken, when Ray stops calling me Kelly, I know he’s giving in. I waited.

“I need a cigarette,” he said, and lit one in blatant disregard of a city ordinance banning smoking in public buildings. I kept waiting.

He took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “You don’t need me to tell you that there are many opportunities offered to a man who holds the title of city manager. He’s not elected, but because the council relies so heavily on him for information and to carry out their will, he’s powerful. In fact, Allan has been the city manager longer than any of the current council members have been in office. If certain offers were made to him, well, even a saint would find it tempting to accept an offer now and again.”

“And Moffett is no saint.”

Ray shook his head.

“So just what kind of sinner are we talking about here?”

He stayed silent, watching the end of his cigarette for a moment. He took another drag, then said, “You remember what downtown was like about twenty years ago?”

“Sure. Depending on your point of view, it was a historical district full of beautiful but aging buildings in need of renovation, or it was a seedy, festering dump that needed to be demolished.”

He smiled. “Liked the old buildings, did you? You were probably some damned hippie.”

“Sorry, Ray, I just missed out on the hippies. The nuns wouldn’t let us out of our plaid, and by the time I got to go to public school, it was all over. To use a hippie expression, I’m not too bummed out about it. The Las Piernas High School imitation of hippiedom was pretty pathetic.”

“Too young to be a hippie. Dammit, Irene, you are making me feel very old.”

“So this is related to downtown redevelopment?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But I’m close.”

He smiled, crushed out his cigarette, and carefully pocketed its remains. “You’re closer than you were to being a hippie, I suppose.”

He stood up, brushed his pants off, and left me sitting there. I thought about what he said. I left when a bureaucrat from the next floor up opened a door, sniffed the air, and told me in a nasty tone of voice that it was illegal to smoke anywhere in the building.

ITHOUGHTFRANK MIGHTresist the idea of dining at the Terrace that night, but I was wrong.

“Of course I’ll go with you,” he said. “You know how I feel about your being out alone late at night. And these guys might not appreciate your attention.”

“I’m not asking you to come along as muscle, Frank. We just haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

He looked skeptical. “Sure that’s it? Or do you just want to avoid attracting attention by dining alone in a fancy restaurant?”

I turned red, but said, “The last of the great romantics.”

He took that as a personal challenge. He met it admirably, so even though we weren’t due there for a couple of hours, we were a little late getting to the Terrace.

DRIVING TO THE RESTAURANT, we passed through the part of town where I had seen Lucas. I started telling Frank about him.

“It’s a cold night,” I said, watching the empty streets as if I might see him again. “I hope he’s in a shelter.”

“Sounds like your friend at the center looks out after him. He’s probably okay.”

“Roberta’s out of town,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know where to look for Lucas. I was such a jerk that day. Ran away from him.”

“You expect too much of yourself,” he said. “You didn’t know who he was. He scared you. That’s not your fault. And you didn’t make him crawl into a bottle, either.”

“No,” I said, but grew silent.

“Listen, from what you’ve told me about him, you’re probably right-some time after graduate school, something must have really gone wrong. But right now, until he contacts you, there’s not much you can do about him. I could ask the guys who work that section of town-”

“No, don’t. Just knowing where he is wouldn’t be enough. And it might embarrass him. I don’t want Lucas to think I’m putting pressure on him. He’ll come to see me when he’s ready.”

We came to another section of the city, this one much more affluent than the one we had just left. Separated by one of the oil fields that have brought money into Las Piernas since the 1930s, the two neighborhoods might just as easily have been separated by outer space. Here in the Knolls, as the enclave was called, big, sloping lawns fronted large homes.

The Terrace isn’t in one of the fancier parts of the Knolls, but it is on an actual knoll. It’s at the end of a small street, bordered by the high walls of one of the housing developments. One of the smaller lots of oil pumps is across from it. Despite the noise made by the rhythmic, rolling, rocking-horse motions of the pumps outside, the restaurant itself is quiet.

Even though it’s packed every night, something about the Terrace invites its diners to speak in low voices. Dark paneled wood, candlelight, and traditional fare-no menu items that belong in a lab notebook. Perhaps a little straitlaced, but reliable.

Before the maître d’ could do much with his look-one that said he wished he wasn’t too polite to pinch his nose shut-I said, “We’re just here for a drink,” and guided Frank into the bar.

“Going to drink your dinner?” Frank asked as we sat at a small table.

“No, but you can make a meal out of the appetizers. We can’t have dinner here tonight, anyway. They didn’t have any tables open in the dining room by the time I called.”

“Now you tell me.”

I shrugged. “This will be cheaper.”

He laughed. “I guess we can stop by Bernie’s on the way home.” He wasn’t looking at me as he said this. He was looking around the room, checking out the occupants. Cop habit of his. He caught me catching him at it and asked, “Do you need to take a stroll around the restaurant to look for Moffett and his guests?”

“I could, but I think I already know where he is. We’re sitting next to a private dining room,” I said, pointing at a hallway off the bar.

“So that’s what the note on the reservation’s list meant.”

“Mr. Harriman, I’m dazzled. I didn’t think you had a chance to read it while the maître d’ was snubbing us.”

“I’m full of tricks. You’ve been in this private dining room?”

“Not as an invitee. Are you familiar with the Brown Act?”

“The law that gets you and all your pals at the Express into government meetings, right?”

“Well, yes, but there’s more to it than that. Without getting into a lot of details, let’s just say one of the most important things the Brown Act does is to prohibit local public agencies from meeting secretly.”

“Public agencies?”

“Local legislative bodies, for the most part. School boards, city councils, and commissions are included. It’s a state law. One of the best sections of the Brown Act-great for reporters, anyway-extends the requirement for open and public meetings to any committee or task force those councils and commissions appoint-even advisory groups.”

I paused in my civics lecture while the waitress came to take our drink order.

“You’re going to tell me what this has to do with the private dining room at the Terrace, right?” Frank asked.

“Patience. So-these commissions can’t exclude reporters from meetings, right? And ‘meetings’ aren’t just those formal gatherings in the council chambers. The law can extend to social functions. Parties, picnics, you name it.”

“Wait a minute. You mean the city council members can’t have a party without inviting the Express?”