J. Wachowski - In Plain View

“Too bad about the suicide,” he said seriously. “Re-opens that whole can of worms, doesn’t it?”

Generations of controversy had time to be considered before Curzon finally answered, “No.”

Wilt nodded as if he’d heard paragraphs of rationale. “Hope you’re right,” he replied sincerely. Donna Curzon was waving frantically from across the patio. Wilt pushed off from the wall. “I’m being summoned. Nice meeting you, Ms. O’Hara.”

We watched him walk away and I asked, “Why’s he busting your ass?”

Curzon cracked a smile, then shook his finger at me. “No family business on the first date. It’s a rule.”

“This isn’t a date. This is work.”

He countered with a frown but his good humor didn’t fade. “In that case, I believe Marc is indicating that should Jost’s suicide become publicized, Nicky’s reprimand will be fair game in the race for sheriff.”

“All that from three sentences?”

“We’ve known each other a while.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why am I here?”

Green-eyed death glare. Before he could fire off another one of those scintillating one-word answers, Jenny obliged him by crashing into the conversation, red-faced and breathless. I’d never seen her so charged up.

“Hey kid, nice timing.”

“Why don’t you come see me at the station around lunchtime tomorrow?” Curzon threw out suddenly. “Leave your boy. Come hungry.”

“Did you see me?” Jenny asked. “Wasn’t that great? Come hungry where? What are you talking about?”

“You can’t be hungry, kid.” I slipped off the wall, careful of how my weight landed. “I saw that hamburger you ate.”

“Remind your aunt tomorrow morning, she’s having lunch with me, so she can tell me all about her incident,” Curzon said to Jenny, with a head nod toward my bad leg.

Jenny’s face squinched suspiciously. “What does he mean ‘incident’?”

He answered before I thought to stop him. “With the car, when she hurt her leg.”

“What car?” Jenny rounded on me with all the drama of a soap diva. “You said you fell.”

“I did fall.” I glared at Curzon, even though-technically-this wasn’t his fault. “A car made me fall.”

All the fun visible on Jenny’s face vanished.

Hit-and-run. It happens just that fast.

4:34:25 p.m.

“We need to make a stop, College.” I looked over my shoulder into the back seat. “That fine with you, Jen?”

She managed the effort of a single shoulder shrug while staring grimly out the window.

I really needed to work. We needed more material if we were going to squeeze out six decent minutes. The desire to be in the studio-in the dark and absorbed by my process-bubbled in my blood like a junkie’s addiction.

My hands even shook a little at the thought of going straight home, straight back to my sister’s empty house with Jenny. She had not said one word to me since Curzon dropped the bomb. Mistake after mistake, I was piling them on as fast as Tom Jost did in his last weeks.

For some reason my brain kept replaying Curzon’s comment that Jost must have stood on those boxes a while before he died.

What had he been doing? The Amish clothes and his choice of location suggested he was spitting in his father’s eye. But the fact that he wanted to marry Rachel in the Amish church also suggested the costume was for her benefit.

Is it date rape if the guy is trying to compel you to marry him?

Or is it kidnapping?

Ainsley glanced in his rearview mirror, monitoring Jenny’s mood. “Where’re we stopping?”

“Let’s try Tom Jost’s apartment building again. It’s Sunday afternoon. The neighbors should be home. Maybe we can talk to the super or something.”

“Tom’s apartment.” Ainsley hooked the turn that would put us closer to Jost’s apartment on the fringe of town. “I’m on it.”

Jenny said nothing. Every so often, I’d catch a snap of anger in her eyes right before everything stiffened into the child zombie routine.

“What’s the problem, Jenny? You’ve been sulking since we left the party.”

“No problem,” she mumbled.

“You can see I’m fine. I didn’t say anything about the stupid car because I thought it would bother you, okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

Ainsley raised both eyebrows.

This time the drive seemed to take forever, even without the whole Top 40 sing-along. It was close to sunset when we finally pulled into Jost’s parking lot. There were windows open in several apartments and more cars in the lot than the last time we visited. I could smell a charcoal grill. Good signs. The “All Stressed Out and No One To Choke” bumper sticker showed a certain amount of ambient hostility but who am I to criticize?

“You want to come in with us?” I asked Jenny over my shoulder, “or wait here in the car?”

“Car.”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” Ainsley added.

I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t making fun of us. I slammed my car door before opening the back hatch.

We’d packed cameras, of course. Ainsley had loaded the car without a repeat of the we-sleep-with-equipment speech. At least the boy retained new information.

“Let’s carry cameras to the door this time.” I pulled my press card out of my messenger bag and clipped it to my shirt.

We aren’t supposed to be class snobs in the good ol’ U.S. of A. but there’s a certain segment of the population that still got so tickled at the thought of seeing their faces on television, they’d say or do just about anything to get there. Perhaps even give a lady a tour of an apartment that might normally be considered off limits.

I could see Jenny was busy not watching us from the car.

It took two rings before we got an answer.

The intercom buzzed. “Whozzit?”

“Looking for the building manager?”

There was a long pause and then the electric click and hum of the lock release.

No one came out to greet us but I gravitated toward the only door in the hall that had a buzzer button. Someone had posted a line of notices down the door that included a shiny Volunteer Fire Department sticker and Solicitors Will Be Shot on Sight.

I could hear voices coming from inside the apartment, raised over the sound of the television.

“…they want?”

“…the hell should I know?”

The door popped open and a fine native specimen in a Chicago Bears T-shirt announced, “I’m the manager. What d’ya need?” He had a round face, belly and shiny spot on top where the hair was missing. He’d make a terrific contrast to our first interview, Farmer Lowe, and even better one to Old Mr. Jost, if I could ever get the Amish man on film.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m Maddy O’Hara from WWST and we’re working on a story about someone who used to live in this building. Guy named Tom Jost?”

“Television?”

“That’s right.” I smiled. Moments like these always feel a bit like I’m holding out the dog biscuit with one hand, while the net dangles behind my back in the other.

“You want to put me on television?” he said with a grin. He sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest a la Fred Flintstone. He didn’t sound surprised, more like his moment had finally arrived.

“If you aren’t too busy.” More smiling.

“Hold on a minute.” He shut the door in our faces.

Ainsley set the camera case on the ground and scratched his head. In a bad-news tone, he told me, “Uh, Maddy, I didn’t bring enough lighting to shoot an interior interview.”

“What?”

“Sorry. You said it was a picnic. Picnics are outside. I can do docudrama style.”