Backstab by Elaine Viets

cold newsroom coffee. Before I could get some fresh, the phone rang again. This time it was a man. He sounded angry.
    “I want to talk to you about that stupid fucking column you wrote,” he said.
    “Er, which column was that, sir?”
    “The one you did August eighth,” he said. “You got your facts wrong.” August? This was February. Surely there should be a statute of limitations on raging readers.
    “What was the column about, sir?” I try to handle people with complaints, no matter how crazy, before they call Hadley. If the guy was a major advertiser, or related to one, Hadley might make me apologize, even if nothing was wrong. When I finally calmed the guy down, I discovered my error—I didn’t mention his product. He’d invented a new pool toy, and I’d done a story about some of the wackier things floating around local pools.
    “You mentioned all those out-of-town guys and said nothing about a local person, nothing!” he fumed. “I’ve invested thirty thousand dollarsin this goddamned invention. It’s the new pet rock, but not one store will carry it. It’s all your fault.” I thought he should spend a few hundred on charm school lessons. Instead I told him to send me some information about his invention.
    “Fuck you, it’s too late now. It’s February,” he screamed, and hung up on me.
    I put down the receiver cautiously. I checked to see if the phone was glowing or something. Maybe someone put my number by the pay phones at the state mental home on Arsenal Street. Maybe I should just hang it up, phonewise, and not pick it up anymore. Let voice mail catch the next call.
    The phone rang again. “Third time’s a charm,” I told myself stupidly, and picked it up.
    It was another upset person, but I couldn’t understand this man enough to find out if he was angry or anguished. He was crying and talking at the same time, and the sounds came out as a series of gulps, squeaks, and sobs. Finally, he was calm enough to talk slowly. “Francesca, it’s Jamie,” he said.
    Jamie was Ralph the Rehabber’s friend. They used to be lovers, but after a few years their romance mellowed into a deep friendship. Jamie found a nice young doctor to live with. Ralph found a nasty old drag queen. But Ralph and Jamie still cared for each other, and kept in touch. If Jamie was calling, something must be wrong with Ralph.
    “He’s sick,” I said before Jamie could say anything else. “I knew he shouldn’t be taking outplaster ceilings with that cold. He was hacking and wheezing. He has pneumonia, doesn’t he? He had an asthma attack and you had to take him to the hospital. He’s in intensive care.”
    I was describing the most benign of the possible disasters, so Jamie wouldn’t tell me the worst. I knew the worst. I could hear it in Jamie’s voice. But it wouldn’t be true until he said it. That’s why I kept talking.
    Finally, he interrupted me. “Francesca,” he said gently, “Ralph’s dead.” His voice wobbled, but he went on. “He had an asthma attack in the house he was rehabbing. No one was around to help him. The police think he died sometime yesterday morning. His mother didn’t hear from him last night and got worried, because she knew he was sick and he’d promised to call her. She called me early this morning and asked me to check on him. I didn’t find him at home, so I went to the house on Utah Place. I…I found him.”
    Jamie’s carefully controlled composure fell away, and he began sobbing, harsh rusty sobs. I find men’s tears more terrible than women’s, because many men aren’t used to crying.
    “It was horrible,” Jamie said. “I went around to the backyard. Ralph usually kept the kitchen door open, so he could run back and forth to his truck. I could hear the radio on upstairs—K-SHE blasting ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ But I didn’t hear Ralph banging on the ceiling with his crowbar, bashing out chunks of old plaster in time with the music. He loved doing that.