her insurance agent and left a voice mail.
She was in an extreme state of distress when Wiedemeyer sidled over to her desk, the remains of a Krispy Kreme doughnut scattered down his tie. No doubt it had been a busy day for him on the death-and-dismemberment beat, reading such stimulating publications as CDC’s “Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report.” For Wiedemeyer this always required lots of sugar. And, of course, he had to report to Lacey on the distressing workplace death of the day. With hand gestures.
“Another poor bastard dead on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge Project,” Wiedemeyer announced proudly. “Right next to your place, right, Lacey? A construction worker. No hard hat. Of course, a hard hat wouldn’t have helped him when the crane knocked him in the cabeza . It somehow hooked onto his tool belt, swooped him over the fence, and dropped him onto the Beltway. No hard hat. No fall protection. Smack. But he might have made it, except just then a Virginia Department of Transportation truck ran right over him. The vicious slime bastards.” He took a deep gulp of air, like a fish out of water. “Poor little bastard never knew what hit him.”
“Which ones are the bastards, Harlan?”
“Everyone’s a bastard, Lacey. Everyone.”
“Yeah. The crane. The Beltway. The truck. The bastards. We got it, Wiedemeyer.” Tony distilled the report to its essence. “Now if you can stop listening to yourself talk for a few minutes, we got a situation here.”
But nothing daunted Harlan Wiedemeyer for long. He was all chummy sympathy after hearing about her missing car.
“Jeez, I know how you feel, Lacey. First my car is totaled, and now yours is gone. I wonder how many poor bastards have to go through this every day.”
“I don’t care how many poor bastards lose their cars every day, excuse me very much, Wiedemeyer,” she snapped. “At the moment, if you don’t mind, I only care that mine is gone! My car. My beautiful 280ZX.”
“I’d like to get my hands on that bastard! Who stole it?” Harlan was shaking with righteous fervor.
Lacey just looked at him. Wiedemeyer could barely wrestle down a doughnut, let alone a car thief.
“Hey, I know. I’ll drive you home, Lacey. I’ve got a rental car,” he offered. “We can stop for doughnuts.” She had to stop herself from smacking him, because the words just didn’t come. Trujillo stepped in.
“She’s had enough of your help for a while, mal de ojo. Thanks all the same.”
The little man retreated, but as he backed away from her desk, Wiedemeyer said, “I didn’t have anything to do with this, Lacey. I wouldn’t dream of it; you know that.” He walked a few steps, then turned around again and glared at Trujillo. “And I am not an evil eye, a harbinger of bad luck. It’s a crazy rumor. I have no idea how it got started.” He continued muttering back down the hallway. The few remaining reporters in the newsroom steered clear of him. Tony jingled the keys to his Mustang.
At home, Lacey dropped her bag on the floor and felt a scream of frustration coming on when the phone rang. She didn’t want to answer, but she picked it up anyway, cursed by her insatiable curiosity.
“Lacey Blaine Smithsonian, you haven’t called home in three weeks. I just wanted to know if my eldest and most forgetful daughter was still alive or if I should come to the funeral.”
Oh, no, Lacey thought. Please, no. Not now.
Rose Smithsonian had a mother’s instinct for calling at all the wrong times. Lacey never quite knew what to say to her, because she didn’t quite feel related to Rose. She wasn’t sure she ever had. When she thought of her mother, she saw a relentless bulldozer of a woman, albeit a small bulldozer, with an unbridled enthusiasm for projects , the most important of which were her daughters. But Cherise, Lacey’s younger sister, was the blue-ribbon prizewinner of Rose’s projects, like a perfect soufflé: happy, fluffy, perky, and just so
She was in an extreme state of distress when Wiedemeyer sidled over to her desk, the remains of a Krispy Kreme doughnut scattered down his tie. No doubt it had been a busy day for him on the death-and-dismemberment beat, reading such stimulating publications as CDC’s “Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report.” For Wiedemeyer this always required lots of sugar. And, of course, he had to report to Lacey on the distressing workplace death of the day. With hand gestures.
“Another poor bastard dead on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge Project,” Wiedemeyer announced proudly. “Right next to your place, right, Lacey? A construction worker. No hard hat. Of course, a hard hat wouldn’t have helped him when the crane knocked him in the cabeza . It somehow hooked onto his tool belt, swooped him over the fence, and dropped him onto the Beltway. No hard hat. No fall protection. Smack. But he might have made it, except just then a Virginia Department of Transportation truck ran right over him. The vicious slime bastards.” He took a deep gulp of air, like a fish out of water. “Poor little bastard never knew what hit him.”
“Which ones are the bastards, Harlan?”
“Everyone’s a bastard, Lacey. Everyone.”
“Yeah. The crane. The Beltway. The truck. The bastards. We got it, Wiedemeyer.” Tony distilled the report to its essence. “Now if you can stop listening to yourself talk for a few minutes, we got a situation here.”
But nothing daunted Harlan Wiedemeyer for long. He was all chummy sympathy after hearing about her missing car.
“Jeez, I know how you feel, Lacey. First my car is totaled, and now yours is gone. I wonder how many poor bastards have to go through this every day.”
“I don’t care how many poor bastards lose their cars every day, excuse me very much, Wiedemeyer,” she snapped. “At the moment, if you don’t mind, I only care that mine is gone! My car. My beautiful 280ZX.”
“I’d like to get my hands on that bastard! Who stole it?” Harlan was shaking with righteous fervor.
Lacey just looked at him. Wiedemeyer could barely wrestle down a doughnut, let alone a car thief.
“Hey, I know. I’ll drive you home, Lacey. I’ve got a rental car,” he offered. “We can stop for doughnuts.” She had to stop herself from smacking him, because the words just didn’t come. Trujillo stepped in.
“She’s had enough of your help for a while, mal de ojo. Thanks all the same.”
The little man retreated, but as he backed away from her desk, Wiedemeyer said, “I didn’t have anything to do with this, Lacey. I wouldn’t dream of it; you know that.” He walked a few steps, then turned around again and glared at Trujillo. “And I am not an evil eye, a harbinger of bad luck. It’s a crazy rumor. I have no idea how it got started.” He continued muttering back down the hallway. The few remaining reporters in the newsroom steered clear of him. Tony jingled the keys to his Mustang.
At home, Lacey dropped her bag on the floor and felt a scream of frustration coming on when the phone rang. She didn’t want to answer, but she picked it up anyway, cursed by her insatiable curiosity.
“Lacey Blaine Smithsonian, you haven’t called home in three weeks. I just wanted to know if my eldest and most forgetful daughter was still alive or if I should come to the funeral.”
Oh, no, Lacey thought. Please, no. Not now.
Rose Smithsonian had a mother’s instinct for calling at all the wrong times. Lacey never quite knew what to say to her, because she didn’t quite feel related to Rose. She wasn’t sure she ever had. When she thought of her mother, she saw a relentless bulldozer of a woman, albeit a small bulldozer, with an unbridled enthusiasm for projects , the most important of which were her daughters. But Cherise, Lacey’s younger sister, was the blue-ribbon prizewinner of Rose’s projects, like a perfect soufflé: happy, fluffy, perky, and just so
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