story.”
It’s a blessedly slow night. I call Andi to find out which restaurant she’s waitressing at this week, and also try to find out something about her social life with my usual lack of success.
“With this economy,” she says, when I wonder aloud how long it’ll take her to graduate taking two courses a semester, “why hurry?”
It’s hard to argue with that, much as I want to.
About nine thirty, I get a call from Marcus Green.
“Hey,” he says. “You still interested in interviewing my client?”
I tell him I’ll call him back in thirty seconds.
In the smokers’ gulag, I use my cellphone. I explain that I’ve been taken off the story.
“Man,” he says, “those guys take care of their own, don’t they?”
Marcus doesn’t have to check ESPN to know what the score is. He’s been watching game film of West End power brokers for a very long time, looking for tendencies and weaknesses.
I tell him that Mark Baer is going to be covering whatever else happens to Richard Slade.
“My client doesn’t want to talk to Mark Baer. He wants to talk to you.”
“That’s flattering, Marcus.”
“Flattering doesn’t have shit to do with it. His momma told him about you maybe being his cousin and all.”
I opine that maybe I’m making some inroads with Philomena Slade after all.
Marcus Green laughs.
“Well, she’s got a pretty good hard-on against all you scoundrels down there. That’s what she called y’all the other day, after she threw you out of the car.
“But maybe she thinks you’re the best of a bad lot. You being family and all. That still tickles me, by the way. You’re about as African-American as Donald Trump.”
“Hurts coming from you. You’ve probably got a butler and a maid.”
Green lives along River Road. I’ve seen his place. He even had a lawn jockey out front for a while. All the white folks out there painted theirs white, about as far as most of them were willing to ride on the tolerance train, so Marcus painted his black, in some kind of twisted attempt at sardonic humor that went over like a fart in a phone booth. He finally gave up after the jockey got stolen three times. The last time, somebody put a love note in his mailbox, calling him a racist cracker and promising more personal and heartfelt retribution.
Marcus harrumphs.
“I’m just a proud black man who’s pulled himself up by his bootstraps, overcoming oppression every step on the way.”
We both laugh. If the Grand Wizard—or whatever the hell he is—of the Ku Klux Klan offered Marcus Green a nice payday, Marcus would be right there, with that same aggrieved look, fuming over the injustice that awaited his client if a fair and balanced jury didn’t save the day.
Still, Marcus Green has helped me, and vice versa. Sometimes, we are aiming in the same direction. Often, neither of us is pure of heart, but sometimes you have to be saved by a scoundrel.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’d like very much to talk to your client. Tell him that, if there’s some truth to be had, we will get at it.”
And I promise him something else. I promise that I’ll find a way to get that truth, whatever it might be, into the paper.
It’s a promise I hope I can keep.
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday
P eachy Love succeeded me in my first incarnation on night cops.
Then, she decided she liked the police end of things better than the newspaper end. She’s been a flack for them now for about twelve years. We have an agreement. She’s never seen talking to me, except maybe at a group press conference. I never mention her name. But, when either of us knows it’s necessary, we talk.
Usually, like today, it’s over the phone, although I have been known to make an after-hours house call to Peachy’s place in Ginter Park.
“Thought I’d give you a heads-up,” she says. I’m still two-thirds asleep. Her voice tells me I’d better wake up fast.
“Yeah?”
“The guy you’re checking on? He’s going to be a TV star
It’s a blessedly slow night. I call Andi to find out which restaurant she’s waitressing at this week, and also try to find out something about her social life with my usual lack of success.
“With this economy,” she says, when I wonder aloud how long it’ll take her to graduate taking two courses a semester, “why hurry?”
It’s hard to argue with that, much as I want to.
About nine thirty, I get a call from Marcus Green.
“Hey,” he says. “You still interested in interviewing my client?”
I tell him I’ll call him back in thirty seconds.
In the smokers’ gulag, I use my cellphone. I explain that I’ve been taken off the story.
“Man,” he says, “those guys take care of their own, don’t they?”
Marcus doesn’t have to check ESPN to know what the score is. He’s been watching game film of West End power brokers for a very long time, looking for tendencies and weaknesses.
I tell him that Mark Baer is going to be covering whatever else happens to Richard Slade.
“My client doesn’t want to talk to Mark Baer. He wants to talk to you.”
“That’s flattering, Marcus.”
“Flattering doesn’t have shit to do with it. His momma told him about you maybe being his cousin and all.”
I opine that maybe I’m making some inroads with Philomena Slade after all.
Marcus Green laughs.
“Well, she’s got a pretty good hard-on against all you scoundrels down there. That’s what she called y’all the other day, after she threw you out of the car.
“But maybe she thinks you’re the best of a bad lot. You being family and all. That still tickles me, by the way. You’re about as African-American as Donald Trump.”
“Hurts coming from you. You’ve probably got a butler and a maid.”
Green lives along River Road. I’ve seen his place. He even had a lawn jockey out front for a while. All the white folks out there painted theirs white, about as far as most of them were willing to ride on the tolerance train, so Marcus painted his black, in some kind of twisted attempt at sardonic humor that went over like a fart in a phone booth. He finally gave up after the jockey got stolen three times. The last time, somebody put a love note in his mailbox, calling him a racist cracker and promising more personal and heartfelt retribution.
Marcus harrumphs.
“I’m just a proud black man who’s pulled himself up by his bootstraps, overcoming oppression every step on the way.”
We both laugh. If the Grand Wizard—or whatever the hell he is—of the Ku Klux Klan offered Marcus Green a nice payday, Marcus would be right there, with that same aggrieved look, fuming over the injustice that awaited his client if a fair and balanced jury didn’t save the day.
Still, Marcus Green has helped me, and vice versa. Sometimes, we are aiming in the same direction. Often, neither of us is pure of heart, but sometimes you have to be saved by a scoundrel.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’d like very much to talk to your client. Tell him that, if there’s some truth to be had, we will get at it.”
And I promise him something else. I promise that I’ll find a way to get that truth, whatever it might be, into the paper.
It’s a promise I hope I can keep.
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday
P eachy Love succeeded me in my first incarnation on night cops.
Then, she decided she liked the police end of things better than the newspaper end. She’s been a flack for them now for about twelve years. We have an agreement. She’s never seen talking to me, except maybe at a group press conference. I never mention her name. But, when either of us knows it’s necessary, we talk.
Usually, like today, it’s over the phone, although I have been known to make an after-hours house call to Peachy’s place in Ginter Park.
“Thought I’d give you a heads-up,” she says. I’m still two-thirds asleep. Her voice tells me I’d better wake up fast.
“Yeah?”
“The guy you’re checking on? He’s going to be a TV star
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