The Scoop (17 page)

R
ichard Allen Goodwin remained a betting man even though in the past the odds rarely went in his favor. Upon his arrival in Grand Cayman, it appeared Lady Luck was making up for lost time. He’d had rotten luck for most of his fifty-two years—now forty-eight, according to his new credentials. It was high time he hit a winning streak.

His change of luck almost frightened him. There he was in Grand Cayman starting over, relishing the second chance he’d been given or, in his case, taken. What none of those assholes at the paper understood was if they wanted front-page news, they had to be willing to get out there and take a chance instead of whining about how someone always beat them to it. In this day and age, people had to be on their toes. And he’d been twirling on his tiptoes for days.

He was a multimillionaire. He could gamble all night if he wanted to. He could drink until he passed out. He could do whatever he damn well pleased.

“If they only knew,” he said out loud. Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the aqua blue water of the Caribbean, he couldn’t believe how his fortune had changed in just a matter of hours. He stared out at the beach as waves slammed against the shore. Palm trees, bent over like ballerinas, swayed as if dancing. Rain splashing against the windows sounded like pebbles being tossed against the glass.

Stuck in the middle of a fucking hurricane! He’d already heard that half of the island had lost power. He’d called the airport, pretending to schedule a flight. He’d been told by a woman with a lovely accent that all flights were canceled. A damn shame. He then checked with the concierge, asking if any of the casinos downstairs would remain open in spite of the weather. He’d been assured that they would remain open for the guests.

After a shower and shave, he dressed in khaki slacks and a light blue shirt. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He needed to lose thirty pounds, but with his money, he could get some lipo. He slid a comb through his thinning hair and decided he would check into hair plugs as soon as the storm was over. He pinched the excess skin beneath his chin. That had to go, too. In a couple of months, he’d be a new man. Literally.

For the rest of the evening he would enjoy himself in the casino. Yes, life was good.

Back in California, Micky observed the hot young reporter as she drove off in her bright yellow car with a dog that looked like Rin Tin Tin. He carefully made his way to the back entrance of
The Informer.
Pushing the door aside, he entered quietly, unsure if anyone else was inside the office.

“Hey, anyone in here?” he called out. Like they’d answer if they were there at this hour. Sometimes he was stupid.

Taking care to walk softly down the long, dark hallway that he knew led to the offices, Micky pushed a door aside. Nothing. A metal desk with a cheap office chair and an outdated computer. No wonder this piece-of-shit paper was in the hole. Look at the antiquated crap they had to use. Probably still had dial-up Internet. He stepped back out into the hallway. He opened the next door and saw more of the same. This was supposed to be a newspaper, a rag?
Fuck, my home office beats this dump to hell and back.
He shook his head as he peeked around into the office next door. More of the same stuff. Desk, chair, no computer. Must use pencil and paper. He laughed at his own wit.

As soon as he stepped out of the office back into the hall, he heard voices.

Son of a bitch! Maybe Rag has decided to come to work today after all. If so, he was about to get a major, major ass whipping.

Micky stepped inside the office directly across from him.

Bingo! It was the boss’s office. He turned on the lights, took a seat in the lumpy chair behind the desk. He was a patient man. Kind of. He had nothing better to do that day.

Yesiree, he was going to sit there in that damn office until Mr. Newspaper Owner himself showed up. Yep, for fifty grand, he had all the time in the world.

U
nsure what to make of Rag’s sudden disappearance, Abby decided to shelve the man’s departure for the moment. More than likely he was holed up in some seedy hotel, sleeping off his latest drunk. She had more important issues at hand, like her mother and her godmothers and the promised tour of
The Informer.
She raced back to the office in record time.

Parking in her assigned space, before getting out of her car, Abby scanned the parking lot, searching for Rag’s Chrysler, on the off chance that he might have miraculously shown up while she was out looking for him.
No such luck,
she thought, before she corrected herself. Any workday without Rag on her case was a lucky day. Reaching for her briefcase in the backseat, she pulled it over the top of the seat, searching for Chester’s leash at the same time. Sure she had tucked it in there earlier, she rummaged through until she found it.

“Come on, boy, let me loop this around your neck. I don’t want anyone saying I don’t respect the leash law.” Once, Rag had seen her and Chester in the parking lot without a leash. He’d come down on her like a ton of bricks, saying it was a lawsuit waiting to happen and from now on, when the dog was on
Informer
property, he had better be leashed or else. It was the “or else” that had made her hate him more than ever.

“Chester! What are you growling at?” Abby looped the leash around the dog’s neck before getting out and opening the passenger door. “I know you don’t like Rag. I don’t like him either. The sad truth is, I don’t think anyone likes him.”

With her briefcase tucked under her right arm, Abby held the leash with her left hand, then used her right hand to open Chester’s door and release him from his seat belt. Dogs were like kids and needed just as much protection.

As soon as she clipped Chester’s leash to his collar, she made a mental note to call Precious Paws and arrange a spa day for Chester. Maybe she’d invite Coco, too. Chester wasn’t too hip on spa days, but he might make an exception if he had company. Especially a sweet little Chihuahua.

Walking across the parking lot with Chester jutting out in front of her as far as his leash extended, Abby jumped when she heard someone shout her name. She turned around in time to see a sleek white limousine pulling into the parking lot. Sophie hung out the back window, waving a cigarette in the air. Laughing, Abby simply shook her head.

“Chester, stay!” The huge dog immediately sat down on his hind legs.

Abby hurried over to the vehicle, anxious to take her mother and godmothers on a tour of her workplace. She glanced at her watch. She had at least another two or three hours before any of the stringers were due to report in for the day.

One by one, the women spilled out of the limousine. First Sophie, then Toots, and lastly Mavis, who clutched a small dog that couldn’t weigh more than three or four pounds, possessively cradled against her ample chest.

“Yip, yip!”

Mavis trundled over to where Abby stood with Chester.

“This must be Coco.” Abby held her hand out for the little dog to sniff. Coco growled, revealing tiny sharp teeth.

“She’s afraid.” Mavis glanced at the large dog sitting at attention. Chester was as still as a statue.

“Don’t worry, Mavis, Chester is harmless.”

“It’s true, Mavis. When it’s called for, Chester is a killer dog, but he’s as lovable as a kitten other times,” Toots said as she leaned in for a quick hug from her daughter. Toots ruffled her grandson/dog between the ears.

“He’s the best of the best. Don’t know how I’d manage without him. Let’s go inside. I want to show you around before anyone else shows up.” Abby reached for Chester’s leash and led him to the back door. “Just follow me,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“I can’t believe we’re really here! It’s so exciting! Do you have any new issues I haven’t seen?” Toots asked, as they entered the decrepit building through the back door.

“I think we’ve got a couple. We print seven issues every other week. That gives us every other day to assemble our stories for the press, then another day to collect new information.”

First Abby showed them her office. “It’s not much, but it’s the nicest office in this dank old building. I’m hoping when and if I ever learn who the new owners are, I can get them to spring for a remodeling job. This building used to house the Los
Angeles Examiner.
It’s more than a hundred years old. Sadly, not much has changed since then, other than we’re now a third-rate rag. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing anymore.”

Abby noticed that Mavis’s pale skin was flushed. She motioned to a chair. “Take a load off, Mavis,” she said cheerfully.

“Thank you, dear. I am a bit overheated.”

Toots and Sophie gazed in awe at the framed covers of
The Informer
that graced all the walls.

“I must have missed some of these,” Toots said, continuing to scan the front-page news her daughter had reported on.

“Maybe you just forgot about them. Now, if you’re all ready for a tour, we might as well get started.”

“We’re ready, Abby. I hope we’re not keeping you from your work. If you’d rather schedule this for a later time, I’m sure that would be fine with Mavis and Sophie.” Toots glanced at the women to see their reaction. They both nodded.

“Now is perfect because Rag isn’t here. Actually, I haven’t heard from him. I’m starting to get worried.”

Toots sucked in a deep breath. “Is this unusual?”

Abby thought about her words before she spoke. It
wasn’t
unusual, that was just it. Why she suddenly started worrying about him wasn’t normal. It was just a feeling she had. “Not really. He’s probably locked up in some sleazy hotel out in Vegas with one of his bimbos.”

“Sounds like you admire and respect your boss,” Sophie muttered. She had been hoping for a little more glitz and glamour, and what she was getting was pure sleaze.

Abby laughed. “In his dreams. Rag wasn’t so bad until he started gambling. I think that’s what led to his drinking, and the rest…needless to say, I can’t stand the sight of him. No one else can either. What’s left of the staff stays out of the office as much as they can. I’m the only reporter besides Rag who shows up in the mornings. When he decides to show up. Come on, let’s get this tour started,” Abby called to Chester. Apparently, Coco was going to take direction from the shepherd. As soon as he trotted to the door, she followed.

“Why don’t you quit?” Mavis asked, trailing behind, her gaze glued to her little dog, who was more intent on Chester than on her owner.

Smiling at the thought, Abby said, “I can’t do that. In spite of Rag, I love my job. I know it doesn’t come with a lot of respect, but someone has to do it.” Abby led them down the hallway to a door on her left.

“Once we’re downstairs in the basement, it’s pitch-black, so don’t do anything until I give you the word. There’s a problem with the electricity in this old building. The lights don’t always work.”

Once Abby reached the door to the basement, she turned around to make sure her mother and godmothers were behind her. “The steps are steep, but there’s a handrail, just be careful.” She fumbled with the light switch, and a second later, the basement lit up.

The German-engineered printing press stood like a ghostly monument in the middle of the basement. Different-size round gears with hundreds of metal teeth meshed with precision even a fine watchmaker would envy. Abby could almost imagine the deafening noise emanating from the machine of days long past. Other than the frayed wiring hanging from an electrical workbox, the machine appeared in pristine condition. Operational status would be only minutes away were a qualified electrician hired.

Rolls of paper stacked floor to ceiling beside several fifty-five-gallon drums of ink lay in waiting for the next breaking story. Off to the right was a small office where the typesetters had toiled endlessly with the tedious task of setting the small typeface backward from right to left.

Multiple dye-setting tools on ink-stained workbenches lay in military precision, as if keeping a vigilant watch over their domain.

The women gathered at the foot of the printing press, where Abby briefly explained how the massive machine worked.

“Why is this junk still here?” Sophie asked. “How can you be competitive if you don’t keep up with the times?”

“It’s not junk. When William Randolph Hearst purchased this machinery in the early 1900s, it was top of the line and could still produce a paper to this day if need be,” Abby explained.

Across the large room, Chester and Coco waited patiently at the foot of the stairs.

Mavis toddled over to stand next to the two canines.

“The dogs are getting antsy. Let’s go back upstairs, and I’ll show you all the rest of the building,” Abby said.

At the top of the stairs, they waited as Mavis struggled to catch her breath midway up. “Sorry, this is just one more reason for me to lose weight.”

“Why don’t you take the dogs and wait in my office while I show Mom and Sophie the remaining three floors. That will cover the mailroom, distribution, sales, and marketing. You won’t be missing a thing.”

“Thanks, dear. I think I’ll do that.”

Twenty minutes later, the trio returned to Abby’s office. The scene that greeted them caused all three to burst out laughing. In front of Abby’s desk, Chester and Coco lay cuddled closely side by side, with Chester’s baby toy wedged between them. Mavis was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with her canine accomplishment.

Bewildered, Toots asked, “How in the world did you ever manage that?” she asked, pointing to the two dogs.

“What can I say, dogs love me.”

“With good reason. We all love you,” Abby said with a smile.

“We better be going, we’ve taken up enough of your time today. I’m sure you have dozens of stories to write.” Toots gave her daughter a quick hug. “I’ll call you later.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Abby said, returning her mother’s hug. “Didn’t you mention to me one time, way back when, that you’d like to own a newspaper?”

Toots stopped in her tracks and whirled around, caught off guard by her daughter’s unexpected question. She thought about the question before she answered, “I may have said that, but I don’t remember. What was that, a hundred years ago? Why are you asking, dear?” she inquired nonchalantly.

“Just a thought, nothing important,” Abby said.

Toots felt a ripple of apprehension course through her body. She did not give birth to or raise a stupid daughter. Abby
smelled
something.

“Whatever. This is way above my pay grade,” Toots said. “Mavis, if you’re ready, we’d better get back to the bungalows. I want to check on Ida, make sure she took her medication.”

Reluctantly, Mavis reached for Coco, hating to end her reign of victory over the canine duo.

As they made their way to the waiting limousine, Toots promised a get-together later in the day. Abby waved to them until the long white stretch was out of sight.

Micky heard voices coming from the hallway. He drew in a deep breath, releasing it as he heard the group exit the building. With the coast clear, he carefully made his way outside, racing down the block to where he’d parked his royal blue Corvette in an alley behind a Japanese restaurant. He circled the vehicle, making sure there were no scratches or dings. Satisfied, he slid into the driver’s seat before taking his cell phone out of his pocket to check his voice mail. He listened to a message from the pal who’d made the documents for Rag. All he could hear was a string of profanity.

“Rodwell Godfrey had better have nine lives because I’m planning to take eight of them the second I lay eyes on the lowlife slimeball. Old Rag has messed with the wrong man.”

Barreling down the alley, Micky almost lost control of his wheels as he skidded onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Slamming on the brakes, merging with the rest of the slow-moving traffic, he contemplated what he was going to do to the SOB who had ripped him off. It wasn’t pretty. He envisioned scalping the hair off Rag’s head, at least what little hair the con artist had left, then one at a time he would remove his shiny fake white crowns with a pair of dirty pliers. Yeah, he liked that visual.

No one, and he meant
no one,
got away with ripping off Micky Constantine. The asshole Rag had moved up to number one on his very long shit list.

When all was said and done, Rodwell Godfrey would be begging to give him the fifty thousand dollars he’d screwed him out of.