White Collar Girl (29 page)

“Oh, Scott—I feel horrible about what happened. I think about it—about you—every day.”

“It's late,” he said. “I have to get up in a few hours.”

“No, wait.” I gripped the receiver with both hands. “I miss you, Scott. I want you back in my life.”

Another sigh. “C'mon, Jordan, you're just feeling guilty.”

“Don't you care about me? Don't you miss me? At all?”

“It doesn't matter—it'll never work. Right now I don't trust that you're not using this conversation for your next byline.”

That stung, and I squeezed my eyes shut as a tear leaked out.

“Look, it's late. I gotta go.”

I held on to the phone long after he'd hung up.

Because of Operation K, I had successfully alienated my ex-fiancé and his family, Scott Trevor and the majority of my colleagues. The only ones who were pleased with what I'd done were my editors.

•   •   •

I
t was a beautiful autumn day. M and I were going to have lunch and go for a walk. That was what we'd planned. But then we stepped off the elevator in the lobby and came face-to-face with Marilyn Monroe.

Miss Monroe had recently starred in a new film, and had stopped by the
Tribune
to give interviews. None of us knew she was coming by the paper, but there she suddenly was, standing less than three feet from M.

I would have expected M to fawn all over her idol, but either she was too starstruck to speak, or else she was embarrassed by her impersonation, because she stood there silently, like she was in shock. Seeing the two of them side by side left no question as to who was the original. Try as she might, M's hair wasn't as glossy, her skin not as creamy, her figure not as curvy. She was a cheap imitation, a fraud. Her cheeks turned a shade of red I'd never seen before.

“Well, look at what we have here,” Marilyn Monroe said to the men who accompanied her. “Isn't that just too funny? They sure do know how to make a girl feel welcome here, don't they?” She gave M a wink.

That was it. Marilyn laughed and brushed past M as one of
her escorts directed her toward the elevator. The doors closed and she was gone.

M was paralyzed, red-faced and speechless. Eventually she said, “I—I can't go to lunch right now. Would you mind? I—I have to take care of something.”

I wasn't all that hungry anyway and went back upstairs to finish working on a story about a madam in jail who claimed that the arresting officer had walked off with $20,000 from her safe. Peter had reported on a similar story a month before, and I asked if he could remember the officer's name.

“He's busy, Walsh,” said Walter. “Do your own legwork, would you?”

“Jesus, Walter. Back off,” I said. “I'm talking to Peter, not you.”

And that got Henry into it. He slammed his box of Frosted Flakes on the desk and glowered at me. “We're all sick and tired of doing your work for you.”

“That's bullshit, and you guys know it.”

Things were starting to escalate when M showed up at the city room and we all shut up. I couldn't believe it. On her lunch hour she had become a brunette. After recovering from the shock, I realized her new hair color was more flattering to her features, softer and more natural.

“You look
ehhhx
-cellent,” said Peter.

While we were all focused on M's hair and admiring her new look, Mr. Ellsworth called me into one of the conference rooms. I don't think he even realized that it was M sitting there—that's how different she looked.

“Have a seat, Walsh,” Mr. Ellsworth said, closing the door behind him. “We're going to be making some changes around here.”

“I don't believe it.” My heart shut down. “You're letting me go?”

He twisted up his face. “Hell no, I'm not letting you go. But I am moving you to the night shift.”

“What?” I felt punched in the gut. This was a clear demotion. “Why?”

“In case you haven't noticed, I've got a hostile working environment around here. I'm trying to keep some semblance of peace among my staff.”

“This is because of me? Because of Operation K? That was ages ago. Oh, c'mon.”

“You're a good reporter, Walsh. You did good work on that, but now I've got a situation that I need to deal with and I've—”

“Now you've got to find a way to appease Walter and the rest of them.”

He didn't deny it. “The decision's been made. You'll be covering the overnight police beat.”

•   •   •

M
r. Ellsworth threw me to the wolves. From that night on I began covering the shootings, stabbings and muggings that happened in the city's wee hours. I was on the desk from nine in the evening until five, sometimes six in the morning. I was exhausted, burning on two and three hours of sleep a night because my body refused to adapt to this new schedule.

Sometimes I thought Mr. Ellsworth put me on nights hoping it would make me quit. I wondered if he'd decided that I was more trouble than I was worth and that the extreme hours, and all the blood and gore of the night beat, would make me give up. And it was a challenge—that I couldn't deny.

One night was particularly tough for me. It was early December, cold and snowy. I was called in to cover a hit-and-run. I rode along in the squad car with my buddy Danny Finn, who was also often on the night shift. My leg was bobbing up and down, my neck and shoulders already tensing up. The victim, a young woman, was pronounced dead at the scene. The driver was caught less than a mile away.

When Danny and I pulled up to Milwaukee and North Avenue
and I saw that driver standing by his car with its shattered headlights and smashed-up hood, I flew into a rage. To me he represented every driver who'd ever hit a pedestrian. I wanted to kill him, to personally make him pay for every victim, for every broken family he'd left in his wake. I was out of the car before Danny even turned off the engine.

I stormed over to the driver, slouched against his car with snow collecting in his hair and along his shoulders, his hands cuffed and the smell of booze emanating from him. “Who in the hell do you think you are!” I screamed. “You're a coward. Nothing but a coward. You killed that girl. You hear me? You killed her. You live with that just like her family has to live without her now. I hope you rot in jail. . . .”

I was still shouting at him when I felt Danny pulling me back.

“C'mon, now,” he said, butting his forehead up against mine, his hands running up and down my arms. “Get a grip. You can't do that. Just calm down.”

I nodded. I knew he was right. I caught my breath and went back to the squad car and smoked a cigarette while the other police officers took the driver down to the station. I gathered my notes and tried to compose myself when I went over to the phone booth. I was still shaking even after I called in my report to the rewrite desk.

When I went back to the squad car, Danny placed his arm around my shoulder. “Drink?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

There was a place we always went to—JJ's Supper Club, which was not a supper club at all. It was a joint that stayed open all night and we could get a bourbon or a beer while other customers were coming in for coffee and eggs.

Danny guzzled his beer, practically draining it in one gulp. I wasn't far behind him with my scotch. There was a dart game going on a few feet away.

“So what was
that
all about?” Danny asked. “I've never seen you get that emotional.”

I didn't want to talk about it. It was unprofessional and I was embarrassed by my behavior. Danny had finished his beer, and I absentmindedly reached for his empty bottle, set it on its side and gave it a twirl. 'Round and 'round it went until the neck faced me and the base faced him.

He smirked and said, “Looks like you have to kiss me.”

“I demand a respin,” I said jokingly.

“Seriously,” he said. “I'm worried about you. You really came unhinged back there.”

I planted my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands. “Sometimes it just gets to me.”

“Yeah, working nights can be hard. I know what you mean.”

I tried to smile. He didn't know what I meant at all.

•   •   •

I
t was the middle of January and bitter cold. The temperature was struggling to reach ten degrees and my heat wasn't working for the second day in a row. The radiators that normally hissed and clanked through the night and steamed up the windows had gone cold. After sleeping in two pairs of socks and a sweater, I surrendered that morning when I got off work and went to stay at my parents' until the super fixed the heat.

I sat at the breakfast table with my mother, warming my hands around a mug of coffee. The phone rang, and my mother got it on the first ring, not wanting it to wake my father.

“Oh, hi, Dad,” she said. “You shouldn't be calling now. Why didn't you wait until Sunday, when the rates are cheaper . . . ?” She turned her back toward me and looked out the kitchen window. “Yes, we did get it. Thank you. . . . He
is
making progress. . . .” She set her coffee cup down hard. I could see her shoulders tensing up as she leaned her forehead against a cupboard. “How's Mom? . . .
No, I can't say for sure when he'll be finished. It's a novel, not a magazine article. . . .” She stood up straight, yanked the cupboard open and then slammed it shut. “I don't really know how much they'll pay him. . . .”

When she got off the phone she came back to the table and slumped into the chair. “They don't understand. They never did understand your father.”

“Well, you have to admit, it
is
taking him a long time to finish his book.”

She shot me a sharp look. “Are you going to start in on me about this, too? He's writing a novel, for Christ's sake. It takes time. Doesn't anyone understand that?”

Her reaction surprised me. I didn't expect her to jump to his defense, especially since I knew she was hurt that he hadn't let her read his manuscript. It made me wonder if she thought my father was really that fragile. More fragile than I knew.

She reached for the percolator and brought the pot over to the table. “More coffee?” She was herself again.

•   •   •

A
couple days later, my heat was fixed and I was exhausted, looking forward to a good night's sleep in my own bed. I was finishing up my night shift when I got a call from Ahern.

“I'm at 11th and State,” he said. “I need you to meet me here.”

“Now?” I was tired, stifling a yawn.

“Walsh, do you think I'd be at police headquarters at this ungodly hour if this weren't important?”

I peered into a cup of coffee that had long since turned cold. “What's this all about?”

“Let's just say your presence has been requested by a very important arrestee.”

Twenty minutes later Ahern met me in front of the station. The sun was coming up, sending streams of light poking through
the clouds. Smoke was coming from a nearby chimney. Icicles were hanging down the side of the building next to a snowbank that was so dark and dirty it looked like a pile of coal.

“This better be good,” I said. “I'm freezing my ass off and I've been up for twenty-seven hours straight.”

“Believe me,” he said, “this will be worth your while. You're in for a treat. Come with me. Mr. Richard Morrison wants to talk to you.”

“Who? And why me?”

“He requested a member of the press. He's got one hell of a story, and I assured him I was bringing in the best reporter I knew.”

I followed Ahern inside. Danny Finn was there, but Ahern didn't seem concerned that we all knew each other. After all, this was official police business, and I covered this beat for the night shift. What Danny may have questioned was why Ahern had called the
Tribune
and not the other papers. But that was Ahern's concern, not mine.

Danny led us down to a catacomb-like corridor in the basement that I didn't know existed. At the very end there was a private holding cell where a man, rather clean-cut, was perched on a bench, smoking a cigarette.

“And this,” said Ahern with a great flourish, “is Richard Morrison. We call him the Babbling Burglar. Richie, this is your reporter.”

He squinted and drew down hard on his cigarette before he dropped the butt to the floor. “Her?” He exhaled in Ahern's direction. “I thought you said you were getting Jordan Walsh.”

“I
am
Jordan Walsh.”

“Jordan is a dame?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” I turned to Ahern and caught a glimpse of the guard in the corner snickering. “Does someone want to tell me what's going on here?”

“Richard here's a burglar,” Ahern said.

“The Babbling Burglar,” he corrected him, springing up from his bench. “And I'm not just some ordinary robber. I'm a master robber. A true professional. The best there is. In fact, I'm so good I even got the cops working for me.”

I looked at Ahern as if to say,
Is this guy pulling my leg?

“They arrested Richie last night,” Ahern explained. “They told him he had one call, and he decided to call Adamowski's office. He said to bring a reporter because he was ready to talk.”

“Okay, then, Mr. Morrison.” I pulled a chair up to my side of the bars and removed my pad and pen from my bag. “What's your story?”

“You're gonna love this,” Morrison said.

“I'm all ears.”

Morrison lit another cigarette, clearly enjoying making me wait on him. After two leisurely puffs, he started to speak. Or really, it was more like he started to perform. “I'm a burglar, ma'am,” he began as he paced. “I've robbed a lot of businesses. Yes, indeed, I have. Guilty as charged.” He paused and placed a humbled hand over his heart. “But the best part is, I didn't do it alone. No, ma'am. I had plenty of help from the Chicago Police Department. Yes, ma'am, the police from the Summerdale station were my business partners.” He howled with laughter.

I looked at Ahern and Danny, who were both grinning, nodding. “Go on, Mr. Morrison.”

“It started a couple years ago. See, I got caught one night and the police went to arrest me. But when they saw the kind of loot I was carrying—brand-new set of golf clubs, some fishing equipment—they decided they wanted it for themselves. They said if I handed it over and kept my mouth shut, they'd be willing to let me go. So I did 'em one better. I said, ‘Hey, why don't you partner up with me and together we'll make a killing.'”

I didn't know if he was telling the truth or not, but I was
taking down Morrison's every word, filling up the pages of my pad, front and back.