Goodnight, Irene (7 page)

We each showered, and I put on a simple blouse and long cotton skirt, a dark-blue number that showed off my eye color. Barbara has the green-eyed, redhead Irish looks of my mother, while I have the dark brown hair and blue eyes of my father. Unless you saw us with our parents, you wouldn’t know we were related.

Lydia had a sort of romper on, with a plain blouse underneath and all the buttons but one — the bottom one — open on the romper.

“You were serious about the dishabille. Shall I tuck my skirt into my panty hose?”

“Come on, now,” she laughed, “I got this look straight out of the
L.A. Times Magazine
. Don’t tell Wrigley I said so. You know how he is about the T-word.”

Good Italian that she is, Lydia drove and talked with her hands at the same time, and I was fearing for my life again. I thought that it would be too ironic to die in a traffic accident after everything else that had happened. To my great relief we made it safely to the restaurant.

I’d never been to Café La Fleur, even though it’s not far from my house. It’s on Allen Street, which was “rediscovered” about five years ago. From dilapidated storefronts, thrift shops, and laundromats, some real estate genius had fashioned a local hot spot, now filled with art galleries, restaurants, and boutiques. Everything is in salmon pink or pistachio ice-cream green, or else it looks like
Casablanca
could be filmed there. La Fleur is in the pistachio mode. Glass bricks line its street-side exterior, 1930s-style.

We stepped inside. The interior of the restaurant was brightly lit, with large ceiling fans turning lazily above. Everything else was white or salmon pink. I guess they saved the green for outdoors. There were little planters with bromeliads in them between the booths. The tables were tall and circular, with backless white metal stools pulled up to them. This encouraged table-sitters to lean their elbows on the tables, and gave them all the look of being in intimate conversation.

A blackboard arrayed in colored chalk announced specials of crab soufflé and squid with asparagus pasta. A young anorexic who looked like she was wearing her father’s pajamas greeted us and asked for our names. We told her we were with Mr. Wrigley. She told us her name was Crystal and offered to show us to where he was seated in the bar.

The lighting in the bar was only slightly more subdued, but the clientele was slightly less so. As we were being seated, I thanked Crystal. “Do you eat here?” I asked.

“All the time,” she said, “I love this place.”

Wrigley was in fine fettle. He must have sworn himself to his best behavior, as he didn’t try to hug or kiss us on arrival. He bought us a round of drinks; it looked as if he had a good head start.

“Irene, dear,” he cooed as the waitress left the table, “we are all very saddened by this whole sad, sad business.”

When he’s been drinking, Wrigley tends to have redundancy problems.

“Yes,” I replied, “I know you’ll miss O’Connor.” This was pure horseshit. O’Connor had always been highly regarded by both the board of directors and the staff of the paper, and nothing Wrigley did could demean O’Connor. Wrigley had always felt threatened by him. Worse, O’Connor had annoyed Wrigley by simply ignoring him.

“Miss him!” Wrigley replied. “The man was an absolute gem. He was a jewel in the crown of the
Express
. And such a horrible fate! Horrible!”

I didn’t say anything. I was relieved to see the waitress coming back with our drinks.

Crystal came padding over to us just as the drinks were delivered and told us our table was ready. I fervently hoped I would not have to lean forward into Wrigley’s martini breath on one of those metal seats.

Fortunately, she took us to a booth. I sat down and Lydia immediately fielded the position next to me, forcing Wrigley to sit alone on the other side. He grabbed Crystal’s hand as she started to leave. That was more like the Wrigley I knew.

“Crystal, darling,” he hissed, “tell us what’s good tonight.”

She repeated the blackboard choices and said, “Avoid the Cajun-style red snapper.” She pulled her hand away from Wrigley and shuffled back to the door.

Wrigley stared after her departing form, then seemed to remember we were at the table. “So,” he said, “let’s pick out what we want and then we can talk. Hate to be unprepared when the waitress comes by.”

We looked over the menus. Almost everything sounded like a combination of things I would not like to find on my plate at the same time. I turned to Lydia. “What’s pancetta?”

“Bacon,” she said with a grin.

I shrugged. “At least I knew arugula.”

Wrigley was lost in space. He came to with a start when he discovered the restaurant, in its infinite wisdom, had sent us a waiter — not a waitress. Not just any waiter. This was obviously Super-Waiter. He was a hunk. He had jet black hair and blue eyes and a bod as solid as a brick shithouse. A gorgeous man. He smiled. Lydia and I smiled. Wrigley looked forlorn.

Lydia ordered the pasta carbonara, my question about pancetta apparently whetting her appetite for it. The waiter, who had introduced himself as Michael, gave a great deal of attention to Lydia’s order — salad dressing, wine choices, and bread — and gave her another big smile, as if he were proud to be of service. I ordered the Sante Fe chicken, and while he was very polite, I could tell who was going to be spoiled rotten all night. And it wasn’t Wrigley or me. In fact, when Wrigley ordered his squid and asparagus pasta, he got a “Very good, sir,” and that was that.

“This place has really gone downhill,” groused Wrigley.

Michael had our salads and wine out to us in record time. He fussed endlessly over Lydia, who gloried in the attention. This also seemed to have the effect of inhibiting Wrigley’s desire to make passes. I wondered if Michael had any interest in journalism.

“Well,” Wrigley said in a peeved tone, “now that we have a few moments to ourselves” — he shot a meaningful look at Lydia — “now that we can talk without being overheard by every Tom, Dick, and Harry with an apron on, I just wanted to ask you if certain rumors I hear are true, Irene.”

“Rumors?” I repeated with perfectly feigned innocence.

“It’s been said that you might be looking to get back into the newspaper game.”

Reflecting that for Wrigley, who had inherited a large share of stock in the paper and made himself executive editor, it was indeed nothing more than a game, I told him that rumor was true.

“Well, how exciting! How thrilling! And of course you will come back to work for us then! It couldn’t be any other way, Irene. We’re your family. Why, we practically raised you. You came to us as a mere child, and we would welcome you back. It’s only right.”

This was going to be easier than I thought. Lydia must have really done a job on the old boy if she had him this eager. Still, I had to make sure of my position.

“Actually, I had thought of going to work at another paper.”

“The
Bee
? Oh, yes, I know all about it. I can’t let that happen. Why, O’Connor would come back to haunt me. He would be rolling in his grave if I let you go to work anywhere but the
Express
.”

The spinning and haunting O’Connor already invoked, I thought I might as well go for broke.

“Well,” I said slowly, as if thinking it all over for the first time, “O’Connor and I were close friends. It would be nice to be back in the old newsroom, near his desk. I’d feel closer to him somehow.”

“Yes, yes!”

“In fact, he always told me all about the stories he was working on — in confidence, of course, seeing how I was really one of the
Express
family, as you say. Some of his most recent stuff will really turn some heads. Make those snobs at the
Times
take you seriously.”

“Yes, yes, I can see it will!”

Time to set the hook. “Who did you give his stuff to?”

“Oh, the police have most of it, you know, murder investigation.”

“I mean, who have you assigned the stories to?”

“Why, Irene, that’s what I’ve been trying to say! It’s what I’ve been trying so hard to tell you! You! You’re the one I want for his stories. Couldn’t be anybody else.”

“You’re willing to overlook our last… discussion?”

He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, dipping his sleeve in blue cheese dressing. “Forgive and forget, I always say. Let bygones be bygones, that’s my motto. Isn’t it, Lydia?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling as she lied.

Just then Michael brought our main courses. I noticed Lydia’s portion seemed substantially larger than Wrigley’s or mine. In fact, mine left me no doubt that Crystal did indeed eat here. A piece of reddish-orange chicken, about the size of the sole of a baby’s shoe, graced one side of a white plate, with two halves of a potato too small to have left its mother on the other; they were fenced off from each other by what looked like something that had been weeded from between the bromeliads.

Wrigley’s pasta looked so weird, I was glad there wasn’t too much of it to look at.

Queen Lydia continued to reign as Michael asked her if everything was satisfactory and left right after she told him it was great. I didn’t begrudge her all her fun — she deserved it, and I owed her big time for working Wrigley into such a fervor for me.

As he ate, Wrigley continually dropped bits and pieces of his food on his clothing. In the space of about five minutes, you could have figured out what he ordered by looking at his lapels. Early on he captured a peppercorn between his front teeth, making it very hard not to look at his teeth while he talked.

And talk he did. On and on about how he had visions for the
Express
and how I was a part of those visions. How the newsroom just wasn’t the same without me.

I told him I’d need a fairly free rein to follow up on O’Connor’s stories.

No problem.

I told him I’d like access to whatever the police hadn’t hauled off from O’Connor’s desk.

No problem.

I told him I wanted more pay.

Problem. These difficult times, the need to stay competitive, and so on.

Michael came by again, insisting that Lydia order dessert. She went for the chocolate-mousse pie. I ordered crème brûlée and Wrigley ordered profiteroles. When they came, I realized how this place stayed in business — from now on, people would have to invite me out for dessert if they wanted to meet me here.

Wrigley finally agreed to a very slight increase in my former pay, and I felt that after hoodwinking him into buying us dinner and begging me to do everything I wanted to do, I should be satisfied. We shook on it. I had to wipe sauce off my hand afterward.

Lydia excused herself for a moment and I got a little panicked that with her gone, Wrigley would wax romantic to seal the deal.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Lydia, but you have a peppercorn stuck in your front teeth.”

“Why, thanks for letting me know,” he said. “That’s so embarrassing.”

He then took out a slim silver object which I first took to be a cigarette case. He opened it and took out a length of dental floss, and using the polished lid as a mirror, proceeded to floss his teeth at the table.

“Nothing beats good dental hygiene, I always say,” he said between teeth.

Let bygones be bygones, I thought to myself, trying not to watch.

Lydia finally got back. She had missed the demonstration of Wrigley’s table manners completely. Michael brought our check and told Lydia he hoped she had enjoyed her evening and would return soon, and left the check. I was sure Wrigley would stiff him his tip.

A
S WE CROSSED
the parking lot, I could see that Lydia was dying to tell me something. As soon as we were in the car, she revealed that Michael had asked for her phone number.

“He said he’d call when he got off work tonight, about eleven.” She frowned for a moment. “I suppose I shouldn’t get my hopes up. He’s quite a bit younger than I am. He might not call.”

“Don’t talk yourself into or out of anything yet, kiddo. Enjoy it.”

“You’re right. I’m not going to spoil it.”

I thanked her for paving the way for my getting everything I could hope for out of Wrigley, and she laughed so hard at my description of Wrigley’s flossing that I didn’t even think about her driving.

W
HEN WE GOT HOME
, there was a message for me from Frank on the answering machine, asking me to call him. He sounded weary on the tape. He wasn’t in at headquarters, but they said he was expecting my call, so they would contact him out in the field.

About fifteen minutes went by, and the phone rang. It was Michael. He was still at the restaurant, but was calling Lydia to ask if she’d like to go out Thursday night. He worked Fridays and weekends, so that was his next night off. She said yes, hung up and was bouncing off the walls in excitement for the next half hour. Cody, whose affections for Lydia had been won with lasagna, got in the act and started tearing through the house as if he were being chased by a pack of wild dogs.

Sometime around twelve o’clock Lydia and Cody finally wound down. We were sitting together on the couch, scratching Cody’s ears and catching up on newsroom gossip, when Frank called. Lydia handed the phone to me.

“Hi, Frank.”

“Hello, Irene. Do you have a few minutes?” That weary tone again.

“Lately I haven’t been booked at midnight. What’s up? You sound kind of down.”

“Do I? I’m okay, just tired. Can’t keep the hours I did when I was twenty-three. Anyway, I need your help with something. We’ve got copies of O’Connor’s handwritten notes and you were right — they’re in some kind of code. Do you know how to read it, or am I going to have to hire a cryptographer?”

“I can usually make out most of it.”

“Great.”

“Can you get copies of what you have to me?”

“Yeah. You going to be up for a little while?”

“Yeah, probably. Lydia’s catching me up on the latest rumors at the
Express
. Did you want to drop them by on your way home?”

“If you don’t mind…”