White Collar Girl (30 page)

“So what we'd do, see,” the burglar continued, “is, I'd case the joints ahead of time, and when I found the right place, I'd call the cops. They'd come out in their squad cars, acting like they were patrolling the place, but what they were really doing was keeping watch while I cleaned out the stores. When we were looting TVs and appliances—you know, the big, heavy stuff—they'd come in and help me load the goods into their squad cars. Even brought a paddy wagon a few times. They've got all the loot sitting in their basements and garages.”

I looked at Ahern, trying to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

“You should have seen this one time,” said the burglar. “Someone accidentally set off an alarm, and when another squad car answered the call, the cops that were helping me told the other cops they were gonna take care of me. So what they did was they paraded me out in front of the other cops in handcuffs and all.” He mimed out the whole drama. “They said they were going to take me down to the station and book me. But as soon as the other cops left, they took off my cuffs and we got back to looting.” He threw himself into a half-laughing, half-coughing jag. “We hit three more stores that night and went out for beers afterward.”

“And who were these officers? Can you identify them?”

“We have all the names,” said Ahern.

“Unbelievable.” I motioned for Ahern to join me out in the hallway, out of earshot. “Is any of this real?”

Ahern smiled. “Paul Newey—do you know him?”

“Adamowski's chief investigator?”

He nodded. “Newey and his men are verifying everything now. So far everything this guy's telling us has checked out. They're going to raid the officers' homes in about an hour.”

On nothing more than adrenaline, I went back to the city room, and as the day shift was coming on, I went to work on the story. Mr. Ellsworth was surprised to see me at my desk in the daylight.

“What are you doing here?”

I handed him the first page of my copy and kept typing. “I've been up all night working on this.”

“Holy Christ.” After finishing the first page, Mr. Ellsworth leaned in, reading over my shoulder. “Stay with this, Walsh. Henry? Hey, Henry—”

“Aw, don't bring Henry in on this.”

But it was too late. Henry turned up at Mr. Ellsworth's side.

“Henry, do me a favor: go get Walsh here a cup of coffee.”

•   •   •

I
t would take another couple months before all the Summerdale details shook out, but by the spring of '59, eight officers at that station were convicted of robbery. And by then Mr. Ellsworth had moved me back to the day shift. He knew that next to Marty, I was the hardest-working reporter he had. Apparently, he'd had a change of heart and now decided I was worth the trouble. Walter, Henry and the others would have to get used to it.

As for me, there was certainly a sense of validation. I'd been tested and I had won. But my victory wasn't as sweet as I'd imagined it would be. In reality, it didn't change a thing for me in the city room. The guys still razzed me about my attaché case, still gave me grief when I complained about their locker-room talk and still tried to push their empty coffee cups on me, expecting a refill. It seemed I still had something to prove to them. And to myself.

Shortly after I started back on the regular shift, and in between other assignments, I finally carved out the time to start really investigating the horsemeat scandal. I contacted the Department of
Agriculture, which led me to Daren Bowman, the superintendent for the Illinois Division of Meats and Dairies down in Springfield.

After much pleading with my suspicious father, I convinced him to let me borrow his car and drove downstate to meet with the superintendent in his office at the State Capitol Complex.

Bowman leaned back in his chair, behind his oversize desk, and pressed the pads of his fingers together, bouncing the tips off one another. “What I can tell you quite honestly,” he said, “is that Illinois has the safest food supply in the nation. Especially when it comes to beef.”

“And what about horsemeat?”

“Horsemeat?” The bouncing fingers held still, and something flickered across his face. Barely perceivable, but I'd caught it. I didn't know what I was touching on, but this man knew something and he didn't want me to find out what it was.

I rephrased my question. “Have your inspectors come across any horsemeat?”

He shifted in his chair and shook his head. “Just horsemeat that's earmarked for cat food and dog food, that sort of thing.”

“Are you positive about that?”

“Positive as far as this administration goes.”

“So then you're saying that there
was
horsemeat in the—”

“No, no, no. Now, don't go putting words in my mouth. I didn't say anything about horsemeat getting into the food supply.”

“Neither did I.” I smiled. “But now that you just
did,
I have to ask if there's been horsemeat in the system be—”

“You're being very manipulative, young lady, and I don't appreciate it. I don't know what you're getting at, but I can assure you there's no horsemeat being passed on for human consumption.”

He was jumpy now and only digging himself in deeper. He was hiding something, and as he spoke, alarms were going off inside my head. Bowman was fueling my worst fear—that this scandal
was huge, even bigger than I'd thought—and I was suddenly convinced that the whole thing was connected to my brother's death. I felt sick inside. My skin began to prickle, my lungs couldn't get enough air. I knew at that very moment—yes, I could feel it in my bones—that my brother had been murdered.

I left Bowman's office, got back in the car and drove, going fast, trying to outrun the anger and fear churning inside me.
They killed my brother
. Would they kill me now, too? And who were
they
? I didn't even know who the enemy was, but I knew I was getting close. What to do first? Go to the police? Go to Ahern? Break down and cry? Should I tell my parents? No, I couldn't do that—couldn't say anything to them until I knew something definite. Accidentally being killed was one thing. Being intentionally murdered was another.

•   •   •

T
he next day I stood inside the Chicago Theatre. Ahern was on the other side of the lobby, standing at the foot of the grand staircase, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief. He saw me and gave a nod before heading inside. I purchased my ticket and stepped into the theater. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but then I spotted Ahern seated in the last row. The matinee had already begun, but we weren't there to see the show.

“So what's so urgent that you needed to see me about?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“I need your help. And I don't even know where to begin. I've been looking into this horsemeat scandal and—”

“Horsemeat?” He gave me an incredulous laugh. “You had me cancel a meeting and dragged me out here to talk about horsemeat?”

“Not just that. Give me a second here.” I was rattled. “I think horsemeat is being passed off as beef and—”

“Aw, c'mon . . .”

I clenched my fist and pounded the armrest. “Will you just listen to me? I'm trying to explain. This isn't just about horsemeat. It's about my brother.”

The lighting in the theater changed and grew even darker. I heard Ahern shift in his chair, a burst of air escaping from him.

“Do you remember when I told you about my brother? He was a reporter, too, remember? And he was investigating a horsemeat scandal around the time he was killed. It was a hit-and-run—it happened six years ago—and now I'm convinced that it wasn't an accident.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I think someone wanted him dead. I really do. I think whoever he was investigating had him killed.”

“Aw, Jesus. Oh, God.” He reached over and grabbed my hand. “I'm sorry. I didn't—”

“I need to get to the bottom of this. I need your help.”

An uproar of applause came from the audience.

“Who do you think is behind it?” he asked.

“I have no idea. I went down to Springfield and interviewed the superintendent of Meats and Dairies. He knows something—I know he does—but he's not talking.”

“Jesus, Jordan.” He let go of my hand and turned to me. “What are you getting tangled up in?”

“Honestly, I don't know. I just need to find out what really happened to my brother. I want whoever killed him to pay for it.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean
why
?”

Someone in the row ahead of us turned and shushed us.

“I mean,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “is this about revenge, about seeking justice, or is this more about you wanting to be a star reporter?”

“Fuck you!” I was out of my chair and heading for the lobby. I had made it as far as the grand staircase when Ahern caught up to me and grabbed me by the arm to hold me still.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

I was still trying to get away from him.

“That wasn't fair of me,” he said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? And why are you getting so upset about this?” I asked, pulling my arm out of his grip. “It was my brother. This happened to me, not you.”

“I'm upset because I'm concerned. Because I don't know what you're getting involved in. With the other scoops—the stuff I bring you—I have a pretty good idea of who we're dealing with. But this”—he shook his head—“this is beyond me.”

“What if I take it to the FBI?”

“With what? What have you got? Did anything concrete come out of your meeting down in Springfield?”

“No. But my gut tells me that—”

“C'mon, you're smarter than that. You know you can't go to the FBI with a gut feeling.”

He was right, of course. I knew he was right. But I was upset and groping for answers. I leaned against the banister to steady myself. “Can you just ask around the state's attorney's office for me? See if anyone knows anything.”

“About what? Nobody's going to know anything,” he said. “We're talking about something that happened six years ago. Believe me, if I thought I could do something to help you, I would.”

“So you won't even ask around?”

“Jordan, I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you don't have enough to go on. And I'd tell you to keep digging, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But if you're right about what happened to your brother—and that's a
big
if—then are you next?”

That was the question I kept coming up against myself. I was scared, and Ahern had just confirmed that I had good reason to be.

“If you were my sister, I'd tell you to leave it alone. Don't go looking for trouble.”

•   •   •

I
tried not to let Ahern discourage me, but he'd scared me good and made me realize that I was going to need a lot more than I had for the FBI to open this case. I had nothing but suspicion, an uncomfortable interview with Bowman in Springfield and an unsolved hit-and-run that happened years ago. Once again I had come to a dead end. So all that spring and into the summer I did my best to put it out of my mind and focus on other assignments.

I was verifying some facts for a piece on a school fire when Gabby broke into my thoughts. “M's back. C'mon.”

Five minutes later Gabby brought out a birthday cake and placed it on M's desk while we gathered around to celebrate. None of us knew how old M was, but now that she was a brunette, I thought she looked younger. I also liked that she'd stopped penciling in that beauty mark and had stopped wearing those Playtex cone-shaped brassieres. Now M dressed in a more refined manner. She'd started wearing a double strand of pearls and matching earrings, which I suspected were gifts from Mr. Ellsworth. She had also purchased a pink pillbox hat and a suit to match. It wasn't until we all saw the new issue of
LIFE
magazine with Jackie Kennedy on the cover and Senator Kennedy in the background that we realized that day by day, week by week, M, our former Marilyn Monroe, had been subtly and quietly morphing into Jacqueline Kennedy.

After a lackluster rendition of
Happy Birthday,
carried by Randy, M blew out the candles. She didn't have to say it; I knew what her wish was. I could tell by the way she opened her heavily lashed lids and locked eyes on Mr. Ellsworth. Maybe no one else noticed, but I found that look of hers impossible to miss.

Walter shoveled a piece of cake into his mouth and said, “So, c'mon, fess up. How old are you, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“And what'd you do with Marilyn?” Henry hooted.

The others laughed, and I saw M take the hit. She stood there in the middle of the city room in her Jackie Kennedy costume like a lost child, on the verge of tears. It was Mr. Ellsworth who told the guys to knock it off and get back to work. But by then M had already thrown her pillbox hat on her desk and rushed into the lavatory.

I could still hear the others laughing, even after I'd followed her inside. I stood outside the bathroom stall, gently rapping the door with my knuckles, asking if she was okay. I could barely make out what she said because she was crying so hard.

When she finally came out of the stall, I handed her a fistful of tissues. One of her false eyelashes had come unglued, and she looked in the mirror and peeled it away.

“What am I going to do now?” She stared at the lash resting on her index finger like a centipede.

“You don't need those,” I said. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“Oh, you're just saying that.”

“Seriously, M, you're a beautiful woman. What's wrong with you just being you?”

She splashed water on her face, drying herself off with a stiff paper towel. “Because,” she cried out, “I don't know who I am, all right?” She broke down in a fresh round of sobs. “I'm so miserable right now. I'm so tired of everything. And I can't sleep. Even those sleeping pills aren't helping. . . .”

I didn't know what to do for her other than hand her more tissues.

“I thought by now I'd be married with children,” she said. “I'm acting like a career woman, but that's not who I am. You
may be okay with that, but that's not who I want to be. I don't want to turn into another Mrs. Angelo.”

She seemed terrified of that fate. I stopped and thought about it for a minute, and I realized that if ever I were going to impersonate another woman, it wouldn't be a Marilyn Monroe or a Jackie Kennedy. It would be Mrs. Angelo.

•   •   •

T
he following Saturday afternoon I was walking down Wells Street where I was greeted by banjo music flooding out of a nearby tavern. It was that time of year. The neighborhood was on display for its ninth annual Old Town Holiday—or was it now called the Outdoor Arts and Crafts Fair? I would have to verify that for the feature I was doing for the Neighborhood News section. I had convinced Mr. Pearson that I could give this piece a unique touch seeing as I'd grown up in Old Town. Normally I wouldn't have pursued something like this, but I saw it as my chance to interview my father, who had been one of the early organizers of the fair, and I suppose I was still trying to prove myself to him.

As I made my way up Wells Street, I waved to my neighbors sitting outside their homes with their paintings and photography, their jewelry and crafts set up on card tables and hanging from makeshift easels. Some items were for sale; some were there strictly to be admired.

From the time I was a young girl I recalled how all the neighbors—most of whom were artists of one sort or another—came out of their houses and studios to share their work. People offered up fresh-baked pies and cookies while others grilled chicken and burgers on nearby barbecues. And, of course, there was music coming from places like Orphans and the Earl of Old Town. This fair that had come to identify the neighborhood was changing all the time. The bohemian edge it was known for was
blossoming into something even more progressive and colorful. Beyond Piper's Alley, with its cigar and wine shop, were a slew of new stores, one that sold nothing but candles and incense. Another sold only posters. There was a T-shirt store, a record store, a bookstore and a plant store mixed in among the clubs and taverns.

I came up to Wells and Eugenie and spotted my parents on their lawn chairs out front of the Painted Lady. They each had a cigarette going and a tumbler of scotch or maybe whiskey. A TV tray with a bowl of chips on top was parked between them. I sat down on the front stoop as a couple neighbors stopped by.

“CeeCee,” said the woman, who was wearing a big floppy straw hat, “where's your poetry?”

“Oh”—my mother swatted at the air—“I don't need to drag those old books out anymore.”

“But you're the neighborhood poet,” said the man, who was sporting a Hawaiian shirt.

“Oh, no, I'm not. There're others. . . .”

My father had a smile locked on his face and I noticed he didn't say a word. I felt sorry for him. Whereas my mother shunned attention like this, my father craved it. He would have given anything to have his neighbors fawn over his writing. As soon as my mother's admirers left, I turned my attention to him.

“So,” I said, pulling out my pad and pencil, “should we get started?”

I'd been looking forward to interviewing my father and was feeling sentimental, remembering our early days in Old Town. When we'd moved into the neighborhood we'd had a Puerto Rican family living next door on one side and a Gypsy family on the other. The Gypsies used to terrify Eliot and me; we thought they'd curse us if we dared to step on their lawn.

“So, Dad,” I said, my pencil poised, ready to write, “do you remember the first Old Town Holiday Street Fair?”

“Sure.” He pinched his cigarette between his tobacco-stained fingers and drew down hard, keeping one eye closed, shielded from the smoke, or maybe the sunlight.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” He shooed a fly buzzing about his head.

I had prepared so many questions, determined to show him how smart I was, how professional I was, but the stern look on his face struck me dumb. All that came out was, “What was it like?”

“Like this,” he said. “Only smaller.”

“Well, now, Hank,” my mother said, uncrossing her legs so she could nudge his thigh with her foot. “Give her more than that.”

He flicked his still smoldering cigarette onto the sidewalk.

I dug up another question. “So let's see . . . The first fair started back in 1950. You had just seventy exhibitors. . . .” I wanted to show him that I'd done my homework. “Back then anyone in the neighborhood could show their artwork, but now it's become more selective, hasn't it?”

He nodded. “There's a jury now.”

“What's the criterion for the artists now? How does the jury make their selections?”

“You'd have to ask someone on the committee. I haven't been on the committee for years.” He glanced into his cup. “I'm gonna get more ice.” He stood up and turned to my mother. “You need some?”

As I watched him walk back inside I gave my mother a helpless look. “What is wrong with him? Does he want to see me fail?”

“It's not you, honey.” My mother leaned forward toward me and set her elbows on her knees. “I assure you, it's not you.”

I sat out front with my mother while more neighbors came by to talk with her. A good twenty minutes had passed since my father went inside for ice.

“Is he even coming back?”

“Hank? Hank?” my mother called over her shoulder. “C'mon back out here.”

A few minutes later my father appeared with a ream and a half of paper tucked under his arm. In a ceremonial gesture, he slammed it down on the TV tray and declared his novel finished.

“
Finished
, finished?” my mother asked.

“
Finished
, finished,” he said.