Famous Last Words (9 page)

“That’s great! What happened?”

“I asked him how Sy, his new
business partner
, is doing. And he says, ‘Not good. I’m going to see him after work.’”

“Where? Is Sy in the hospital?” I ask.

“That’s what I asked him. He said it was none of my business and hung up on me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call some local hospitals, see if any Sy Goldbergs have been admitted.”

“Can they confirm that for you?”

“Some hospitals are better about giving information to reporters than others,” Michael says. “Short of following him, it’s the best I can do.”

Michael keeps talking about how validating the mayor’s claims that Sy is sick would at least give his story some credibility blah, blah, blah. But I stop paying close attention after the words “following him.”

How cool would that be? I would love to help Michael with another lead while he’s incapacitated.

“Feel better, Michael,” I say when he’s finished speaking. “Hope everything, uh … passes well.”

My head is spinning with questions when I get off the phone.

Why would Mayor Amato start a new business with a dying man? What is he getting out of his partnership with Sy Goldberg? Money, I suppose. Was the mayor forced to invest in the coffee shop as some kind of quid pro quo for Sy getting a cushy job with the city?

I’ve got to help Michael find Sy. I stare at AJ until he looks up from his computer.

“What?”

“What are you doing later?” I ask.

“Is this about bar night, because—”

“No, no, I mean earlier than that—like, five o’clock.”

AJ eyes me suspiciously. Who could blame him?

“Uh, working here?”

I give AJ my
duh
look.

“I need your help with something.”

“A ride for the dinner run?” he asks.

“No. But that’s a good cover.”

“Cover? For what?”

“Do you know what Michael’s mayor looks like?” I say.

“Sure. I’ve covered my share of weekend ribbon cuttings in his town.”

“Cool. I’ll take food orders, and we’ll leave after that. We should have enough time to get everything done.”

“I didn’t hear myself agree to help you with anything,” AJ says.

“Will you?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Good karma?”

“I need something more tangible.”

“I’ll pay for your dinner?”

“Not good enough,” AJ says.

“And write the feature obits for the rest of the week?”

“Done. Hand me the Sunny Garden menu.”

*   *   *

We pull up a block away from East Passaic city hall. Luckily, the mayor has a special parking space in front for his Jaguar. This should make it easier. I’m feeling jittery, partly because I don’t do sneaky well. I’m wearing my sunglasses. I make AJ do the same and hand him the never-worn Zildjian baseball cap I found lying on the passenger-side floor. Probably got it for free the last time he bought cymbals or drumsticks. My dad has a Fender one just like it.

“I don’t do hats,” he says, trying to push it away.

“Just deal. We’re on a stakeout.”

“You need to get a grip, Sam-I-am.”

It’s ten to five. AJ and I left the newsroom at four thirty to pick up our Sunny Garden order. The smell of Chinese food is now pervading AJ’s Jeep. Ugh. General Tso’s chicken smells better in less confined spaces. Hopefully, we’ll be able to tail the mayor and get back to the newsroom before anyone notices how long we’ve been gone and the food gets cold. I did tell Meg what we’re up to. She’s on deadline but said she’ll try to cover the phones for me as much as possible.

Five minutes later, the mayor walks down the steps of city hall and gets into his car. He makes an illegal U-turn on Main Street and leaves us facing the wrong direction.

“Turn the car around!” I yell.

“Listen, CSI Girl. I’m doing the best I can.”

By the time AJ points us in the right direction, we’re a good three car lengths behind the mayor.

“Oh, I wish I had binoculars.”

“What the hell do you need binoculars for? The mayor’s car is right there. It’s not like we’re at sea.”

“Right. Because that’s the
only
time people use binoculars.”

“Just sayin’. People don’t usually drive around in broad daylight with them.”

“Okay, okay. Just focus.”

Two blocks later, a city bus pulls in front of us.

“Oh, no! Go around. Go around. I can’t see him.”

“I suppose now you wish you had X-ray vision,” AJ says.

The bus stops at the next corner, and we’re able to pass it and get close to the mayor’s car again. At the next corner, he pulls into a bank parking lot and drives up to the ATM. We stay a car length behind but pretend we’re waiting for the cash machine as well. “The machine looks like it spit out a wad of cash,” AJ says. After the bank, we tail him for twenty-five minutes, during which we pass both St. Matthew’s Hospital and Passaic County General. Then the mayor gets on Route 21. Where is he going?

“He’s getting on the highway,” AJ says. “We can’t keep following him.”

“Just for a little while longer, please?”

AJ sighs and puts his blinker on. We cruise down Route 21, keeping a safe distance, and follow the mayor through three towns before he exits the highway. About a mile down the road, the mayor pulls into Fidelity Savings and parks. AJ pulls into a space a row from the mayor’s car. We watch him go inside. I consider following him but don’t know what that would accomplish. We wait in silence for a while. It’s taking forever.

“Why does he bank here?” I ask.

“Good interest rates?”

“Let’s see where he goes.”

“Let’s not,” AJ says. “It’s getting late. Someone’s going to miss us soon.”

“But maybe he’s going to one of the hospitals after the bank. Or to Sy’s house,” I say, more to myself than to AJ.

“Listen, Miss Daisy, maybe we should head back to the office and leave the detective work to people who know what the frig they’re doing,” AJ says. He sounds annoyed, but it’s hard to take him seriously in that hat. I can see why he doesn’t wear them. He really does look stupid, especially with his ponytail all smushed.

“Fine.” It’s AJ’s car. I can’t argue. Plus, I don’t want him feeling like my chauffeur. I lean forward and try to catch his gaze.

“Thanks. For helping me out. For always helping me out,” I say.

He takes his eyes off the road to look at me. I think he’s going to say something, but he just gives me a half smile and shakes his head.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

We’re both quiet for the rest of the ride.

*   *   *

When we get back to the
Herald Tribune
, we’re pretty much screwed thanks to me. We’re barraged by complaints that the hot-and-sour soup is cold, the obit calls have been piling up, and neither of us bothered to sort the mail today.

“Don’t even think about going to the Harp tonight,” AJ says.

I had forgotten all about it—
almost
. I’m already feeling silly about following the mayor around while he did his banking. I wish AJ hadn’t mentioned it. Full-blown grouchiness is imminent. Alexis will probably be there flirting her skirt off with Tony, and I’ll be missing out.

“I’m really not dressed to go out anyway,” I say. It’s the truth.

“It’s the Harp. Who cares? Oh, wait, that’s right, your
boyfriend
is going to be there,” AJ says.

“I smell like Chinese food, and I’m feeling too schleppy to go anywhere with anyone,” I snap.

“And I should feel sorry for you because…? Have you seen what that hat did to my hair?”

I choke back a laugh and get to work. For the next two hours, AJ and I play catch-up. As promised, I write the feature, pulling together the best story I can while finishing up the rest of the obits and sending them over to the copy desk. Admittedly, I’m not very focused. My mind is occupied with thoughts of the mayor, Tony, and Alexis. Plus, the egg roll I gobbled down feels like a tennis ball in my stomach. Oh, and I forgot to call Shelby. Darn it. I want to take the gutless way out and text her, but I owe her a quick call.

“Hey,” I say when she picks up the phone.

“Finally,” she says. “You were supposed to call me back hours ago.”

“I’m sorry. Things got really busy.”

“You say that a lot since you got this job. Wait … is this about a guy? Are you crushing on someone at work?” She sounds hopeful.

“What? No. I’m just busy.”

Of course little miss I’m-gonna-ditch-my-girlfriends-for-a-hot-guy-from-Düsseldorf would assume it’s about a boy. But I don’t want to get into it right now.

“I’m sooo bored,” Shelby whines. “Please say we’re going out tonight.”

“If you had a job, you wouldn’t be bored.”

“If I had a job,
I’d
still want to go out.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, I can’t. I’m working later than I thought. But I’m off on Friday. We’ll go to the pool then. All day.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.”

It’s like talking to a five-year-old. I hang up the phone and start typing.

Shelby Thorpe
,
91,
died today. Born with a rare condition called Etch A Sketch brain, it was difficult for her to retain vital information or hold a regular job. She is preceded in death by her first three husbands and survived by her fiancé, William Barclay, of the Sunrise assisted living center in Chestnutville.

Select all. Delete. I’ve got to find that girl a job. But right now all I want to do is go home, wash the smell of General Tso’s chicken out of my hair, and collapse into bed.

chapter nine

Retraction

AJ saunters into the
Herald Tribune
newsroom as he usually does—exactly ten minutes late. His tardiness is nothing if not consistent. He pulls his earbuds out and plops down at his desk facing mine. It’s been a bad morning, and I’ve been on edge waiting for him to get here.

“Finally,” I say.

“Sam-I-am. Why the frown?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Uh, yeah, I do.”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“It’s what I live for. What’d ya do? Follow the mayor to the men’s room?”

“I accidentally switched the name of a deceased man with that of his very alive, very angry son in the feature obit that ran in today’s paper,” I say.

“Was his name Mark Twain?”

AJ can be so enigmatic. I throw up my hands and give him a WTF look.

“What? Mark Twain’s obit ran while he was still alive. Google it. Better yet, Bing it. I’m trying to start a revolution.”

“Okay. So, you’re not helping me.”

“Were their names at least close, like a senior and a junior?”

“Nope. The son called and screamed his head off. Of course Bernadette took the call and wasted no time ratting me out to Harry.”

“You pissed off Harry and Bernie in one morning?” he says. “Nice. Do you even think about the rest of us?”

I can’t shake the feeling of, as AJ would put it, “getting ripped a new butthole” by the grieving yet very pissed-off, son. It’s a small consolation to think that, in a bizarre way, I took his mind off his loss. Bernadette transferred the son’s call to me and made me apologize. Since then, my anxiety has been building, anticipating when Harry’s going to call me into his office and chew me out.

“My chances at covering for Michael in August are slipping away,” I say.

“Look at it this way: At least Harry doesn’t know about our mayoral stakeout.”

AJ’s right. Following the mayor threw my entire afternoon off. I was all frazzled when we got back. It seems so ridiculous now. Harry would be doubly pissed to know the reason behind my carelessness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tony heading in my general direction and am reminded that I’ve already broken my vow to wear makeup and style my hair every day.

“Hey, Sam, AJ. How’s it goin’?” Tony looks back and forth between us. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no. Not at all,” I say.

“Feel like taking a walk?” Tony says to me. “I need another coffee.”

My stomach feels like I’m riding a roller coaster and careening down the first big drop. As much as I want to go, I can’t. I’ve had enough trouble for one day. I need to concentrate.

“I should stay put.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“What? Uh, no. Thanks. I’m all set.”

“Okay, then. Just thought I’d ask.”

Then he smiles at me, and I come very close to changing my mind. As Tony walks away, AJ calls after him, “No, I didn’t want anything either. Thank you!” Then he says quietly, so Tony won’t hear, “Coma Boy.”

To AJ’s surprise, Tony turns around. “Oh, sorry, man. Did you need something?” He’s being genuinely nice, AJ’s sarcasm apparently lost on him.

“No, thanks,” AJ says.

We’re swamped for the rest of the day. In addition to obits, website blurbs, movie timetables, phone calls, and food runs, AJ and I are putting together a Fourth of July roundup of all the events happening this weekend. Before I know it, it’s six o’clock.

Even with all the multitasking going on, I’ve been extra diligent about getting every obit right. Thankfully, we’ve got plenty to fill the page. No feature tonight—Yes! Harry still hasn’t talked to me about my big blunder, but the nagging inside me is fading. Hard work, like running, gives me a rush.

“D’Angelo!” Bernadette squawks from across the room.

My bubble of optimism pops.

“Wow, she used your
name
,” AJ says. “She must really be pissed.”

What did I do wrong? I’ve been triple-checking obit names all day. I hope I didn’t misspell a word. It’s never enough for her to beckon me over to the copy desk and tell me which word I spelled wrong; she likes to grab the dictionary that sits on her computer, flip to the page with the word in question, and point it out to me with her yellowed fingernail. I usually try to hide my impatience so that the didactic exercise need not take any longer than necessary.

But Bernadette is even more animated than usual. She’s waving both arms above her head, and I feel vaguely like a jet being directed into the terminal at Newark Liberty Airport. Then she gets up to meet me halfway between the obit desk and the copy desk, which puts us right in front of the city desk.