Chapter Ten

January 18, 2017

The Cascade City Chronicle

“Café Owners Martin and Bridget Beach Welcome Twins Rocky and Sandy”

While the antidepressant dulled her irritation, Julia still wanted to run away and become someone else. Such as: “Cecile Charbonneau,” an unmarried French artist and violinist she invented, who, in her daydreams, lived in a baroque-style building with views of Notre Dame, used a million dots and specs to create stunning paintings a la George Seurat, ate nothing but cheese and bread and salami and buttery pastries and gelato, and never got tubby. Ahhh, if only she could be Cecile Charbonneau—with her endless pastries and gelato and no obligations to anyone. And zero body fat or low back hair.

“I wish we didn’t have to go to work,” she told Charlie, still lounging in bed with the covers up past her breasts as Charlie pulled his slacks on over his tight little ass, glanced in the dresser mirror, and pushed his thick blonde hair off his forehead.

“You and me both.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“I left you a message yesterday while you were in class—about work.” She straightened Charlie’s pillow.

“Oh, darn. Sorry about that, babe. I completely forgot. One of my students ran down the hall with a pencil in his nose. He and his buddies thought it was hysterical until he tripped over his shoelace and smacked his face on the floor. What’s going on with work?”

“Wait, hon. How is the kid?”

“The pencil punched a hole into the back of his mouth. He’ll have to see an ear, nose, and throat doc. So what’s this about work?”

“The Kellers are looking to sell The Chronicle, and Carlton is retiring.”

“They started the paper more than a hundred years ago. What happened to ‘pride in family ownership’? That’s their big thing, isn’t it?”

“They’ve been losing money for a long time, like every other newspaper worldwide.”

“What about your job?”

“If they outsource us, they’ll only need one manager to oversee the contractor. With Carlton gone, I can’t imagine they’d hire someone else. I’m running the show mostly by myself as it is. It’d be an upgrade, honey—with a pay increase.”

“Not that it’ll happen, but what if you don’t get Carlton’s job?”

“Become the synchronized swimmer I always wanted to be?” Except it would require wearing a bathing suit. In front of other people. Egad.

Charlie laughed. “We’ll figure it out if and when we need to. But honestly, I have complete faith that you’ll get the promotion.”

They hugged for a long time, her head tucked away in the hollow between his neck and shoulder—one of her favorite spaces in the world—warm, reassuring, and safe. Plus, he smelled good. The man oozed sweet-smelling goodness.

“I’ll get us some dinner on my way home,” Charlie said. “And please, don’t worry—we’ll handle whatever comes our way.”

Julia nodded. “Happy Anniversary to you, too,” she said, kissing his pillowy lips.

Maybe the deal with Troy Media won’t happen.

And maybe shit-eating gorillas will replace dogs as America’s favorite pets.

****

Jerry and Julia stood by the loading dock, wrapped in winter coats. The Chronicle trucks were out delivering papers to the delivery centers, where the carriers would roll them up with the day’s advertising and stick them in plastic sleeves. Broken plastic straps used to keep newspaper bundles together, fast-food hamburger wrappers, a french-fry carton, and dozens of cigarette butts littered the ground.

Jerry lit an unfiltered clove cigarette. “What information did you get from Carmen?”

“Nothing yet, but she’s limping. It’s obvious she’s in trouble. What if I call nine-one-one and report it anonymously?”

“And tell them what? That she’s limping? No, we need to know more. And I’ve already done some research.”

Julia blew warm air into her cold hands. “What kind of research?”

“The newsroom has access to secret sources.” He exhaled a wispy plume of smoke.

“What secret sources?”

“An internet fan page called ‘Booth’s Boosters.’ And a website called ‘Hollywood Hounds.’ Did you know the new rap sensation Biggie Lipz got butt implants? They install them through your butt crack. Can you believe it? Maybe they should start calling her Plumpie Rump or Stack-a-Crack.”

“Do not comment on women’s body parts, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. So, here’s the lowdown. Percy Booth was born in Hinsdale, Illinois, in 1938, just outside Chicago. He moved to Los Angeles in 1959, hoping to make it big. After landing a few jobs in commercials and modeling for King Ranch Cigarettes, he made his first movie, Montana Wild, in 1960, which got him noticed by Hollywood’s big producers. And I’m not surprised. Have you seen the studio photos of him back then? The guy was a fucking stud.”

“Have you told your editor you’re digging around a Hollywood hunk’s past?”

“You think I’m some kinda fool? Any investigative work has to stay under wraps.” Jerry looked down his nose over his glasses. “Marcus would never approve—he’s a by-the-book kind of editor. Everyone’s got to stay in their lane. The guy has no imagination whatsoever.” Jerry reached inside his jacket and pulled a reporter’s notebook out. “And speaking of studs. Did you notice my new stud? Diamond stud, that is.” He touched his earlobe.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Juan Carlos,” he said. “We’re back together. They’re going to make him a partner at his firm—the youngest partner in the firm's history, and he’s gorgeous, and he’s got a tongue piercing.”

“That’s great, Jer. I’m happy for you. What else did you find out about Booth?”

“He married Yvonne Means in 1960, Samantha Alder in 1964, Valerie Hicks in 1970, and Dorthea Simms in 1975. They were married until she died in 1997—no kids of his own but one stepson, Stanford Simms, from Dorthea. Booth moved to Cascade City in 1995. I could find no criminal history, but I’ll keep digging.” Jerry took a long drag from his cigarette and snuffed it out with the heel of his clunky black ankle boot. “I was hoping for a criminal history.”

“He could be engaged in criminal activity now; only we can’t prove it yet.”

“Exactly. I hope the guy’s a drug lord or selling arms to the Afghans—or worse. What’s he doing to Carmen? Is he her pimp?”

“Or hitting her in a kneecap with a baseball bat? I’ll talk to her again and see if she says anything we can use—after I figure out how to save the paper, protect my employees’ jobs, and get a promotion. And get a decent night’s sleep at least three nights in a row.” She rubbed her hands together and shivered. “And lose twenty pounds without exercising or blending green leafy shit into protein shakes. And avoid drinking protein shakes.”

“Sure, and while you’re at it, can you make sure no one cuts the entertainment and lifestyle reporter position?”

“Of course. I’m Wonder Mujer. No. That sounds dumb. I’m Wonder Chica. Hmmm.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “Wonderella. It’s perfect.”

“What’s perfect?”

“Wonder. Ella. Ella means ‘she’ in Spanish. Am I brilliant or what?”

“You’re trying too hard, Wonderella. Let’s go inside.” Jerry drew his coat collar in tightly around his neck.

“Fine, but I think the world needs a Latina superhero who kicks ass and takes names.”

“Si, señora.”

The wind picked up and blew the cigarette butts across the ground in swirly circles. Jerry grabbed Julia’s hand, and they ran inside.

****

Gertie Jackson, sporting a large-flowered print dress and newly dyed, thinning raspberry-red hair, peeked inside the cubicle walls.

“Hi, Julie,” she began.

“Hi, Gertie. You know it gets my panties in a twist when you call me ‘Julie.’ Think of it as Julie-uh, with a U and an H at the end, if you must. I don’t call you ‘Ger,’ do I? Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m not feelin’ too good. I’d like to leave early, but I’m outta sick pay. You think I can get an advance on my paycheck? Please? You gotta help me. The power company shut off our electricity, and everything in the fridge spoiled. My kids are sleepin’ in their coats at night.”

Julia held up her hands. “I’m sorry, Gertie. I’ve raised this question with payroll before. The answer is ‘no.’ If they did it for you, they’d have to do it for everyone who asked, and people from the call center show up at the payroll window asking for an advance more often than you know. I wish I could get you guys better pay. But your union and the company have to negotiate that in your next contract.”

“Okay,” Gertie said quietly. “I’ll try to stick it out. I’m just tired and a little out of breath. I’m sure it’s nothin’. My shift’s over in a few hours. Thanks anyways.”

“Hey, Gertie?” Julia fished through her wallet. “I know it’s not much.” She held out a twenty-dollar bill, the only cash she had besides a few coins.

“You’re so sweet, Julie.” Gertie’s eyes filled with tears as she stuffed the money in her bra. “I’ll pay you back; I promise.”

Julie-UH had heard that before. Rarely did she see the money again. Part-time work at low pay meant some CSRs had to choose between paying their electric bill or buying their kid’s asthma medication. What a job—getting yelled at by subscribers all day, irregular hours, plus weekend work for a measly paycheck.

****

Two hours later, Natalia from purchasing appeared in Julia’s cubicle.

“Julia, you’ve gotta come quick,” Natalia said breathlessly. “One of your employees is sick.”

Julia jumped up and followed her.

****

Gertie’s wide feet in purple flats showed under the second gold bathroom door in a row of four. “Gertie, what’s wrong?” Julia’s heart pounded like a double-time bass drum.

“It’s like an elephant’s sittin’ on me, and my jaw hurts,” she said.

“I’m calling nine-one-one. Hold on.”

“No!”

“No? What are you talking about? I have to. You could be having a heart attack.”

”Julie—you gotta pull up my panties before they get here.”

Julia ran out the door, told Natalia to make the call, and ran back. “What is it that you want me to do, Gertie?”

“I’m gonna open the door—and you gonna come in and pull up my panties. I’m beggin’ you. Don’t let ’em see me like this.”

Gertie, five feet two inches and three hundred pounds, fumbled with the latch on the door. Her white nylon panties stretched between her ankles.

“Oh, hell’s bells, Gertie. How am I going to do this?” Julia bent over. “You’re going to be okay; the paramedics are coming.”

“I’m so sorry, Julie. I’m sweatin’ all over.”

Right then and there, Julia decided that anyone on a toilet seat, mid-heart attack, had permission to call her “Julie.”

She put one arm under Gertie’s armpit and tried to lift her enough to slide her panties up and over her right hip. She strained so hard she prayed that her nervous stomach and anal sphincter were up to the challenge. Gertie’s panties didn’t move an inch. Two tries later, Julia gave up.

“What am I gonna do if I can’t work?” Gertie whispered. “I can’t pay my bills as it is. Maybe you should cancel the nine-one-one call. I’ll be okay. Phone calls gotta be pilin’ up with me gone.”

“Paramedics,” announced a muscly, dark-haired dude with a horseshoe mustache and a chin dimple large enough to house a vertical pinkie finger.

“My panties are down,” Gertie said to the mustache and his equally hunky coworker.

Dimple-man flashed Julia a quizzical look as she backed out of the stall, still stooped over from yanking on Gertie’s skivvies.

“She wants her panties pulled up,” Julia said. “Sorry, Gertie. I ran out of time. You’re going to be okay. These fine gentlemen will take good care of you.”

“Call—my son—Nate,” she answered, breathlessly. “He’ll have to—pick up—his brothers and sisters at—school.”

****

Julia sent Gertie a gift basket she couldn’t afford. A hundred and seventy-nine bucks for some lemon shortbread, apples, pears, baklava, fig and olive crackers, truffles, and cheese. Shit. She should have put it together herself, but where on God’s green earth would she have found the time? Between work, Trey, and the house, she barely had time to do the laundry or pluck her eyebrows, which were starting to look like a fuzzy black caterpillar squatting on her face.

She worried about her employees. Gertie recovering from a heart attack and no money for her electric bill. Monty, a gentle pothead who lived in his 1981 banged-up, loaded-with-crap sedan, came in most nights to forage through garbage cans for food. Susannah, an employee with Raynaud’s disease, had one leg amputated below the knee as a teen. The other needed to come off, but her religion forbade blood transfusions. What if she needs it to save her life?

And, of course, Carmen, living with a gun-toting, baseball bat-carrying movie star. Is he her father? Or her lover? Why does she stay with him? Should I get her out of there? How can I get her out of there? What will happen if I do?

****

Charlie got stuck at school with an overbearing parent haggling over his perfect child’s spelling test score.

“What’s to haggle over?” Julia said into her phone. “The kid either spelled the word right or he didn’t.”

“His son spelled belief ‘b—e—l—e—a—f.’ ”

“A future environmentalist. Get it? Be leaf?”

“That’s funny ’cause the dad owns a chemical company.”

Julia opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “All we’ve got is moldy cheese at home. If you order dinner from Mama Mendoza’s, I’ll pick it up.”

“Works for me.”

****

The restaurant had eighteen tables on red and black indoor-outdoor carpet squares. Hand-painted velvet art depicting a bullfighter, a Spanish dancer in full regalia with a white lace fan, and Mexican beer posters hung on the walls. Colorful sugar skulls lined the counter behind the bar. Two taxidermy frogs played pool on a wooden stand by the cash register.

Steam wafted through the kitchen window and into the seating area. The scent of seasoned ground beef, tortillas on the griddle, beans cooked with ham hock, and garlic took her back to her childhood in south Texas. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends ate, drank beer with lime, and sang in multiple-part harmony until after dark with her papá on guitar—some of her life’s most magical moments.

The restaurant owner, Ana Mendoza, looked as stunning as ever in a flowy black skirt embroidered with vines, leaves, and colorful birds, a white cotton blouse with short puffy sleeves, and dangly turquoise earrings. Her silver hair sat atop her head in a tight bun with a turquoise and white abalone butterfly comb on one side.

“Hola, Julia.” Ana kissed Julia on both cheeks. “How are you?” She looked down at Trey in his car seat. “Aye, qué hermoso. What’s his name?”

Julia foisted the car seat onto a booth table nearby. “His name is Trey, but his full name is Charles Arthur Nilsson III, ‘Trey’ for short,” she answered in Spanish, thankful to have someone to practice with.

Ana wrinkled her nose. “Teenagers will push his head in a toilet with a name like that. You feed him plenty of serrano peppers, you hear me? Make him grow lots of hair on his chest.”

“Fine, Ana, but you named your son ‘Dagoberto,’ and I have seriously mixed feelings about that. On a different subject, have you heard of Percy Booth?”

Ana threw her hand up in the air. “Of course.”

“What’s he like? I mean, have you ever talked to him?”

“Hush now.” Ana scanned the area. “Come over here where we can talk freely.” She led Julia to a small table near the back. “Why do you want to know about Booth? As a general rule, I don't share information about my customers. Some say the most astonishing things here, but I’m discreet, as you would expect from a woman of my standing in the community.”

“This isn’t a doctor’s office, Ana, and you don’t have a confidentiality agreement with the man. One of my employees, a young woman, eighteen years old, lives with him, and something’s not right; she’s scared of him, for sure. And he’s a loose cannon which I know from personal experience.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say he and his revolver had a run-in with me at his home.”

“Mr. Booth is older than me—maybe in his seventies. Then again, who’s to say older people can’t have lovers? And Booth would be a real catch—still handsome as the devil and loaded. He lives in a huge house on a hill.” Ana rubbed her thumb and fingers together, the universal sign of money.

“No, no; I didn’t say they were lovers. Or at least I hope they’re not lovers—that would be beyond ghastly. Him in his seventies and her in her teens?”

“So, what are you talking about?”

“There’s something odd going on, and I want to know what it is.”

“Perhaps a sugar daddy, then? Like, no sex, just someone beautiful to keep him company and take to fancy occasions. Mr. Booth and Senator Mathis are regulars here. They come in for lunch every Friday at noon and sit at the same table in the farthest corner of the room. We use it to fold napkins but clear it off before they arrive.”

“A senator in Cascade City?”

“Aye, Julia. For someone who works at a news organization, you don’t know much. He’s the retired senator from Florida, Emerson Mathis—the man who fought the city on building restrictions for his obscenely large house. He looks at me like he’s starving, and I’m a platter of fajitas. And I kind of like it.” Ana bit her lower lip and gave her hips a little shake. “I’m hard to resist. Although Emerson’s short and stocky with a bowling ball for a head and no neck. I ignore him as best I can without being rude. I treat my clients with the utmost respect—neck or no neck.”

A young man dressed in black walked to the table, holding two white paper bags.

“Thank you, Alberto,” Ana said, grabbing the bags and handing them to Julia. “Alberto, another perfectly good boy’s name. Masculine. Your son won’t go anywhere in life with a name like ‘Tree.’ ”

Julia ignored the jab about Trey’s name. “Did Charlie pay for this?”

“Yes, it’s all done.”

“Thanks for everything.” Julia pressed a five-dollar bill into Ana’s hand. “Extra tip for Alberto. And, please, let me know if you hear anything juicy from Booth the next time he comes in here.”

“Of course. We Latinas must stick together, but this is a special arrangement. I don’t spread gossip as a regular practice. Speaking of which, did you hear that Gabriella Winston is filing for divorce? I knew she was a gold digger from the start. Her husband’s old as the hills with a load of east coast money.”

Julia arched her eyebrows. “But you don’t spread gossip.”

“Of course not.” Ana walked away, chin in the air.

Julia left with Trey, still in his car seat. When she locked it into its backseat base, he smiled at her, and her heart felt warm and gooey and maybe even maternal for the first time since he arrived on the scene.