Two

The San Francisco NOW offices are located above a Greek restaurant, one block west of Alta Plaza. If you arrive at work hungry, it’s impossible to make it up the stairs. This is especially true when the owner, Dmitri, has been playing around with new recipes.

One morning I arrived to find he had whipped up a batch of deep-fried mango spring rolls with a coconut-lime dipping sauce that he was eager to share with a fellow foodie. There’s nothing a cook likes better than an appreciative audience, and there are few things I appreciate more than good food made by someone else.

Halfway though the platter, I asked Dmitri if he was planning to add it to the menu. His answer was a laugh and a shake of his large, pear-shaped head.

“It’s no Greek,” he said in broken English. “I may sell recipe to Cuban place in exchange for rum and cigars. The owner like my recipes; I like his rum and cigars. Win, win.”

I couldn’t fault that logic.

After climbing the stairs to the third floor, I enter the newsroom. Once upon a time that phrase would have sent a spark of electricity through me, but time and economics has drained most of the color from the place. The characters—those messed-up human beings whose only saving grace was the effortless flow of their words—have been replaced by clean-cut, social media–savvy youngsters who are far too easy to drink under the table.

Back in my nearly innocent youth, when I got my start at what has now become my competition, the San Francisco Chronicle, the silver age of journalism was coming to its inevitably tarnished end. On my first day as a reporter—bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and arriving far too early—I found the managing editor snoring loudly at his desk. His suit jacket was torn down one arm, exposing scraped and bloody flesh; his hair was in rebellion as every strand attempted to go in a different direction; and he had the stench of having broken into a local brewery and gone swimming in one of its hop-heavy fermenting vats.

When he awoke, I asked him what happened. Naturally, I was hoping for some great story involving undercover cops, biker gangs, and a stakeout gone wrong. Instead, it turned out he had been drinking with the assistant managing editor and their heart-to-heart, clear-the-air discussion turned violent in an alley when they each had to relieve their bladders and their frustrations.

Blood was spilled, the cops arrived, and, thinking they were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the two aging men decided to run. The ME eluded the cops by slipping into the Chronicle building, but he had no clue where the AME ended up.

My assignment for the rest of the day turned out to be getting the AME out of jail and using my natural charm and wit to have all charges dropped. The upside was that I was able to convince the guy to put me on the police beat, which is where I wanted to be.

One of the last characters left in the business is Edward Stoogan, my editor at NOW. On first meeting him, people often make the mistake of thinking he’s of low intelligence and slow wit because of his sluggish physicality. He’s a large, overtly pale man who’s lost his grip on the slippery edge of obesity, with a pug nose, pink eyes, and shock-white hair.

His eyesight is so bad that he actually uses a small telescope to read the words on screen, but his mind is that of a poet wrapped in a journalist’s gift for compelling storytelling. And although his communication style is more along the line of grunts and chirps, put his chubby fingers on a keyboard and he turns jingles into sonatas.

No sooner have I checked my mailbox for angry letters (fans never write as often as critics) than Stoogan’s rabbitlike senses catch the overhead fluorescents bouncing off my frenetic copper locks.

“Dixie!” he calls across the newsroom. “My office.” If his voice wasn’t closer to squeak than growl, he may have almost sounded authoritative.

“Be right with you, boss,” I call back. “Just want to check my voicemail.” I was expecting good news. Before leaving work last night, I placed a $50 bet on a local greyhound race and my long shot had paid off at ten-to-one odds.

Dixie’s Tips #13: Any good journalist who may later have to claim that getting to know the local, underground gambling scene was research for a story should always give the bookies their work number.

“Check it later,” Stoogan fires back. “I want you now.”

Not one to let a Freudian slip pass without comment, I pounce. “Geez, boss. I didn’t know your feelings ran that deep. The wife been making you sleep on the sofa again?”

Stoogan stops in his tracks and turns, his cheeks turning a flushed shade of boiled beet. The other reporters in the room lower their heads like frightened ostriches, which is something that never would have happened when dinosaurs wrote the news. In the waning pre-computer days, when one reporter cracked a joke or fired an insult, the other jackals climbed over top of each other to best it—until someone inevitably went too far and we all gave up in disgust.

Sarcasm and cheekiness, it seems, have sadly become politically incorrect. Fortunately, Stoogan is still old-school.

“If I have any feelings for you, Dixie, they lean more toward pity than lust.”

“Pity?” I fire back as I close the gap between us. “Care to elaborate?”

Stoogan shows his teeth, fully aware of the silence that is filling the room but knowing, like me, that a good reporter needs a bit of iron in his or her balls to get to the heart of a story. And the best iron is forged in the company of bastards who have lived through wars—not spent the time sitting behind a computer.

“A picture tells a thousand words,” he says with a grin. “You’re wound so tight, I’m surprised you don’t bounce on your tail like Tigger. When’s the last time you enjoyed some male company”—he pauses for effect—“that, you know, didn’t try to sue us after?”

“I had cock for breakfast.”

The newsroom erupts in startled gasps as Stoogan’s face collapses in on itself and he erupts with laughter. When I reach his side, he has tears in his eyes and is wheezing from the exertion.

“Your office?” I say as I take hold of his arm.

He nods, still chuckling. “Remind me never to play chess with you. You probably arm the knights with grenades.”

“I’m more of a dominoes gal,” I say. “I like the dots.”

Stoogan starts laughing again and once I get him to his office, I immediately have to fetch him a glass of water.

“I’m glad you spend most of your time outside the office,” Stoogan says after his breathing is back to normal. “You’d kill me otherwise.”

“But you miss me all the same,” I say.

He hesitates.

“Right?” I insist.

He grins and shrugs his massive shoulders beneath a baby-blue shirt and coffee-brown tie, the tip of which appears to have recently been dunked in a cup of actual coffee. Along with being legally blind, Stoogan also has the worst fashion sense of any human being on the planet.

“So, what’s up?” I ask.

“First the good news.”

“My favorite kind, especially if it involves the words, ‘Dixie, you deserve a big fat raise’.”

Stoogan ignores me. “I just received word from the lawyers this morning that all lawsuits against us pertaining to your stories have either been dropped or settled. For the first time this year, you’re officially lawsuit free.”

“I don’t like the term settled,” I say. “It implies I did something wrong. People sue because they don’t like what I write, but I only report the truth, which is still the ultimate defense. There should be no settling.”

“Calm down,” says Stoogan. “I know you’re a good reporter and I stand behind you a hundred percent, otherwise I’d fire your ass, but—”

I interrupt. “You keep mentioning my ass, boss. That’s sexual harassment.”

“One look at your boyish frame and they’d dismiss the charges.”

I grin, pleased with the speed of his retort. “OK. Go on.”

“Settled simply means the top brass chose the cheapest way out.”

I grunt. “Hmmm, so long as we’re not saying that I was in the wrong. That would bug me.”

“Got it. Now you ready for the bad news?”

“Nope. Let’s just end the conversation here. This feels right.” I stand up to leave.

“Sit down.”

I puff out my lower lip in a pout, but it has no effect. Must be my boyish frame.

“Nobody’s telling me what to print, but—”

“That’s a bad start,” I interrupt.

“But,” Stoogan continues, “the publisher would like to see us do a few more softer and advertiser-friendly cover features.”

“I just vomited in my mouth.”

Stoogan tries to hide his smirk by taking another drink of water. “The first one he wants is something dealing with Father’s Day.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Seriously.”

“A FOK note?” FOK (long o) stands for Friend of Kenji—Kenji Kobayashi being our publisher—and usually refers to a story that Ken wants written about one of the advertisers that he’s golf buddies with. It’s every reporter’s nightmare, unless you’re a total suck-up. “And you’re not assigning this to Mary Jane?”

“She would sexualize it, and she already does enough of that on her celebrity beat.”

“What about one of the junior—”

“This is yours,” Stoogan interrupts. “The publisher likes your writing. He just wants to see you expand a bit out of the crime scene.”

“So I’m being punished for being good?”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

I take a deep breath and grit my teeth. “Any particular angle to this bullshit consumerism event he would like to see illuminated?”

“You’ve got free reign to find the story, but it should probably have something to do with fathers. HR tells me that even you have one.”

“Funny.”

“That’s me,” agrees Stoogan. “A million laughs.”

“Only when you look in the mirror,” I answer before standing up and walking out.

My voicemail contains the good news I was hoping for. Eddie the Wolf says he’ll have my $500 waiting for me at Mario’s Deli anytime after 10 a.m. I can tell from the tone of his voice that the recent NHL playoff upset means my winnings don’t compare to his.

Pleased with myself, I head across the floor to the newspaper morgue where Lulu “formerly known as Bruce” Lovejoy puts Google to shame with her ability to search through the NOW archives. A computer is only as intelligent as its user, which is why I rely on Lulu. She finds me the answers that I don’t even know I’m looking for.

When I enter, Lulu is down on her knees with her butt in the air, exposing a purple thong and too much skin due to the shortness of her skirt.

I clear my throat loudly. “Lulu, are you trying to give Stoogan a heart attack?”

She looks over her shoulder. “Damn Ethernet cable came loose and it’s an orgy of freaking snakes down here.”

“Yeah, but unless you’re making an amateur porno, short skirts and under-the-desk IT don’t mix.”

Lulu laughs. “Got it.”

Getting back to her feet, Lulu brushes her hand across her skirt to smooth out any wrinkles and remove particles of fluff. Standing six feet four, Lulu is a big girl in every way. Broad shoulders, thick legs, biceps that make buying off-the-rack a difficult chore. Fortunately, we live in San Francisco where there are designers and boutique shops for every size and taste. If you can’t find what you need here, you must be visiting from another galaxy.

“How’s my hair?” she asks.

“Like you’ve just finished making IT porn.”

She gasps. “Really?”

I laugh. “No, it’s fine.”

She runs manicured fingers through her locks. “I don’t want just fine, dahling.” She winks at me. “I want magnificent.”

“Then magnificent it is.”

“And how is my ass?”

“I tried not to stare.”

“But you couldn’t help yourself?”

“True. It’s magnificent, too. But whose name is tattooed on the left—”

“What?” she screeches and lifts her skirt to look before catching my smirk. She drops the hem and wags her finger. “That’s not nice.”

“What I love is you thought it could be a possibility!”

“Well,” she sighs. “I do have some incredibly adventurous evenings.”

“Where waking up with a tattooed butt cheek is not unreasonable?” I ask.

“Oh, honey,” Lulu beams. “You have no idea. So, what can I do for my favorite reporter today?”

I try not to grimace as I tell her about my fluff-piece assignment.

“Father’s Day.” Lulu rolls the words around her mouth in contemplation. “You could bang out a quick piece on what the mayor’s kids have planned for him, but I don’t think they like him much.”

“Plus the mayor hates me,” I add.

“Oh, don’t put those parameters on me,” Lulu says with a chuckle. “If we eliminate every authority figure in town who doesn’t like you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt. “Moving on.”

Lulu grins and then snaps her fingers and points down to a copy of the latest edition of NOW laying on top of the counter.

“Do you read our Classifieds section?”

“Occasionally,” I admit.

“Check this out.”

Lulu opens the paper to the Classifieds and points down to a column where people post public messages to each other. Mostly it’s
people who passed in the night and forgot to get a name or phone number; some were even too shy to approach each other but are now positive they may have missed meeting their soul mate. These messages tend to go along the lines of: You, stunning in a white jumpsuit and hoop earrings; Me in the Spider-Man costume with a broken zipper. Our eyes met as I zip-lined away.

Others are letters from rageaholics who need to tell the world who pissed them off by humming too loud on the bus or picking their nose in public.

Lulu points to one with a bold header that reads: Father In Name.

“This one caught my eye,” says Lulu, “and I wanted to know more. Could make for an interesting piece.”

The notice is only five lines. It reads:

Twenty years, you disappeared.

No word, no sign. Alive or dead?

Did you ever think of us? Even love us?

Mother tried, but the mess …

I can never forgive.

“What do you think?” asks Lulu.

“Can you find out who submitted it?”

“Can a badger brush its teeth?”

“I have no idea,” I admit.

Lulu laughs. “I’ll get the name.”