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His mouth opened, worked a little, then snapped shut.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“Of course I would. She’s supportive of my career, unlike you morons. You think she’ll be happy to know you refused to help a friend out?”
Steven held out his hands. “Come on, Mona. Don’t be like this.”
“Give me something,” I said. “Just a little tidbit the other reporters won’t pick up on until tomorrow, after the fire department does their investigation.”
“Fine,” he said. “But promise you won’t tell Colleen about this?”
“I promise,” I said. “Even though we are having drinks later at O’Hare’s.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Drinks?” he asked, his eyes drifting down to my belly.
I put my hand over the small five-month swell. “She’s drinking for both of us,” I said. “I’m sticking to the virgins.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “All I’ll tell you is they’re going to find a bunch of empty, burned-up crates with Spanish writing on them. They’ll probably find some heroin residue, if they choose to test it.”
“That’s a good tip,” I said, typing it on my phone, then looked up at him. “Where are the drugs now?”
He gave me a flat look. “Don’t push it.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, and smiled as sweet as I could. “You’re a dream, Steven.”
“Whatever.” He took a deep breath and looked up at the warehouse then shook his head slowly. “Tell Vince to stop by the bakery tomorrow. We want to talk about… well, just tell him to come by.”
“I will,” I said.
“Thanks.” He lingered for a second then looked at me. “If you’re going to mention a source in your article, call me Karl.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Sure, that was my great-grandfather’s name.”
“Okay then, Karl,” I said, and made a note of it. Small thing to do for a friend, and I figured he’d be more likely to become Karl in the future if I actually did it. “I appreciate the help.”
“I’ll see you later, Mona,” he said then looked over his shoulder at Eric. “And you, don’t disrespect her again, you understand me?”
“But, but you told us not to talk to her,” Eric said.
“Come on, you fucking prick,” Steven said and walked off.
Eric gave me an awkward smile. “See ya, Mona.”
“Bye, Eric. Stay safe.”
He hurried to catch up with Steven, his chain bouncing on his chest.
I spent the next couple hours interviewing as many people as I could. There were no eyewitnesses, but I learned a few interesting little tidbits, and even managed to get a firefighter to go on record. All in all, I had a pretty good story to write up, so I got in my car and drove back to the office.
My little workspace was just as I left it. Papers were stacked in one corner, a picture of me and Vince hanging on the right side, and my computer monitor right smack in the center. I collapsed into my chair, booted up the machine, and got typing. I lost myself in crafting the story, and the drone of the office around me disappeared, the world nothing more than the words I was typing on the screen.
“You smell like smoke,” someone said behind me.
I half turned and saw my boss, Randy, standing with his arms crossed.
“You sent me to a fire,” I said. “So, that’s what happens.”
He grunted and waved a hand at me. He was a heavyset man, balding, big mustache, always seemed like he was in a hurry. He wore suspenders without irony and preferred scotch to just about anything else.
“How’d it go?”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll have copy on your desk in an hour.”
“Beautiful.” He lingered and I forced myself to smile.
“Anything else, boss?” I asked.
“You’ve been here for a couple years now,” he said, talking slow. “And I haven’t pushed you, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “Aside from throwing me at every story imaginable and forcing me to get copy on your desk way faster than anyone else, but sure, you haven’t pushed me.”
He grunted, made a face. “That’s nothing,” he said. “When I was your age—”
“You were hauling firewood through a burning forest and happy about it,” I said.
He glared at me. “Look, I just wanted to say, you’re doing a good job. And I think it’s time we gave you a little more freedom.”
I perked up, surprise rolling through me. “More freedom?”
“A little raise,” he said. “And a little promotion. I want you to write a column about law enforcement.”
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. I’d written more than a few stories about law enforcement in Philadelphia over the years, but getting my own column seemed… well, it was absurd. I was married to a freaking gangster.
And he wanted me to write a column about cops.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Of course you will. First one’s due next Tuesday, make it interesting. Five hundred words.”
“Right, I’m on it.”
