That's the Chicago Way - 3. Chapter 3 - Onion Fields

THAT’S THE CHICAGO WAY

Jack Scribe

The name Chicago is the French version of a Native American (Miami-Illinois) word, shikaakwa - meaning, stinky onion or land of the stinking onion.

Chapter 3, ONION FIELDS

The Lucky Horseshoe in gregariously gay Boystown was Sean O’Reilly’s favorite point of departure when he felt like getting in touch with his inner-self. After seeing a movie, he’d stopped off at the bar for a beer and to check out the strippers du jour. Not that the dancers would look back with an honest admiring stare. The years of pounding down several ‘brewskis’ after work had made his body a little squishy – a belly protruded under the beginnings of man boobs – and his hair had thinned to a point where having a shaved dome now made more sense.

At forty years of age, he felt a little stupid not being more open about his true sexual feelings – somewhere between gay and bi – but didn’t know how to be completely out at this stage of his life. He also wasn’t sure how his immediate family would feel about it, especially his cousin the mayor. Sean didn’t have a boyfriend to bring to the holiday dinners so there wasn’t any urgency…hadn’t been for a while. And his horns didn’t need to be constantly trimmed; watching the male dancers and sliding a few tips into the front of the bulging thongs was a good hormone cure. Tonight, keeping his fingers in the pouch for a few extra seconds was an added turn-on.

Back in his mid-teen years, Sean discovered he had some sort of thing for guys his age or a little older. However, it was at Notre Dame that he first perfected the I-was-so-drunk-last-night-I-don’t-remember-anything routine. ‘Hell, back in college I never turned down the blowjobs or anything else my roomie gave me.’ The game started when his dorm roommate lamented that neither of them was getting enough nooky and innocently suggested it’d be fun to masturbate in front of each other. A month later, they’d progressed to a point where they were jerking off each other and trading blowjobs. And by the end of the school year, the roomie was offering his butt for slippery, penetrating action. The operative signal would be a note to Sean stating, “It’s going to rain tonight…get out the galoshes.”

The bonus of occasionally fucking the roomie, and thus not being burdened by the usual randy horniness of a young male in his prime, had a side benefit. Sean didn’t need to be aggressive in the sex department with girlfriends, and the dates trusted him to be a gentleman until they elected to turn up the thermostat. It was a win-win situation; he resourcefully got his rocks off when he wanted to and the girls thought they were in control. ‘Pussy’ coming from both sides of the fence helped make those undergraduate years stress free.

‘Ah, those were good years,’ Sean considered while driving home. ‘But tonight was kinda fun…especially with that one dude.’ He smiled at his move of slipping a final fiver in the hot Hispanic dancer’s butt crack before leaving the Horseshoe. ‘Hot and sweaty’ was a nice memory to bring back to his empty apartment. A couple of years earlier, his marriage had spiraled down to the final splatter of a messy divorce. On top of that, his teenage son became a spiteful little prick who sided with his mother. She got the house and son, and Sean moved to a quiet one-bedroom condo near the Water Tower off Michigan Avenue.

Once inside his unit, he went directly to the kitchen, found his cell phone, which he’d deliberately not taken with him, and turned it on to check voicemail messages. The first one – out of a list of ten – was from Evan Jankovic, Marv Revson’s officious administrative honcho. It turned out to be an alert about a Channel 7 news story about Marv with bullet-points that implicated Sean…but not by name.

‘Fuck,’ he thought, while popping open a bottle of Goose Island ale, ‘how in the hell am I going to contain this? Everyone knows who that asshole’s talking about.’ The other messages were mostly from family members and friends. ‘No reason to listen to them tonight.’ However, he noticed a few unfamiliar names. ‘Probably reporters. How’d they get my number?’ Sean gulped half of the bottle’s contents and let out a loud belch. ‘I certainly don’t need this kind of press.’ He listened to the message one more time.

Evan’s last part of the message had been somewhat cryptic and formal: “More info coming – in tomorrow’s Word. Call me at the store.”

Call. No subservient politeness. Evan almost always acted as the third party so Sean and Marv didn’t need to deal with each other on the nitty-gritty of their ventures. ‘The store’ was a code that meant for him to call Evan’s über-secret untraceable number by using a prepaid, throwaway cell phone. ‘Christ…this story must be pretty shitty for him to be calling this late.’

“That fudge packer,” he said to the empty room. Sean pocketed his regular cell and walked to the bedroom where the pre-paid throwaway was located. It wasn’t that Evan’s cockiness put Sean off, or that the twenty-nine year old was handsome in an almost too pretty sort of way. Sean liked his employees – guys and gals, blue collar and office – to be head-turners. A little eye candy was always a bonus and Evan fit that mode in spades – preppy, well groomed and a good dresser, the image of a metro-sexual definitely in touch with his feminine side. And the guy’s crystal blue eyes, fair Slavic complexion and dark hair were very catching.

What rankled Sean was the way Evan made a point of being out by verbally commenting on another guy’s looks, the latest play he’d seen, or what Halsted Street bar he’d boogied in the previous evening. It made Sean uncomfortable – he’d spent his adult life building and reinforcing a straight image and Evan’s bating was a threat to his well-molded façade.

The more Sean dwelled on it, the more he became wound up. These businesses he’d formed with Marvin had become very successful ventures and the idea of the cash flow going away pissed him off. He had plenty of money stashed away where no one could find it, but legal problems and potential jail time were the ingredients for a possible disaster.

Another swig finished the beer and he reached into the top drawer of the bedside table to retrieve his throwaway cell. From memory, Sean thumbed in Evan’s number and waited for the connection.

“Hey, Mr. O., you got my message? It was kinda urgent and I thought you’d have called before now.”

“Did my disappearing act – dinner and movies – to be alone,” Sean said, purposely not mentioning the final stop that evening. “Left my cell at the condo. So, whazzup with the Channel 7 story…and everything else? As you can imagine, I’m beyond being concerned.”

“Darlin’, we are in potentially deep doo-doo. I say that advisedly because it sounds like Cooke, and Kess at the Word, don’t have enough ammo to back up specific accusations.”

Sean literally bit his tongue to avoid going off on Evan’s irritating familiarity. He focused and said, “Hmm, Kess also called me tonight. Didn’t remember his name until now.”

“Probably sniffing around.”

“Not around my ass, thank you.”

“Hey, this isn’t the time for kinky,” Evan answered with a little snort.

“Cut the crap and give me the details…warts and all.”

The facts spewed out in the manner of a lawyer summarizing a legal brief. Evan held a JD degree from Northwestern and was a member of the Illinois State Bar Association, but being Marv Revson’s right-hand man took all of his time. And Evan had told Sean that juggling the web of Revson businesses was more to his liking than practicing law.

“So, let me get this straight,” Sean said when Evan had finished. “They’ve sniffed out that Marv’s in business with some nameless person? And one of those business interests is a trucking firm that may have gotten city contracts by rigging bids? You use ‘allegedly’ a lot. Christ, it doesn’t take a fuckin’ genius to know I’m ‘Mr. Nameless.’ Fuck.”

“Cool the afterburner, puleeze. The report on Channel 7 was purposely vague. It’s pretty clear that Kess…it’s really his story, by the way…has pieced together a few parts of the picture, but doesn’t have it all…yet. I won’t be able to see the paper until it’s distributed tomorrow. I’ll get my fetching buns down to the corner store and grab a copy then.”

“How about their website?” Sean was tempted to ask if Evan’s buns had fetched anyone’s boner recently, but took a pass.

“Already checked, sweet pea. The new edition doesn’t go up until tomorrow morning around ten. The general feeling is that Kess is fishing for more info. But Marv took some action earlier this evening to head off any further investigation. Not that I approve.”

“And what is that?” Sean clinched his teeth and started breathing faster. ‘Gotta keep cool just get the details for now.’

Marv doesn’t want to end up like his brother in the hoosegow, so he decided to try and nip it in the bud. He had a couple of his Guido’s track down Cooke a little while ago and leave an anonymous note on his car. Did the same thing – kinda – with Kess. Basically, the warnings were pretty vague but pointed about digging into stuff that needed to be left alone.”

“Fuck,” Sean replied in a hissing grunt. “Gimme all the details.”

Evan expanded on the story. In addition to the message on Cooke’s windshield, he said that ‘the boys’ left a sack of dog shit by Kess’s front door with the same wording on an attached note.

“What were they thinking?” Sean wanted to use ‘dickwad’ but decided to save any insults for another time…when he was ready to go off full bore at the real dickwads.

“Hon, this isn’t my style…you know that. I couldn’t talk Marv out of it. At least they wore gloves and didn’t do anything that could be traced back to us.”

“Traced back to us?” Sean asked with loud but measured tones. “Threatening the press is not exactly the brightest thing to do…in fact, it’s fucking stupid. The last thing we need is to get into a pissing contest with anyone. My dad used to say, ‘if ya stir up shit, you’ll get dirty’. We gotta assume Cooke and Kess will call in the cops.”

“Well, duh…my sentiments exactly. But Marv has made his bed and that’s that. He knows how I feel and I’ll pass on your thoughts.”

“Just tell him we need to figure out a cleaner way to deal with this and that I’ve got some backtracking to do from my end.”

“Backtracking?”

“Calling my friend at City Hall first thing in the morning to make sure the competing bids on that trucking contract are in order. I fucking paid enough.”

Sweet, my man. And I’ve got all our other transactions covered up so those silly queens won’t find our yellow brick road.”

“As long as they’re covered. I guess our conversation is over…’Dorothy’,” Sean said with a slight snicker in his voice. “So you don’t think this’ll blow up in our faces?”

“Ewe, blow up in our faces gets me horny all over…love it when you talk dirty. Naw, as long as we keep our cool, Marv and you will get through it. See ya at the Lucky Horseshoe…bye.”

The disconnect happened before Sean could respond. Part of him wanted to figuratively ream Evan’s ass – well, maybe literally, too. ‘Fuck, I want to believe that cocky asshole about this situation being handled. And how the hell does Evan know about me and the Horseshoe?’

After stowing the cell phone back in the drawer of the bedside table, he returned to the kitchen and tossed away the empty beer bottle. He grabbed his regular cell and scrolled through the messages. Since Sean had been talking with Evan two more messages had appeared. He recognized his second cousin’s moniker, ‘Da Mayor,’ as well as the name of the mayor’s deputy. ‘Better call my cuz right now and Kess in the morning.’

~~~~~

The gentrified Webster Avenue neighborhood – lined with resurrected, yuppyfied brownstones and graystones – was usually very peaceful. At 1:30 a.m. the only noise was an occasional chirp of a cricket and the faraway sound of a moving vehicle. Illumination from the streetlights cast an orange-ish glow on the still trees, dark structures and parked cars. Rob was relieved to be home at last. He’d had a brief but fruitful meeting with Chicago’s finest – keeping Kris away and out of the picture – and found out that John Kess had also been a target. The added bonus for his newspaper friend was a sack of dog shit with his note.

“Goofy, dumb-ass kids,” was the conclusion voiced by one of the uniformed patrolmen.

“Maybe,” Rob had replied with a shrug. At this point it was best to let the police handle this as a possible stupid prank and let it go…for now. With murder running rampant in Chicago, the anonymous notes were ‘chump change’ in comparison. ‘But having an official record of the possible threat will come in handy if the shit hits the fan. Especially if it’s the dog variety.’ While getting Kess’s address, Rob struck out trying to find any telephone number through 411 or White Pages. ‘Probably a cell-only guy,’ he thought as he crept into his bedroom. ‘I’ll call him from the office tomorrow where I’ve got his number.’

A nightlight illuminated the carpeted floor just enough to get around without stubbing a toe, tripping over a pair of bunched up jeans, or bumping into the chair. Rick was softly snoring, sprawled out on his side of the king bed with a contented expression and the top sheet kicked aside. Rob admired his partner’s bare torso – they both slept in the raw – and he looked forward to their weekend romps. Because their work schedules put a cramp on evening intimacy during the week, lovemaking in the Cooke-Cole household usually began on Friday after Rob returned from the late evening newscast.

With the assist of soft moonlight coming through the window, Rick’s shadowy body was highlighted in an especially delicious way. ‘Definitely yummy.’ Rob paused and visually drank in the image. At thirty-eight years, his partner was also still in fit form. They subscribed to the old maxim about a guy’s weight – if you can keep it under control in your thirties, later years are a breeze – and worked out regularly while keeping pig-out dining to a minimum. Even at ‘parade rest,’ Rob admired the total deal before him with that familiar, inviting treasure trail that led down to the ample male package. Rick’s hairy chest was accented by the sparkle of his pierced nipple barbells. This was the first stop below the neck on Rob’s roaming tongue tour that usually ended in lapping Rick’s shaved, shapely scrotum. However, the main oral event meant moving on with moistened lips.

After stripping down and doing his thing in the john, Rob wrote a note and stuck it to the bathroom mirror. It said, “Wake me when you get up. Need to discuss something that happened tonite – FYI. I’ll make coffee and drive you to work. xoxo” That meant he would be getting up at 6:00 rather than the more leisurely 8:00. ‘Yikes, only four hours of zee time,’ he thought, returning to the bedroom. Rob gently nudged Rick’s arm to make room and eased into bed.

Just as Rob’s head hit the pillow, Rick stirred slightly and shifted his body; the end result was that his leg now draped over Rob’s nearest leg and Rick’s arm had wrapped itself around Rob’s chest in a loosely clinging manner. Close enough for Rob to feel connected but not restrictive to rest. It allowed him to think about the past several hours and feel safe from the recent distractions.

Not that meeting Kris was really a distraction. It was a detour. A fantasy fluke that ended up being primarily about horn trimming – with a little stroke of the ego for Rob and a touch of starfucking for Kris. ‘What us gay boys won’t do for a good stiff dick…any time; any place.’ He remembered the old expression, Women need a reason to have sex; men need only a place. ‘But only to a point.’ He wasn’t into backseat romance or a tumble in the bushes. For him, ‘a place’ needed to have a comfortable bed and privacy, and his house obviously wasn’t an option. Therefore, it was a plus – and dealmaker – that Kris had the convenient apartment.

‘The sex was great…and uncomplicated. Just what I needed.’ A bonus point made the connection a hands-down winner. Rob usually wasn’t attracted to twinks, so this encounter brought back memories of his younger years. Along with the guy’s looks and compact build, Rob was admittedly impressed with Kris’s ability to get an instant hard-on…and have it point straight up to the ceiling in a suspended bellybutton-touching position. ‘There’s a definite advantage to having youth on your side and knowing how to use it…which Kris does.’ But Rob was confident that he’d held up his end of the bargain very well. ‘For Christ’s sake, isn’t thirty-five the new twenty-five?’

The rendezvous also allowed Rob to get to know a bright, with-it guy who would be worth the effort to mentor professionally. ‘Hell,’ he decided, ‘Kris might be someone to bring into our group as a new friend. He’d certainly be compatible with the other guys.’

What to do about the real distraction? Rob decided to stop by the newsroom after he dropped off Rick in the morning. He needed all of John Kess’s contact numbers that were stored in his workstation PC. The two needed to discuss the threats and determine the best way to proceed. ‘It is, after all, a blatant intimidation of the press and all that implies. Gotta decide if we should go public right away and nip it…’

The two men were breathing in unison.

Normally, Rick’s way to work meant walking over to the Fullerton El station and taking the Brown line to LaSalle – Chicago’s Wall Street – and the Mercantile Exchange. Therefore, having Rob drive was a nice change and it gave them some quality time to talk over Rob’s dilemma. Rick was wearing his usual basic combo – shirt, tie and slacks – while Rob had jumped into his standard casual look that included jeans, polo and sneakers. He’d return later in the morning and pull together something more on-camera appropriate.

“So you’re pretty sure that Revson is behind these notes?” Rick asked from the passenger seat, chewing a mouthful of a toasted bagel.

They’d stopped at the nearby Chicago Bagel Authority for a portable breakfast. Rob usually didn’t like to drive and eat, but the early traffic was still very mellow; it’d be another thirty minutes before the risk of the daily demolition derby began.

“Fifty-fifty. He’s the only guy who I directly mentioned and who’s in Kess’s story. Sean O’Reilly’s involvement can’t be spelled out yet because Kess doesn’t have two solid sources.” Rob figured it was a good plan to share one of the prime reporting basics as background. ‘After all, his business world orbits around commodities and futures.’

“You’re going to help him track down other leads?”

“If he wants me to, and a big if my news director is okay with the idea. By the way, what did you mean by calling O’Reilly a closet queen when we talked on the phone?”

“Just repeating what a friend of a friend once told me. Passing on gossip…the kind of thing that goes with someone related to the mayor.”

“And being semi-well known in the business community,” Rob added.

“That, too. I just remember hearing that O’Reilly likes to cruise some of the bars on the QT. Although, with the way things are going today, it’d be a political bonus to have a gay person in your family.”

“Maybe, but we’re not out of the woods yet on that. That’s why I’m not Rob Cooke, your friendly and studly gay news anchor. And I doubt the Clintons would have spent the mega-bucks on Chelsea’s wedding if she had married a lesbian.”

“Touché, stud,” Rick reached over and squeezed Rob’s thigh for emphasis. “That reminds me of the other dirt on O’Reilly. Apparently, he’d take off his wedding ring before going into the bars to check out the boys. Boys, by the way, who charge modest fees for services rendered.”

“So my possible stalker and suspicious character likes rent boys?” Rob snickered and shook his head.

“Like who really gives a shit any more…as long as everyone’s legal. But it’s always fun to hear who’s doing what to whom. Or is it who?”

“Babe, it’s the he or him rule. So, in this case, whom is correct. However, it is he who apparently likes to suck hustler’s dicks.”

“Whoa,” Rick replied with a laugh. “I never learned it that way in school. You musta had progressive teachers.”

“Naw, you’ve just got a partner who uses journalistic license to improvise. But I digress.”

“Digress on this. Tell me more about finding this note on your windshield? What was your car doing parked on West Hubbard?”

Rob paused for a moment as he turned onto LaSalle and switched lanes. “In front of the Union Square Lofts… where the guy I told you about lives. Kris Lamacki’s the student who thinks I walk on water. I drove him home, he asked me up for a beer and we talked a little more shop.” He decided that was where the info sharing would stop. ‘No need to test our little agreement.’

“I think one of the guys I work with lives there. Nice digs.”

“Especially if your dad is well-heeled. Kris told me that the condo was a carrot for making good grades. Anyway, nice guy with major brights in his noggin.”

“Cute?” Rick asked with an exaggerated raised eyebrow.

“I suppose.” Rob reached over, grabbed Rick’s hand and added, “But you’re much cuter and sexier. Woof.”

“Damn, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“So, I finished with Kris, came down to the car and found the note. I was, of course, alarmed but more pissed off than anything else. Now you know the whole story.” Rob squeezed Rick’s hand for emphasis and thought to himself, ‘Well, most of the story.’ He smiled and glanced at Rick. “After I drop you off, I’m going to my office to call Kess…we’ve got to work up a game plan.”

When they arrived in front of the Mercantile Exchange, Rick winked and gave Rob an air-kiss. “Babe, I’ll keep the home fires burning until you get back tonight. We’ve got to make up for lost time.”

“Count on it.” Rob watched his partner walk away and merge into the morning mass of traders. He had every intention of holding Rick to that promise.

Rob easily backtracked the twelve blocks to the station, pulled into his parking space and entered the newsroom just after the local ABC7 News This Morning wrapped up. He deflected the surprised and friendly barbs by the morning crew of his being in so early by tossing back a few self-deprecating remarks. Rob always did his best to offer an intelligent comment concerning current or breaking news and that morning was no exception. In addition to being curious about the latest buzz, making time for colleagues who wanted to chat was a good way of keeping office peace. Rob was aware his new primetime status put him on a pedestal and he didn’t want to come off as a prima donna.

What Rob hadn’t counted on were that most comments focused on his Revson story the previous evening, and that an edited one and a half minute segment of his report had been replayed several times on This Morning. Someone said that the blog on the ABC7Chicago web site had been very active and Rob promised to review it and make an entry. But first, he needed to find Kess’s phone numbers in his stack of business cards: for whatever reason, the data had never been transferred to his BlackBerry.

‘Probably he’ll be bird-dogging his cell.’ He punched in the numbers. The call went into voicemail, so Rob recapped his previous evening’s experience with the windshield note and said they should talk A.S.A.P. For good measure, he left a similar message on Kess’s office voicemail. He put his phone on ‘vibrate,’ clipped it to his jeans belt and walked over to the coffeemaker. Out of the corner of his eye, Rob saw Thornton Brill, the morning producer, approaching.

“Well, surprises galore. I didn’t expect to see you in so early…although it’s good to see our headline talent grace my humble morning gang.”

“Hey, Thorny, what can I say? Just can’t stay away from the place.” Rob winked and poured coffee into a communal mug. “I hope someone actually ran this mug through the dishwasher.”

“Probably…it doesn’t look dirty. By the way, everyone is hyped about your Revson story and how well it played.”

“It’s really just a companion piece for today’s NewWord,” Rob replied. “And a few more details have to be hammered out before we’ve got real news-news.”

“Just the same, it makes for good ratings. Good going.”

“If we want some extra bang for the buck in ratings, I’ve got an idea that we might try.” Rob decided, on the fly, to suggest a way to tease the story further…by mentioning the note incidents. ‘To hell with them. These assholes want to shut Kess and me up.’

“Good ideas are always in demand,” Thornton said. “What are you thinking?”

Rob looked at the clock and noted it was 7:10. “The reason I’m in so early is to follow up on a threat to me that occurred last night.”

Thornton listened and jotted a few notes as Rob quickly related the two incidents. “So, I wonder if you’d want me to do a live report on the 7:25 local update? I know this is tight but it might be worth a shot…that is if you don’t mind me looking like crap on-air.”

“I like your thinking. We could use the newsroom remote camera and let it be semi-gritty. No jacket…just you and your baby-blues clutching a reporter’s pad. Very Front Page retro.” Thornton paused for a moment and added, “I can slot you in for thirty-seconds just before the weather. That’ll give you a few extra minutes to pull everything together. Deal?”

“You’re the boss.” Rob lightly bumped Thornton’s knuckles and returned to his desk.

He opened the Word application on his computer and typed out his thoughts in outline form. After a few re-writes, Rob was satisfied and printed the triple-spaced page. He took the printed outline and walked quickly to the locker room for a fast application of MAC Studio Fix, fluff his bed-head hair into something more presentable, and brush the coffee from his teeth. With the visual fix in place, he did a fast rehearsal in front of the mirror. By the fourth time through, he was confident he could nail it without the usual aide of the teleprompter. ‘Christ, it’s only thirty friggin’ seconds.’

The remote stationary camera consisted of a shot that combined the cluster of open desks, various TV monitors in the background and a prominent ABC7Chicago sign with the ‘7 circle’ logo. Rob clipped on a lapel mike and inserted his earpiece just before the area became lit up. He looked at the camera lens and waited for his cue.

“Eyewitness News anchor Rob Cooke is in the newsroom this morning with breaking news. Good morning, Rob.”

“Good morning, Tamara. Viewers may be aware that I’ve been reporting on a story, developed by NewWord’s John Kess concerning allegations of a city ‘sweetheart contract’ involving Marvin Revson. Late last night, I found a threatening note on the windshield of my personal car. I’m also investigating a report that a similar note was left at John Kess’s home. I’ll have an update later this morning and on ABC 7 Eyewitness News tonight. This is Rob Cooke, reporting from the newsroom.”

“Thank you, Rob, for these latest developments. Now…”

Rob pulled out the earpiece and unclipped the mike as the lights went dark. He felt his BlackBerry vibrating and figured it might be John Kess. He retrieved his cell and verified that it was Kess.

“Hi, John. I wanted to speak with you last night but I didn’t have your number with me. I’d add that you got the shitty end of the deal…but maybe this isn’t the time to joke.”

“Shitty it was,” John replied with a chuckle. “I’m just pissed off that these characters would come to my house. I’ve got a family to worry about.”

“And they had to follow my car to find me,” Rob replied. “F.Y.I., I just did an update on the morning news. I’m at the station right now.”

“One step a head of you, buddy. I watched you a minute ago…plus what you did last night. Good job, by the way. The newspaper is going to fly off the stands today. It’s a shame I’m not working on a daily because this story has legs.”

“How about getting together later this morning to compare notes? I’m sure the other stations will be after you – as well as the Trib and the Sun-Times – and I’d like to have the first shot. Maybe an in-studio interview?”

“Works for me,” John said. “I’m still digging for more dirt…but it’s coming very slowly. Marv and you-know-who have covered their tracks very well.”

“I need to go home and clean up for the day. Would it be convenient to meet back here around ten? We can compare notes and take it from there. In addition to sitting down for a short interview, we should contact someone from the police and see what needs to be implemented for our safety.” This was the first time Rob had verbalized his concerns.

“I know just the cop. Sam Schmidt’s a Commander in the Central Investigation section and he’ll know how to help us.”

“Cool. Why don’t we get together at ten, have Schmidt join us around ten-thirty and play it by ear. Wear whatever you’d feel comfortable being seen in by several hundred thousand viewers.”

“Oh, talk about pressure,” John said with a laugh. “So I probably shouldn’t wear my vintage Grateful Dead tee?”

“Somehow, I don’t think it’s best to portray a stoner image. Oh, and bring a few copies of NewWord we can use for props and reference.”

“I’ll wear my church-going best and see you at ten. Seriously, I want to make sure we have protection.”

“Ditto, John.”

Rob went to the office that Thornton shared with the assignment editor and ran by them a game plan for getting the Kess interview so it could be used on the 11:00 a.m. newscast. Although he’d like to have an exclusive for his newscast, Rob figured it was a win-win situation for the station and him. He’d replay the interview that evening – since a majority of the evening viewers didn’t watch daytime TV, it would be fresh. ‘And I can do a live update if anything breaks.’

“Give me three minutes and I’ll feature it as a third lead,” the assignment editor said.

“I’ll give you five and let the editing team go at it because I’ll probably use the same cut for tonight. I’m going home to change into my adult clothes if you’re okay with re-running that remote for the 8:25?” Rob was anxious to take a shower and mull over how to handle the meetings.

“Done.” The assignment editor shot a thumbs-up and returned to his computer.

“See you later,” Thornton said. “And, Rob, thanks for coming in. I’ve already had a call from the boss…he was very hyped about the live reporting.”

“Ha, I guess I have one more day of job security.” Rob shook Thornton’s hand and continued, “You can appreciate the fact that when they invaded my personal life, it alerted me to go into kick-ass mode. First thing is for the cops to figure out the ‘they’ factor.’ Then I’m going to talk to the boss about letting me devote some time to working with Kess on this story. As he said, it has legs.”

“And a possible Emmy, eh?” Thornton said while rolling his eyes. “Seriously, just always remember to look over your shoulder. I don’t know what kind of bad guys are messing with you, but cover all your bases.”

“That, Thorny, is exactly what I have in mind.”

__________________________

TO BE CONTINUED

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