Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty-One

 A nightcap with Turner in my tiny apartment turns to four before I lose count, along with all track of time. My last memory is of us inexplicably singing Livin' on a Prayer. My neighbors must've loved that off-key duet.

I awaken Wednesday morning at five a.m., smelling feet and bad breath. And it only takes me a second to realize that only the bad breath belongs to me.

"Hurrrrmph!"

As if on cue, Turner grunts like a tennis player on serve and rolls over, kicking me squarely in the chin.

I kick back and she begins flailing...till I make things even worse.

"Trick, Trick, calm down, you're in my bed," I shout, realizing almost immediately that that was the wrong thing to say.

In her hung-over state, Turner flails harder, knocking me onto the freezing cement floor.

Only after bolting upright does she put two and two together, and cover her mouth in horror at the sight of me sprawled awkwardly two feet below – at least I think my discomfort is the cause of her horrified look.

"I slept here last night," she says, half asking, half stating – both to herself.

I nod, grimacing and rubbing my lower back.

"Why, uh, why are you naked," she asks nervously.

This could get old. So I stand, allowing her to see very clearly that my naughty bits are covered by sweatpants and that I'm just shirtless, missing only the turtleneck sweater, steel chastity belt, and hip waders to suit her comfort level.

She is not amused, but I don't care. My apartment, my bed, my righteous indignation.

I take a more serious tone seconds later though and, while making coffee, remind her about the threat she endured the night before.

"If they're mad at me, then the threat might not go away anytime soon," I tell her somberly. "But I don't mean that to frighten you. I mean it's not going to go away, because we're not going to let it go away. We have to make the bastards pay who threatened you, 'cause they're not gonna use the people I care about to frighten me off of a story."

Turner blushes at the reference to people I care about, and I make a mental note that I've never seen her do that before either – flush? Yes, but blush? Not on your life. This continues to be a week of firsts.

After agreeing to nap for two more hours, we awaken to my alarm and concoct a plan to walk into the Midway building about two minutes apart, so as to avoid arousing suspicion or feeding the rumor mill. But we make the strategic mistake of walking together through the rear parking lot that faces my apartment building.

Before I realize our mistake, Thomas Porter pounces.

"Hey there, boy," the self-hating security guard drawls, as we get closer. "You showin' proper respect to this here lady?"

How sweet. Porter is concerned for Turner's safety in my company.

"You should be asking me if I'm OK around her," I shoot back, but Porter doesn't get the joke and actually asks Turner if she needs help.

She giggles. I don't think it's funny. But she fixes things by giving Porter a peck on the cheek and telling him that I'm taking good care of her.

I swear he looks at me with newfound respect in his eyes upon hearing Turner's affirmation.

Still, respect or no, Porter has a big mouth. And I predict that by lunchtime, gossip mongers will be questioning Turner and me about Porter's "anonymous" report of us being spotted walking to work together from the direction of my apartment building.

By the time we step off the elevator and into the fifth-floor newsroom, Turner and I have divined a backup strategy. To get the hell out of the newsroom.

We bypass our desks, slip down the hallway toward the cafeteria and duck into the freight elevator.

On the ground floor, the door opens to the Midway's massive loading dock, where delivery trucks drop off six-foot-tall bales of blank newsprint – that ink-runny paper that newspapers are printed on – twice weekly.

It's also where the smaller step vans pick up stacks of printed papers in the wee hours each morning to distribute them to the door-to-door delivery folks across the city.

Turner and I know that if we want to avoid prying ears, the best place to go is the loading dock. We weave our way through the giant newsprint bales and finally end up at a railed balcony on a quieter side of the dock, facing the rear parking lot.

I stand silently, hoping that Porter doesn't spot us, and hoping that Turner says the right thing on her cell phone.

She dials and presses the little rectangle to her ear, holding up a finger of silence to me with her free hand.

In spite of the rumble of trucks just a few feet away, I can still hear the rings.

One, two, three, then they stop abruptly. Silence.

Turner nods, listens for a moment, and then begins speaking at a faster pace than I've ever heard on anyone who wasn't a carnival barker or an auctioneer.

She nods again, offers a perky "thank you!" and closes the phone.

The call must've gone well because some of her trademark confidence is back.

"He's on his way," she says, and nods again, this time for no one's benefit but her own.

I give her a reassuring smile. But no sooner have I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to keep from shaking them nervously, than my phone rings again.

"What's up, Kojak? She told you, we're waiting!"

Before the undercover detective with many faces can answer, Turner gestures and I cover the mouthpiece with a hand.

"Why do you call him, Kojak," she whispers hoarsely.

"Because he's bald and ambiguously tanned?"

I'd love to go into greater detail about the coolest TV detective of nineteen seventy-three to nineteen seventy-eight, but the voice on the other end is not my friend.

"Mr. Wilson?"

"Uh..."

"Mr. Wilson are you familiar with Joanne Meir?"

"Yes, but that's kind of like asking if I've ever seen the sun. Her name is on half the schools and social service buildings in this city. And that begs a question: Who are you, and how did you get my number?"

"That's two questions, Mr. Wilson," the snarky voice snaps without answering mine. "And Mrs. Meir requests an audience. She'll be awaiting your two p.m. arrival. I have texted you her address. Good day!"