The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy. Nic Tatano
swan. That’s not to imply you were an ugly duckling.”
“I didn’t think that’s what you meant. Thank you for the compliment.”
“You’ll be beating them off with a stick.”
“Already am, and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, as I headed for the back wearing a huge smile.
“By the way, he’s not coming today.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Use whatever image you want. Air coming out of a balloon, wind out of sails, man’s dose of Viagra running out, whatever. My perfectly made-up face dropped. “He quit already?”
“No, he had another family thing today so he came in yesterday.”
Yesterday? Shit. “Oh. Did he, uh, say anything?”
“About what?”
“Never mind. Lemme go play with my cats.”
“Hey, that old Siamese you liked got adopted. Nice couple with a kid in a wheelchair that wanted a quiet cat.”
My favorite cat, Pandora, wasn’t there either. “Aw, I’ll miss her. But glad she found a good home.”
I shuffled down the hall, head down, the spring in my step gone. Most of the cats perked up as I turned the corner, and I did as well.
I crouched down and began to give some attention to each cat, getting purrs and licks in return. I was beginning to feel a little better.
And then I saw it.
A yellow sticky note with my name on it attached to the giant bin of cat food. I jumped up and grabbed it, then turned it over.
Sorry I missed you. Rain check?
-Scott
The smile I had earlier returned. I picked up a Himalayan kitten and hugged her close to my new blouse, which was immediately covered with fur. “What the hell, kitty,” I said. “Go ahead and shed.”
“Oh, shit. Already?”
The tip line was already wailing when I emerged from the morning meeting shortly after nine-thirty Monday morning. I would have let it ring but the ancient answering machine that had never flashed a number higher than three had apparently given up the ghost when the tape broke over the weekend. I had no idea who called, how many had called, or what they had to say, and frankly I didn’t care because no one had ever called with a legit tip on the weekend. The machine flashed hieroglyphics until I mercifully unplugged the thing to put it out of its misery and tossed it in the trash. Harry placed a call to the IT geek to set up voicemail on the number. No one ever thought to do it before because it was never necessary.
But the IT guy hadn’t arrived yet.
Stan Harvey occupied the neat desk opposite my pile of clutter, Harry’s theory being that the hardest reporter and softest reporter should “room” together and therefore balance things out as far as newsroom camaraderie was concerned. Stan, as you might imagine, is a character with a warped sense of humor common to most feature people. Around forty, with receding sandy hair and piercing deep-set blue eyes, he’s my height (well, before the heels, anyway) and thin, with that built-in mischievous look similar to Roxanne’s. Stan flashed his crooked smile at me as I arrived at my station. “Looks like your fan club is already fired up.”
“I’m never gonna get any work done.”
“It might help if you change your new recording with updated information each morning about your outfit, makeup and shoe preference of the day. Am I mistaken or is that shade of lipstick Desert Rose?”
“Bite me, Stan.”
I started to sit down and grab the phone, but Stan reached across the desk and beat me to it. “Allow me. Operators are standing by,” he said, as he answered it. “Tip line, this is Stan.” He listened a moment, his smile faded. He nodded and handed the phone to me. “Sounds like a legit one.”
My eyes narrowed as I knew Stan’s penchant for practical jokes. He recently Saran-wrapped the toilet bowl and shoe polished the seat in the private bathroom of the Inhuman Resources troll. Believe me, you don’t want to get on Stan’s bad side. Thankfully, we’re good friends. “It had better be,” I said, as I took the phone. “Belinda Carson.”
“Belinda, this is Councilman Jagger. How are you this morning?”
I rolled my eyes. The only time politicians call is to rat out people in the other party. “I’m fine, Sir. How can I help you?”
“We need to talk.”
“Sir, if it’s about your opponent in the upcoming election—”
“It’s not,” he said, just before he dropped a phrase that made my reporter’s radar go up. “It’s about something illegal I think is going on in my own office. And I need your help.”
***
Serena called right after the Councilman, asking if I could sneak away for a few minutes before lunch to watch her cross-examine a witness. I’d covered trials she’s been an attorney in before, and she’s very impressive. I had no idea why she wanted me at this particular run-of-the-mill hearing, since it had no news value whatsoever. But she said she needed to demonstrate something for me. Since the old courthouse was just a block from Jagger’s office and I was going to be in the neighborhood anyway, I hit her courtroom a few minutes before the judge hit the bench.
My heels echoed as I walked across the tiled white marble floor and slid into the row behind Serena. The ancient wooden bench was as comfortable as a church pew. “So, what’s so important about a harassment lawsuit? You’re not setting some precedent, are you?”
“Legally? No. For you? Yes. Watch and learn.”
“You got the plaintiff or defendant on this one?”
“Plaintiff.” She nodded toward an attractive thirtyish blonde sitting next to her. “Her former boss is a slimeball. She wouldn’t give him a tumble so he fired her.”
“And this is important to me … why?”
“Patience, grasshopper.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the bailiff. “All rise! The honorable Jennifer Trapp presiding.”
I’d been in Judge Trapp’s court before, and always enjoyed covering her trials. She’s a no-bullshit judge who’s probably the best-looking jurist in town. A redhead in her mid-forties, she looks thirty and has a body of a twenty-year-old, along with a taste for men in that latter age range. Her photo once ended up on Page Six in which she was accompanied by a guy right out of college with the caption Cougar Trapp.
Anyway, chances are Her Honor was wearing a skirt as short as Serena’s under her robes as she headed up the creaky steps and took a seat. (I noted she had those shoes with the red soles which I now refer to as anti-Christian Bales. Interesting.) Everyone else in the courtroom followed suit and sat down as the judge adjusted her robes and looked at Serena. Her red hair made a striking contrast against her black robe and the huge wooden seal of the state of New York hanging on the wall behind her. “Ms. Dash, you may continue your cross-examination.” She turned to the man who approached the witness stand, a scrawny, chinless forty-year-old poster child for male-pattern creepiness and reminded him he was still under oath.
“Thank you, your honor,” said Serena, who got up and started to strut toward the witness stand. Her tight black leather skirt was about six inches above the knee and her candy-apple red blouse low-cut enough to make any man consider (and hope for) the possibility of a wardrobe malfunction.