Love at 11 Page 2

  I stared at him, horrified to realize my mind was completely blank. Come on, this wasn’t the capital of Uzbekistan. How long had I worked here? Jamie’s proximity was doing bad things to my brain.

  “Thr—er, four years, sir.” Wait, was it four? Or five? Let’s see, I started in June of …

  “Right.” Richard noted something on a legal pad. “How would you like a change?”

  “What kind of change?” I cocked my head in interest. I mean, he’d have to be more specific before I could answer that one. Like, if it were a flipping-burgers-at-McDonald’s kind of change, I’d pass. Big raise with exciting new responsibilities? I’m your gal.

  “I’m starting a new franchise. An investigative kind of thing. It’ll be a vehicle for Terrance—that’s our main anchor,” he told Jamie, “to get his face out there more, though it’ll be completely producer driven. He’ll just read your scripts. What do you think?”

  What did I think? I thought that sounded great! Who wouldn’t? It was a dream come true. My own segment—and an investigative one at that. A chance to help right the wrongs viewers faced each day. Sure, it would involve working with Terrance, but I could do it. How hard could it be? After all, he wouldn’t be that involved. He’d simply be reading what I wrote. Besides, I’d make any sacrifice to have my own segment.

  “I’m honored you thought of me,” I replied in my most respectful voice. “I’d love to produce the new segment.” Maybe Newsline would notice me now. My idol Diane Dickson would call me personally. Ask me why I hadn’t yet applied. They’d send me a first-class plane ticket to New York. Wine me. Dine me. Beg me to work for them. And then I’d …

  “Since you’ll be doing a lot of shooting, I figured it’d be good to assign you your own photographer,” Richard was saying. I immediately woke up from Newsline dreamland to even more delicious reality. He was assigning me my own photog? No more fighting with the other producers for five minutes of camera time, squeezed in between their supposedly more important shoots? This got better and better.

  “Great,” I managed to spit out. “Thanks.”

  “I’d like you and Jamie to start immediately. Why don’t you give him a tour of the station now?”

  And immediate face time with Adonis? This day got better and better. Whatever I did in a past life to deserve this luck, I’m glad I got around to it.

  “Sure,” I said, now teeming with self-confidence. I gestured to Jamie. “Shall we?”

  He grinned, rising from his seat. “We shall.” Together we walked out of Richard’s office and into the Newsplex. I pointed out all the major sites—anchor desk, assignment desk, editing, etc. Introduced him to a few nosy coworkers (mostly women) who made their way over to pretend to ask me something and then casually question, “Oh, who’s your friend?” As if I’d be fooled by that old ruse.

  I considered showing him the broom closets, just in case the mood happened to strike him in a closed-in, private area like what might happen on a soap opera, but then forced myself to stay professional. After all, I’d be working with the guy every single day. I didn’t have to rush things.

  “And this is Special Projects,” I said as I led him into our upstairs alcove. “Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the Newsplex.” I brought him over to my cubicle. “You can hang here for a moment.” I gestured to the empty desk across from mine. “I have to check my e-mail real quick.”

  The desk’s owner, a political producer named David, was currently on the campaign trail with Senator Gorman, the incumbent Republican Senator from San Diego. Seeing as Gorman was the most conservative guy on the planet and David probably the most openly gay, I greatly regretted missing witnessing the two of them hanging out on the same tour bus.

  I signed in and scanned for new e-mail. I had eleven unread messages: five on enlarging my member, three offering to overnight me Valium, two in Chinese that might have been really interesting if I could read the language, and one which, were I considering buying a house, I’d be offered a super interest rate.

  No reply from any doctors eagerly awaiting fifteen minutes of fame garnered by ousting those secret cosmetics that killed. Darn.

  “So, do you like working at News Nine?” Jamie asked, interrupting my systematic deletions.

  I tried to keep my face expressionless. I hated this question from newbies. They’d just started and, for them, this job was a dream come true. A chance to work in TV news in “America’s Finest City.” They might have slaved years to get to this place. I didn’t want to be the one to burst their bubbles, tell them the newsroom was a shithole with terrible managers and even worse journalistic ethics. That it was the bane of my existence, and I had only stayed so long out of an overwhelming fear of the unemployment line. I was pretty sure that a degree in TV wouldn’t elicit very many good job offers.

  “Yeah, it’s cool,” I said nonchalantly. He’d find out soon enough. “Like any newsroom, it’s got its idiosyncrasies.”

  He laughed, seeming to catch my meaning. “I see.”

  “Where did you work before this?” I asked. I wondered if his newsroom was as bad as News 9.

  “Actually, this is my first TV news job,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “I worked in LA before this. Doing movies. Documentaries. That kind of thing.”

  “Really?” I asked, too enthusiastic before I could help myself. Come on, Maddy. At least a shred of dignity would be nice. “What movies?”

  He listed off several very cool independent films. Wow, this guy got better and better. Not only was he good-looking, but he was talented, too. Total boyfriend material. Though way out of my league. He probably dated models.

  “So, why are you here?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  He sighed and stared at the ground. Oh, good one. I’d asked him something that made him uncomfortable.

  “You don’t have to go into it,” I added.

  “No, it’s okay.” He shrugged. “Basically, the projects dried up. The economy’s so bad now. I figured I’d get a ‘real job,’”—he made finger quotation marks—“until a new project started. Get some money saved up.”

  I nodded. That made sense. Poor guy, though. He was going to hate working at News 9. I, on the other hand, was very, very happy about his arrival. I wondered how I could make my first move. Would it be too forward to shove him against the desk and have my way with him?

  As I was pondering possible photog molestation, his cell rang. “Hello?” he said, after pulling an iPhone from his pocket and putting it to his ear.

  He was so cool. So, so cool. And he was all mine for at least eight hours every day. How did I get so lucky? I casually gave him another once-over as I waited for him to finish his conversation. God, he was cute. Long eyelashes, high cheekbones, a full mouth that was perfectly kissable. Just a hint of five o’clock shadow scruffiness to keep him from looking too pretty.

  He glanced over at me and I felt my face heat with embarrassment. Did he know I was checking him out? He gave a brief smile, then made a gun out of his forefinger and thumb and mimed shooting himself in the head. Whoever was on the other line, he didn’t want to talk to. Maybe it was his mother. Or maybe it was his psycho ex-girlfriend. Or …

  “Yes, dear. I know our wedding’s in three months. That’s plenty of time,” he said, blowing out a deep sigh of frustration.

  Or, dammit, maybe it was his fiancée.

  Chapter Two

  FROM: “Laura Smith”

  TO: “Madeline Madison”

  SUBJECT: re: story idea

  Maddy,

  Thanks for your story idea on pharmaceutical companies fixing prices to drain Medicare and make more money. It’s great that an ex—employee sent you all the documentations on this scandal.

  However, seeing as this story would only affect under-insured old people on a lot of drugs (so not our demo!) I would prefer you work on the following. Gather ten purses from around the newsroom and have them te
sted for E-Coli and Staph bacteria and other such grossness. We’ll call it “Handbag Horror.” Perfect for that 24-55—year-old woman viewer we’re targeting, don’t you think?

  Thanks!

  Laura

  Executive Producer

  News 9 —San Diego

  P.S. In order to avoid a repeat of “Icky Ice”—which unfortunately tested pure as the driven snow and had to be canceled as a sweeps story—please take each purse into the bathroom and drag it across a toilet seat a few times before testing. This should ensure we don’t waste a ton of money again at the testing labs for a story that doesn’t pan out.

  The sun had set moments before, painting the Tijuana sky with a rosy glow. Jodi and I sat in our plastic outdoor chairs at the little Mexican café, soaking up the colorful atmosphere and our even more colorful margaritas. Coming down to TJ, just across the border, was one of our favorite after-work activities. We stayed away from the noisy, tourist-packed Avenida Revolucion, however, in favor of a smaller, quieter market square just before the canal bridge.

  Of course, “quieter” was a relative term in Tijuana. The square still boasted loud ‘80’s music, blasting from the karaoke bar next door and little Mexican children still pulled at our sleeves, wondering if we’d like some Chiclets. The first time I came here, I thought they meant those pink-colored books about girls in the city. But no, they were talking about gum.

  Still, there was something serene about sitting back and watching the shopkeepers harass tourists into buying their cheesy wares. Or spying on the druggies browsing the plethora of pharmacies for their Percocets and Valiums. (And the shy, old, balding men who slunk in and whispered their Viagra orders to a Mexican pharmacist who didn’t give two cajones about whether or not they could get it up.) Okay, so it was a bit sketchy. But also a much cheaper night out than hitting any of the San Diego bars. There, even the dive places charged like ten bucks a margarita.

  We’d started coming here about a year ago, after Jodi produced the “Tijuana Tacos” story. That was one of the few occasions we could name names on News 9, basically because they had absolutely no chance of becoming potential advertisers. So we bankrupted ten taco stands by getting a food inspector to test the temperature at which they kept their meat. A proud day, even though it turned out in the end that the so-called food inspector Laura dug up wasn’t even licensed to test food and most likely made up all the results. But hey, the story looked good and got killer ratings—all that mattered to the News 9 Gestapo.

  Anyway, when working on the story, Jodi came across the most amazing find. Fake purses! You name it, this Mexican shop had it. Prada, Gucci, Fendi, Kate Spade. All 100 percent counterfeit and all 100 percent cheap. So of course she’d wanted to return when she had more time to shop and brought me with her. At first I was a little skeeved out by all the poverty and dirt and puking eighteen-year-old drunk San Diegan kids, but once I saw the purses and the price of margaritas, I realized TJ could very well be the Promised Land.

  “So, what’s up with the photog?” Jodi asked, paying the waiter for our third round of drinks. It was going to be one of those nights, I could tell already. And it was only a Wednesday!

  “Well, you were right about him being cute. And he’s so cool, too. He used to work on movies,” I related, trying to mask the dreaminess in my voice. He was so perfect. So, so my type. It was really too bad that he wasn’t available.

  “Sounds amazing. When’s the wedding?”

  “Rather soon, actually. Problem is, it’s not mine.” I gloomily sucked down a huge portion of my frozen raspberry margarita.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Worse. Fiancée. And not a ‘we’ll get married someday, but we haven’t picked the date’ type, either. He’s getting married in three months. There are invitations. Caterers. Probably a Vera Wang white dress.”

  “Yeah, at three months, you’ve pretty much lost your chance at getting your deposits back,” said Jodi, knower of all things wedding. “Might as well go through with it at that point.”

  “Just further evidence that all the good guys are gay or taken.”

  “Oh, Maddy,” my optimistic friend cooed. “There’s someone out there for everyone.”

  I snorted. “Thanks, Pollyanna.” I took another sip. “I suppose now you’re going to tell me there are lots of fish in the sea, too.”

  “Clichés become clichés ‘cause they’re true.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Tonight I’m celebrating my promotion at News Nine. That’s what’s important. I’m one step closer to Newsline.”

  Jodi raised her margarita. “To Newsline!”

  We clinked glasses, somehow managing not to spill any alcohol, and took deep sips.

  “So. Um. Want to go check out the fake purses?” Jodi asked casually. Too casually.

  I grinned. “Look at you, jonesing over there for your fake-purse fix. You’re completely addicted!”

  We didn’t need any new purses at this point, but it was still fun to look at the latest knockoffs. At last count, I owned four Gucci, two Christian Dior, and nine Kate Spades. I was a sucker for Kate’s Sam bags. I only wished I could afford a genuine one with a sewn-on label to replace the oh-so-obvious fakes whose labels were sloppily glued.

  “I’m not addicted,” Jodi protested, a bit defensively. “Ah, denial. The first sign of a fake-purse addict.” She swatted at me, managing to tip over my margarita. I jumped up to avoid getting drenched. Oh dear, she was more wasted than I thought.

  “Nice one, drunk girl.”

  Jodi, as much as I loved her, defined the word lightweight. Three margaritas was way over her limit. If I didn’t watch out, she’d be dancing on tables or stripping for the immigration officers at the border. Not that either of those actions would have anyone batting an eye in TJ.

  “I’m so not drunk. The table was wobbly,” Jodi said, not yet willing to own up to her current state of inebriation. Problem was, to prove her point about the wobbly table, she wrapped her hands around it and wobbled it some more, succeeding in knocking over her own margarita in the process.

  “Yeah, yeah. Definitely the table’s fault.” I fished in my purse for a ten and threw it down on the table as a sympathy tip for the guy who’d have to clean up the mess. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before the waiter comes back.”

  Giggling, we got up and scampered away from the scene. Like a bug to light, Jodi was hopelessly drawn to the fake-purse store.

  “Ah, my girls are back.” The short, skinny shopkeeper behind the counter greeted us with a big toothless grin. Sad to say, but we’d been there so many times that at this point he had a right to be named Godfather of Jodi’s firstborn.

  “Hi, Miguel,” Jodi said with a hungry smile. “Got any new ones?”

  “For you? My special customer? Si, of course.” Miguel reached under the counter, where sellers typically stored all the premiere fakes, and placed various purses purporting to be from top designers on the counter. Jodi immediately started grabbing at them and checking for obvious signs of counterfeit.

  “Do you have any Kate Spades with a sewn-on label?” I asked, hopeful. I so didn’t need another purse, but a good knockoff was a good knockoff.

  He shook his head. “Sorry my bastane una—my pretty one. Not today.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking, then added, “If you want to leave me your phone number, I can call you if one comes in.”

  Did I really want to leave Miguel my phone number? What if he was some stalker? Sure, he looked pretty innocent, but still. You never knew these days.

  I decided to give him my business card. At least at work I was protected by security guards and a barbed wire fence.

  “Ah, you work for News Nine?” Miguel asked, taking the card and stuffing it in the pocket of his faded blue jeans.

  “Yup. And she just got promoted to investigative producer,” Jodi informed him, not able to withhold a single personal-life detail from my potential stalker. “How much is this one?
”

  “For you? Because you are so bella, I give it to you for five hundred pesos.” He turned back to me. “Investigative producer?” he asked, grinning again. “Senorita, do I have a story for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Five hundred pesos? How about two hundred?” Jodi interrupted, her voice slurring a bit as she bartered. I needed to get her home soon. But first, I wanted to hear the story idea Miguel had. If Jodi’s addiction was fake purses, mine was story ideas. All it took was one really, really good one and I’d be clocking in at Newsline. Miguel glanced around the square before leaning into me and lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “A cartel in San Diego. Mucho drugs being imported everyday. Cocaine. Ecstasy. Meth.”

  “I only have three hundred pesos. How about three hundred?”

  “Really?” I asked, intrigued. Exposing a drug cartel sounded exactly like the type of story Newsline would like. And it was a perfect News 9 story, too, because it didn’t burn any potential advertisers. “How do you know about this? There’d have to be some kind of facts. Proof.”

  “Come on, it’s got a real cheapo lining. It’s not worth over three hundred fifty pesos.”

  Miguel nodded. “The man who runs the cartel, he is a bad man and he killed my brother. I would like to see him brought to justice.”

  “Couldn’t you go to the police?”

  “Ah, senorita, you do not understand how the law works in Mexico. You get pulled over in a car and you pay the policeman not to write you a ticket. It is the same with all things.”

  “Police on the payroll. Right.” That made sense. “Okay, fine. Four hundred. But I’ll have to borrow money from Maddy. Maddy, can I borrow fifty pesos? I think that’s like five bucks, right?”

  “They have dug a long tunnel out in the desert. They use it to transport the drugs from Mexico to America. My brother, he used to work for them as a driver before he was killed. Before he died, he told me where the tunnel is.”