Picking Up the Pace By Kimberly LaFontaine

Chapter Five

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," Rob greeted the reporter, relieved.

"It took me a while to find the place. I couldn't exactly drive up in my car, now, could I?"

He looked at her thoughtfully and decided her appearance would do. Of course they would tell people she was interviewing that she was a reporter, but they didn't want to draw any more attention than necessary. As discussed earlier in the week, Angie had made sure she looked quite terrible. That Sunday morning she had gotten up, put on a pair of deliberately distressed and torn, faded blue jeans and an old, tattered T-shirt, then took a run in the park for an hour. She smeared a little charcoal and grease on her pants and wrapped up her sweaty hair under a faded rag used primarily for dusting. Her face was dirty, her hands a little sticky from dried sweat. She tucked two dollar bills and a handful of change in her pocket, but carefully locked her purse in the trunk of her car, which was parked ten blocks away in a much nicer area.

"Give me a cigarette, and let's go," the old man said and she quickly complied.

They walked together in silence, the man telling her to slow her steps -- homeless people aren't really ever in a hurry -- and to stay close. Who knows what they might find. They reached an intersection under the highway and began walking under the bridge. A cop drove by and frowned at the pair, his eyes searching for a bottle of alcohol or signs of drugs. The reporter was nervous, never having done anything of this sort before.

A few minutes passed and she started seeing the signs usually depicted in documentaries -- broken bottles, cigarette butts, a woman with felted hair next to a grocery cart, fanning her face with a newspaper on the hot summer day. It was late afternoon and Angie promised herself she would not stay after dark.

Then she saw Rick and Bob, sitting in a semi-circle on gravel with several other men. They glanced up when they heard crunching footsteps and she saw surprise written on their faces. The two stood up to greet her, offered her a seat on a piece of cardboard.

"You found yourself a woman, old man?" One of the others asked and laughed. She noticed he sported a black eye and wondered if John Carpenter was to blame.

"Shut your trap and don't be rude," Rob sneered and sat down beside her.

"Angie, this is no place for you," Rick said before she could explain. "What are you doing here?"

Rob spoke up and informed them of the situation, asking for their support. The others seemed obviously unnerved, but her two acquaintances from the square seemed encouraged that she was trying to report what the police were neglecting. While not exactly smiling, they did allow for an interview, though the other three men shuffled off, no longer acknowledging her presence.

Carpenter, she learned, had struck again the night before and the men seemed in a hurry to get her out of there. But she insisted on staying. They told her he had made a few friends, or "cronies," as Rob called them -- men to support his cause. They told her they suspected he was trying to take over the area, though why he didn't just go rob a convenience store and set up in a better location baffled them all.

"Goose! Get over here," Bob called, waving the man with the black eye over. Reluctantly, the younger looking man sat down and scratched his beard before rolling a cigarette. "Tell the reporter what happened last night."

"I got banged up, as you can see," he said and pointed to his eye. He then lifted his T-shirt up and showed multiple nasty-looking bruises on his chest and stomach. "Those fuckers came 'n got me, too many of 'em."

"Goose here is an Army vet -- just went a little crazy after the Gulf War and can't keep a job. Think about it, Angie, he knows how to fight and they still kicked his ass. Tell her what they wanted."

"They took my money and my forty-ounce, pissed me off something awful," he spat at her. "Not like you'd understand with your fancy job, but it took me three days to get it. I didn't even have that much, six lousy dollars. Mostly I figure they just like hurting people, sick bastards."

"They're stealing money from you guys?" Angie asked incredulously. "You don't even have that much. What are they thinking?"

"I think Goose is right," Rick said. "They mostly just like hurting people. Did you do your research?" Angie nodded. "Well then you know this guy is pretty fucked up. What's not in those reports is that he's hurt women, too. He went after one last night and we haven't seen her around today, doubt that we will."

The reporter gasped and looked over her shoulder, suddenly very scared indeed.

"That's why you need to get out of here," Bob added. "We appreciate what you're trying to do, but the cops aren't going to listen. We tried that and they just think we're a bunch of drunks making up shit for attention. We're just going to have to take care of this ourselves."

"It doesn't have to be that way," she tried but he cut her off.

"Come on, let's go," Rob said and they got up. Angie looked at her notes as she walked away, certain she needed to find someone else. It wouldn't do for someone to think she'd only interviewed a couple of acquaintances and doubt her credibility. She stopped the old man and asked if they couldn't walk down a little further. He frowned but agreed, under the condition that they'd head back downtown within the hour.

He stopped her in front of an old woman sitting on a dirty mattress. She frowned at the man with obvious dislike but Angie nonetheless crouched down in front of her. The heavy-set woman had graying hair that poked out from a rag similar to the one Angie wore. Angie introduced herself and the woman snorted.

"Ain't never anything good come out of no newspaper people."

"Why do you say that?" the reporter asked, feigning innocence.

"Reporters ruined this country, ruined the whole world. Damn it, Rob. Why you bringin' her kind around here anyway?"

"She wants to write about Carpenter."

"You do, do you?" The woman's gray eyes narrowed suspiciously and bore into her, but Angie waited patiently, deliberately keeping her face devoid of expression. "He's a son of a bitch," the woman finally said.

"Can I get your name?"

"Marcia Jefferson. Here's my license if you don't believe me."

Angie took the offered card and copied the name into her notes. She realized it had expired six years ago, but the picture was a perfect match, though showing a much cleaner, happier-appearing lady. She thought about asking what went wrong and decided the question would serve only to aggravate Ms. Jefferson further. Instead, she handed it back silently and waited for the woman to speak.

"All I know is that bastard come here recently and does nothin' but start trouble. I heard he killed two men, though I only seen one body. Me and Teller dropped it off at the street, thinking the cops might take notice and put Carpenter in the slammer. But they done nothing but harass us about stayin' under the bridge and didn't believe a word we said." She paused for a second and stared at Angie. "You a reporter, right? Give me a dollar and I'll keep talking."

Angie frowned and debated whether she should comply. It would practically constitute buying an interview. She looked at Rob and he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "What can you do?"

Grudgingly, she pulled out a dollar and handed it to Marcia, who snatched it eagerly and hid it deep in her pocket, looking over her shoulder carefully.

"He's beatin' the crap out of people, too," she said, lowering her voice. "He took a woman last night, him and his boys. I think there are five of them now, maybe six, like a gang. I figure it would be easier if he just mugged somebody, took some rich guy's money, but they don't. If you ask me, I think he's a sick man, sure as the day is long. He yelled at me day before yesterday, took two dollars and told me it's protection money, said he was comin' back for more in a few days."

She stopped what she was saying and faced Rob.

"You better get her the hell outta here, jackass. He'll be coming soon for sure." Then she lowered her gaze on Angie and narrowed your eyes. "You better make good on writin' about this shit. It's hard enough out here, we don't need no asshole bossin' us around, you hear?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Angie said and stood up, closing her tiny notepad and said her good-byes. As they started walking back, she flipped through it, then stuffed it in the top of her old hiking boot, just in case. She began looking around nervously, extremely worried, especially when Rob picked up his pace despite his direction to slow down.

They were almost out of the homeless strip when they walked past a large brush and three men stepped out, blocking their path.

"Robbie, Robbie, Robbie," one of them sneered. "What have you found yourself now? We haven't seen you before, little lady. You're hanging out with the wrong type, we'll do a much better job of protecting you, won't we boys?" The greasy man clamped his hand down on her shoulder, hard.

Angie could feel a cold sweat pouring down her back and her voice caught in her throat. This, she remembered, is the exact reason her boss had never liked the idea of young reporters thinking they could go undercover in dangerous situations. She gawked at the semi-toothless man with bad breath in front of her and noted that the men were neither black, nor did they have any scars. Before she could react, the man struck her across the face so that her head spun and she nearly fell. Tears sprang to her eyes and she had to resist jumping up to punch him, though she had taken years of kickboxing and felt confident she could do some damage. But there were two other men, and Rob looked far too frightened to be much help.

"Empty her pockets," the agitator barked at his friends and they held her tight, digging through her jeans roughly, not at all being careful which body parts they "accidentally" mishandled. The two deposited her money in their leader's hand and laughingly shoved her to the ground.

"Let's see," he said, counting the change. "Three dollars and fifty-six cents. In three days you be back here by sunset with three dollars and we'll make sure something like this never happens again. If you don't and we find you again, well, we won't be so nice is all I say."

As abruptly as they had appeared, they were gone. Angie wiped her face, her fingers trailing blood from a split lip. Defiantly, she stood up, feeling an urge to break something, anything.

"I'm sorry," Rob mumbled and headed down the street, the reporter quickly following. "I'm not much use, am I?"

"Don't worry about it," she said a bit too sharply, then stopped. "Rob, who were they? Friends of Carpenter?"

"Yes."

"I can't come back here, can I? He knows I'm here. Do you think the others will tell who I am?"

"They won't," he said and sounded convincing but the reporter still worried. They continued walking up the street and when they reached her car, she offered to take Rob for a drive-thru dinner. He agreed and got in her car, pulling a semi-clean napkin from his shirt pocket. Angie took it and dabbed at her lip, already feeling the swelling with her fingers.

It was not going to be fun, she decided, explaining what happened to her boss. She also couldn't make a report with the police because that would mean becoming part of the story, making news. If she wanted to continue her investigation, she would have to suck it up to stupidity and move forward. The reporter heard Rob take in a sharp breath when she peeled out onto the street, more venting frustration than eager to find a McDonald's.

*               *               *

"The Tribune's dress code must be kind of lax," Angie heard a rich voice say behind her and jumped. She had been so preoccupied studying police reports and her notes that she hadn't noticed the now-familiar stranger sneaking up to her table at Starbucks.

Lauren's grin was quickly replaced with one of worry when the reporter looked up at her. She sat down heavily and immediately demanded to know what happened. For a second, Angie debated lying. It would certainly be easier, but might cause more damage than good. She sighed and indicated they should go across the street and sit on a bench, worried people around her might take offence to the slur of bad language that was about to burst out from between her lips.

"I got mugged," she confessed when they sat down. "And before you start, I'll tell you right now that I put myself in that situation and should have known better. So no lectures, please."

"Fine. But are you alright? That lip looks pretty bad."

"I'll get over it. I used to take kickboxing so it's not the first time I've dealt with a bloody lip. Don't worry about it." The reporter lighted a cigarette and winced when she accidentally touched the butt on the tender spot. She took a drag and then related what had happened, watching Lauren's expression grow ever darker, ever more furious.

"I can't believe you're not going to go to the police," Lauren finally said, her tone clearly upset. "You could have been seriously hurt, and those guys are still out there."

"That's exactly why I have to write about this. That's why I didn't go home. That's why I'm reading reports even though my head hurts like hell. Listen, I know you won't understand, but I need to do this and not just to have a big story. I promised a lady I would do what I have to do, that it would be in the paper. So I'm going to keep at it until I get everything I can."

"You're not going back down there, are you?"

"Absolutely not, unless I can find a cop to tag along."

"Good. I don't want to have to worry about my new friend getting herself into another tight spot. Jeez, Angie, are all reporters like this?"

Angie laughed, though she quickly grimaced in pain. Still, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at having been called a friend.

The two dropped the prior topic and the reporter finally asked why Lauren was downtown. The singer had been feeling nostalgic over memories of hanging out with friends at the square during high school and, on a whim, drove from Arlington to buy a cup of coffee.

"I walked up and thought it was kind of strange that a bum would be studying something at Starbucks," the singer said and they both giggled. "Well, I still feel like getting that cup of coffee. Would you care to join me? I know you're busy, but we can make it quick."

"I would love to," Angie said. The hopeful look on the other woman's face was too much to resist, and they went to purchase the desired beverage.

She fell in next to Lauren as they crossed the street, stealing a glimpse while they dodged traffic. Lauren was taller and a little leaner than the reporter was, and wore a pair of simple blue jeans and a white tank top with black boots, despite the heat. The shirt and city lights made her look even tanner. Even dressed simply, Angie noticed, the woman was still as sexy as she remembered from a few nights ago. Shaking her head as if to rid the thought, she put out her cigarette and followed what was quickly becoming a new friend inside.

It was already well past dark when Lauren had shown up, and Angie had planned on typing up her notes before she went to bed that night. But with each conversation topic she was a little more intrigued, a little less in the mood to work, and so they ended up staying until Starbucks shut down for the evening.

The reporter allowed Lauren to escort her to her car, as she would later admit, more because she didn't want the evening to end than that she was still shaken up over the incident earlier in the afternoon. The singer gave her a hug good-bye and told her to be careful, concern lacing her voice.

"I'll be fine," Angie reassured her."I'm going straight home to take a bath and go to bed. And I won't, I swear, go back to the homeless strip."

"Alright," Lauren said with a sigh of relief. "I guess I'll see you Saturday then."

"Saturday it is."

"Oh, wait," Lauren said and placed her hand on the reporter's shoulder as she pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket. "Take this."

*                *                *

The office was eerily quiet when she dropped her bag on her desk the next morning. She usually arrived before many of the staff, but even the news clerk wasn't in yet -- not a good sign. She glanced at her watch -- 9 o'clock. She looked up at the clock on the wall and let out a deep sigh of frustration. It read 7:45 a.m. She flopped down on her chair and put dropped her head into her hands. Damn it, not again. Apparently, she snorted at the thought, her alarm clock had not been a little off. It was her watch that had stopped.

Well, it couldn't hurt to get an early start. She turned on her computer and nearly struck the thing when it froze up just minutes later. The contraption caused more problems than any other reporter's computer and each time she mentioned the problem to upper management, they said something about not having money to fix it.

"Fucking shit economy," she muttered as she restarted the thing and flipped through her notes. In a few minutes she could call the police chief -- nice and early -- and request an interview. She only hoped he wouldn't pass her off to his information officer. That man usually didn't have a clue what was going on, and any information he did give was frequently full of errors.

She pulled a little mirror out of her purse and examined her discolored face again, dreading the impeding questions from co-workers and her boss. But a tiny smile still managed to make it through, despite the morning's bad start, as she thought of telling her mother when she flew to Fayetteville in a couple of weeks. She couldn't help but giggle. Surely her mother would quite literally freak out.

"Well, well. I'd ask if you were sick, seeing you here this early, but I know that ... Whoa! What the hell happened to you?" Tom said and pulled a chair up to sit down, immediately reaching out to touch her face.

"Promise you won't get mad."

"Fine," he said and suddenly paused. "You didn't, did you?"

"I did," the reporter said and sighed. "I didn't go alone but I guess I shouldn't have gone at all."

"No, you shouldn't have. I promised I wouldn't get mad, but damn it, Angie, you can't just go out to the most dangerous part of Fort Worth and think nothing's going to happen. Look where it got you, for Christ's sake."

Angie looked down at the floor, much like a scolded child would. But then she handed him her notebook, and watched silently as he flipped through and read her quotes. His expression grew from furious to surprised and finally intrigued. He handed it back without a word and looked out the window, just thinking.

Turning his attention back to his employee, he said, "Looks like you have some good stuff there. But you're still in trouble. I don't want to hear about you getting in any more trouble. Got it?"

"Got it."

"How long do you think this story will take?"

"It depends on what I get from the police -- a day, maybe two. If they're not too tight-lipped, I might have it in today. I don't know about art, though. Maybe a mug shot of Carpenter?"

"That'll do. I might send some photographers down to the bridge, see if they can't find some of the people you interviewed. You, however, are staying here. Let me know how you're doing by two o'clock. If you get good information, this'll go front page. I promise."

"Thanks, Tom."

Relief washed over her as her boss strode back to his cubicle. She had thought he would be much angrier, but it seemed as though her boss was just a sucker for a good story. She fixed her watch and realized it was time to call the chief.

"Tom, I got it. It was tough, but it'll be done in an hour or two," Angie triumphantly announced just hours later. And judging by the look on her boss' face, she had just earned more than a few kudos.

"Hallelujah," he said and laughed. "Tell me what you got."

The police chief had been more than a little surprised when she called him and related the reporting she'd already done. He was, as usual, out of the loop and brusquely told her to call him back in an hour. But before nine o'clock rolled around, he was back on the line, desperately trying to explain why it may have appeared as though the police were apathetic. Fort Worth knew about Carpenter being in town and were on the look-out for him. His officers, he told her, were not ignoring the homeless people but had to be careful about what leads they followed, concerned that the information they received was far-fetched or otherwise fabricated for purposes of revenge.

He first demanded she hold off on the story for a few days, but Angie refused, calmly saying that, "We'll run the story with what I have, or you can give me more information so people will have a complete report. Look, we're both trying to do our jobs, right? If we let readers know there's a dangerous man on the loose, maybe they can give you guys a couple of leads. And even if not, at least they'll know to be careful, right?" He relented, a little apprehensively, but filled her in on what his detectives had told him. She obtained a few contact numbers for detectives in Austin and followed up with them.

She deliberately withheld the full account of what happened Sunday afternoon. Twisting the truth a little, she told the chief she'd witnessed an attack on a man whom she interviewed. He seemed particularly distraught when he heard Carpenter had already found a following and asked her to call one of his detectives and trade information. She was extremely glad they could do the interview over the phone, so he wouldn't see her face and become suspicious.

By  one o'clock, she was busily typing away at her desk, taking her time in crafting the story. The article had implications that were unsettling, and she knew it. There would be a lot of feedback and criticism -- by the next day her e-mail's inbox would be filled with comments, maybe some hate mail.

"This guy's a big deal, Tom. He's wanted in Austin for numerous crimes and Fort Worth detectives were trying to track him down. But now that he's suspected of committing crimes here, they may not be able to extradite him. And that's basically creating more complications. The police don't believe half of what the homeless people have reported, but are pretty sure he stole a car in east Fort Worth. They have witnesses for that and another witness in Austin who tipped our cops off that he was coming here."

"It looks like he's trying to form a gang. That's what everybody thinks. He tried that in Austin but another gang ran him off," the reporter paused. "I've written it pretty straight. I have two detectives, the police chief, and three homeless people on the record. I talked to a city councilwoman who represents that part of the city, and she's pissed this hasn't already been taken care of. Is that enough?"

"It sounds like you have everything. Why don't you go talk to the photo guys and tell them where to go and what to look for. This is big and I want art. We have to run this tomorrow -- wouldn't want the Dallas Morning News scooping us, especially after all your trouble."

She wondered how willing her interviewees would be but didn't voice her thoughts when she spoke to the photographers. They would know what to do. She sketched a few drawings of what they looked like and added their names. Adam and Martin packed their gear and headed out, an edge of excitement marking their steps.

The buzz of conversation around her grew with each passing minute and the reporter was quite certain she was the topic of conversation. She caught a few snippets here and there, pretending to be engrossed in her writing. Half the office staff was discussing her decision to go down to the strip, the other half eagerly awaited more news on the story. After returning from a coffee break, she even caught the intern sneaking a glimpse at her story and smirked. If nothing else, a newsroom office is worse than any other gossip kitchen.

And for the first time in months she was called into the budget meeting to elaborate on her story. The smug look on Tom's face, when the other editor's agreed to make it the center piece, indicated there had been quite a discussion. She fumbled through the details nervously, intimidated by being in a room with all the top dogs. But in the end, they agreed with her boss and decided that if the photographers returned with a decent photo, it would make for a great package.

Hours later she left the office thoroughly satisfied and in the mood to celebrate. It was her first big crime break and she knew she had impressed more than a few people. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Jimmy's number and only managed to reach his voicemail. Disappointed, she sat down on a bench. It was one of those moments when she desperately wished there was someone to come home to, someone to throw her arms around and dance with giddily. But her someone wasn't there anymore and probably wouldn't have felt much like celebrating anyway, always wrapped up in himself.

She stared across the street, on the verge of tears, trying not to let the loneliness seep in but failing miserably. She pulled out a cigarette and fished through her purse for a lighter when her fingers grazed the tip of a tiny scrap of paper. She pulled it out and reread the note. "Call me anytime, 817-578-2900."

She lighted her cigarette, thinking about the note, and her mood suddenly shifted.

Buy my novel

Return to Homepage