poet from last night. I got my apology in, then Tracy dragged me next to her and started bitching.
Two of my fingers remove hers from my arm. "Thanks for the tickets."
"You met with the mayor last night."
She’s mistaken but I don’t give a shit. "It wasn’t a ’meeting.’ We had dinner, a few laughs, kissed around; nothing serious."
Tracy’s frown doesn’t fit her usually glowing face. That makes me happy, possibly number two on the day.
"You met with him out of the office, alone, and in his car. Fifteen hours later, Alderman Gibbons—
next in line
should the mayor die in office—filed two criminal complaints against you. And now a number of residents of District 6 have come forward—all with the blessing of Alderman Gibbons—saying you spent the day asking questions about said alderman."
I sense Kit Carson at work and keep walking; the sidewalks are crowded with fans who are suddenly lots happier than me. "Top secret, okay? The mayor and the alderman are lovers—poodles, KY, sweaters, the whole thing."
Tracy grabs my arm again. "You can talk to me before we print the story or apologize later, up to you." Miss All-Everything redhead smiles all the way to the sharp teeth. "Power of the press. A lot like your handcuffs."
I try to think positive while we walk; try to blot out Her Fabulousness as a living being, her threats, but not her tickets. This is a pilgrimage and I must get my mind right. My team needs me.
Wrigley Field is home to the "Addison Street Miracle" or any number of names used to define the never-even-a-bridesmaid Chicago Cubs. The names usually become less flattering as the season progresses. This in spite of once being owned by the
Chicago Tribune
and attendance records that locusts couldn’t match. To be a fan of these fellows one must have sins; it helps if they’re serious and unforgivable in any other way. But that’s ninth-inning talk and tonight’s game hasn’t started; we’re not behind yet.
Inside, Wrigley looks glorious under the lights—if you could package this it would outsell hope. I’m smiling ear-to-ear, even with the Pink Panther seated at my shoulder. She’s been on her cell since we arrived and bent away so I can’t hear, like I give a shit what she’s into. The deaf poet seems to be having fun, signing on Julie’s leg and pointing like a fifth grader, no different than me. We catch each other’s eyes several times and he shies as often as he doesn’t. Julie buys peanuts and three Old Styles. Tracy spills hers on my sneakers and I remember I’m wearing yesterday’s socks. She pats at the mess with napkins. Her fingernails are perfect. I’m surprised the two handsome men in front of us don’t fistfight to do her clean-up.
Julie nudges me. I look at her looking at the dugout. Alfonso Soriano, 136 million, the next Sammy Sosa. So close I could touch him, swear to God. Alfonso’s smiling at the crowd and, man, does he look like a baseball player. No, Alfonso isn’t smiling at the crowd, he’s smiling at Tracy. Oh my god, he’s waving. She waves back in that perfect benediction it takes movie stars all day to perfect. Suddenly I’m surprised she didn’t sing the national anthem.
"Want to meet him?"
"Huh?" Up until Alfonso Soriano became Tracy’s friend I would’ve cleaned his house daily; now I want to deport him for selling slaves in the Dominican Republic.
Tracy smiles wider at me, then back at Alfonso before he runs his cute little ass out on the field. "We can meet him if you want. No problem."
"And that would cost me what?" I adjust my butt in the seat, hoping she can feel my pistol in her ribs.
She pushes red hair out of her eyes and all the men this side of third base stop breathing. "Cost? You’re a civil servant. I just want to ask questions about your job. Off the record if we have to, but then Alfonso might be," she adds a so-sad grimace, "too busy."
I look at left field. Me and Alfonso, talking baseball, maybe in the dugout,
Two of my fingers remove hers from my arm. "Thanks for the tickets."
"You met with the mayor last night."
She’s mistaken but I don’t give a shit. "It wasn’t a ’meeting.’ We had dinner, a few laughs, kissed around; nothing serious."
Tracy’s frown doesn’t fit her usually glowing face. That makes me happy, possibly number two on the day.
"You met with him out of the office, alone, and in his car. Fifteen hours later, Alderman Gibbons—
next in line
should the mayor die in office—filed two criminal complaints against you. And now a number of residents of District 6 have come forward—all with the blessing of Alderman Gibbons—saying you spent the day asking questions about said alderman."
I sense Kit Carson at work and keep walking; the sidewalks are crowded with fans who are suddenly lots happier than me. "Top secret, okay? The mayor and the alderman are lovers—poodles, KY, sweaters, the whole thing."
Tracy grabs my arm again. "You can talk to me before we print the story or apologize later, up to you." Miss All-Everything redhead smiles all the way to the sharp teeth. "Power of the press. A lot like your handcuffs."
I try to think positive while we walk; try to blot out Her Fabulousness as a living being, her threats, but not her tickets. This is a pilgrimage and I must get my mind right. My team needs me.
Wrigley Field is home to the "Addison Street Miracle" or any number of names used to define the never-even-a-bridesmaid Chicago Cubs. The names usually become less flattering as the season progresses. This in spite of once being owned by the
Chicago Tribune
and attendance records that locusts couldn’t match. To be a fan of these fellows one must have sins; it helps if they’re serious and unforgivable in any other way. But that’s ninth-inning talk and tonight’s game hasn’t started; we’re not behind yet.
Inside, Wrigley looks glorious under the lights—if you could package this it would outsell hope. I’m smiling ear-to-ear, even with the Pink Panther seated at my shoulder. She’s been on her cell since we arrived and bent away so I can’t hear, like I give a shit what she’s into. The deaf poet seems to be having fun, signing on Julie’s leg and pointing like a fifth grader, no different than me. We catch each other’s eyes several times and he shies as often as he doesn’t. Julie buys peanuts and three Old Styles. Tracy spills hers on my sneakers and I remember I’m wearing yesterday’s socks. She pats at the mess with napkins. Her fingernails are perfect. I’m surprised the two handsome men in front of us don’t fistfight to do her clean-up.
Julie nudges me. I look at her looking at the dugout. Alfonso Soriano, 136 million, the next Sammy Sosa. So close I could touch him, swear to God. Alfonso’s smiling at the crowd and, man, does he look like a baseball player. No, Alfonso isn’t smiling at the crowd, he’s smiling at Tracy. Oh my god, he’s waving. She waves back in that perfect benediction it takes movie stars all day to perfect. Suddenly I’m surprised she didn’t sing the national anthem.
"Want to meet him?"
"Huh?" Up until Alfonso Soriano became Tracy’s friend I would’ve cleaned his house daily; now I want to deport him for selling slaves in the Dominican Republic.
Tracy smiles wider at me, then back at Alfonso before he runs his cute little ass out on the field. "We can meet him if you want. No problem."
"And that would cost me what?" I adjust my butt in the seat, hoping she can feel my pistol in her ribs.
She pushes red hair out of her eyes and all the men this side of third base stop breathing. "Cost? You’re a civil servant. I just want to ask questions about your job. Off the record if we have to, but then Alfonso might be," she adds a so-sad grimace, "too busy."
I look at left field. Me and Alfonso, talking baseball, maybe in the dugout,
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