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Authors: Midnight on Julia Street
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shoestring station located in an industrial section of town. She liked Zamora’s no-nonsense style, and her instincts told her it was a safe bet that he was a straight shooter.
And besides, she reminded herself, with Aunt Marge’s encouragement, she’d made her New Year’s resolution. Like the New Orleans Saints football team in days of yore, she was in a rebuilding phase. She was going to stay put for once, instead of running to the next town, and this time she was going to find out why she so often was her own worst enemy.
As for King Duvallon, Corlis had written him a carefully composed thank you note and half-expected to hear from him again, if for no other reason than to inquire how her new job was going.
But she didn’t hear from him, and she could only conclude that despite King’s bountiful use of sugar and sweetheart , he still harbored resentment because of what happened at UCLA.
Well, the Lord knew, she probably retained a few resentments about that incident herself!
***
Corlis was reminded of that fact when three months later she stared at the assignment board in the WJAZ newsroom. She, Virgil, and Manny were slated to cover a story slugged: “New Chair of Historic Preservation Announced March 9/Noon/U Campus.”
“Who got the big nod?” she asked, her pulse speeding up for reasons she was unwilling to acknowledge. “Not King Duvallon by any chance?”
“The news release doesn’t say… but I doubt it’s gonna be him,” said Zamora, dismissing his friend’s career prospects with a shrug. “King was promoted to associate professor last year, but he didn’t get tenure. He’s still a pretty controversial character out there.”
“Really? He teaches architectural history, doesn’t he?” Corlis asked, surprised to learn that such a politically correct profession apparently could plunge its practitioners into hot water with the powers that be.
“That’s the problem. He’s a ferocious public advocate for propping up and rehabbing all those rickety buildings around the Quarter and everywhere else in the city. The new department chair they’re naming today will be under the thumb of the architecture school, not the history department, and lots of those slide-rule guys like to tear down old buildings in New Orleans and construct very tall glass boxes in their place,” Zamora concluded, shaking his head.
“But everybody calls Duvallon the ‘Hero of New Orleans for fighting off the Philistines,’” she protested. “He’s the perfect candidate to head a department of historic preservation. He knows the history of New Orleans soup-to-nuts, and he is a proven preservationist. How can they not give it to him?”
“Easy…” said Zamora. “To fill this cushy job, they’ll pick some Milquetoast who yaps poetic about pretty buildings but doesn’t fight to save ’em the way King does. That way they don’t buy trouble from the powerful folks who support their fund-raising round here.”
Corlis took a closer look at the news release Zamora had just handed her. “So who’s underwriting the endowment to pay the new guy’s salary?”
“That’s why I like you, McCullough,” Zamora said with a satisfied smile. “My guess is that’s the story. The university’s been running in red ink and donations are way down. I was pretty surprised to hear someone’s popped for an eight-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-buck contribution for a do-good kinda thing like this.”
Corlis whistled softly. “Eight hundred and fifty K to endow a professorship. That’s a lot of oysters.”
“You got that right,” Zamora said with a cynical laugh. “Somebody’s sure gonna get their name carved in granite on a building out there…” he drawled. “So far, they’ve kept it very hush-hush. Should be mighty interesting to find out who put up the cash. ”
***
Some two hundred people jammed the steps leading to the front door of the starkly postmodern steel-and-glass building just off St. Charles
And besides, she reminded herself, with Aunt Marge’s encouragement, she’d made her New Year’s resolution. Like the New Orleans Saints football team in days of yore, she was in a rebuilding phase. She was going to stay put for once, instead of running to the next town, and this time she was going to find out why she so often was her own worst enemy.
As for King Duvallon, Corlis had written him a carefully composed thank you note and half-expected to hear from him again, if for no other reason than to inquire how her new job was going.
But she didn’t hear from him, and she could only conclude that despite King’s bountiful use of sugar and sweetheart , he still harbored resentment because of what happened at UCLA.
Well, the Lord knew, she probably retained a few resentments about that incident herself!
***
Corlis was reminded of that fact when three months later she stared at the assignment board in the WJAZ newsroom. She, Virgil, and Manny were slated to cover a story slugged: “New Chair of Historic Preservation Announced March 9/Noon/U Campus.”
“Who got the big nod?” she asked, her pulse speeding up for reasons she was unwilling to acknowledge. “Not King Duvallon by any chance?”
“The news release doesn’t say… but I doubt it’s gonna be him,” said Zamora, dismissing his friend’s career prospects with a shrug. “King was promoted to associate professor last year, but he didn’t get tenure. He’s still a pretty controversial character out there.”
“Really? He teaches architectural history, doesn’t he?” Corlis asked, surprised to learn that such a politically correct profession apparently could plunge its practitioners into hot water with the powers that be.
“That’s the problem. He’s a ferocious public advocate for propping up and rehabbing all those rickety buildings around the Quarter and everywhere else in the city. The new department chair they’re naming today will be under the thumb of the architecture school, not the history department, and lots of those slide-rule guys like to tear down old buildings in New Orleans and construct very tall glass boxes in their place,” Zamora concluded, shaking his head.
“But everybody calls Duvallon the ‘Hero of New Orleans for fighting off the Philistines,’” she protested. “He’s the perfect candidate to head a department of historic preservation. He knows the history of New Orleans soup-to-nuts, and he is a proven preservationist. How can they not give it to him?”
“Easy…” said Zamora. “To fill this cushy job, they’ll pick some Milquetoast who yaps poetic about pretty buildings but doesn’t fight to save ’em the way King does. That way they don’t buy trouble from the powerful folks who support their fund-raising round here.”
Corlis took a closer look at the news release Zamora had just handed her. “So who’s underwriting the endowment to pay the new guy’s salary?”
“That’s why I like you, McCullough,” Zamora said with a satisfied smile. “My guess is that’s the story. The university’s been running in red ink and donations are way down. I was pretty surprised to hear someone’s popped for an eight-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-buck contribution for a do-good kinda thing like this.”
Corlis whistled softly. “Eight hundred and fifty K to endow a professorship. That’s a lot of oysters.”
“You got that right,” Zamora said with a cynical laugh. “Somebody’s sure gonna get their name carved in granite on a building out there…” he drawled. “So far, they’ve kept it very hush-hush. Should be mighty interesting to find out who put up the cash. ”
***
Some two hundred people jammed the steps leading to the front door of the starkly postmodern steel-and-glass building just off St. Charles
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