Read Online Goodnight, Irene by Jan Burke - Free Book Online Page A

share of stock in the paper and made himself executive editor, it was indeed nothing more than a game, I told him that rumor was true.
    “Well, how exciting! How thrilling! And of course you will come back to work for us then! It couldn’t be any other way, Irene. We’re your family. Why, we practically raised you. You came to us as a mere child, and we would welcome you back. It’s only right.”
    This was going to be easier than I thought. Lydia must have really done a job on the old boy if she had him this eager. Still, I had to make sure of my position.
    “Actually, I had thought of going to work at another paper.”
    “The
Bee
? Oh, yes, I know all about it. I can’t let that happen. Why, O’Connor would come back to haunt me. He would be rolling in his grave if I let you go to work anywhere but the
Express
.”
    The spinning and haunting O’Connor already invoked, I thought I might as well go for broke.
    “Well,” I said slowly, as if thinking it all over for the first time, “O’Connor and I were close friends. It would be nice to be back in the old newsroom, near his desk. I’d feel closer to him somehow.”
    “Yes, yes!”
    “In fact, he always told me all about the stories he was working on — in confidence, of course, seeing how I was really one of the
Express
family, as you say. Some of his most recent stuff will really turn some heads. Make those snobs at the
Times
take you seriously.”
    “Yes, yes, I can see it will!”
    Time to set the hook. “Who did you give his stuff to?”
    “Oh, the police have most of it, you know, murder investigation.”
    “I mean, who have you assigned the stories to?”
    “Why, Irene, that’s what I’ve been trying to say! It’s what I’ve been trying so hard to tell you! You! You’re the one I want for his stories. Couldn’t be anybody else.”
    “You’re willing to overlook our last… discussion?”
    He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, dipping his sleeve in blue cheese dressing. “Forgive and forget, I always say. Let bygones be bygones, that’s my motto. Isn’t it, Lydia?”
    “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling as she lied.
    Just then Michael brought our main courses. I noticed Lydia’s portion seemed substantially larger than Wrigley’s or mine. In fact, mine left me no doubt that Crystal did indeed eat here. A piece of reddish-orange chicken, about the size of the sole of a baby’s shoe, graced one side of a white plate, with two halves of a potato too small to have left its mother on the other; they were fenced off from each other by what looked like something that had been weeded from between the bromeliads.
    Wrigley’s pasta looked so weird, I was glad there wasn’t too much of it to look at.
    Queen Lydia continued to reign as Michael asked her if everything was satisfactory and left right after she told him it was great. I didn’t begrudge her all her fun — she deserved it, and I owed her big time for working Wrigley into such a fervor for me.
    As he ate, Wrigley continually dropped bits and pieces of his food on his clothing. In the space of about five minutes, you could have figured out what he ordered by looking at his lapels. Early on he captured a peppercorn between his front teeth, making it very hard not to look at his teeth while he talked.
    And talk he did. On and on about how he had visions for the
Express
and how I was a part of those visions. How the newsroom just wasn’t the same without me.
    I told him I’d need a fairly free rein to follow up on O’Connor’s stories.
    No problem.
    I told him I’d like access to whatever the police hadn’t hauled off from O’Connor’s desk.
    No problem.
    I told him I wanted more pay.
    Problem. These difficult times, the need to stay competitive, and so on.
    Michael came by again, insisting that Lydia order dessert. She went for the chocolate-mousse pie. I ordered crème brûlée and Wrigley ordered profiteroles. When they came, I realized how this place stayed in business