The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield Read Free Book Online Page B

President on welfare?”
    â€œI have a tentative commitment from the White House,” Quinn answered. “Especially if we get the timing right and this airs the week the Senate votes on it.” I sat back and doodled in my pad while Quinn outlined his piece, riddled with numerous illustrious sources. “I’d like to do most of it live,” he said. “We can get a satellite hook-up between the senators, the White House, and at least one welfare recipient grilling them. That way, fireworks will be inevitable,” he finished up, and everyone nodded approvingly. It is a measure of success of any magazine show not just to report the news but to make it, to be quoted in the next day’s newspapers and broadcasts.
    After the meeting, Jerry followed me to my office and sat down.
    â€œWhy didn’t you speak up?” he asked. “You don’t win any points for niceness. Look, they want to give you all the celeb shit, there’s nothing wrong with that. But not just yet. We’ve got to show you can do the hard stuff first. And you can, you know. You’re not some fucking Twinkie. I didn’t groom you through twelve years of street reporting so they can put you on the woman’s page.”
    â€œWhy did you?”
    He frowned slightly. “Because you have talent. Real talent. Do you know how many people send me their demo tapes every week? Every two-bit reporter from Podunk, Ohio, to Bumfuck, Egypt. Every goddamned weather girl dreaming of the big time. Every horse’s ass with a journalism degree. Do you know how many have real talent? I can count them on one hand.”
    I looked at him steadily. “There is no woman’s page anymore,” I said.
    He leaned back, smiling. “Don’t kid yourself.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œI thought you told me not to make waves.”
    â€œSome waves, honey, you’ve got to make some waves or theywon’t respect you. The trick is to look confident even if you’re not. Fake it. No one’s gonna believe the news from someone with a quivering voice. On-air or off.” He sighed and ran his hands over his stubbled chin. He began talking, talking again, talking about something, but I did not hear the words. Finally, he leaned forward. “Am I boring you, Laura?”
    I smiled apologetically. “No. I’m sorry. But I’m late for a lunch appointment. I’ve got to run.”
    Â 
    M Y EYES ADJUSTED gradually to the dark lighting, absorbed by the wood-paneled walls and low ceiling of the Café del Petore. The only brightness came from the spotless white linen tablecloths.
    I was twenty minutes late but only two tables were occupied. The restaurant, on a scruffy side street, did not do a big lunch business, which was why I had chosen it. Jack was sitting at a table in the back room, drinking a scotch. He was wearing a blue and white seersucker suit and a crisp white shirt, a southern gentleman’s outfit, mildly absurd but somehow touching in the somber northern air. He drank slowly, shifting his gaze between the front door and his watch.
    I saw the relief in his eyes as he followed my progress in his direction.
    â€œI wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said softly when I reached his table.
    I smiled despite myself. “Neither was I.” I felt a part of myself, caked on, encrusted, fall away in one large sheet. We had been youngest together.
    â€œBut you did.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou look good,” he said, studying me. “Different, but good. I never thought of you as a blond.”
    I felt my face flush, embarrassed suddenly by the artifice that I had grown so used to. When the waiter came, I ordered a glass of wine, something I rarely do at lunch.
    â€œHow did you find me?” I asked.
    â€œI saw your picture in People magazine. It was a fluke, really. I only bought it because there was an article about a cartoonist I admire. I