7

IRIS AND JOEY

Monday, September 18, 1989

Iris left the shop at five o’clock on the dot, making sure she’d locked up properly. They’d never had a burglary at Yesterday, most likely because vintage merchandise had little or no appeal among the criminal element. Why risk jail time for items for which there was no secondary market? They suffered their fair share of shoplifters, the sticky-fingered customers just about equally divided between teenaged girls and middle-aged women, both of whom thought nothing of pocketing lingerie, estate jewelry, beaded handbags, and even the occasional article of clothing as long as it could be easily slipped into a shopping bag or an oversize purse. Iris’s boss, Karen, had instructed her to tag the pricier items, which meant the system would beep vigorously if someone left with something concealed on their person or among their packages. More than once, Iris had caught up with a customer just outside the door and had listened to them express surprise and embarrassment that they’d forgotten to pay. So far, they’d all returned sheepishly and made good on the transaction. She gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, though she knew perfectly well who was guilty and who was not.

Today Joey was working late, so she walked the ten blocks to their apartment, which was in a four-plex on the Lower East Side. The area was heavily Hispanic, which is not to say the homes were inexpensive. In Santa Teresa, the term “affordable housing” was a joke. She and Joey rented a tiny one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen that was ten feet by seven, a living room that was ten by ten, and a bedroom that was twelve feet by twelve. The bathroom was sufficient to accommodate a tub/shower, a toilet, and a double vanity with a linen closet on one end and a full-length mirror on the back side of the bathroom door.

Iris had done what she could to introduce a touch of class. The living room and bedroom walls were painted a dark blue, with spanking white trim. A white-painted bookshelf and desk unit took up one wall of the living room and provided a small planning center and an entertainment center, with a four-foot extension on one end that served as a dining room table. The wall opposite had been decorated with mirrored tiles, which created the illusion of more space than was actually there. The living room furniture consisted of a six-foot couch and an ottoman with a seat that would lift to reveal additional storage. There were two small upholstered chairs, an end table, and two floor lamps. Iris had also added some lush-looking fake plants, which made the space seem warmer.

She turned the oven to preheat at 350 degrees, dropped her bag on the small pass-through between the kitchen and living room, and opened the refrigerator door, taking out a package of chicken breasts, a head of romaine lettuce, a small jar of vinaigrette, and a cardboard tube of Parker House rolls. She removed the cellophane from the chicken and rinsed the pieces in a colander under cold running water. She took out a cutting board and neatly whacked the two big breasts into four smaller pieces. The whole time she worked, she was brooding about the journalist who’d come into the store. She wasn’t sure what to make of the woman, but she didn’t like the questions she’d asked.

She covered two small jelly-roll pans with foil, patted the chicken pieces dry, and placed them in one pan. She took out the Spike, generously seasoned the chicken breasts, and set them in the oven to bake. When the chicken was close to being done, she’d whack the cardboard tube of dinner rolls on the counter, remove the rolls, and place them in the second pan to bake. She took out a packaged mix of fettuccine amandine, filled a saucepan with water, and lit the fire under it. With the romaine, she’d make a freestanding Caesar salad with the lettuce upright in a bowl, glossy with vinaigrette, and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.

While the chicken baked, she changed out of her work clothes into shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Joey was home by six thirty and the two sat down to eat. By then, the oven had warmed the apartment, which was scented with the crispy-skinned, succulent baked chicken. This was one of Joey’s favorite meals. With dinner, they each had an oversize goblet of rosé wine.

She pushed her plate back and lit a cigarette. “You’ll never believe what happened at the store today.”

Joey was still eating. “What’s that?”

“This journalist came in asking what I thought about Fritz McCabe getting out of jail.”

“A journalist?”

“From LA. ‘Investigative reporter’ is how she referred to herself.”

As he cut a bite from his chicken breast, he said, “Why would she care what you think about Fritz McCabe?”

“That’s what I said. The problem was she knew about a certain tape that was made way back when. She also knew about the note.”

He put his fork down. “How?”

“How do you think? She mentioned an ‘anonymous party’ demanding a large sum of money or the tape would be turned over to the DA. I tried to pin her down. I knew she was talking about the McCabes, but she wouldn’t actually come out and say so.”

“What’d she say when you asked?”

“Nothing. She sidestepped the question and went on to something else.”

“Did you mention that Fritz called all his pals and told ’em about the threat?”

“I thought it was better to play dumb.”

“You think his parents went out and hired someone?”

“How else would she know what was going on? We said no cops. Maybe they thought it was okay to phone up the newspapers and get the story plastered all over. I was pissed.”

“But why would they do that?” Joey said. “How can they be so dense?”

Iris shrugged. “Strictly speaking, they did as they were told. This is their attempt to do an end run around us. Oh, and catch this. This reporter said ‘the people’ quote marks had no intention of paying. She seemed pretty sure of herself on that score.”

“Well, shit. I don’t like this.”

“Me, neither. I told her the tape was bullshit, just a bunch of us fooling around, but she was all long-faced and serious. She wanted to know who I’d talked to, but I didn’t think it was any of her business.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Hang on. I have it written down.” Iris got up and reached for her purse, where she had the scratch paper where the reporter had written her name and a local phone number. She took out the folded paper and handed it to him.

Joey glanced at it. “I thought she was from LA. This is a local number.”

“She says she can be reached up here. I guess just in case I want to unburden myself and confess all, I have a way to get in touch.”

“You think she’ll pursue it?” Joey asked.

“She’s probably being paid to, don’t you think? I mean, this wasn’t idle curiosity. She was banging away on it. On the other hand, journalists don’t accomplish much of anything as far as I can tell, so what harm can she do?”

“I don’t know. That’s just it.” Joey sat for a moment, mulling over the information, his expression dark. “I was going to suggest it was time to follow up, but now I think we should lay low.”

“I’m not sure about that. Maybe.”

“No maybe to it. Here’s the deal. We do nothing. We don’t fuel the situation by doing something dumb. We just hang loose until we see how smart she is. Chances are we got nothing to worry about.”

“Ha. You hope.”

“Don’t look at me. It’s your game plan,” he said.

“My game plan? Where were you all this time? Last I heard, you loved the whole idea.”

“I wouldn’t say I loved the idea, but I could see your point. Guy gets out of prison and acts like, ho hum, all done, time to get on with life. Where does he get off?”

“Exactly.”

“Other hand, eight years is a chunk of his life any way you look at it. Ask him to cough up a whack of cash on top of that? Might be taking it too far.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not the one who was sexually abused. Everybody in my support group thinks I should hose the guy but good.”

“You discussed this with them? You never told me that. Jesus.”

“Not this. I didn’t say we were blackmailing the guy. Just that it makes me sick to think he can get away with it.”

“What did he get away with? He went to prison.”

“He’s still guilty of having sex with a minor. Now he’s acting like it’s no big deal. He should suffer the way I did.”

“Would you give it a rest? The first date we ever had, you told me this story. Anytime we meet someone new, you manage to work it into the conversation. Sexually abused by a family friend. Someone you knew.”

“Well, it’s true. People should be aware.”

“You’re not making a public service announcement. You get sympathy. That’s why you do it.”

“You’re denigrating my experience. Minimizing the impact. Guys are famous for putting women down. Why don’t you get over it? Why can’t you let it go?” she said mockingly. “What you really mean is, ‘Why make me eat shit for something that happened to you?’”

“How did this turn into a fight between us? I’m on your side. I’ve told you that a hundred times. We’re talking about Fritz.”

“It’s all the same thing. You say ‘Fritz McCabe,’ I hear ‘rape.’”

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.

“Fine with me. Like what?”

“How about if the money comes through and we use it to take a trip, where would we go?”