recognized what she was feeling.
“Big deal,” I said.
“Big fucking deal,” Carolyn amended.
We were silent, internally reeling from how big a deal it really was. From the
Providence Morning Chronicle
to the
New York Times
—not too many reporters made that kind of leap.
“It was her investigative work on the superior court judges a few years back,” Carolyn said at last. “She was on that team
that won the Pulitzer.”
I had never met Susannah Rodman, couldn’t tell you if she was tall or short, or maybe the nicest person in the entire world.
But for a single moment, I hated her.
“You know,” Carolyn said, giving me a sly, sideways look. “They’ll need someone to replace her downtown on the investigative
team.”
When I took this job, I’d promised myself that I’d devote myself exclusively to small-town community reporting, that I’d stay
in a quiet little bureau, away from the kind of high-profile investigative stories that could chew up your life and force
you into no-win decisions. But the truth was, I was bored out of my mind with school committees and garden clubs. And even
though this wasn’t the
Boston Ledger,
Rhode Island was a petri dish of bizarre stories. The investigative reporters who dug them up were awarded Pulitzers and
sent off to the
New York Times.
I choked back the ambition in my throat and tried to make it sound as if it were hypothetical. “You think they’d even consider
me?”
CHAPTER
2
T HE MAZURSKY MARKET was always busy at the dinner hour. Usually, I didn’t mind. Working in South Kingstown in the off-season was especially lonely:
the highway devoid of cars, the sidewalks and shops practically empty. Back in the city, I was often relieved to be standing
elbow to elbow with other people.
But tonight, I was hoping it would be quiet so I could get a few minutes with Barry, the owner. He was always at the register
when I stopped in at night and was the closest thing to a friend I’d made in Providence. He’d steered me to the Green Poker
scratch-ticket game and would be excited about my $50 win.
I’d caught the tail end of the dinner rush. It was raining outside, and the store steamed with warm people. The line at the
register was three deep and Barry was in rote mode, eyes fixed on price stickers as he scanned them into his machine. On really
slow nights, he had two different newspapers in front of him, the radio playing in the background, and a lit cigarette in
a makeshift ashtray. Knowing I worked for the
Chronicle,
he was always asking me what was the latest from the mayor’s office. He refused to believe I wasn’t privy to inside information.
“Just let me know when he’s going to raise my taxes,” he always said.
On this night, he didn’t even see me wave to him. So I skirted around the people in line and headed across the store to the
farthermost aisle and the dairy case.
It was a good-size market, a deep rectangle with the register in front along the long wall, the deli in back, and six short
aisles that ran between them. The store had a nicely polished wood floor and well-tended philodendron plants hanging from
ceiling hooks in front of the wall-length plate-glass window that looked out on Angell Street. But all this tastefulness was
undercut by the political posters taped on the wall and the pornographic magazines on full display behind the register.
Two guys, their backs to me, were blocking the milk cooler. The shorter one wore an old navy wool jacket and gray wool cap.
Dark hair, thick like fur, ran from the base of the cap down the back of his neck. The other one, at least six feet tall,
was wearing a khaki parka. On my approach, the one with the parka turned abruptly and the jacket fell open: He was enormous,
with a shiny, square forehead, puffed-up chest, and refrigerator shoulders. He looked like a heavyweight fighter, or maybe
a bouncer at a strip club.
“Fuck,” he said, looking at me as
“Big deal,” I said.
“Big fucking deal,” Carolyn amended.
We were silent, internally reeling from how big a deal it really was. From the
Providence Morning Chronicle
to the
New York Times
—not too many reporters made that kind of leap.
“It was her investigative work on the superior court judges a few years back,” Carolyn said at last. “She was on that team
that won the Pulitzer.”
I had never met Susannah Rodman, couldn’t tell you if she was tall or short, or maybe the nicest person in the entire world.
But for a single moment, I hated her.
“You know,” Carolyn said, giving me a sly, sideways look. “They’ll need someone to replace her downtown on the investigative
team.”
When I took this job, I’d promised myself that I’d devote myself exclusively to small-town community reporting, that I’d stay
in a quiet little bureau, away from the kind of high-profile investigative stories that could chew up your life and force
you into no-win decisions. But the truth was, I was bored out of my mind with school committees and garden clubs. And even
though this wasn’t the
Boston Ledger,
Rhode Island was a petri dish of bizarre stories. The investigative reporters who dug them up were awarded Pulitzers and
sent off to the
New York Times.
I choked back the ambition in my throat and tried to make it sound as if it were hypothetical. “You think they’d even consider
me?”
CHAPTER
2
T HE MAZURSKY MARKET was always busy at the dinner hour. Usually, I didn’t mind. Working in South Kingstown in the off-season was especially lonely:
the highway devoid of cars, the sidewalks and shops practically empty. Back in the city, I was often relieved to be standing
elbow to elbow with other people.
But tonight, I was hoping it would be quiet so I could get a few minutes with Barry, the owner. He was always at the register
when I stopped in at night and was the closest thing to a friend I’d made in Providence. He’d steered me to the Green Poker
scratch-ticket game and would be excited about my $50 win.
I’d caught the tail end of the dinner rush. It was raining outside, and the store steamed with warm people. The line at the
register was three deep and Barry was in rote mode, eyes fixed on price stickers as he scanned them into his machine. On really
slow nights, he had two different newspapers in front of him, the radio playing in the background, and a lit cigarette in
a makeshift ashtray. Knowing I worked for the
Chronicle,
he was always asking me what was the latest from the mayor’s office. He refused to believe I wasn’t privy to inside information.
“Just let me know when he’s going to raise my taxes,” he always said.
On this night, he didn’t even see me wave to him. So I skirted around the people in line and headed across the store to the
farthermost aisle and the dairy case.
It was a good-size market, a deep rectangle with the register in front along the long wall, the deli in back, and six short
aisles that ran between them. The store had a nicely polished wood floor and well-tended philodendron plants hanging from
ceiling hooks in front of the wall-length plate-glass window that looked out on Angell Street. But all this tastefulness was
undercut by the political posters taped on the wall and the pornographic magazines on full display behind the register.
Two guys, their backs to me, were blocking the milk cooler. The shorter one wore an old navy wool jacket and gray wool cap.
Dark hair, thick like fur, ran from the base of the cap down the back of his neck. The other one, at least six feet tall,
was wearing a khaki parka. On my approach, the one with the parka turned abruptly and the jacket fell open: He was enormous,
with a shiny, square forehead, puffed-up chest, and refrigerator shoulders. He looked like a heavyweight fighter, or maybe
a bouncer at a strip club.
“Fuck,” he said, looking at me as
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