Charm City Read Free

this.
Don't they have interns to do this kind of crap? Or
sportswriters? You belong in the courthouse, covering real
news."
    "I told you. We're here
for color. Sparkling details."
    "For what?"
    "Can't say, darling,
can't say."
    "When Feeney says color, he
doesn't mean it literally," Rosita explained
earnestly. "You see, in newspapers, color
means—"
    "Tess used to be one of
us," Feeney interrupted gently, although Tess sensed no
interruption was ever gentle enough for Rosita. "Now
she's a private investigator."
    "Well, sort of. I still have to
get my license. But I'm definitely no longer a member of the
fourth estate." Funny, it didn't hurt to say that
anymore. The Star was
dead, life had gone on, Baltimore was a one-newspaper town, and the one
paper, for better or worse, was the Beacon-Light —the Blight , as it was known by
its often less-than-satisfied customers.
    "Well, let us know when you do.
Maybe Rosita can write a little feature about you when you crack a big
case. Tess Monaghan, the rowing P.I."
    "No rowing this time of
year," Tess reminded him. "That's for the
real diehards. I'll go back on the water on April
Fool's Day, not a day sooner."
    Feeney didn't hear her. He was
practically glowing, lighted from within by his secret story. It could
be about politics, Tess guessed, given the cast of characters onstage.
A new profile of the governor would require a fresh anecdote about his
propensity to make himself ridiculous. Or the Tucci family might be
using its considerable clout to ensure another concession for its trash
disposal business, which found fewer and fewer neighborhoods wanted an
incinerator down the street. Like most rich families, they were quick
to cry poverty whenever a state regulation or a new fee got in their
way.
    No, it was more likely that Feeney was
writing about the main event, about Wink and this basketball deal. But
what did any of this have to do with the courthouse? And why assign a
feature writer to help?
    "Let's have a drink,
soon," Tess said, lowering her voice so Rosita
wouldn't think the invitation was being extended to her as
well. "It's been too long."
    He laughed. "You just want to pump
me for details."
    "Fair enough. But what's
it to you if I interrogate you over a round of drinks at the Brass
Elephant? You'll get a free drink out of it, and probably
won't answer my questions anyway. Tomorrow night?
Seven-thirty?"
    "Make it eight. Who
knows—it may be time to celebrate by then."
    "Okay. 'Til
then." She squeezed his hand, then lied to Rosita.
"Nice meeting you."
    The young woman smiled, a tight-lipped
little V that dropped the temperature ten degrees. Okay,
I wasn't exactly warm, either . But
Tess figured she had only been responding to the little
reporter's bitchiness, smashing it back the way one returned
a tough first serve in tennis. Rosita wore her ambition the way oldtime
reporters wore trench coats. On her young frame, it wasn't
particularly becoming.
    Tess grabbed another free hot dog and tried
to make it last for the rest of the walk home. Out of eighteen blocks,
she ended up only sixteen short. Still, she was happy and full when she
arrived at her apartment. She decided to stop in her aunt's
bookstore on the ground level and rehash the rally for her. Kitty had a
fine appreciation of the absurd, as evidenced by her store's
name, Women and Children First.
    "Oh, Tesser, where have you
been?" Kitty cried out, before she could even begin to act
out the governor's spastic dribbling, the mayor's
pseudo-cool manuvers, Tucci's gimpy plays.
"Tommy's been calling and calling. He just missed
you at your office, and he's been phoning here every five
minutes since then—"
    "Tommy, Spike's
hysterical busboy? What, did someone steal the lifts from his shoes?
Take an extra handful of pretzels, or walk a seven-dollar check? Trust
me, Kitty, Tommy's calls are never the emergencies he thinks
they are."
    Kitty's blue eyes were bright with
tears. "It's your Uncle Spike, Tess. He's
at St. Agnes