Cheatworth, who served as mayor from 1984 to 1998, is credited with bringing the first food court to the Beckerville Outlet Mall and expanding the town's bicycle-path system by almost three miles.
But two years ago, Cheatworth was convicted of trading his vote on the zoning board for private sessions with prostitutes employed by Miami massage-parlor mogul Victor Rubella. Rubella and three women pleaded guilty in the case, and all testified against Cheatworth at trial.
The jury took only nineteen minutes to convict the mayor, who was suspended from office and slapped with a six-year sentence. He was released early when prison doctors discovered a malignant tumor in his right lung.
Councilman Franklin Potts said Cheatworth felt "real crummy" about bringing disgrace upon the city. "Just last weekend he said, 'Frankie, I know I did wrong, and now it's between me and my Savior.'"
The former mayor had told friends he "found the Lord" during his 22 days behind bars ...
Off we go. I knock out fourteen inches by the time Emma emerges from the midmorning editors' meeting. I expect a fuss but she seems distracted. After skimming the story, all she says is: "Let's lose the tumor, Jack. Say they found an 'abnormality' in his lungs."
"Fine by me." I am elated yet suspicious.
In a discouraged tone Emma says: "You're going to love thisOld Man Polk went home from the hospital this morning."
"Figures."
"His doctors say it's miraculous."
"Had me fooled," I admit. "He looked truly awful."
"How was the interview?"
"Pretty interesting, actually." The understatement of the year. Emma would keel over if she knew everything.
"Hey, I've got an idea," she says. "You want to have lunch?"
Thanks to Jay Burns, I feel like someone took a baseball bat to my shins. I hobble to the Sports department, snatch Juan away from his desk and lead him downstairs to the cafeteria. I buy him a bagel and commandeer a table in a corner, where nobody can hear us.
"Couple things," I say. "First, you told Emma about my dead lizard."
"It was a secret? Man, I've been telling everybody."
"This is importantcan you remember how the subject came up? Where you were, what you were doing ... "
Juan furrows his brow in mock concentration. "The subject of lizards, or the subject of you?"
"This is not funny. You think this is funny? This is my career you're messing with."
"No offense, Jack, but"
"Don't say it!"
With unnerving precision, Juan slices his bagel into perfect halves. "I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to mention Colonel Tom. But it's a helluva story, you've got to admit."
"And you've got better ones to tell," I say pointedly, "about yourself. You've got the kind of stories they make movies of, Juan."
His deep brown eyes flicker. "Yeah, well, maybe Emma's not all that fascinated with my life history. Half the time we end up talking about you."
I knew it. The shrew!
"She wants dirt," I explain to Juan. "She's building a case to nail mesee, the annual employee reviews are due soon ... "
In Juan's expression I see the obvious but lacerating query, the one he's given up asking: What more can they do to you, Jack?
I float my latest theory: "She's trying to get me transferred, I'll bet, to Features or maybe the Business desk. What else did you tell her?"
"Nothing she can use against you. Promise."
"Don't be so sure. She's trickier than she looks."
"No she's not," Juan says.
"Listen to you!"
"A dead-lizard popsicle is not grounds for demotion."
"The offense of moral turpitude, my friend, is open to ruthless interpretation. Don't be so naive."
"Well, I think you're wrong about Emma."
I practically yowl with derision.
Juan coolly lathers a bagel slice. "Based on my knowledge of womenwhich is considerably more current than yours, JackI think you're mistaken. Emma's not out to destroy you. It's just that you're a problem in her life right now and she's trying to figure you out."
This is too much. How can I argue about women with a guy who's dating (in addition to my editor) a surgeon, a skater and a cheerleader? I lean across the table and whisper: "She asked me to lunch."
"So? Maybe she's trying to make peace."
"No way. It's gotta be a trap," I say. "You've heard of a Trojan horse. This is Trojan pussy."
Juan has the most impeccable manners of any newspaper writer I've ever met. The bagel is gone and not a single crumb is on the table, not a speck of cream cheese on his cheeks.
"Did you know," he says, "that she never took so much as an aspirin until you started working for her? Now it's two Valiums a day, sometimes more."
"She's in the wrong line of work, Juan. I'm trying to show her the way out." The pill-popping business makes me feel guilty; rotten, in fact. "I don't want to do lunch with her because I've got to keep a distance. For her own sake, I've got to stay surly and unapproachable." Juan smiles skeptically. "Sergeant Tagger's version of tough love?"
"Something like that."
"Naw, you're just scared. Obituary Boy is scared of little ole Emma."
"That's ridiculous."
"Don't worry, Jack, she won't bite," he says drily, "no matter how nicely you ask."
This is getting us nowhere.
"Do me a favor," I say, "don't talk about me anymore when you two are hanging out."
"Okay. But that'll leave us a lot of free time and not much else to do." Juan looks both amused and resigned.
"Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you and Emma still aren't humping like alley cats?"
He shrugs. "Like I said, she's different."
"Gay?"
"Nope."
"Frigid?"
"Don't think so," Juan says.
"Then what?"
"Picky," he says, rising, "or maybe just preoccupied. Thanks for the bagel, Jack, but now I've got to hustle back to the shopthe Dolphins just signed a running back with no felony record and no drug habit. That's big news."
"What should I do about lunch?"
"Put in a good word for your favorite Cuban," Juan says with a wink. "Tell her I'm hung like Secretariat."
When noontime rolls around, I pretend to be stuck on the phone in order to duck Emma's offer of a ride. I tell her to go on ahead and I'll catch up, thinking I can use the extra time to plot strategy. But my thoughts remain jumbled and I set off with no plan.
The restaurant is Mackey's Grille, not one of the usual newsroom hangouts. I'm surprised to find Emma sipping a glass of white wine. Daringly I order an imported beer. We make agonizing small talk until the waiter shows upEmma asks for the tuna salad and I decide on a steak, medium rare.
Once we're alone again, Emma says: "I had an unexpected visitor the other day. Race Maggad."
"My hero."
"He came to talk about you, Jack."
"Well, I don't want to talk about him. I want to talk about you, Emmain particular, your toes."
Carefully she sets her wineglass on the table. A flash of pink appears in her cheeks, but she says nothing.
"That afternoon outside your apartment, I couldn't help but notice your toenails. They were all painted up like bright little orange and red gummy bears. Frankly, it was a revelation," I say. "Made me think I've jumped to some unfair conclusions."
"Jack."
"Yes?"
"Why do you do this?" she asks. There's nothing weak or wounded in her voice; her stare is like a laser.
I've got no good explanation for my nettlesome banter. Nerves, maybe. Unease. Self-consciousness. But about what?
This is why I didn't want to be alone with her. This is what I was afraid of.
"It's a brutal occupation we've chosen, Emma, it takes a terrible toll. Look at me," I tell her. "Once upon a time I was tolerable company. I had my charming moments. I was not immune to empathy. Believe it or not, I could sustain healthy relationships with friends, co-workers, lovers. But not anymorecould you pass the banana nut bread?"
Emma says, "Race Maggad thinks you're a dangerous fellow."
"I would give anything to make that true."