From David he had gotten Janelle’s black eye and intoxicated appearance at the Grove Drive-In Church of God. Barbara told him that Janelle had been barefoot in the chill morning and that the church had had sixty-two worshipers that day, best ever.
From Nick he’d gotten some chase details and the crescent wrench and where the little white pills were found. He included the fact that vice investigator Nick Becker was all-county for Tustin High, 1955-56. Nick told him to be careful with the sex stuff. It was Janelle’s word against her brothers’. There was no way the crime lab could perform tests for forced oral cop done months ago, which is what Janelle was alleging. When she wasn’t looking at ceilings and having marijuana-induced visions.
The Vonn brothers had refused to talk to him. Their public defenders had no comment.
He had talked to Janelle briefly by phone. She said the whole thing was just a scary mess, what had Andy heard from Clay over in the jungle? He told her what he knew-next to nothing-and thanked her. He couldn’t use her name in the piece. Could not state that the victim of the sex allegations was the Vonn brothers’ own sister. Janelle was the center of it but she couldn’t be seen. Like wind in a windstorm. It was Overholt policy not to name minors as victims or perpetrators of crimes. One of the few of the old man’s editorial policies that Andy thought was good.
Sharon in the DA’s office had told him they’d review the arrests by late afternoon and file, or not, tomorrow. She asked Andy to say hi to his cute detective brother.
Andy had talked to Karl Vonn again, for the first time since that Thanksgiving dinner when he and Meredith had gone to the Serenade and made love. Karl wouldn’t comment on the arrests except to say that his boys were just like everyone else, innocent until proven guilty. In the silence between questions Andy still had trouble meeting the great black eyes of Karl Vonn, widower, father of five, killer of fourteen up close.
But Andy couldn’t get more than two paragraphs. It was too big and too raw. No focus. No hook.
He ripped it out of the typewriter, mashed the paper and carbons into a ball, and bounced it off the wall into his wastebasket.
PRESS CLUB OFFICERS and invited members met Thursdays for dinner, drinks, and alleged business. This week it was at a new steak house, Lorenzo’s, up in the hills in Anaheim. Some of the Orange County Journal execs were part owners so the reporters figured on a deal at bill time. Recording secretary Becker got there early like most of them did, had a couple of cocktails in the bar with the other reporters.
“So Andy, when you going to leave that crummy little paper?” asked Phil Liades. He was an editorial writer for the Journal. To Andy an old fart-forty, maybe even forty-five. He’d come out strong for Nixon in sixty and was already gearing up against Kennedy for sixty-four. The Journal had blamed the president for the Bay of Pigs failure. And said the Missile Crisis didn’t prove Kennedy was tough on Communists, just desperate for respect. Liades wore a little enamel U.S. flag pin on his lapel.
“When you leave your crummy big one,” said Andy. “Maybe I’ll take your place. But then I’d have to write all that glowing crap about Dick Nixon and Roger Stoltz.”
“Pays the bills,” said Phil.
“So can blow jobs,” said Andy.
Phil laughed and Andy nudged him with an elbow. At twenty-one Andy was the youngster. Dropped out of Fullerton after two years but a full general-assignment reporter already. Even if it was just the Tustin Times. Andy liked popping off and making waves and seeing what he could get away with. He thought of Janelle Vonn just after this last comment. Of her being forced into things. That wasn’t funny. But he told himself that was different. There was real life and there was newspapers. In newspapers this was the way you talked.
“What are you guys laughing about?” asked Teresa Dessinger, squeezing up to the bar beside Andy. She didn’t take a stool.
“Jobs,” said Andy. “Phil wants me to take his. I told him I could write crap for a living but not right-wing crap.”
“Lies from the drunk-driving monitor,” said Phil.
“But the Journal is changing,” said Teresa brightly.
The Dessingers had founded and still published the Orange County Journal. Teresa was a great-granddaughter of the founding couple and daughter of the current publisher. She was tall, auburn-haired, peach-skinned. One year back from Stanford with some fancy business degree, Andy had heard. Barely a year older than him and already editing the daily “Beach Cities” editions of the Journal. She made him nervous and eager to impress.
“When you get to be publisher it’ll be perfect,” Andy said. “Until then, you guys should cover the crooks on the board of supervisors and leave Jack Kennedy alone.”
Teresa Dessinger looked down at Andy. “I agree.”
“To the new Journal,” said Phil Liades, raising his glass.
Andy touched his drink to Teresa’s and nodded.
“Would you sit with me at dinner?” she asked Andy. “I’d like to hear more.”
“Don’t give my job away,” said Phil.
“Already told you I don’t want it,” said Andy. “Another drink, Teresa?”
THEN BACK to the bar after dinner. Phil and two others left early. The press club corresponding secretary staggered to the bathroom sick on scotch and sodas. The treasurer drove her home.
By eleven it was Andy, Teresa, and two Los Angeles Times reporters in a booth arguing whether a newspaper should print what people want to read or what they need to read. Whether Nixon shaved twice or three times a day. Whether Castro had been morally right for publicly executing half a thousand Batista thugs or was just another Latin American cutthroat. Whether to put fluoride into California ’s drinking water and, if so, what next?
Andy gave as good as he got, maybe better. As Andy saw it, he had an advantage: he wasn’t really a newspaperman. Wasn’t going to be doing this very long. The last thing on earth he wanted was to end up old and drunk and bitter like half the reporters he saw. Sad. Humiliating.
No, he was going to find a way to write that wasn’t for some paper that was in the litter box the next day. Some way to get it down fully and with some insight. Some understanding of what was going on under the surface of things. Maybe a book like The Grapes of Wrath, or Catch-22 or All the King’s Men. Or a movie like Citizen Kane or From Here to Eternity. Wouldn’t it be great to write something beautiful someday?
All of which he spouted off to Teresa Dessinger as he walked her to her car around midnight.
She stood next to her new Comet convertible, a red jewel twinkling in the parking lot light.
“It would be great,” she said. “But not everybody has the talent to write like that.”
“I’m going to try.”
She put her key in the door and the lock snapped up. “Come to work for me while you write your book. I can use you on the ‘Beach Cities’ editions. You can have Laguna Beach. It would be all yours. And I can pay you better than Overholt by quite a bit.”
“I disagree with your editorial policy.”
“Fine. You disagree with Overholt’s, too. Just write me some news and some features. I’m a liberal editor. Laguna is an interesting town. More going on than in Tustin.”
Andy felt as if someone had thrown open a window. Hell, knocked out a whole wall. More money. More liberty. Better beat. See Teresa Dessinger every day instead of J. J. Overholt?
“Give me a few days to think about it,” he said.
“The offer’s good until the middle of December. My writer is going to be leaving.”
She dug a business card from her purse, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to him.