I looked the kid over again. He wore razor-pleat khakis and a white button-down shirt so squeaky clean-cut it hurt my teeth. Most camera jocks lumbered around in size double XL athletic wear. Ainsley barely topped six feet, had the beanpole build of a young man who hadn’t fully grown into his feet and the smooth blue-eyed complexion of the perennial ingénue. How was he going to handle fifty pounds of camera equipment at a jog?
Ainsley’s head flipped back and forth between Gatt and me, looking for one of us to say something. His smile faded on a sigh of resignation. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, elbows locked, exactly the way my eight-year-old niece, Jenny, does when she’s worried.
What the hell. I’d made a career of specializing in disasters.
“All right. I’m in.” I accepted Gatt’s deal with a grim nod.
Gatt looked relieved. “Great. You’re hired. I’ll get Barbara going on the paperwork. You have a look around. Make some calls. Like I said, we need something in the can by next Wednesday.”
Looking at Ainsley, all I could think was I’d have to change my damn hair color. Side by side, we’d look like the freaking Bobbsey twins.
“Awesome,” Ainsley said. The smile was back.
“Go show her around, buddy.” Gatt winked. The boy’s charm wasn’t lost on the uncle. “O’Hara, I’ll set you up with the GM for a meet-and-greet later, and get your offer finalized today.”
“Anybody pitched you a story idea for this week?” I asked.
“Nope. Network’s got some ideas. You’ll want to call them first. Reminds me-I logged a weird call this morning, right before you came in. Out west somewhere, Amish land. People love those Amish-in-trouble stories. Why don’t you go check it out?”
“Amish? There are Amish people out here?” I tried not to sound panicky. “I thought they only lived in remote rural areas.”
Gatt’s cock-eyed glare begged the question, what’s your point? “Get going, you two. I got work to do.”
11:41:12 a.m.
Hanging around the office waiting for network to call back and pitch me a “crime, sex or movie star” item did not sound like a good plan to me. Seeing Ainsley the Wonder Boy in action might be a good idea before a real shoot landed on us.
It didn’t take long to pin down the necessary details. Ainsley was happy to lead the way. “Our Amish community isn’t really that nearby,” he assured me. “It’s actually way out to the edge of the county, at least a half-hour drive west and south.”
“A half hour?” I repeated, trying to adjust to the thought that I now lived closer to an Amish settlement than the city. It took an hour to get into downtown from out here, when the traffic didn’t suck. “That far?”
“Few miles past the Walmart. But there’s a Mennonite church right over in Lombard if you’re looking for something closer. You want to see the remote truck first? It’s pretty sweet.” Ainsley pointed me up the hall. “I knew this one Amish guy who got special permission to go to my high school. He was there a year. Had to ride a bus for an hour and thought it was the greatest. Hard to believe, huh?”
We turned a corner and walked past the cubical shanty town that housed sales, accounting and the promotions departments. Ainsley offered a good morning! to every person we passed, along with a quick introduction.
Maneuvering our way through the building, the kid pointed out the station’s highlights. “Through here’s the kitchen…doughnuts…pop machines…oh, and the bulletin board where we keep the take-out menus.”
“College boys are walking stomachs.”
“No way,” he told me. “I’m no college boy. I’m done with school.”
“Really? Where’d you go?” There were a couple of good schools nearby. A credential I could trust would be nice.
“Pretty much everywhere.” His confession melted out, sticky and sweet. “I, um, had a little trouble in school.”
“You flunk?”
“Not exactly.” The words stretched twice their usual length, long enough to include a whole range of possible mischief. “Got kicked out. Twice.”
“Twice.” I nodded. “That takes some effort.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t seem too upset about it. “Nothing for you to worry about though. I finished all the core courses in broadcasting and camera. I’m fully trained.”
“Sure you are.”
Freelancing a new job, I usually feel excited, ready to dig in, ready to work. It was different to be filled with thoughts of doom.
Ainsley, on the other hand, could not believe his luck. Taking out the remote truck on our first day. He scored points for loading the cameras with the proper awe. The remote “truck” was technically a van, with a decent bank of machines inside-playback, switcher, monitors. Some of the places I’ve worked would have considered it a state-of-the-art editing bay. He was right, it was sweet.
“Looks good. Let’s get going, College.” I slammed the rear doors after a quick inspection and climbed in beside him on the passenger side. “Stop in the front lot on the way out, would you? I need to grab my cameras.”
I always carry both still and video camera equipment to a shoot. I started as a photographer which is unusual these days. I never set out to be on-screen talent. I prefer to let the pictures tell the story. Sometimes on location, I can get straight photos where I can’t get tape. With a splice of quick-cut, pan-tilt, I’ll incorporate the photos into the final story. It’s a distinctive look, one of my signatures.
“If the Amish thing doesn’t heat up, you can show me around town. But I do need to be back at the station by say, two-fifty this afternoon. You know where we’re going, right?”
“Sure. I’ve lived in Dupage County my whole life,” Ainsley admitted without a trace of embarrassment. “Wow. Is that your motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is that thing?”
“Older than me,” I answered flatly. “Older than television.”
“No way,” he whispered reverently.
“Watch it, kid.” Peg had been my grandfather’s, before she was my father’s, before she was mine. I pulled my camera gear out of the saddle bags and gave her a pat goodbye.
Peg’s always my first choice of transportation. In the city, she was fairly practical-what with my frequent travel schedule and her fabulous parking profile. But I haven’t had many chances to take her out on the road lately. Practical transport has been redefined for me.
“Where’d you get it?”
“My bike is not an it. My bike is a she.” I tossed my gear into the truck. “Her name is Peg.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Boy didn’t stay down long. “How’d you and Peg meet?”
“Grandpa O’Hara worked at the Chicago Schwinn factory back in the old days.”
“The bike company?”
“They made motorcycles back in the ’20s and ’30s. Fastest motorcycles in the world-including the Excelsior Henderson Super X.” I waved a hand of introduction. “Back in those days, boys named O’Hara needed to travel fast.”
“Why?”
I frowned. “Gangs. Chicago in the ’20s? The mob was Irish.”
“Oh, right.” That got a nod and a furtive glance, as he compared me to his mental picture of an Irish mobster’s granddaughter. “Mind if I drive?”
Was he razzing me? “Knock yourself out, College Boy.”
“Cool,” he replied.
No sooner were seatbelts fastened than he gunned the van across three lanes of divided traffic into the left lane.
My hand welded itself to the oh-shit-bar above my door. When the truck settled into a straight away, I used my free hand to secure the camera on my lap. “Network usually hires me a driver. Someone who can translate and handle a weapon.”
“A weapon?” he scoffed.