Deadly Reckoning

  “Here’s your first victim,” Irita said and looked at her watch. “Mesa Dawson, meet Erin O’Rourke. She covers the local news and does most of our features at the moment.”

  Deep green eyes peered through what seemed like enormous horn-rimmed glasses for such a small face. Erin wore a thin yellow sweater, a slightly darker shade than her hair. The cartoon character Tweety Bird came to mind.

  “I’m looking forward to working with you,” Erin muttered and then practically curtsied.

  Mesa had the distinct impression she had gone back in time a hundred years to the hired help meeting the ranch owner.

  “I’m surprised about Anna,” Irita said in low tones as if she were thinking out loud. Then realizing she had witnesses, she spoke up. “She’s the business manager. She handles payroll and accounts. She’s one of our most reliable employees. I mean, not that we have anyone who’s unreliable. It’s just weird that she’d duck out like that when she knows you’re expected.”

  Nana hadn’t mentioned any staffing problems, but then she had not wanted to discuss the newspaper so much as she had wanted to make sure Mesa felt at home. As usual, Nana put the comforts of her family first.

  “Anyway, there’s you, and Chance and me. I got promoted to publisher’s/editorial assistant after a couple of years. I handle personnel, circulation, write an occasional story, and empty the trash.” She stopped at the end of the newsroom at a doorway to a closet-sized office, poked her head in, and said, “Meet Arnold Cinch. Just plain Cinch to all that knows and still loves him. He handles the classifieds and whatever advertising Chance or I don’t snag.”

  A wiry looking man glanced up from the phone and feigned a smile. Tufts of white hair covered various parts of his head like patchy spring snow. His office had the air of a bank vault—no windows with shelves from floor to ceiling.

  “I don’t have anything to do with what goes into the paper,” he said matter-of-factly. “I just try to see that it makes a few bucks. I certainly hope you’re not planning to sell the paper like Irita is afraid you will.”

  Irita whacked Cinch on the shoulder, at which point he covered his head and turned back to his phone conversation.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that old goat,” Irita said with a wave of her hand, as if to dispel the notion that she was worried about the fate of the paper.

  Mesa wasn’t surprised. If the paper’s advertising revenues were on the skids, Irita’s supposition was logical.

  “That leaves Delilah,” Irita said and threw her head back dramatically. “She covers arts and entertainment. She usually rolls in around noon. You can’t miss her. Just look for the black outfit wrapped in some flashy scarf. She can’t help herself. She’s from Seattle.”

  They strolled back toward Mesa’s office when an eager, well-scrubbed face, a crust of toothpaste still in the corner of his mouth, bounded in with four cups of coffee in a cardboard holder. “Your latte with a double shot,” he said and bent forward in mock supplication as he handed Irita a cup.

  “Oh yeah, we usually get a couple of interns from the college,” Irita said. “This is . . . what’s your name, kid?”

  “Micah. Micah Bradley,” he answered and moved toward the back of the newsroom, not the least bit intimidated by Irita’s feigned snub.

  “From Montana Tech?” Mesa asked, though she was unsure what the once-famous Montana School of Mines had to offer in the way of journalism, even with its name changed.

  “Missoula even,” Irita said. “The university’s journalism program is still pumping ’em out. And, of course, we have a stable full of freelancers, of which two or three are usually dependable about deadlines. Mrs. Ducharme always handled them, so I figure you could pick up on that.”

  “What about layout and graphics?” Mesa asked.

  Irita let out a deep breath. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.” She motioned around a carpeted divider and into a cubicle. A red and black bumper sticker thumbtacked above an oversized computer monitor read, “You know you’re Serbian if at least one of your friends is named Dragan.”

  A young man, maybe twenty-five, sat dressed all in black. A tattoo of questionable design crept down his arm from under the sleeve of his tee shirt to his elbow. “This is Phadron Draganovich, the resident geek.”

  Phadron looked up over thin, stylish, black-framed spectacles. A sterling silver loop pierced the left side of his lower lip but his smile seemed genuine. He offered his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “People call me Phade.”

  Mesa smiled back. Finally, someone she could relate to. Phade would have fit in easily at the Current. “That a blog you’re working on?” Mesa asked and pointed to the monitor.

  “Nothing official yet.” He rolled his eyes toward Irita as if he were awaiting approval. “I think the Mess could definitely support one. We got some younger readers out there with plenty to say.”

  Irita nudged his shoulder. “That’s Messenger to you sir and that’s enough for now,”

  They walked back to the office, where Irita said, “Phade may not look like much, but he knows his stuff. He’s bailed us out of more than one computer headache. Mrs. Ducharme didn’t let him wear that lip thingy when she was here. I kind of let it slide.”

  “Fine by me,” Mesa said. “It’s what’s in the paper that counts.” She gestured to Irita to sit. “Okay, what are we working on for our next edition? What’s the lead story?” Mesa felt an urgency to get to work, as if she might be able to whip the paper into shape in three days and be on her way to Portland and life on a grander scale without feeling the least bit guilty.

  “Good question,” Irita said with a tone that suggested she had her own notion of how the paper should run—a notion Mesa was not inclined to dispel for the moment. “That’s your first decision. Apparently, your brother is feeling his oats and wants to run something on yesterday’s plane crash into a house in Uptown. We don’t normally cover breaking news, but I guess Chance has some angle on the victim. I can tell you right now your grandmother’s not gonna be happy to see any photos of plane crashes on the front page.”

  “We can run the story without a photo or bury it on page two. What else?”

  “We were sort of planning to have a background piece on you on the editorial page. Erin’s waiting in the wings to interview you today.”

  Mesa shrugged. The idea of having an article that focused on her was not particularly appealing, especially since she didn’t plan to stick around.

  “I know Erin seems young,” Irita said, “but she’s a good kid, and she can turn it around like you won’t believe.”

  “That’s not it,” Mesa said. Best not upset the apple cart yet. “I’m sure she’ll write a fine piece. It’s just that I’m the shy, retiring type. But I’ll adjust. What else?”

  “We’re running part two of a feature on the resurgence of live poker in the Mining City.” Irita rolled her eyes. “There was a Texas Hold ’em tournament over the weekend at the Depot, and some Butte rat won a bundle.”

  Mesa couldn’t help but smile at the phrase “Butte rat” despite the unpleasant image it conjured up. The moniker was carefully bestowed only on those born and bred in the Mining City.

  “The Depot?” Mesa asked. The number of bars in Butte had been steadily declining for years, but this sounded like some place new.

  “Over on Arizona Street. It used to be the Great Northern Railway Depot. Somebody remodeled it last year, hauled that 24-foot walnut long bar from whatchamacallit’s in Walkerville. Now they’ve set up a few card tables, broken open the poker chips, and supply the booze and the bouncers. The rest is up to Lady Luck.

  “We’ll round out the edition with the usual football scores, AA meetings, shindigs and assorted other hysteria, birth announcements, anniversaries and, of course, our bread and butter—the classifieds and advertisements.”

  Mesa said nothing and Irita paused. “You didn’t want to write anything, did you?” This question came quickly, as if she su
ddenly realized she had forgotten to set a place at the table for the guest of honor.

  Mesa let out a whoosh of relief. “No way. I’m a fish out of water for the time being. If I had to write anything about Butte, I might break out in hives. When’s deadline again?”

  “Tomorrow night, preferably by 11 p.m.,” Irita said. “Ads had to be in on Friday.”

  “So, let’s go ahead with the rest of the week’s schedule,” Mesa said. “When’s the editorial staff meeting?”

  Irita stared at Mesa and then looked quickly from side to side, moving her eyes and nothing else. “Surely, you jest,” Irita said finally. “You are the editorial staff. This is Montana, honey. When you’re the boss, whatever you say goes.”

  “Don’t you discuss feature ideas? How do you decide what the paper’s lead is going to be?” Mesa knew her grandmother had not a dictatorial bone in her body. She hardly ever told anyone what to do directly. She had this way of getting you to tell yourself. Maybe she ran the Messenger that way.

  “Of course we discuss things, but it’s usually over a shot and a beer at the Silver Dollar. This is not the Butte of old with ninety thousand people, political corruption, corporate intrigue, and five papers competing for the biggest scoop. Everybody in town pretty much knows what’s going on as fast as we do. You can pretty much guess what the Standard’s going to cover, which leaves pretty much everything that’s local and not mayhem to us.”

  “Guess that pretty much covers it,” Mesa said with a grin, then added, “Humor me anyway. Wednesday morning, let’s have an editorial staff meeting. Say, 9 am. You, Erin, Delilah, Phade, and I want Chance there, too. Where’s his office, by the way?”

  “Pork Chop John’s,” Irita said and excused herself to answer a ringing phone on her desk just outside what was now the editor’s office door.

  Chapter 5

  An hour later, Irita had dragged Mesa to Stodden Park to observe the passing of summer, Butte style. “Come on, it’s the Labor Day picnic. You gotta eat,” Irita said while they waited in the chow line where the mayor and several city commissioners were dosing the crowd with baked beans, potato salad, and hotdogs.

  “One hotdog won’t kill you,” Irita said, “even if they were donated by Terminal Meats.” Mesa smiled and hoped the owners of Butte’s oldest butcher and wild-game processing store weren’t within hearing distance.

  The last time she had attended a Labor Day picnic, her mother had been alive. They had spent the afternoon sunbathing at the swimming pool on one of the rare, truly hot summer days. Her mother had been so happy to be back in Butte.

  “You’ll meet some new people, maybe see some old friends, and get heartburn,” Irita said. “It’s what neighborhood news is all about.”

  In the span of twenty minutes, Irita had introduced her to every other person in Stodden Park. Locals of all ages basked in the warm sunshine, playing Frisbee, drinking Bud Lite, and otherwise trying to ignore the speakers at the mike.

  The stock-in-trade for the labor unions that had once held sway in Butte, political promises nowadays seemed to fall on deaf ears. Shabby and thin on the ground, much of what she saw spoke of little money and hard times. Butte was ten percent romantic notion and ninety per cent grim reality. Now that the mines were closed, the sponsors of the picnic had dwindled, but the number of hungry mouths had grown, and filling them was everyone’s priority.

  Irita and Mesa waded through a sea of picnickers, babies on blankets and elderly people in lawn chairs. They perched themselves on one side of the brick foundation of the Korean War Memorial.

  Mesa gazed up at the idealized, larger-than-life bronze sculpture of an infantryman. Montanans had a proud history of serving their country, including her own father, whose career choice he readily admitted was partly the result of the state’s notorious lack of decent, steady employment. Unlike her father, she suspected her views on international relations were decidedly left of many Montanans, even in Butte, which was the state’s Democratic stronghold.

  Mesa felt the gentle nudge of an elbow into her side. “Stop thinking and eat,” Irita said, her mouth full of hotdog oozing with mustard, ketchup, and sauerkraut. She was ready for bite number two when a woman about thirty appeared with two kids in tow. Both children broke free, calling “Grammy, Grammy.”

  Irita eagerly traded her plate of food for children and smothered them with hugs. Their mother quickly intervened. “Let Grammy eat,” she said gently. Lean and graceful with long dark hair, the woman apologized for interrupting.

  Mesa blushed as Irita introduced her as the new boss and was surprised to find that the other woman, Kathy DiNunzio, was Irita’s daughter-in-law. Kathy smiled warmly and stepped aside. A taller male version, with more muscle but without the smile, nodded. “You remember Garrett, my brother,” Kathy said, her voice slightly too enthusiastic. “He’s on leave.”

  Irita stood up and said, “Sure do. Sorry I didn’t get to wish you bon voyage before your trip to Kandahar. Welcome home.”

  That explained the short haircut, Mesa thought as Irita introduced him by saying he lived in Billings but was now in the Army National Guard. He mumbled a greeting and then stood by stoically, not unlike the statue in front of the memorial. His gaze indirect, he waited without a word while his sister chatted easily with Irita.

  Mesa, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, searched for something innocuous to say. She had met plenty of airmen in her day but no one who had served in the more recent deployments to the Middle East. For sure, she hadn’t met any recently returned, frontline soldiers, which somehow she knew he was. “I haven’t met anybody who’s been in Afghanistan,” she said.

  He looked up at her, his brow thick. His hazel eyes filled with a weariness that made her want to hug him. “It’s all right,” he said almost apologetically, as if he understood what she felt.

  She didn’t think conversation about American foreign policy was appropriate. Especially to this soldier who seemed uneasy, not like the ones that made the cover of Time and Newsweek. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry for the trouble we’ve put you to.” She felt strangely inarticulate, but she knew she would have regretted saying nothing, letting the moment pass.

  When he spoke again, his voice was raspy, as if he had spent the previous day shouting orders nonstop. “I’m sorry too.” Then he retreated to the number one question in every Montanan’s mind. “How about this weather?” he said with the tiniest hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth.

  Before she could answer, the kids tugged at him, each pulling on a different finger of his large hand. He clapped his free hand to his shoulder and held it, feigning injury. The children laughed, and then pleaded with him to take them to the swings. The trace of a smile crept across his face, and he said goodbye to her. Then he turned and quietly followed the children, who were already skipping toward the colorful jungle gym. She watched him walk away and wondered what horrors he had seen or perhaps committed so far from home.

  She thought about her dad who, contrary to his military career—he would say because of it—had taught her long ago that no soldier wants to go to war. They always argued about the so-called all-volunteer army. She thought everybody should serve and then politicians would be less likely to send their own kids off to war.

  Her dad believed some men, and maybe some women, although he still wasn’t entirely sure about that, were more suited to combat than others were. He had no illusions about the fact that, despite all the expensive technological advances, soldiers on the ground were still a necessity. Mesa’s reply was that it was too bad more people didn’t discover their lack of a temperament for battle before getting sent into one.

  Mesa turned toward the makeshift stage by the outfield fence of the softball field. She tried in earnest to pay attention to the congressional candidate, a mint farmer from Kalispell, who was assailing the crowd with the faults of his Republican opponent. Standing several feet behind the mike, and apparently waiting to speak, Mesa saw Shane Northey.


  Irita was deep in conversation with Kathy and Mesa thought about going up to say hello. He had a pleasant, clean-cut look to him, dress shirt and jeans again. She wasn’t immune to attraction, short-term as it might be. A quick smile accompanied his ready handshakes with others on the stage. He turned his attention to the speaker, and so did she. Predictably, the Democrat needled the Republicans, demanding better-paying jobs and attention to health care reform—not that she didn’t agree.

  Mesa turned when she heard her name being called in an unmistakable, high-pitched voice. Tara McTeague came hurtling precariously toward her in toeless, cork-wedged sandals. On her hip rode Kelly, her blue-eyed, blonde-haired daughter, an exact image of her mother. Connor, an almost identical little boy, tottered along, pulling on his mother’s hand. Mesa embraced as many of the trio as she could, having only seen photos of the twins previously.

  “When did you get in and what is going on?” Tara asked over her shoulder with mock indignation as Connor immediately began herding them toward the giant jungle gym with remarkable determination for a two-year-old. “Chance wants me to look for a place for you, and the last email you sent said you were thinking about moving to Portland.”

  Tara was her usual whirlwind self, juggling several pieces of life at once. Married and the mother of twins right out of the shoot, and now she was pregnant with a third. Their lives were completely different, but Mesa had learned long ago that she could always count on Tara to keep her mouth shut. “God, my butt’s really in a sling this time.”

  “What a shocker,” Tara said with gentle sarcasm. “Tell me everything.” If life was too full for Tara, she didn’t show it. She still had a wide grin and time to offer a ready opinion about the guys who found their way into Mesa’s life.

  “Remember Derek Immelmann?”

  “Your boss that you had the hots for all this time?” Tara’s voice brimmed with anticipation.

  Mesa nodded. “He quit and moved to Oregon at the end of June to work for Pacifica Magazine.”

  “Never heard of it,” Tara said.

  Pacifica was the most progressive magazine on the west coast, but social commentary wasn’t Tara’s strong suit. “It’s a cool magazine, and it pays well,” Mesa said.