Chapter 20
“What are you doing here?” Fields asked as soon as I sat down on the leather bench across from him in the booth.
When he had said he wanted to talk to me, it sounded like he wanted to apologize again, and after his quickness in grabbing me a water, I was inclined to accept this time. But if he was going to act like my father, then no.
“Is that your business?”
He leaned back slightly. “I meant with Clement. He’s bad news.”
I sighed. “I know. Patricia met him here Friday, and apparently this is their second date. I didn’t know who it was until we got here.”
“He’s the one who—”
“Patricia said that was a frame-up.”
He leaned forward again. “Does Patricia know the girl died in an”—he hooked his fingers into quotation marks—“‘accident’ not long after that?”
My eyes widened. “She did?”
He nodded. “Don’t let her leave with him. She doesn’t like me, but she’ll listen to you.”
I turned slightly, looking at the two of them over my shoulder.
He had moved his chair closer to hers, and their hands were entwined as she laughed at something he said that I doubted was funny.
I wasn’t so sure she would listen to me.
I would have to lie and say I left something I needed in her room.
I very much regretted suggesting we come here.
I wanted to follow my (admittedly flimsy) lead, not break up an affair.
“I’ll figure it out. Thanks.” I pushed my chair back to leave, but he reached for my arm.
“Listen, Judy—I really am sorry about all . . . that.”
I looked at him in the dim light of the bar. Under other circumstances, I might have found him handsome. But I wasn’t working at The Digest to be distracted by a pair of kind eyes and a dimple when he smiled. I was here to make a name for myself.
“Water under the bridge.”
He smiled. “How about another drink—something easier this time?”
I took another look at Patricia and the congressman. She wasn’t going to be willing to leave soon from the looks of things. Resigned, I turned back to Fields. “I don’t suppose they have Manischewitz here?”
He let out a hearty laugh. “No. I doubt they’d know what that was. A Shirley Temple maybe? Or do you want to try a real drink?”
“I’m not twelve years old,” I said, bristling at the Shirley Temple remark.
He looked confused. “I wasn’t trying to insult you.”
I closed my eyes and counted to three. We needed to reset a bit here. “Is there anything . . . softer . . . than a martini?”
The right side of his mouth curled up. “Let me see what I can do.” He stood and strode to the bar.
I took the opportunity to look around the room.
There were a handful of familiar faces from Capitol Hill, but no obviously Cuban women, and no sign of the vice president.
This was lunacy. Besides, how would I even spot someone from Cuba?
All I knew was Ricky from I Love Lucy, cigars, and Castro. I shook my head, annoyed at myself.
When Fields returned, he held a coupe glass filled with a carbonated yellow liquid.
“Try this,” he said. “The bartender said it’s on the house if you don’t like it though, so maybe make a face when you take a sip.”
I chuckled. “You’re a terrible date, Jack Fields.”
He looked at me carefully. “Is this a date?”
“Absolutely not.” I took the glass from him. “What’s in it?”
“It’s a champagne cocktail. Champagne, sugar, and bitters.”
I took a small sip. “It’s sweet. But almost . . . dry . . . at the same time.” I actually liked it. But I turned toward the bartender and scrunched up my nose for effect. He shrugged at Fields, and I turned back around.
“Thanks for that. Champagne is a lot on my salary.”
“Then why—”
“I owe you,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t right. I just—Louise didn’t want to write. And your work was so much better than hers. I didn’t think about how it would make you feel.”
I took another sip. “Thank you for that.”
“I—uh—did you work on my article from yesterday?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I type a lot of articles.”
He turned his head, looking at me from the corner of his eye. “I know your style.”
“Fine. It’s boring just typing all day. And I figured you couldn’t complain without getting yourself in trouble.”
“For the record, I’m never going to complain about you helping me. You’re really good.”
“I know I am,” I said. Then I gestured around us. “Funny choice of words here though. Why is the bar called Off the Record?”
He smiled. “It was a speakeasy during Prohibition. So you know, keep it off the record that you’re drinking here. But it’s always been a haunt for politicians. And where politicians go, journalists follow.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
He nodded. “You never know who’s going to walk in and drop a story in your lap.”
I felt a tingling in my stomach that I doubted was the champagne. “Have you gotten any leads here?”
“Plenty.” He leaned in closer, then lowered his voice: “Can you keep a secret?” This time I nodded. “The vice president keeps a room upstairs.”
My mouth dropped open. Texas.
“Fields,” I said, suddenly deadly earnest. “Is there a Cuban woman?”
“I’d assume there are a lot of them or there would be no Cuban babies.”
“No, I mean—is there a Cuban woman he’s involved with?”
Fields’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out what I was getting at. “The vice president?” I nodded. “Not that I know of. Why?”
I pressed my lips together. This was my lead, and he covered the White House.
I didn’t want to be the person who dropped a story in his lap; I wanted to be the person uncovering and writing it myself.
If I told him my suspicions, he would have to follow it—any journalist would, myself included.
And Mr. Pullman was likely smart enough to put two and two together about how he had gotten the story, which would mean I’d be out of even the typing pool.
“No reason.”
He leaned back in his seat, studying me. “You have a lead, don’t you?”
I wanted to ask how he knew that. He couldn’t know that. “No.”
“Judy.”
“Fields.” We stared at each other, neither flinching.
“Look,” he said eventually. “I can help you. This is my job.”
“Yes. And I want it to be mine. I’m not handing you anything.”
For a full minute, no one spoke.
“How big is it?” Then he shook his head. “You’re asking about the vice president, so it’s big, right?”
I chewed the inside of my lip. I might have already given too much up.
If he went digging for information on the vice president and a Cuban woman, well, he’d probably solve this whole thing faster than I could.
He had credentials and access that I could only dream of.
Better to work with him and make my intentions known. Or so I hoped.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It could be nothing.”
His gaze locked on mine. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You don’t strike me as the bar type.”
Part of me wanted to ask what type he thought I was. But this was more important. “I want to write it if it’s anything.”
He thought about this for a moment. “The Digest would never take it from you.”
That stung, but he wasn’t wrong. “Cowrite, then. Double byline. And you refuse to give it to The Digest if they won’t run it with my name too.”
“That’s a hard bargain to make without knowing what it is. I could lose my job if they say no.”
“Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”
Another moment of silence. Then Fields extended his right arm, his hand straight toward me. “Deal.”
I shook his hand, my heart racing. I knew he could double-cross me, but something in his face told me he wasn’t going to make that mistake.