Off the Record

Chapter 27

I wanted to march into the newsroom and find Fields first thing the next morning. If the vice president was returning on Saturday, we needed to make plans for this weekend.

It also didn’t escape my notice that I had yet to even see the newsroom at The Digest. The men up there should get used to my face. I hoped they would be seeing a lot of it before too long.

But that was a quick way to wind up out on my behind because there would be no hiding the fraternization, which, while not actually the type Miss Kelly meant, would be apparent the second I walked across the newsroom floor.

So I waited for him to approach me. As I typed, mistyped, and retyped, waiting, I determined I was going to get his phone number, whether he thought that was forward or not.

Of course, I would have to walk half a mile to the gas station on Grubb Road to use the pay phone if I wanted to call him without my mother listening to every word and quite possibly picking up the other extension to hear both sides.

Sure enough, Fields stepped out of the elevator around ten, papers in hand.

I wondered how he had time to still be writing news stories when he was out until all hours with me.

But however he was doing it, it kept our cover for now.

“They need this right away,” he said, tossing the pages onto my desk.

“Fields,” I said, confused—and maybe just a little hurt—as he turned to walk away.

“I don’t have all day to spend in the typing pool,” he said coolly. “And you have work to do. I’ve heard my leads aren’t up to snuff.”

I was debating chasing after him when I saw Miss Kelly observing me. I narrowed my eyes at his back and shook my head, then worked to steady my breathing. It was an act to keep me out of trouble. That was all. But we did need to talk, and I had to get that message to him somehow.

I looked down at the pages in front of me.

They were paper clipped at the top, as always, but there was another clip at the bottom of the second page.

I flipped to it and saw a scrap of paper.

“Duke Zeibert’s. Noon,” was written on it in blocky, penciled letters.

I quickly pocketed the paper, keeping my face neutral, and got to work polishing his article until it sparkled.

Not that it was a date, of course. Just a place to talk. Like the two journalists that we were.

Carol asked about lunch at 11:30, but I said I had plans.

“Make sure Fields pays,” she said with a wink. I looked around, but Miss Kelly was nowhere to be seen.

I spoke quietly anyway. “Have you ever dated a reporter?”

“Honey,” she said, “everyone in here has. What Miss Kelly doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“What about Fields?”

“What about him? I wouldn’t guess reporters were his style.”

I rolled my eyes. “I mean, does he usually date girls in the typing pool?”

“Fields? No, never. I mean, Patricia thought he had a thing for Louise, but”—she made a round gesture over her stomach to indicate pregnancy—“that definitely wasn’t him.”

“Who was it?” I asked, my voice low.

She smiled slyly. “All I know is she spent some time on the seventh floor, and things changed after that.”

The seventh floor. “Did she work for Mr. Pullman?”

Carol looked confused. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure. Why?”

“No reason,” I said quickly. But it seemed awfully coincidental that Fields preferred she type his articles, she wound up on seven, and then she got the axe. Had she stumbled onto something too?

I found myself fidgeting as I walked over to Duke Zeibert’s.

It was bad enough that the typing pool was all gossiping about me and Fields, but Duke knew my father and uncle.

All I needed was for him to mention that I was there with a man who wasn’t Jewish, and I was sunk.

Duke made it his business to know everyone who ate at his restaurant.

Which became even more apparent when I arrived, and I told the host I was meeting someone.

He directed me immediately to a back corner near the kitchen, without my even having to say who.

And sure enough, Fields was sitting there and waved to me, his normal smile back in place.

No one would notice us back here at least.

He stood as I approached, pulling out my chair for me. “This isn’t a date,” I reminded him as I sat down.

“Trust me, I know. But I can still be a gentleman. Besides, Duke wouldn’t let me in again if he saw me being rude to a lady. Even if the lady in question is well . . . you.”

I laughed. It was hard to be mad at someone who could dish it out as well as he could take it.

“Isn’t this awfully public? I don’t want to get canned.”

“I told you, that’s just in the office. This is cover.”

“Cover?”

“If someone sees us together at Off the Record—or if anyone saw us dancing last night—we’re a couple, remember? Professional at work, dating off the clock.”

He wasn’t wrong. But—“Duke knows my father and uncle,” I blurted out.

“Duke knows everyone’s uncle. What are you so worried about?”

I didn’t have it in me to play coy, especially not with Fields for some reason. “Why did Louise get fired? The real reason.”

Fields shrugged, picking up his menu. “I have no idea. I got the same gossip everyone else did.”

“But you and she—”

He lowered his menu and looked me right in the eye. “Absolutely nothing was happening with me and Louise. You’re the first girl I’ve even pretended to date at The Digest.”

“Why?” It came out before I could stop myself.

He shifted in his seat. “I don’t know . . . I—why didn’t you get married straight out of college like most girls do?”

“Because I didn’t want to. I wanted to be a journalist.”

“Yeah, well, so do I.”

“But you can do that married.”

“So could you, if your husband wasn’t a caveman.”

He was so clueless. No man wanted a woman who was going to be out all day instead of keeping house. Sure, plenty said they would be fine with it—until dinner wasn’t on the table by six. Or until kids came along. And there was a big difference between accepting something and supporting it.

“Right,” I said dismissively, picking up my own menu.

“Why are you so defensive today?”

I wasn’t going to tell him the real reason, which was that I didn’t like how he talked to me that morning, even though it was a ruse for Miss Kelly.

I was being ridiculous, and I knew it. But even though I understood we had to sneak around and pretend we both were and weren’t a couple, this was my lead.

I got Maricela on board. No, I didn’t have an in at the Hay-Adams like he did, and no, they wouldn’t run an article without his name on it, but this was my story.

And I wanted to feel my part in it was just as important—if not more so—than his.

I was saved by Duke himself, stopping by our table. “Judy Greenberg!” he said immediately. I looked up, surprised that he remembered my first name, not just the connection to my father and uncle. “Your uncle was in here just the other day.” I blanched.

But Duke laughed. “He’s all bark, no bite that one. But I won’t tell him I saw you with anyone.” He winked at me.

Uncle Gil certainly had a lot of bark, but I had felt some of the bite as well, and it wasn’t as harmless as Duke thought.

“And Jack Fields,” he said warmly. “What are you two doing all the way back here? I’m going to tell them to move you up toward the front.”

“No, I asked for this table,” Fields said. “We’re uh . . . keeping this quiet for now.”

Duke smiled knowingly. “Then I definitely won’t tell your uncle I saw you. Don’t you two lovebirds worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He put a hand on Fields’s shoulder and winked at me. “We’ll skip the onion rolls for today though. I’ll send over some potato knishes instead. Better breath.”

He moved on to another table, and I was ready to hide under ours out of embarrassment. “Well that was—”

“Mortifying,” I finished.

Fields looked amused. “Am I that bad?”

“We need to talk about that.”

“About how bad I am?”

“No, about the fact that you aren’t Jewish. My parents want to meet you—well, not you, but the guy I made up who I said I went out with the last two times we saw each other. And Duke knows your real name, so if he tells my uncle . . .”

“He does know my real name,” Fields said with a hint of an amused smile. “But Duke is discreet. If he says he won’t say anything, then he’ll take it to the grave.”

I was less confident of that than Fields was, but I didn’t have another course of action than to trust him.

“So,” he continued, menu in front of his face. “Your parents want to meet me?”

“For better or worse, I’m still living there until I can afford a women’s boardinghouse, and they can make my life a lot harder if they don’t approve. And the clock is ticking.”

“It is,” he said. “That’s why I asked you here. I think we should go to Off the Record Sunday night.”

“Why Sunday? You said the vice—” I lowered my voice: “You said the Texan would be back Saturday.”

“He spends his first night back with the sec—with his wife.” The restaurant was buzzing loudly enough, but it was better we didn’t use titles that would attract attention.

“Always?”

“Always,” Fields confirmed. “If he’s our man, we won’t see anything happen until Sunday. And not before eight. He has dinner at home most nights.”

“Okay. If it was tonight, I’d be in trouble.”

“Why’s that?”

“My family does Shabbat dinner—that’s the Jewish sabbath—every Friday night. I can’t miss it.”

“I’m familiar with the concept,” he said, setting the menu aside. “Is that when they want to meet me?”

“No,” I said quickly. I definitely didn’t have time to teach him the motzi or anything else he would be expected to know before dinner that night.

“But . . . I think you should pick me up Sunday.” I studied him.

I had been right before. He could pass with his coloring.

He had a good nose, but so did I, and that was often a stereotype anyway.

One sometimes rooted in truth, but it wasn’t the telltale sign that many people believed it to be. “Your name won’t work though.”

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“It’s not Jewish. Jack is fine—plenty of Jacobs go by Jack. But Fields won’t do.”

“What do you suggest?”

Normally I would keep it close, but my mother had mentioned a Jacob Feldstein, so better to keep it far enough from that to avoid awkward questions. I thought for a moment, going down a list of my parents’ known friends for names to avoid. “Fleishman,” I said finally.

“Jack Fleishman,” he repeated. “Not the same ring as Fields, but I suppose I can remember it. Anything else I need to know?”

There was a lot. But if I could get him in and out in under ten minutes, we would probably be okay.

“We need names for your parents.”

“And their real ones won’t do?”

“Ethel and David,” I said decisively. “You have a sister named Frannie.”

“Frannie Fleishman?”

“She’s married, so it’s Frannie Weisman now.”

“I feel like I should be writing this down.”

I pulled my notebook and pencil from my purse and shoved it across the table. “My grandmother lives with us. Her name is Sylvia and she’s sharp. Too sharp. But she won’t tell on us. Mention your grandmother. Call her your bubbe. That’ll be enough for my mother.”

“And your father?”

“Act like a gentleman and he’ll be fine.

You’re from Baltimore. You grew up at Temple O’seh Tefillah.

It’s not real so they won’t know anyone there.

Orthodox, but your family isn’t. Oh, and your grandmother—your bubbe—she crashed your car going to a shivah call.

That’s like a Jewish wake with less drinking.

That’s why you didn’t come to meet them sooner. ”

Fields looked at me sideways. “You’re picturing quite the interrogation, aren’t you?”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s the first three minutes at the outside.”

He chuckled. “So basically, you learned interview skills from your parents and didn’t need to go to journalism school.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I hadn’t gone to journalism school, I’d write leads like you do.”

He held a hand to his heart, miming a wound. “I’ve had Jewish friends before. I can do this.”

I hoped he was right.

“Pick me up at seven,” I said, taking the notebook back.

“I’m writing down my address. And my phone number.

I need yours too. If you need to reach me, call and .

. .” I didn’t know what to tell him to say.

“Talk in a high-pitched voice and pretend you’re a girl named Paula.

Say you have a cold and can’t go out. Then I’ll walk to the gas station and call you back from the pay phone. I need your number for that.”

“If I’m coming to pick you up, why can’t I call you?”

“Because my mother will listen in. If nothing changes, don’t call.”

“You have an awful lot of rules, you know that?”

I glared at him until the waiter came to take our order.

“I’ll call Maricela’s hotel and tell her to meet us at Off the Record,” he said after.

“She shouldn’t sit with us.” Fields looked at me quizzically. “It’d look suspicious. What are we doing on a date with a Cuban nightclub singer? Have her sit at the bar and keep an eye out. She and I can meet in the bathroom to debrief.”

“Smart,” Fields said.

“Don’t act so surprised.” I ripped the notes he had taken from the notebook and passed them across the table to him. “And make sure you study these. Like I said, my grandmother in particular is sharp. No slips here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fields said. “I have no intention of landing on your bad side.”

“Good,” I said. But as I watched him read over his notes, I hoped he could pull this off. I would really hate to be sidelined over him mispronouncing his new last name.