9. Portia
9
PORTIA
“Don’t you think you’re being kinda harsh?” Jayla asks, sawing away at her nails with a nail file.
I’ve come home to the apartment I’m sharing with her and launched into an angry, expletive-filled tangent about my day at work.
But I haven’t even started telling her about the shootout in the meat-packing district. I’ve focused solely on the meeting at the station headquarters.
Rafael Calderone’s surprise appearance. The news he was buying the station like people bought a pack of gum at the store. Him cornering me in the elevator and refusing to let me go.
The kiss I could still feel tingling on my lips.
I round on Jayla with a sharp, accusatory glare. “Being kinda harsh? Do you hear yourself right now, Jay? You do realize who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Rafael Calderone,” she answers. “How could I forget?”
“Then you remember what he did… and why it’s fuck him forever.”
Jayla pauses in the middle of filing the nail on her ring finger. “I know he really hurt you standing you up the way he did and never calling back.”
“Why would he? He got what he wanted out of me. He just didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face. So he pretended he still wanted to see me again,” I say, pacing back and forth through our living room. My knee collides with the coffee table, making me howl in pain and hop on one foot.
“See, you’re getting yourself worked up. You need to chill.”
“I’ll chill once I’ve found a new job.”
“You’re really going to quit because he’s buying the station?”
“Do I have any other option?” I ask, limping to the couch and plopping down. “He’s clearly trying to fuck with me. I’m not playing his games and I’m not dealing with him accosting me in elevators either.”
“Okay, let’s just breathe and think a second.” Jayla sets the nail file down on the coffee table and sits up beside me like she needs the second or two to ease me into what she’s about to say. “Don’t you think maybe you should hear him out? Just once before you write him off?”
I scoff at the suggestion. “You mean like how he had plenty of time to reach out after he stood me up? I was staying in his loft for days after.”
“Maybe there was a personal emergency he had to take care of.”
“That prevented him from ever calling or texting me? That excuse could’ve worked fifty years ago, but we’re in the age of technology. It takes ten seconds to contact someone.” Both of my brows raise, the skepticism dripping from me.
Jayla sighs. “Okay, true. It was a dickish move for sure. But what do you have to lose from one dinner?”
“My dignity.”
“Sissy…”
“I don’t let men mistreat me. Ever.” I swallow against the swell of emotion rising up in my throat. “Not anymore.”
Not after Lincoln…
She puts her arms around me and draws me in for a hug. “I get it, girl. I know. I’m not saying you should. I’m saying maybe hearing his explanation will help clear things up. It could even give you closure.”
“Since when do you make so much sense?”
“Since I started absorbing my sissy’s advice to do better.”
I squeeze her knee in answer. “You’ve always made me proud. But I’ve always wanted the best for you.”
“Which is exactly why this is our year. You’re killing it at Metro News. And I’m going to make my salon a success if it kills me.”
“You’ll get there. You just need to build up the clientele.”
I get up from the sofa and start fussing with my earrings. It’s been a long workday full of twists and turns and I’m ready to shower, change into some PJs, and crash out in front of the TV. Ever since Jayla and I moved in together, we’ve had to adapt to sharing such a small space. I step into the bathroom and test the hot water.
Thankfully, she’s left me some.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge amid a cloud of steam, feeling refreshed and relaxed. Rafael’s far out of my mind and my stomach’s grumbling for food.
Jayla’s still in the living room, but instead of filing her nails, she’s on a video call with our parents.
“Is that my cupcake I hear in the background?” Mom gushes. “Portia honey, come say hello! I want to see your beautiful face.”
I laugh softly as I pad over to the sofa and join Jayla on the video call.
Both Mom and Dad are squeezed together into the camera frame, the angle slightly unflattering as it shoots from below and offers us a view up their nostrils.
Technology has never been their thing considering they grew up before computers were even invented.
They were almost fifty by the time they adopted Jayla and me. But they heard the local news story about two orphaned young girls and stepped up to take us in. Though they were never able to have children of their own, they’ve always told us they didn’t need any.
We were more than enough.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I say. “I’m glad you figured out how to use your iPad.”
Mom swats a hand. “You mean this dang thing? It wouldn’t even let me charge it.”
“We saw you on TV today, honey,” Dad says. “You sure it’s safe to be at the scene of a shootout?”
“Jerrod, it’s her job .”
“I’m just saying, couldn’t they report from a couple blocks away?”
Jayla and I share an amused glance. “Dad, I was reporting at the scene because that’s where the shootout happened. I was there afterward.”
He nods, though the bend of his mouth tells me he still doesn’t like the idea of his daughter being at the scene of a crime.
If only he knew all the other things I’m doing in my investigations. Including how closely I’m tracking Il Diavolo and the Bellucci crime organization…
I’m able to steer the conversation away from the dangers my news reporting job brings and toward more safe topics like their upcoming anniversary and cruise.
When we hang up, I turn on the TV to find it’s on a different local news channel, covering the purchase being made at my channel.
“Billionaire businessman Rafael Calderone will be purchasing Newport Metro News,” says the anchor. “This is part of a last-minute attempt to save the fledgling network from folding.”
Jayla casts me an I-told-you-so look. “See. Maybe he’s really trying to help.”
“Sure,” I mutter under my breath. My phone’s started vibrating in my lap and I use it as an excuse to escape my sister’s sudden caping for Rafael. “Hello?”
“Ms. James, I’m so happy you answered the phone,” says Cheryl Doyle, the head coordinator at the Rise and Thrive Foundation. “I’m sorry to call you this late in the evening, but this opportunity was too amazing to pass up. We’ve just had a new major donor join our foundation. He’s pledged several million.”
“Oh wow. That’s wonderful news!”
“Yes, exactly. He’s also requested we host another charity dinner. He’s willing to double the amount of any donors who pledge donations at the event.”
I rise to my feet in shock, my jaw dropping open. “Cheryl, that would be enough funding for the foundation for years to come.”
“You can see the urgency in my request. I was hoping you’d be available to help emcee Friday night.”
“Sure, yeah… of course. For this big of a donor? I’ll clear my schedule.”
“Excellent! I’ll put everything together and send you the details in an email.”
Jayla’s noticed my reaction and waits to ask the moment I’ve hung up. “What was that all about?”
“It’s the Rise and Thrive Foundation. We’ve secured a huge donor. We’ll be hosting another dinner on Friday. He’s pledging millions .”
“Sissy, think of all the kids around Newport it’ll help.”
I smile, dropping back down onto the sofa. “Whoever it is, they’re amazing. They have a good heart.”
* * *
The subway jostles to a screeching halt at the McKinney stop. I’m one of several crowding at the doors to get off as soon as they slide open. I make my way through the congested subway station until I reach the escalator that leads up to the street outside.
This time of year it’s only growing colder and darker. The air’s blustery and nips at any exposed skin.
I stick my hands in the pockets of my peacoat and turn left down McKinney Avenue. Another few blocks and I’m approaching the coffee shop Benji Sigler requested to meet up at. He sits a quivering paranoid mess as I walk into the cramped shop and join him at the table in the far back.
“Mr. Sigler, thanks for making the time to meet with me?—”
“SHHHHH!” he hushes. He glances around the coffee shop, eyeing the mom of two pushing a stroller as she passes by our table. His eyes are ringed red from exhaustion and I suspect the coffee stains on the front of his heather-gray hoodie aren’t from today. He leans halfway over the table and whispers, “Did anybody see you? Anybody know you were coming?”
“I’ve already told you, you have my discretion.”
“Yeah, toots, I know what you told me. People go back on their word every day.”
“I can assure you I won’t. Anything you tell me is confidential. I never reveal a source.”
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Finding your sources and getting your scoop.”
I withdraw my notepad from my shoulder purse. “Mr. Sigler, I care about the truth above all. I wouldn’t be an investigative reporter if I didn’t. Now, can you tell me what you know about the confrontation from the other day?”
“You mean in the meat-packing district? Yeah, I can tell you all about it. Belluccis and the Tucos up to their usual antics. They’ve been beefin’ for a while. You already know that.”
“What was the dispute about at the meat plant?”
“What else? A shipment gone wrong,” he answers with another paranoid glance over my shoulder. “But not the kinda shipment that contains meat… if you catch my drift.”
“A narcotics shipment.”
“SHHHHHH!” he hushes so loudly, the woman at the next table frowns at us. For all his paranoia, Benji doesn’t seem to notice, holding my gaze as he leans even closer across the table. His breath reeks of coffee but I’m more focused on his words. “There’s a new psychedelic on the streets. Real hot commodity. Whoever gets control of distribution will win the war.”
I jot down some notes in quick hand that only I’d understand. “And they’re using meat plants to disguise this?”
“Follow the shipments. They come in weekly.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“Nobody… only those who need to know. And now you. But remember… if you wind up in a tight spot, you didn’t get this from me. You’ve never even met me, toots.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask plainly. “What’s your motivation, Mr. Sigler?”
Benji flashes a bittersweet smile, showing off a mouth of overcrowded front teeth. “I lost my brother to these fucks. He messed up once and that was all it took. You think Il Diavolo spared him? He gets everybody in the end. Probably you and me too. It doesn’t matter how pretty you are either, toots.”
His parting words stay with me on my subway ride back to the other part of the city. I show up to work half distracted but aware my absence has been noticed. The crew have already started loading the action van up with their equipment.
“James!” Baron shouts. “Where have you been? We were supposed to be on location five minutes ago. Fatal car accident on Twenty-Fifth street.”
“Right, I’ll get changed.”
“Don’t bother, you’ll report like this. Keep the coat on.”
I nod, climbing into the van with the others. I have no intention of letting Baron know why I’m a few minutes late to work. If he knew I was doing unofficial investigative work for the recent shooting, he would flip out. He’d shut down any leads I have and insist I use the proper channels for investigating the story.
But if I listened to Baron and followed the rules, I’d never have gotten the scoop on the Kaminski story that eventually led to the police making an arrest. It would’ve remained a mystery who murdered Josef Kaminski, adding to the mountainous pile of unsolved cases in Newport City.
Once I have a lead, there’s no stopping me. I’ll get to the bottom of the matter. Even if crime lords like Il Diavolo don’t like it.
* * *
“Portia, thank god you’re here! I was worried for a second,” Cheryl cries out the moment she sees me. She shuffles over in heels she seems to have difficulty walking in, her auburn ringlet curls shimmying with every movement.
I’m given a brief hug and cheek-to-cheek kiss before she pulls back with a wide smile.
“Isn’t it fortunate we landed this place? I still can’t believe the luck.”
I glance around at the polished hall we’re in. “Very lucky.”
Cheryl goes on to tell me how she and the foundation managed to book the banquet hall at the Newport Plaza, the most upscale hotel in the city. Apparently, the original event that was scheduled canceled last minute, creating a convenient opening for Rise and Thrive.
It’s impressive how immaculate everything is considering tonight’s gala dinner was put together in a week’s time.
I walk with Cheryl into the formal dining room where every table has a beautiful floral centerpiece and tasteful name placards in loopy print. More floral arrangements fill up the rest of the room, matching the indigo and violet toned drapes hung over the windows.
At the front of the room is the stage, where there’s the podium for the speaker and a huge bronze sculpture of the foundation’s crest.
“I trust you’ve reviewed your script, Portia?” Cheryl asks. “The gala’s starting!”
She abandons my side to scurry toward the doorway and greet some of the donors as they trickle in.
The answer to her question is no.
Between work and my side investigation, I haven’t had much time to look over the emcee script. But I’ve emceed for these events before. The script is almost always the same. My extensive experience speaking into microphones and in front of audiences for live TV helps. I’m comfortable enough that reviewing the script isn’t really needed.
Carefully climbing the steps to the stage, I take my place behind the podium. I’ve borrowed Jayla’s favorite emerald dress that has off-the-shoulder sleeves and a tight bodice that eventually flows into a draped skirt with a front slit.
It shows just enough skin to be sexy but remains classy enough for an event like this.
Within minutes, the banquet hall fills up. Guests take their seats and the room buzzes with cordial chatter.
Cheryl motions to me from the back of the room to begin. The stage lights remain bright while the lights in the rest of the banquet hall dim.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” I say into the microphone. “We thank you for attending the special Rise and Thrive charity dinner tonight. We have gathered to celebrate the charitable donation of… of…”
I freeze, my blood running cold at the name on the sheet of paper.
No.
No. No. NO!
An awkward silence develops as people in the crowd exchange looks and Cheryl’s eyes widen in horror.
No… it can’t be… NO!
I look back up at the audience and paste on a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Mr. Rafael Calderone.”