wine that the waiter had told her was both crisp and acidic. Instead she had opted for a third cup of Turkish coffee, and the jittery caffeine rush hung with her—even after the sojourn up and down the second-hand aisles of the shop on Old World Third Street.
There were a few other shops here Teri would have liked to browse, an old bookstore in particular. Deciding she could spare a few more minutes, she headed toward the ten-foot-long sign that spelled BOOKS, and then stopped abruptly, the hair on the back of her neck itching. She stared into a big glass window of a sandwich shop, not looking inside, but wanting to see what was reflected behind her; she had the feeling someone was watching her or tagging along. Although she didn’t spot anyone either suspicious or familiar, the odd sensation was enough to end her shopping trip. Besides, she again reminded herself, she was on “company time,” and trying to live within the strict budget dictated by her recent car repair bill. So she headed back to the paper to write her review.
That didn’t take long.
The article was brief and to the point:
The food has an attitude, she wrote. Generous portions are artfully presented on linen-draped tables accented with fresh flowers. Spicy aromas waft out of a kitchen that bustles with activity beginning at 11 a.m. The condiments are imported from Istanbul, where the owners were born. The lunch choices are intriguing and numerous, the flavors strong and earthy and providing a welcome heat that is lasting, but not oppressive. From the appetizer to the salad to the main course, I found it alluringly delicious, though a little on the pricey side.
She went on to describe the décor, provide a brief history of the place, and compliment the courteous waitstaff. Then she gave the piece a quick once-over, corrected a few typos, and hit send to whisk it off to the lifestyle editor’s desk. It was one of the more favorable reviews she’d written in the past few weeks; her palate was not easily impressed. Besides, she was in a good mood. Maybe the magic bikini tucked away in the trunk of her car had lifted her spirits.
Teri leaned back and cracked her knuckles, a habit her mother and past roommates had never managed to break her of. She glanced around the newsroom.
Tuesday late afternoon, it bustled with activity. The Journal was a morning paper, but it had an online edition that was constantly updated, and stories were produced throughout the day. Fingers clattered across keyboards. Reporters talked on telephones—their heads crooked against receivers jammed between their ears and shoulders—postures that required regular chiropractic adjustments.
On the surface, the place looked big and shiny, clean and modern. The desks were all metal and glass, the bright overhead lights reflecting off computer monitors as well as the big windows and the every-third-night polished tile floor. But Teri saw its dark heart: the grime that had gathered for decades in all the little cracks, and the streaked, eggshell-colored walls that had been stained from years of cigarette smoke—before smoking had been relegated to the sidewalk. The smell of pine air fresheners strategically placed here and there could not cover the musty odor of newsprint or the various scents of lunches left too long uneaten and strewn across desk blotters.
“Hey, Cookie!”
Teri let out a hissing breath when she spotted the lifestyle editor headed her way.
“Hey, Bob,” she answered.
Bob looked like he belonged in the sports department—shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows, collar frayed, tie crooked, middle-age spread, hair a tad greasy with a hunk of it splayed over the top of what would otherwise be a bald pate. In fact, he had been a sports reporter-turned sports editor, or so Teri had heard—“back in the day” when Milwaukee had two newspapers, and he worked for the one that had folded.
“Just sent you my restaurant review, Bob.”
He gave her a lopsided grin and thrust his hands against his hips. He leaned forward, reminding Teri of one of those little plastic pot-bellied drinking-birds that dunked their beaks in colored water at various bars around the city.
“Yeah, Cookie. I saw it pop up on my screen. I’ll get to it in a bit. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He paused, as if waiting for her to say something else.
Teri tapped her fingers on the edge of her desk. She didn’t like Bob. And she certainly didn’t like the nickname he’d given her. Bob had a nickname