Hell or High Water by Joy Castro

Author:Joy Castro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

12

On Thursday morning, I drive to work through thunderstorms and heavy rain. Drops big as quarters pelt the windshield, and my Pontiac feels sluggish. The Times-Picayune building is quiet, and the ride up the escalators to the third floor seems to last forever.

When I enter the Lagniappe pit, Claire’s standing by my desk, waving her hands and conferring with Bailey. I back up slowly, hoping I can slip away before they spot me.

“Nola!” It’s Bailey’s voice, hard and loud. “Get over here.”

The walk between the other desks feels long, endless, all eyes hungrily upon me, like I’m heading for the guillotine.

When I get to my desk, Bailey’s holding a printout. Claire’s hands are on her hips, and her lifted chin is smug and vindicated. Her face and throat are flushed. Hey, Claire. Is that a hot flash, or are you just happy to see me?

Bailey reads the headline out loud: “‘Thirty-five Million: At What Cost?’” He clears his throat. “‘Offering the public a sanitized, romantic version of slavery pours an estimated thirty-five million dollars a year in tourism revenues into Louisiana’s needy post-Katrina coffers. But in catering to white tourists hungry for a little taste of Tara, the plantation industry distorts history, erases the suffering and accomplishments of black workers, and demeans the ethics and intelligence of all Americans. It’s not a heritage of which Louisiana can be proud.’” He lowers the pages and sighs. “Nola, what am I supposed to do with this?”

I shrug. “Run it. You can thank me later.”

“You knew this wasn’t an investigation.” He shakes his head. “Claire didn’t send you out there to rake the muck.”

“But, Bailey—”

“What’s wrong with you?” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re bright, a good writer. You got a second chance with this piece, and you deliberately blew it. This is two strikes.” He gestures toward Claire as if handing me off to her and turns away, heading for the newsroom.

Claire jumps in eagerly. “I’m giving your first version to Marci as a template,” she says. Marci, who wasn’t good enough to write it in the first place. “She’ll punch it up, do what she wants with it, and we’ll run it under her byline.”

“Good,” I say. “I don’t want my name on that shit anyway.”

Bailey overhears. He spins, coming at me, his finger raised and pointed. “If you don’t get your act together, your name won’t be on anything.” He’s down in my face, loud and angry. Something about his aggressive posture catapults me straight back to Desire. Instantly, I’m tensed, hot all over, muscles clenching.

“Is that a threat?” I’m quivering.

His gaze is level. “Does it feel like one?”

We stare at each other, motionless, rigid. His jaw pulses.

“Two strikes,” he says, and finally turns away. “Two strikes.”

* * *

I’m still shaking, pissed, as I wheel out of the Times-Picayune parking lot and onto Howard. Damn the plantations, anyway.

The rain has lifted, and I’m heading over to interview more parents, but at the other end of the socioeconomic scale, the working poor of the Ninth Ward.

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