Capitol Rookie: The Back Door
In the dimly lit corner of a forgotten bar, young reporter Alex Shelby prepares to uncover the truth behind a shadowy figure who holds the key to a scandal that could change everything.
Capitol Rookie in a 11-part crime fiction noir set in 2004 in Sacramento, California.
Part 2
By Vince Wetzel
“Hello? Mr. Shelby?” the voice asked from the other side of the phone. I was staring at my computer story, my potential front-page story never to be read by anyone. I needed a win and if this anonymous voice was going to deliver on a possible corruption story, then I had to give her a chance, right?
“OK, I’ll meet, but you have to give me more than you have some information,” I said with skepticism. “I need some kind of proof so I can try to find some little bit of corroboration. Either you tell me, or you can go to the Chronicle, but they’re also not going to take the bait.”
Charges of corruption with a State Senator flew around politics more than crows around a carcass. Sure, I was desperate to make a splash at my new job at the Sacramento Tribune. If I was going to be an impact writer, I needed to show I had the sources and the skill to break the impact news. But I’ve always been wary of anonymous tips. In my first job in Hawaii, I was almost duped into writing a fluff piece about a trainer who was teaching underprivileged kids the positive aspects of boxing – discipline and hard work – only to learn he was using the gym to cultivate drug runners.
I waited. One… Two… Three…
“OK, I have nonprofit papers that shows the Senator on the board,” she let out in an exhale. “The board raises a million dollars a year, but there are no board meetings, and the expenditures are only related to ‘community outreach.’”
“How do I know these papers are authentic.”
“I'll give you copies. That will be enough of a thread to follow up on your own.”
“Ok, where? Do you know the Pre-Flite lounge, the dive bar under the mall?” I asked.
“No, that’s too close to the Capitol. The walls have ears there. Ever been to the Back Door lounge in Old Town?”
“OK, when?”
“Thursday 1 p.m. after floor session,” she said.
“All right,” I said, a bit more secure in her credibility. “You had better bring some proof. How will I know it’s you?”
“See you then.”
The line clicked and I sat staring at my cubicle wall. Was this my break?
I had been to Old Town a couple of times since I moved to Sacramento. Cobble-stone streets were lined with wooden walkways alongside buildings built to look like Gold Rush era structures. It was a tourist trap for sure, with kitschy t-shirt and candy shops, along with taverns and restaurants. One could even go to the river and walk onto a Mark Twain-style riverboat, the Delta King, and have dinner or stay overnight.
Unlike the swanky Capitol haunts for lobbyists and state lawmakers, the Back Door Lounge was a world apart. Located in an alley behind The Firehouse restaurant, the Back Door Lounge was where you went to get lost. Red velvet walls and twisted iron railings guided patrons up the three steps from the first level to the bar. Across the ceiling were streams of banners highlighting Monday Night Football and its beer sponsor, Budweiser.
With my eyes focused on the décor, I almost missed the two German Shepherds resting at my feet, not concerned if I was a danger or not, but rather enjoying the warm and cozy temperatures compared to the crisp February afternoon. I didn’t know if it was legal to have dogs in the bar, but I didn’t argue and looked for my mystery woman.
When my pupils adjusted to the dimly lit tavern, I saw all eyes were on me. Patrons were surprised by the sudden intrusion to their day drinking, but quickly turned back to their liquid misery. I had to admit. I liked the vibe, and I might have to return when a corruption scandal wasn’t in play.
I looked around. There was only one woman, but she didn’t look like my contact. She was in the midst of talking to another bar fly, her pants hanging too low and her top too tight and low cut to be concerned with corruption within the California capitol.
Was I early? Did she stand me up? It was five minutes past our agreed rendezvous. She couldn’t have bolted this soon. Maybe she got too skittish, or this was one elaborate joke. Had I let my desire to break a story cloud my judgment? Might as well go to the bar, I thought.
“What will you have?” the bartender asked. He was bald and craggly. He wasn’t going to be overly friendly. That was part of his charm.
“A Budweiser,” I said. The string banner was my inspiration. “And I was supposed to meet a woman here. Anybody come earlier?”
The bartender ignored the question and just pulled the tap and filled the glass with little foam.
“Have you ever seen LA Confidential?” the woman next to me asked her friend. I wasn’t surprised the film passed under her radar seven years ago. Titanic and Matt and Ben dominated the Oscars and the Curtis Hanson movie celebrating 1950s Los Angeles fell a little under the radar. Personally, it was one of my favorite movies of all time.
Her drinking buddy just grunted.
“I came across it on cable last night,” she continued. “It had Russell Crowe before he was Russell Crowe. Not bad, but it was kinda slow in places.”
I was going to make a comment, but I sipped my beer. Obvious they never watched film noir of the 1930s and 40s, or even Chinatown, the Roman Polanski masterpiece starring Jack NIcholson and Faye Dunaway. I could mention that Chinatown was a direct inspiration for LA Confidential. I decided to sit on my hands.
“Cool,” her male friend said. “I rented Bad Boys 2 and it was so good and funny. Martin Lawrence and Will Smith are great. Might be the best movie I’ve seen in a while.”
That was it. As a self-described cinephile, I had a vitriol reaction to Michael Bay. How many slow-motion, rotating camera, explosion porn could a moviegoer take in one movie. I couldn’t let this stand.
“Bad Boys 2 is awful. You should be ashamed,” I said. “I would take Kill Bill, Lord of the Rings, hell even Finding Nemo over Bad Boys 2.”
“Nobody asked you,” the woman said.
“No, but I have a duty to steer you closer to good movies with taste. Granted, Pirates of the Carribean was cute,.”
“Oh that Johnny Depp is a character. Did you know he based that off of Keith Richards?” the man asked.
“Yeah, inspiring choice,” I rolled my eyes. “But that’s not the point. There is real art of the medium out there if you can only pay attention.”
“Whatever,” she said and turned back to her friend. But I heard her say under her breath as she turned. “Asshole.”
I shrugged. I got that a lot. Whether it was with questions about public policy where I researched the subject more than bill authors, or in this case movies, I thought it was important to educate when others are misinformed, uneducated, or ignorant. If she were talking about beer, or best travel destinations, then she can have an opinion. But film had been a passion since my mom sat my brother and I in front of the TV every day at 3 p.m. for the movie of the week on KTLA Channel 5. Most of the time it was silly Jerry Lewis or Bob Hope flicks, but occasionally they’d deliver a John Huston or John Ford movie.
While I studied journalism, I took as many film appreciation classes I could in college, broadening my influences to Italian Neo-realism and French Cinema Verite to my favorites Film Noir and Film Neo-Noir. While I pleaded with theaters to show some of these movies when I was in Honolulu, it wasn’t until I returned to Sacramento and the Tower Theater did I finally got my fix of niche films in a theater setting. Watching them on video just wasn’t the same.
“You Shelby?” the bartender asked.
I nodded.
“Go to the back and through the doors,” he said. “She’s waiting.”
“Who’s waiting?” I wanted confirmation that he was talking about my informant. the last thing I wanted was to mistakenly step into some weird backroom sex ring. At least, unless some politician was involved.
“Not the woman who will put up with your shit,” my new friend said. “She doesn’t exist.”
I ignored her and the bartender nodded his head to the side. “Door’s next to the supply closet.”
I slipped past the curtain. To the right were two small doors for the men’s and women’s bathrooms, so small that I knew they weren’t compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act. In fact, this whole establishment was a running violation. I turned to my left and saw a supply closet and there was the metal door leading to my informant – or a murderer awaiting his next victim.
I opened it and a tall, slim woman dressed in black slacks and heels and a bold red top with her back to me. She had a flip phone to her ear but didn’t speak. She nodded interspersed with an “uh huh,” before she took a big breath and started to speak.
“I understand your position, but you’re not getting my point,” she said in a voice I recognized from our phone call. “These are jobs and jobs are hard to come by in the Central Valley, especially these type of construction jobs. They usually go to Los Angeles or San Francisco, never to Madera, Fresno, and Visalia.”
The door, which had slowly closed, finally clicked shut at the end of her speech, and she turned at the sound. The Latina saw me in the corner of her eye and her mouth went from concentration to a fake smile, her dark eyes warming. She held out a finger to share she would be back with me in a moment then turned back toward the back wall and door to finish her conversation.
So, the mystery woman was indeed a staffer for the Central Valley. She looked familiar. Had I interviewed her and forgot? But looking at this woman, I was sure I would have remembered her, her full dark wavy hair bouncing as she continued her animated talk with whomever was on the other line. Her slacks were tight and accentuated a firm rear end formed by youth and hours at the gym. She had more dedication than me.
“Alex Shelby,” she said when she ended the call. She turned quickly, too quickly and she caught my eyes admiring her assets. I blushed a bit, but that only led to a sultry smile.
“The name my momma gave me,” I said. My dad too, but that’s a story for another time. “And I’m sorry. I’m bad with names. You are?”
“Bullshit,” she said, smiling. “You are very good with names, but only ‘important’ people. Not the folks in the trenches.”
“Nobody writes about the grunts, only the generals,” I said.
“No matter. You're looking for a way to get to the front lines.”
“What am I missing then?”
“Have you heard about donations at the behest of?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “An elected official can help provide exposure to a nonprofit, leading to donations and support. It’s a win-win. Since it’s a nonprofit, the donation is tax deductible. It also lets the elected know of the support and provides some goodwill for the politician. Of course, the practice can be abused as ways to peddle influence.”
She nodded, smiling.
“What if I told you that there was a politician who was blurring the line to the extent there wasn’t a line anymore?”
I sighed and shook my head. I wasn’t in this game to be manipulated. I was the one who was supposed to unveil the ulterior motives and provide a view of the entire playing field. I didn’t even know this person’s name and she was hoping to play me? No way.
“Look, like I said on the phone, I need some proof or something to go on,” I said. “First off, who are you? Who do you work for.”
“I could get in big trouble if my boss finds out I talked to you.”
“I get that, but you’re asking me to put my reputation and my paper’s reputation based on some unconfirmed report. I can keep you confidential, but I don’t go to bat for someone I don’t know, or I don’t trust.”
“Anna Ruiz,” she said. “I’m a consultant to Senator Florez in the district. I split time between here and the district and I think she’s pushing the line on nonprofit donations.”
Senator Theresa Florez represented the seventh State Senate district covering heart of the Central San Joaquin Valley. Her district produced a quarter of the state’s agricultural output, including grapes, almonds, onions, potatoes, and carrots. It also was home to the majority of the state’s immigrant population, most not citizens, many undocumented. She had cultivated a reputation as a law-and-order Democrat, while pushing forward a need for healthcare reform.
Senator Florez was in her second term in the Senate and there were rumors she might step down. If she was peddling influence in exchange for nonprofit donations, then her not seeking reelection would make the story moot. Still, breaking that story would make the front page. I was intrigued and skeptical.
“That’s all well and good, but I came here because you said you had some evidence and proof. This is hardly a story unless you can corroborate it. I need to trust you and right now I don’t.”
“I don’t trust you either Shelby,” she said. “To many, you are the enemy. I don’t want anyone to know it’s coming from me.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” I said. When an informant shares that they’ve got a tip, they need to produce proof. Motives are questionable, rarely altruistic. “Whatcha got?”
“Shelby, I have a single loose thread. Pull it, talk to Florez, and see where it leads,” she said.
“I have no time for bullshit,” I said, my frustration boiling over. I surveyed her expressions for something that would give me a hint that I was getting played. That’s the other thing about politicians and staff – they play three lies and a truth but can convince you that at least three are truths. And in that kernel of truth, were the lies that provided political leverage.
“OK,” she said opening her bag and pushing her hand deep. She pulled out a single sheet of paper but I couldn’t see what it said. “Here it is. Take a look and let me know what you think.”
My eyes opened. There was definitely something here…
Continue to Part 3
Side of Mustard
Announcement: Lose Yourself coming to Audible
Since last year, I’ve heard from countless readers about bringing Lose Yourself to audio. But for an indie writer, I assumed adding an audio version was cost prohibitive. But I found an opportunity to release Lose Yourself in audio form.
Just in time for the opening of the baseball season, I will be releasing the audio version award-winning novel of six interweaving stories set against the backdrop of a monumental baseball game.
Read more about the story here. Stay tuned for more!