the city interviewing the victims of Mother Nature's wrath.
She talked to an irate starlet in Beverly Hills whose pink Rolls-Royce was crushed by a tree. Then Mordente sped west to the Santa Monica Pier, where the wind had kicked one of the city's notorious vagrants into the sea. After two more hours of on-the-spot reporting, Mordente shoved her three full reporter's notebooks into her purse and headed downtown for the Times building.
Mordente remained in front of her computer terminal for the rest of the afternoon, piecing together a story from her notes and frequent telephone interviews. It was nearly 7 p.m. before she was able to switch off her screen, relax, and grab a bite to eat. She left the newsroom and wearily trudged down the hallway to the elevator, taking the jolting ride to the cafeteria.
Her stomach growled, Get me food!, all the way up to the tenth floor. She strode into the cafeteria, bypassed the salad bar, and zeroed in on the grill. The gangly Mexican cook, dwarfed by a white hat resembling a mushroom cloud, greeted her with a cheerful grin.
Mordente placed her order hurriedly in Spanish, asking him for two grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches. While he prepared her sandwiches, she whirled around the circular buffet, snatching a handful of chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Doritos, and a tall paper cup full of black coffee.
She took her sandwiches with a thankful smile, rushed through the cashier's line, and settled down to eat at a table by a window. The moment her rear end touched the seat and her nose took in the aroma of the hot food, she could feel herself beginning to unwind. Outside, she could see the red numbers on the Times building clock glowing against the dark backdrop of the Civic Center buildings. Today, she realized, had felt like a week.
Her stomach took control of her body now, ordering her to grab a sandwich and wolf it down in six hungry bites. She did. Mordente had learned long ago how to handle her body. She knew she could occasionally put her stomach on hold for an entire day, but when the food was on the table, she had to let her stomach call the shots. That was the deal she had struck with her stomach. She understood her body and had worked out agreements with her bowels, hair, bladder, teeth, uterus, and, most important, her lower back.
The quick consumption of sandwich number one had taken the edge off her hunger, and her stomach allowed her to approach the rest of the meal in a more relaxed manner. Sipping her coffee, which was so hot it nearly scalded her tongue, she folded open the paper to the Metro section.
She scanned the narrow story running down the first column about the robbery of another bank by a gang who hid their faces with rubber Halloween masks. This bank was robbed, it seemed, by Yoda, Jimmy Carter, and a werewolf. She glanced at a feature photo of an elderly woman in a wheelchair rolling down the street, a duck on a leash following along.
Midpage, just under the fold, she found her lengthy roundup of southland wind damage. She read it with a sense of mild achievement and a renewed feeling of fatigue.
She was about ready to follow the story to the jump when she saw the tiny boxed article below hers. It was just a glorified filler, so unimportant that no by-line was attributed to it, but she looked at it anyway. Sometimes these short stories were interesting.
VENICEâA Hollywood nurse was killed Wednesday morning by an exploding bomb rigged to the ignition system of her boyfriend's car.
Cheshire Davis, 32, was leaving the home of 35-year-old Brett Macklin at about 6 a.m. when the blast occurred. Police say she triggered the bomb when she tried to start his car, a vintage 1959 Cadillac.
The blaze resulting from the explosion was quickly contained by firefighters before it could do more than superficial damage to Macklin's home.
A police spokesman said there is no apparent motive for the bombing and, refusing to venture an explanation of any kind,
She talked to an irate starlet in Beverly Hills whose pink Rolls-Royce was crushed by a tree. Then Mordente sped west to the Santa Monica Pier, where the wind had kicked one of the city's notorious vagrants into the sea. After two more hours of on-the-spot reporting, Mordente shoved her three full reporter's notebooks into her purse and headed downtown for the Times building.
Mordente remained in front of her computer terminal for the rest of the afternoon, piecing together a story from her notes and frequent telephone interviews. It was nearly 7 p.m. before she was able to switch off her screen, relax, and grab a bite to eat. She left the newsroom and wearily trudged down the hallway to the elevator, taking the jolting ride to the cafeteria.
Her stomach growled, Get me food!, all the way up to the tenth floor. She strode into the cafeteria, bypassed the salad bar, and zeroed in on the grill. The gangly Mexican cook, dwarfed by a white hat resembling a mushroom cloud, greeted her with a cheerful grin.
Mordente placed her order hurriedly in Spanish, asking him for two grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches. While he prepared her sandwiches, she whirled around the circular buffet, snatching a handful of chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Doritos, and a tall paper cup full of black coffee.
She took her sandwiches with a thankful smile, rushed through the cashier's line, and settled down to eat at a table by a window. The moment her rear end touched the seat and her nose took in the aroma of the hot food, she could feel herself beginning to unwind. Outside, she could see the red numbers on the Times building clock glowing against the dark backdrop of the Civic Center buildings. Today, she realized, had felt like a week.
Her stomach took control of her body now, ordering her to grab a sandwich and wolf it down in six hungry bites. She did. Mordente had learned long ago how to handle her body. She knew she could occasionally put her stomach on hold for an entire day, but when the food was on the table, she had to let her stomach call the shots. That was the deal she had struck with her stomach. She understood her body and had worked out agreements with her bowels, hair, bladder, teeth, uterus, and, most important, her lower back.
The quick consumption of sandwich number one had taken the edge off her hunger, and her stomach allowed her to approach the rest of the meal in a more relaxed manner. Sipping her coffee, which was so hot it nearly scalded her tongue, she folded open the paper to the Metro section.
She scanned the narrow story running down the first column about the robbery of another bank by a gang who hid their faces with rubber Halloween masks. This bank was robbed, it seemed, by Yoda, Jimmy Carter, and a werewolf. She glanced at a feature photo of an elderly woman in a wheelchair rolling down the street, a duck on a leash following along.
Midpage, just under the fold, she found her lengthy roundup of southland wind damage. She read it with a sense of mild achievement and a renewed feeling of fatigue.
She was about ready to follow the story to the jump when she saw the tiny boxed article below hers. It was just a glorified filler, so unimportant that no by-line was attributed to it, but she looked at it anyway. Sometimes these short stories were interesting.
VENICEâA Hollywood nurse was killed Wednesday morning by an exploding bomb rigged to the ignition system of her boyfriend's car.
Cheshire Davis, 32, was leaving the home of 35-year-old Brett Macklin at about 6 a.m. when the blast occurred. Police say she triggered the bomb when she tried to start his car, a vintage 1959 Cadillac.
The blaze resulting from the explosion was quickly contained by firefighters before it could do more than superficial damage to Macklin's home.
A police spokesman said there is no apparent motive for the bombing and, refusing to venture an explanation of any kind,
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