corner, referring to notes, presumably typing up her story about the incident in the alley. It looked like a lot of effort for what would be a twoparagraph brief, and it wouldn’t even make tomorrow’s paper. It was after deadline, the edition had already gone to bed. The attack on Cassandra wouldn’t see print until Sunday. Kavanaugh was engrossed in her story. She didn’t look up and Lacey didn’t bother her.
Vic grabbed Lacey’s bags from her desk. “Ready? Carry your books, little girl?” Having a boyfriend to carry your pack ages was a good thing, she decided all over again. Vic squired her back to his Jeep and then drove them to the National Press Club. Where she had been looking forward to seeing all the newspaper’s managers clad comically in Santa caps. But it wasn’t so funny now.
Lacey stepped out of the Jeep and wrapped Aunt Mimi’s coat around her against the sudden chill. It was unthinkable that any one at The Eye could be the mysterious Santa Dude.
Wasn’t it?
Ch ap t e r 6
The lights of the National Press Club gleamed over Fourteenth Street Northwest, across the street from the historic Willard Hotel. Just a short walk from the White House and the muse ums on the National Mall, or a short drive from Congress, the Press Club was surrounded by theatres and shops and restau rants. Lacey knew they ranged from moderately priced (where reporters paid for their own meals) to excessively overpriced (where reporters might dine with sources on the company’s tab, if they were lucky). Tonight’s entertainment was on the news paper’s tab.
The annual Christmasslashholiday party was as glittering an event as many of the paper’s employees ever saw. The Press Club wore an air of understated elegance, its dark woodpaneled entrance and deep blue carpets studded with designs of gold medallions. Flanked by the flags of the fifty states, an impres sive Christmas tree stood near the brassrailed stairway up to the upperlevel lounge. Glittering lights, evergreen bows, and poinsettias in red and pink and white were everywhere.
It was a chance for the regular reporters to mingle in a place where they felt they belonged, by right of their profession, but they didn’t, by right of the hefty membership dues. At The Eye it seemed that only editors and managers were members of the Press Club. Lacey wasn’t a member, but she had been there a few times for the occasional media briefing. She always loved to visit the place. It made her feel like a legitimate reporter, not merely a fashion reporter.
The walls were covered with photos of famous journalists, from the ubiquitous Helen Thomas, the reportorial bane of presidents, to Margaret BourkeWhite, the glamorous photo journalist who made her name in the 1930s and ’40s and ’50s. All the usual famous male journalists were present and ac counted for too, but Lacey’s attention focused on her role mod els, the women of the Fourth Estate. Missing, of course, were her fictitious role models, the ones closest to her heart, great dames like Hildy Johnson, played by the fabulous Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday, and the irresistible and intrepid flametressed Brenda Starr from the comics.
Lacey checked her mouton jacket. She and Vic took a quick turn through the party before moving through the receiving line. With its warren of cozy interconnected rooms, the Na tional Press Club was the perfect place for a large party to spread out and still feel like an intimate gathering. The buffet line was set in one room, with a prime rib station in the corner and open bars strategically placed. Many of the partygoers would round off the evening with a sherry or liqueur upstairs in the club’s Reliable Source Bar, a Washington journalists’ hang out overlooking Fourteenth Street and the Willard Hotel.
A middleoftheroad rhythm and blues band was playing in another room and the more musical members of the staff were already dancing. The corner room was the most popular: the
Vic grabbed Lacey’s bags from her desk. “Ready? Carry your books, little girl?” Having a boyfriend to carry your pack ages was a good thing, she decided all over again. Vic squired her back to his Jeep and then drove them to the National Press Club. Where she had been looking forward to seeing all the newspaper’s managers clad comically in Santa caps. But it wasn’t so funny now.
Lacey stepped out of the Jeep and wrapped Aunt Mimi’s coat around her against the sudden chill. It was unthinkable that any one at The Eye could be the mysterious Santa Dude.
Wasn’t it?
Ch ap t e r 6
The lights of the National Press Club gleamed over Fourteenth Street Northwest, across the street from the historic Willard Hotel. Just a short walk from the White House and the muse ums on the National Mall, or a short drive from Congress, the Press Club was surrounded by theatres and shops and restau rants. Lacey knew they ranged from moderately priced (where reporters paid for their own meals) to excessively overpriced (where reporters might dine with sources on the company’s tab, if they were lucky). Tonight’s entertainment was on the news paper’s tab.
The annual Christmasslashholiday party was as glittering an event as many of the paper’s employees ever saw. The Press Club wore an air of understated elegance, its dark woodpaneled entrance and deep blue carpets studded with designs of gold medallions. Flanked by the flags of the fifty states, an impres sive Christmas tree stood near the brassrailed stairway up to the upperlevel lounge. Glittering lights, evergreen bows, and poinsettias in red and pink and white were everywhere.
It was a chance for the regular reporters to mingle in a place where they felt they belonged, by right of their profession, but they didn’t, by right of the hefty membership dues. At The Eye it seemed that only editors and managers were members of the Press Club. Lacey wasn’t a member, but she had been there a few times for the occasional media briefing. She always loved to visit the place. It made her feel like a legitimate reporter, not merely a fashion reporter.
The walls were covered with photos of famous journalists, from the ubiquitous Helen Thomas, the reportorial bane of presidents, to Margaret BourkeWhite, the glamorous photo journalist who made her name in the 1930s and ’40s and ’50s. All the usual famous male journalists were present and ac counted for too, but Lacey’s attention focused on her role mod els, the women of the Fourth Estate. Missing, of course, were her fictitious role models, the ones closest to her heart, great dames like Hildy Johnson, played by the fabulous Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday, and the irresistible and intrepid flametressed Brenda Starr from the comics.
Lacey checked her mouton jacket. She and Vic took a quick turn through the party before moving through the receiving line. With its warren of cozy interconnected rooms, the Na tional Press Club was the perfect place for a large party to spread out and still feel like an intimate gathering. The buffet line was set in one room, with a prime rib station in the corner and open bars strategically placed. Many of the partygoers would round off the evening with a sherry or liqueur upstairs in the club’s Reliable Source Bar, a Washington journalists’ hang out overlooking Fourteenth Street and the Willard Hotel.
A middleoftheroad rhythm and blues band was playing in another room and the more musical members of the staff were already dancing. The corner room was the most popular: the
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