82 Desire

favor.”
    “Big surprise. That alone makes it a story.”
    “I don’t know.” She was quiet, trying to think it through.
    “What, are you kidding? The woman’s husband’s missing. Maybe she murdered him.”
    “Or maybe he left because he noticed the wife was working late a lot.”
    “What’s wrong with you, Janie? This is a great story. And you got it—damn! But I don’t get it with the amateur pictures. Couldn’t you have called the photo desk?”
    She couldn’t bring herself to reply.
    “Go write it, kid.”
    Reluctantly, she went back to her desk. There were only three bits of reporting left to do: finish checking Bebe’s voting record, put together a short profile of LaBarre and his dealings with the city council, and get statements from the principals.
    She did the first two, and when there was no more putting it off, she called LaBarre and got no answer. So she had to do what she dreaded most—call Bebe. Her words came out in a rush: “Bebe, I’m really sorry, but we have information you’re having an affair with Ernest LaBarre. I tried to keep it out but—”
    “You’ve got to be kidding! That is patently untrue.”
    “You were seen this afternoon.” She named the motel.
    “You’re mistaken, Janie. That simply wasn’t me.”
    There was nothing to do but call her bluff. “I’m really, really sorry, Bebe. We’ve got pictures.”
    Without warning, Bebe started sobbing. “Oh, Janie, you don’t understand. It’s not what it looks like. Oh, please, please—you’ve got to keep this out.”
    Jane was free to use the quote—Bebe hadn’t said it was off the record—and she knew a kid fresh out of journalism school probably would. But of course she wouldn’t.
    Suddenly she thought of a reason other than sex for a city councilwoman to hold a secret meeting with a supplicant—to accept a bribe.
    “Bebe, tell me. I can’t do anything unless I know the truth.”
    “Can we talk off the record? I just want to tell you—to throw myself on your mercy.”
    “Sure.” Jane was feeling a lot more merciful than usual.
    “Russell and I—I don’t know, I guess we’ve been growing apart lately. I don’t know why, we just have. And Ernest and I have always been friends. Actually, the four of us have—Ernest and Sharon and Russell and me.”
    “I notice you’ve voted for him every time something’s come before the council.” (By now, Jane had nailed this detail down.)
    “I agree with what he’s trying to do. That has nothing to do with our friendship.”
    “Bebe, you’re an intelligent woman—”
    “I know, I know. But, yes, we’ve been allies, and things are different now. We started seeing each other—this way—four months ago. And nothing’s come up in that time. You see what I’m saying? We were casual friends, I admired him, I voted for him. We became lovers so suddenly—so stupidly, I might add, but omigod, I needed it—and then Russell disappeared and I couldn’t go on with it. All we were doing today was saying good-bye. I swear to God that’s what was going on.”
    Jane took a deep breath. “I believe you, Bebe.” Because she’d known Bebe a long time and respected her, and also because the whole thing now seemed a sleazy ooze she’d fallen into and couldn’t climb out of, Jane did believe her.
    “I believe you, but what am I going to say if all that’s off the record?”
    “You can stop the story. You can be a decent human being and just not write it—it’s going to cause a lot of damage, and what good can it possibly do? The whole thing’s over.” She paused, and said what was in Jane’s own mind. “Besides, we’ve always been friends—Ernest and I. Why is it okay to have dinner with someone and absolutely dead wrong to go to bed with them?”
    Philosophically it was unanswerable, yet the practical answer should have been obvious to a four-year-old. “You know why. The appearance of impropriety.”
    “Jane, I’m begging you—the public good won’t be served by this story.”
    “I’m sorry. It’s not my call.”
    In the end, she had to go with “no comment” for Bebe and “couldn’t be reached” for LaBarre.
    David had agreed to “the Times-Picayune has learned,” after Jane threatened to take her byline off if he made her write it as it happened—exposing herself as a love-nest spy. In fact, she might even have quit over it—it was just too cheap and sleazy for words.
    The trade-off was, they had to use the pictures to give