CHAPTER1
“I’d like a cheeseburger with extra guacamole and—”
“Extra guac is a dollar,” barks the man behind the counter.
“Sure, no problem.” I force a smile, recalling one of the most valuable lessons I picked up waiting tables in college: never piss off the people who handle your food.
But the effort is wasted. The namesake behind Ben’s Burgers never shifts his eyes from a grease-stained notepad.
“That all?”
It’s more of a challenge than a question.
“Can I also get a large order of fries and a Pepsi?”
“No Pepsi. Coke.”
And still no eye contact. My voice says, “That’s fine,” while my mind says, “Why am I giving money to this jerk?”
When Nate asks to change his order, Ben’s gray hair shoots up like a pigeon. Eyes the color of mashed peas peer over clunky frames. He sighs so hard garlic smacks my face.
“You know what?” Nate says. “I’m good.”
I marvel at the line stretching out the door. When it opened two months ago, a reviewer for the Phoenix New Times gave Ben kudos for using Arizona beef. That was enough to attract the “Buy local, eat local” crowd. Then, Phoenix magazine seduced old schoolers yearning for simpler times and young creatives craving a taste of Seinfeld by highlighting the differences between Ben and his downtown neighbors. Nestled between a vegan restaurant where orders are placed via iPads and a craft brewery where beer flights are paid by phone, you’ll find Mr. Cash Only. No touchscreens, no sample-size drinks, and no gluten-free buns.
“Give it a chance,” Nate says while squirting ketchup into a cup. “Everyone in the newsroom raves about the burgers.”
“Can’t be the service.” I grab napkins and follow him to a crumb-coated table with wobbly legs and mismatched chairs. “Or the décor.”
White walls, as frosty as the owner, provide a backdrop for posters of Central Park, the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty. Across the menu board, a string of Yankees pennants hangs a safe distance from oil splatters. Maybe the New York vibe fills a void for some customers. Phoenix doesn’t get as many East Coast transplants as it does Midwesterners and Canadians. For decades, Major League Baseball fans from Illinois, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Missouri have cheered on their teams at spring training games in Arizona, while their northern neighbors hosted the Great Canadian Picnic during the winter at South Mountain Park.
With October approaching, Arizonans will observe the end of triple-digit temperatures in their own ways. Some will return to hiking trails, others will unpack patio furniture, and the fashion-conscious will debate when it’s acceptable to bring out boots. Everyone relishes the respite from air-conditioning bills. If you ever hear a Phoenician claim it’s only hot in July and August, know you’re dealing with someone who considers the teens hot—that’s teens, plus a hundred degrees. Despite diverse weather interpretations—and demographics and political opinions—there’s universal consensus this time of year that the worst is behind us.
Nate lines up his plastic utensils, napkins, and condiments as precisely as he does his tripod, lights, and camera. “What’s the plan?”
“We can hit strip malls and get video of cars with out-of-state license plates. Then, play it by ear.”
People who move to Arizona are often surprised by how much it costs to register their cars. Many states charge flat fees based on a vehicle’s size, so someone with a ten-year old Camry pays the same as someone with a new Camry. Arizona’s fee includes a tax based on a vehicle’s assessed value, easily several hundred dollars for newer cars.
“How many snowbirds you think we’ll find?” Nate asks.
“September’s kinda early to flock here. I don’t think it’s even snowed yet in Canada.”
“Isn’t it always snowing somewhere in Canada?”
“Now you sound like New Yorkers who think it’s always hot in Arizona.”
“I think snowbirds—whether they’re Canadians or Midwesterners—will be our best bet for the story.”
To get around paying high registration fees, people can use out-of-state addresses. It’s legal if they spend less than half the year in Arizona, but some scam the system. Nate Thompson and I are pursuing these “scofflaws,” as the managers at our TV station have dubbed them.
“How about this? If we see someone with an out-of-state license plate I’ll walk up, explain we’re doing a story about car registration costs, and ask if they’ll talk to us.”
Nate cocks his head. “You think someone who lives here but doesn’t register their car here and knowingly breaks the law will go on camera?”
“Come on, you know how it is. Everyone likes to complain about the government taking too much of their money. Get certain people talking and they don’t stop.”
I’m not ecstatic about the assignment, but it’s the first in my hybrid role, which does excite me. I spend half the week as a general assignment reporter—covering anything from a dust storm during monsoon season to a newborn giraffe at the zoo—and the rest of the week on special projects, stories that take more time to research and produce and that get more air time. The switch away from full-time GA reporting came after my investigation into dangerous working conditions for Phoenix park rangers. I interviewed a ranger who tried to break up a trash-talking match during an adult softball game and ended up with a bloody nose. Another ranger quit after being ordered not to call the police on people using drugs in parks.
“My supervisor said I could request they quit using and then I was supposed to leave,” he said. “I understand parks are public spaces, open to everyone, but children should be able to use the playground without stepping on needles. Sure, I can call the Human Services Department when there’s drug activity, but the reality is they’ll never respond the same day. The problem is too big and resources are too small.”
Another ranger left after someone rammed a needle in her arm. She took a job in a small suburb where rangers are encouraged to call the police for help. After six months on the job, she hasn’t had to. As a result of my story, Phoenix sent more behavioral health specialists offering services and treatment options to parks with the most complaints.
The story ignited intense comments from across the board: people appalled to learn about drug activity in parks to people concerned about criminalizing substance use disorders. After reading the emails and social media comments, my news director—who initially yawned when I pitched the story—perked up like someone had slipped him the winning lottery numbers. Attention is the drug of choice in local news.
A voice brimming with irritation erupts through an overhead speaker.
“Order forty-six, you’re up! Forty-six!”
“Don’t want to keep the king of customer service waiting.” I leap up, knock the table’s corner, and nearly topple our drinks. “Ope, sorry. Give me your receipt and I’ll get your order.”
I maneuver past a party of selfie photo takers and press through a pack of people circling the counter. A hefty heel smashes my foot and, for the thousandth time, I silently thank my grandma for passing along her sensible shoe trait. When I reach the front, Nate’s food is also ready and, to demonstrate I can play by his rules, I present both receipts to Ben. He ignores them, shoves two trays at me, turns his back, and grumbles a number into a microphone.
Calling on another food service skill, I heft the trays, peek over my shoulder, and bellow, “Coming through!”
People split into two camps: ones trying too hard to fake interest and others reacting with “oohs” you hear at a fireworks display.
Nate paws a burger. “I’m starving.”
But before we can take a bite, Alex Klotzman sends a text.
901-H. Need u 2 go.
Alex is our assignment editor and loves to talk and text in police code. I show Nate my phone. He nods and peels back foil, releasing a waft of bacon.
“A wise photographer once told me there’s always time to eat.” A toasted bun cradles his double patty showered in cheese. “A dead body’s not moving right away. We can take five minutes to recharge so we can do our jobs.”
My teeth scrape my lower lip.
“C’mon,” Nate says. “Remember the last time they interrupted our lunch? Had to rush to the neighborhood fire.”
It turned out to be kids lighting smoke bombs in an alley. I set the phone down and Nate tips his burger. “Bon appétit.”
As I cram three fries into my mouth, a new text appears.
At KFRK. No ID yet.
I pound the table, point to my phone, and cover my mouth to avoid spraying partially chewed potatoes. “We gotta go! It’s Larry Lemmon’s station!”
Depending on how Nielsen ratings are dissected—and whether you believe his station’s promotions—Larry Lemmon has the most popular radio show in the nation’s fifth-largest city.
Nate swallows, holds up a finger, and inhales another bite.
“C’mon! You can have mine on the way.”
I stack fries on my wrapped burger using condiment tubs as a buttress. Forgetting a key lesson from Restaurant 101, I whip around and slam into a guy slipping between tables. Ketchup splashes my favorite blue shirt.
Annoying. But that will soon be the least of my concerns.
CHAPTER2
Nate and I cut through a clump of customers unaware of a potentially major story unfolding in their city.
Wiping ketchup off my shirt produces purple smears. “Can you work some photog magic on these stains?”
“No problem. I can make them disappear by framing your face extra close.”
“Very funny but not what I had in mind.”
We scramble out the door and what I see next stops me dead, every muscle freezing.
“It’s okay, Jolene.”
Nate’s words are barely audible over the hammering of my heart.
“He can’t touch you. He’s tied to the post.” Nate hooks an arm through mine and pulls me along. “Maybe you should talk to a professional. You really need to get over your fear.”
“It’s not all dogs.” A backward glance reveals a dark mask around its eyes, drool dripping from a tongue the size of my hand. “Just the big ones, the ones that can rip you in half.”
Now it’s Nate’s turn to brake. “Jolene, it’s a Saint Bernard. They’re known as gentle giants.”
“Key word is ‘giant.’”
At least we’re riding in Live Seven. Or Lucky Seven, as Nate calls it, since it survived last summer without overheating or flipping over. Unlike Live Six, which blew a tire and careened on Interstate 10, almost crashing into a cable barrier. Or Live Eight, which nearly sent a crew to the hospital with heat exhaustion after the air conditioner conked out during record heat. Our station uses numbers to identify trucks with editing equipment and a microwave. The microwave isn’t for popcorn—it’s to send a signal to the station to establish a live shot. While the scent of popcorn occasionally drifts through the truck, it more often reeks of a rotten banana, stale French fries, or rancid salad left in an open trash bin.
After Nate checks the side mirror and pulls away from the curb, I flip the radio to KFRK. It’s on the air but with no host and no commercials. Instead, the station is playing public service announcements. Stations run PSAs when they can’t sell the time to advertisers—mainly weekends, holidays, and late nights.
A light-rail train passes us, its center section advertising KFRK as “Real talk for real Americans.” As we head north on Central Avenue, I put Alex on speakerphone to fill us in.
“Initial scanner traffic referenced a 901-H at an office building. No mention of foul play, only someone collapsed and died. Then I hear, ‘PIO en route,’ so I check out the building. It houses KFRK.”
“But you don’t know if the body is at the station? It could be another business, right?”
Copyright © 2024 by Christina Estes
