December 1969
“Nobody wants to read about that fucker, Charles Manson.”
She hears someone along the circle of their morning meeting.
Therese tilts her head trying to see the face of who said that in the lobby of the newsroom. A few other journalists had turn their heads to find a young man stepping in view with an open collar and loose navy trousers.
“It's Tate they want.” He continues. “Sharon Tate. The star victim.”
“Victims,” Dannie McElroy corrects. “There were more than one.”
“Who are you?” Editor-in-Chief demands.
“Taylor.”
“What’s your full name, wise ass?”
“That’s all you need to know. Easy to remember, sir.”
A few chuckles go around the staff team. Therese now catches a glimpse of Dannie shake his head. Already he disproves the new colleague.
“I say we take down the story on Manson. Start from scratch and call it the ‘Sharon Tate Murders’,” their Editor-in-Chief dismisses the meeting with a nod of his head.
Everyone scrambles now; heading back to their assigned areas.
Therese finds the new colleague Taylor looking at her with a smirk. Dannie witnesses this type of exchange and he becomes enraged to the fullest.
“Can you believe this guy?” he scoffs during lunch, laying his ham & cheese sandwich back in its paper wrapper.
“Who does he think he is—speaking like that in front everybody?”
Therese takes a minute unscrewing the metal cap off her root beer soda with a bottle opener on the bench where they sit together in the mail room. It was where Dannie ran his schedule full time.
They had been watching their office secretary Eileen squeeze Taylor’s arm flirtatiously throughout his tour around the Times’ building. He didn’t seem to mind the inviting touch. Rather carefree by it.
“He looks well-adjusted,” Therese observes.
“He’s a greaseball. Look at the way he stands!” Dannie exclaims. “Half-bent like an old geezer!”
“Dannie,” Therese speaks with the glass soda bottle pressed against her lips.
“Don’t say that. You two could be friends.”
“Like hell,” Dannie growls. “I saw the way he was grinning at you this morning. Scumbag.”
“He’s got no chance.” Therese swallows the sugary drink, clearing her throat. And neither do you, because it’s Carol I'm looking after. I love Carol.