Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

of a man who was not resisting. The ’68 Watts riots claimed thirty-four lives. The ’92 riots doubled the number and burned down a good part of South Central. Both times, the US Army had to be called out when police and national guard couldn’t do the job. The video of King’s beating was sent to police forces around the nation as an example of what not to do. Apparently, not many watched it. Two years later, in ’94, a black ex-football player named Orenthal James Simpson would get even by killing two white people, including his wife, in Brentwood. He was acquitted by a mostly black jury. The jurors said he’d been framed by the cops.

Chapter 44

Watts was it for Lizzie. She was still a young woman—when were your fifties ever old in California?—but she needed something new. She found it hugely depressing that a community in her city could have been smoldering away all those years and that it took an explosion and dozens of deaths to get anyone’s attention. As the metro editor she held herself responsible. Why didn’t she know? The Times had never really covered Watts, certainly not like the white areas of the city. That was her fault. Under Otis Chandler the newspaper had made huge strides, become a national newspaper right up there with the East Coast papers. After a history of ignoring world news, the Times had as many foreign bureaus as the New York Times and had opened bureaus in cities across the nation. Circulation was close to a million, advertising was never stronger, and she could easily have asked for a budget to cover Watts. The newspaper that covered the world and the nation had turned its back on its own community. She’d grown stale.

To her professional angst, she discovered that somewhere along the way she’d lost her son. Lately he’d completely dropped out of sight, but she’d lost him long before that. The funny thing was, as much as she blamed herself for her failure on Watts, she felt no guilt over Robby. She’d left him alone—Joe had, too—to become what he wanted, which he had done. As children, she, Maggie, and Cal had asked for no more than that. It was the way she believed children should be raised. Advise them, support them, encourage them and send them off. Robby and Didi had both come to see their parents as enemies. How to explain it? Were the parents not caring enough? But they did care. In their own way they had always cared and always acted in their children’s best interest. Maybe they hadn’t suffocated the children with love, but that was not their way, not the Presbyterian way, not the Mull way. Beyond that, they’d had their own careers to look after. Shouldn’t mothers have careers? She and Maggie had always agreed on that point: Don’t let the children get in the way. It’s the same way they’d viewed things as children: Don’t let the parents get in the way. Do your own thing; find your own level.

Otis wanted to give her a sendoff in the Gold Room of the Biltmore, but she wouldn’t have it. She didn’t have that many friends left at the newspaper. Miss Adelaide was retired and living in a home in the Valley; Larry McManus had died on the job, as expected, and was carried out. Lizzie was a decade older than Otis himself, and people had started calling her ma’am. It was time to move on. Go out on your own terms. Joe was working full time at Universal, and she could move into his study to write. Or into Robby’s room, for that matter. She would write mornings and spend afternoons with Maggie in the foundation’s offices down the corridor from the Sierra Club. The three of them would be together. As always.

Her first afternoon at the foundation was a shock. She’d taken two weeks off after leaving the Times and flown with Joe to Hawaii on the first vacation they’d ever had together. “This isvacation,” Joe would say whenever she’d raised the subject. “People come here, to Southern California, on vacation. We don’t need to go anywhere.” But they’d gone to Waikiki, sailed to other islands and come home refreshed. Joe was busier than ever. Memory Laine was a distant McCarthyite memory, and Buddy Fix, who’d moved to Universal when RKO and Howard Hughes moved on, put him on the permanent writing staff. Lizzie settled into Joe’s old office looking out on the garden and got to work on the first of her books, the one Joe hoped to turn into a Los Angeles noir, The Barton Pitts Story. Her next book, which she would think about daily stuck in downtown traffic, would be called: The Great Transportation Conspiracy. She remembered Fred Barrett’s prediction: the new freeway would exactly parallel the old Santa Monica trolley tracks. After that, she would tackle Willie and Sister Angie.

She arrived downtown after lunch on their second day back from the islands. She’d looked into Cal’s office on the way and was surprised when he got up to accompany her down the corridor to the foundation. “Got some news for you my dear,” he said. “Brace yourself.”

The foundation’s assets had grown nicely over the years, giving them close to $10 million annual income to spend. They had a staff of twelve, including four officers whose job was to review the dozens of proposals that came in each year. They were an important contributor to the Sierra Club and had spent heavily to assure passage of the initiative to create the California Coastal Commission. Though massively outspent by lobbyists and developers, the people’s initiative won easily. Sea Ranch had done it. Playa Vista was next.

Maggie was waiting, and the sisters settled onto the couch. Cal stood by the window. Looking at him, the way the light hit his face, Lizzie saw traces of Uncle Willie she’d never noticed before. Do boys come