Work Text:
“Why did you write this?”
“Well, hello to you too, Detective.”
Llewellyn Watts was clutching the morning edition of the Telegraph. He had rushed over right after work to the newspaper’s offices—in particular, the office of one Miss Louise Cherry.
“Hello,” Llewellyn said by obligation, then he threw the paper on top of Miss Cherry’s desk. “Why did you write this?”
Completely poised, she picked it up and smoothed it out. Her article was front and center. “You do realize what a journalist is? I write the news, it’s my job.”
“A job you are usually quite competent at, yet not so with this particular subject, it would seem.” Llewellyn let out a disappointed sigh—his upper chest felt tight with nerves and frustration. “You do realize Athos Rella—the Greek intruder, as you put it—was not involved in Mr. McBride’s murder? Indeed, he was killed by a born and bred Canadian industrialist. Rather puts a damper on the whole anti-immigrant propaganda.”
“It isn’t propaganda, Detective Watts. I was reporting the truth.” Miss Cherry set her mouth in a thin line. Llewellyn recognized this meant that she was getting her back up.
Usually, he would nod gamely and avoid the confrontation. But this was important—people’s lives were at stake, not to mention their friendship.
“Mmm nope, not so.” Llewellyn frowned deeply, picking at a mote of dust on the edge of Miss Cherry’s desk. He focused on it as he spoke: “Your article was filled with factual inaccuracies. Indeed, at no point did you even deign to interview any Greek people. Have you been to Greektown?”
“Of course. Despite what you may think, I am capable of doing my own research.”
“And you didn’t think it worth quoting a single person you spoke to?”
Raising her voice, Miss Cherry glared up at him. “Since when are you an expert on journalism? If you had studied writing, you would know that it was not that sort of article. Interviews with the foreigners would only have distracted from the message."
“You mean the sensationalist political rhetoric?” Llewellyn pointed down at the offending article, and read aloud: “‘The swarms of diseases carried by the Greeks are but a trifling consideration in comparison with their low character’… That’s the sort of drivel Frank Oliver’s been peddling for years.”
“Well he’s right, and it’s about time that people listen to what he has to say!” Miss Cherry stood up brusquely, nearly knocking her chair over. “Mr. Oliver isn’t arguing for an end to immigration, but rather that we should be choosy about who we let in. Otherwise, we risk having those foreigners outnumbering true Canadians. It is a real and terrifying danger, and I have the right to inform my readers!”
Llewellyn recoiled from the outburst on instinct. He had never been particularly suited to arguments.
Miss Cherry narrowed her eyes. “Did your Inspector send you?”
“No, I came of my own accord.”
“Well then, I don’t see how it’s any of your concern, Detective. These people are criminals. Why would you side with them?”
The wording chafed. This fictitious group of ‘True Canadians’ might be willing to accept him, but Llewellyn wanted no part in it. If he had to pick a side, he wanted to be on the side of compassion, dignity, and justice. Tzedek, tzedek…
“My parents were immigrants, fleeing the pogroms. And I’m jewish. My lot is inexorably tied up with ‘them’—not that I would have it any other way.”
Speechless for a moment, Miss Cherry just stared at him with wide eyes. Llewellyn looked back at her with as much confidence as he could muster.
“But… you, a jew detective!” She stumbled over the words as though they were oxymoronic; perhaps she was envisioning her next article on the secret jewish infiltration of the Toronto Constabulary.
Despite the nagging fear at the prospect, Llewellyn couldn’t help but feel some satisfaction to be able to claim who he is. Standing in the reporter’s office, he could imagine his forebears there at his back, urging him to learn from their histories of persecution and resilience. Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof. Justice, justice, you shall pursue.
Even if she might view it unfavourably, his Jewishness gave him profound courage in speaking his mind.
“There was rioting in Greektown this evening. Again.” Llewellyn rocked forward on his heels. “A lovely young couple had a firebomb in their kitchen. They are not your enemy. Those silver-tongued politicians and so-called True Canadians are not your protectors. They rain down fire and hatred on people’s homes. You don’t need to join them.”
“Are you going to arrest me, Detective?” Miss Cherry set her jaw. “Because I was here at work all evening. If there was property damage in Greektown, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
Hunching in on himself at her sharp tone, Llewellyn shook his head. “I didn’t come here for that.”
“Then, there’s nothing more to say.” Miss Cherry gestured towards the door to her office. “Seeing as we do not agree upon our facts, we can hardly reach an agreement in our conclusions.”
Llewellyn opened his mouth to press his point, only to shut it again.
He plodded out the door, his hat in hand. He had truly hoped they could be friends.
---
There was no article to stir anti-immigrant moral panic the next day. There was no mention of Semitic conspiracies, either. In fact, Louise Cherry had nothing scandalous or even remotely controversial to write for over a week.
It was a slow morning on the job. Llewellyn was practicing flipping his hat onto his head—considerably more difficult than he had expected—when he was accosted.
“They still haven’t given you an office, Detective.”
Hearing her voice, Llewellyn spun his chair around to face Miss Cherry. He tried to mask his discomfort by gesturing around the station house and talking animatedly. “There are only the two offices, and I’ve but recently joined the ranks.”
“Recently? It’s been well over a year. An office of your own is well overdue. That’s your problem—"
Llewellyn frowned and hunched in on himself, preparing for an attack on his person.
Miss Cherry noticed his reaction, seeming to catch herself. “I didn’t mean like that. I’m only pointing out that you’re a capable detective, and you deserve recognition. And an office.”
His face flushed at the unexpected compliment. He didn’t know how to respond; he didn’t understand what the interaction meant.
Miss Cherry spoke slowly. “I thought…” If Watts hadn’t known her, he would have guessed she was nervous. “You might like to join me for lunch.”
“Oh.” Llewellyn was taken aback. “Do you—"
“Oy! What are you doing in my station house?” Inspector Brackenreid barked towards them.
“I wasn’t aware I needed a permit to be in a public place.” Miss Cherry snapped back.
Before tensions boiled over, Llewellyn scrambled to his feet and drew his inspector’s attention. “We were just heading out for lunch.” He directed Miss Cherry to the exit, two steps behind her.
“Keep an eye on her Watts!” The Inspector called after them.
Stuffing his hands deep in his pockets, Llewellyn followed behind Miss Cherry, stoic except for the way her hand tightened around the strap of her handbag. Llewellyn kept walking a few steps behind her even after they left the station house, noticing the way she had stylishly twisted her hair at the back. He had always appreciated women’s many creative options for hair styling.
Llewellyn was beginning to doubt himself. Why had the reporter come to see him? Did she intend to re-start their argument? He worried that perhaps he had come off as harsh or threatening, before. Should he apologize? Or was it more politic to let the argument go unacknowledged, to pretend as if it had never happened?
He was jolted out of his thoughts as Miss Cherry abruptly stopped at the street corner. “It’s a fine day for a walk. Let’s go up to Riverdale Park, perhaps the hot dog cart you like will be there.”
“Fantastic.” Llewellyn smiled, genuinely excited at the prospect.
“Alright then.” Miss Cherry set off down the sidewalk, and Watts tried to match her speed.
“This reminds me of the first time we joined forces.” Miss Cherry smirked, tugging on Watts’ arm to prevent him from turning left when they were headed right. “It was last summer, remember? The tainted meat case, when we traipsed around the city to track down that moleta.”
“Ah yes, the case that nearly turned me vegetarian. Although I must admit, now that I am attempting to keep kosher, I am not sure I have the discipline for a purely plant-based diet.” Llewellyn realized he might need to explain what kosher meant. “Kosher is a set of rules in Judaism related to how certain foods are prepared and eaten.”
Miss Cherry adjusted her handbag, glancing over her shoulder. “You’re very open about that.”
“Hm? Jewish things? Well, yes, I mean I am jewish. Obviously, I’m still learning, but I find it fascinating.”
“Yes I suppose.” Knitting her eyebrows together, Miss Cherry dipped her head closer to Watts. “But you shouldn’t go around telling people that. It could come back to haunt you.”
Although it did make certain aspects of his life more precarious, Llewellyn wasn’t prepared to hide who he was—at least, not with his friends. “Seems I trusted the right person, in this case.”
They crossed the bridge into the park, and Llewellyn could not help but stop mid-way and peer over the edge. It was too sunny a day to see into the river, but the water was dancing with lovely shimmers of sunlight, so that was just as well. Llewellyn could hear the squeals of kids who were playing on the rock wall along the Don; he hoped none of them fell in.
“You’re not what I expected, Detective.”
Miss Cherry was leaning against the handrail to his left, staring at him. Self-conscious, Llewellyn scratched at the side of his face.
“No, it’s a good thing. I was too quick to judge—bad habit, I suppose.” Miss Cherry smiled wryly. “When you criticized my work, I assumed you were just hounding me for your inspector’s sake. Or questioning my capacity as a journalist.”
“No, I didn’t—"
“I know. I’m quite aware of my skill.” Miss Cherry sighed, leaning further towards the river. “But those articles I wrote… it was a mistake. I should have done more research and fact-checking. Frank Oliver played me for a fool—damn liar.”
Llewellyn nodded and thought of an appropriate quote. “As Aristophanes once said: ‘A demagogue must be neither an educated nor an honest man; he has to be an ignoramus and a rogue.’”
“Oh, he’s certainly not honest! After you came to see me, I did some digging.”
“What did you find?”
“Shady land deals with his friends, building small fortunes from stealing resource rights from Indians, maybe even some bribery with the railroad companies.” Miss Cherry’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Future ammunition to destroy him.”
For not the first time, Llewellyn tucked his chin against his chest and counted himself lucky to not be on Louise Cherry’s bad side. At least, he was inferring that was the case. Although they might not have reached complete agreement, they seemed to have at least come to a mutual understanding.
“I noticed you haven’t written another word about the Greek issue. Have you considered publishing something of a retraction, or correction—”
“Only failures and fraudsters print retractions.” Miss Cherry sneered distastefully. “Just because I’m willing to admit this to you doesn’t mean I’m going to put it out there for all my readers to judge me.”
“Perhaps a piece on Mr. Copley, exposing the way that he used anti-immigrant sentiment for his own gain. You could even interview some of the Greek construction workers who were targeted.” Llewellyn raised his hand as if he were in a classroom. “I speak some Greek, I could help with introductions.”
“You never quit, do you.” Miss Cherry said, more teasing than anything. “It is an interesting angle. And I suppose if you’re with me, I won’t be mobbed as soon as I set foot in Greektown.”
Llewellyn frowned. “That’s rather harsh judgement, considering they are the ones who have dealt with multiple xenophobic rioters.”
“It was a joke.” Miss Cherry looked out at the river. “Despite what some may say, I’m not completely devoid of empathy and morals.”
He heard a hurt edge to her voice; Miss Cherry dealt with venomously vitriolic letters every time she published an article. Llewellyn had heard some of that criticism from his colleagues at Station House Four. Hunching forward so that his elbows and forearms could rest on the metal handrail, he tried to soften his tone and expression.
“Sometimes I speak too plainly. I’ve been told it’s off-putting.” Llewellyn scuffed the knuckles of his hand along the handrail, creating a small music of hollow rings. “It was not my intention to suggest that you were anything less than a stellar reporter. Or a kind human being. Please believe me when I say that I respect you greatly.”
“I feel the same.” Miss Cherry tapped her own hands against the handrail. “Besides, I appreciate your honesty, and your passion. It’s one of the things that first drew me to you—I don’t think we could be friends otherwise.”
Friends. Llewellyn was so pleased at the title, the validation of his efforts to be deserving of it.
He stood up and brushed his hands on his jacket. “Well, Miss Cherry, shall we continue on our quest for lunch?”
“Certainly.” Miss Cherry linked arms with Watts, leading him towards the park. “You can call me Louise, if you’d like.”
“Oh, yes—Llewellyn.”
“Louise and Llewellyn—has a nice ring to it! The biggest act in show business, on tour throughout the Americas!”
“Oof, I’m no thespian.”
“And I can’t carry a tune to save my life, what a pair we’ll be.”