“Hi, Marge, Clint just paged me.” Clint Wilkenson was our city editor.“Okay, Dylan, here you go.”“City desk,” he answered, as usual.“Cli...t, it’s me. You paged?”“Yeah, forget the three bag ladies.” Clint was a sarcastic cuss. “We’ll reschedule it. Get over to South Chicago, around a hundred and sixty-fifth and Kennedy. Some woman was beaten up and raped in her own back yard. The guy took off on foot so half the police force is pounding the pavement, looking for the jackass. Get a couple shots of. "Oh my," she said sardonically, "becoming a girlhas changed you into a needy little bitch, hasn't it? Whatever happenedto sugar and spice and everything nice? Why don't you go upstairs andplay with your makeup. Mommy has work to do."I had never heard my mother even be rude before that, and was takenaback. "Mom?" I asked. "Is anything wrong?" Nothing for you to worry your empty little head about," she saidwithout looking at me, "I'll take care of everything. Your job is to beas pretty and sweet. More

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