“Shug,” said Reevis. “Some of the most important reporting isn’t glamorous or made for TV. This community has already lost most of its journalistic oversight of public institutions—”
Shug held up a hand. “I’ve looked into this thoroughly. You won’t be asked to do anything unethical or change the least little thing about your personal style . . .”
Nigel nodded. “Your honesty will fool a lot of people.”
“. . . And if you want to spend hours searching through court files, I’ll back you up. The only difference is that they’re going to film the whole behind-the-scenes reporting process.”
“But they’re bound to get in the way.”
“A small price,” said Shug. “You know how we’re always talking about the decline of our profession? This is your big opportunity to let the public see under the hood and understand the importance of what they stand to lose.”
“You really want me to do this?”
“And the timing’s right,” said Shug. “We’re getting this production team for a bargain.”
“Why?”
Nigel squinted at the reporter. “I’ll put my cards on the table. We’ve been getting increasing blowback lately about how real our shows are.”
“Like what?”
“The Gourmet Channel is about to cancel Full Boil,” said Nigel. “Hey, they said they were chefs. And the minute we found out, we bought them cookbooks. We did the right thing. But no, the network kept fixating on such a small piece of finger that it will hardly be missed. We’re suing the carving-saw company.”
Reevis was rubbing numbness out of his hands. “Where do I come in?”
“You provide credibility,” said Nigel. “The critics can vet you ten ways to Sunday, and you’ll come up a bona fide investigative reporter. In fact, we’ve already had some of our best investigators dig deep into your past. Glassblowers.”
“Excuse me,” said Rock. “Do I need to make any special preparations for filming?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it.” Nigel jerked a thumb toward the door. “You’re out. We have our own cameraman.”
“But I always work with Reevis.”
“Nothing personal,” said the producer. “You don’t have the proper training.”
“I have years of training,” said Rock.
“Ever run?”
“What?”
Nigel turned and placed a hand on the shoulder of a narrow-eyed man standing behind him. “This is Günter Klieglyte, the eminent Bavarian videographer, world-renowned for his signature technique.”
“Which is?”
“He’s perfected the art of running with the camera to make it jiggle,” said Nigel. “Creates a sense of peril. We do it whenever we can.”
“What if there isn’t peril?” said Rock.
“Especially when there isn’t peril,” said Nigel. “That’s when it’s needed most.”
“But I’m in great shape,” said Rock. “I’ve run with a camera many times.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve gone over hours of your footage. You never run when you don’t need to.” Nigel turned to Reevis. “Doughnuts tomorrow at eight. Do you carry a weapon?”
Chapter 2
Sopchoppy
Serge nervously glanced over his shoulder as the sports car swerved away from the gymnasium and raced west out of town. Coleman twisted the end of a joint in his mouth. “What happened back there?”
“A close call. I had sex.”
“But that’s a good thing.”
“It’s a split decision this time,” said Serge. “In most episodes of Route 66, besides getting a job in a new town, at least one of the guys bangs a local gal. It was required, whether they wanted to or not. Of course with TV standards back in the black-and-white days, they could only allude to it, but if you were paying attention, it was always there: a wholesome independent woman who isn’t leery of the newcomers like other folk. And if she was a widow, then you definitely knew it was going down.”
“You made me watch all your DVDs,” said Coleman. “I never picked up on that.”
“Because they were having sex during the commercials,” said Serge. “If you’ve got a work ethic, that’s more than enough time.”
“You said it was a split decision?”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “Having sex with her was my obligation to the fidelity of the TV series. On the other hand, we’re out to revolutionize worm-grunting, and intercourse always blunts your edge in a drive to the championship. Remember in Raging Bull how Robert De Niro shunned sex and put ice in his underpants before a prizefight? A few orgasms probably won’t cost me many pails of worms, but why roll the dice?”
“So when you told her about all the serial killers running around?”
“Trying to let her down easy,” said Serge. “During a breakup, you can hem and haw about ‘No, it’s not you; it’s me,’ but that can drag on for weeks. Jump right to ‘serial killers’ and it’s a clean break.”
“I admire you,” said Coleman. “I could never ditch a woman that hot.”
“The breakup was best for everyone,” said Serge. “Otherwise, instead of becoming worm-grunting kings, you end up in a Pottery Barn picking out boysenberry candles.”
“What a nightmare.”
“Those places give me the willies,” said Serge. “They exclusively sell shit that I didn’t even know was happening. Decorative boxes and bowls and baskets full of fragrant twigs and painted wood shavings, and about half the stuff is used to hide the tissues, which is why a runny nose is sheer panic in a woman’s pad. ‘Dear Jesus, in which one of these fucking things is the Kleenex? Maybe inside this seashell-encrusted octagon. No, that’s the monogrammed note cards. What about this faux-driftwood container? No, that’s like a thousand Q-tips, which is a separate mystery. Wait, it’s obvious, the antique shabby-chic metal tissue box. Crap, just jewelry’ . . . Until she finally catches you hiding behind a wicker birdcage full of natural sponges, which triggers another of her trick questions: ‘Are you back there blowing your nose in one of my monogrammed note cards?’”
“Why not just blow your nose with toilet paper?” asked Coleman.
“Why not just drink out of the toilet,” said Serge. “See, you have to understand how they think: Everything a man does in a bathroom is wrong, so putting toilet paper on your face probably doesn’t top their Internet-profile list of turn-ons. I’ll take my chances with note cards.”
“That’s why they’re always knocking on bathroom doors and asking, ‘What are you doing in there?’”
“In your case, it’s a valid question,” said Serge. “You chart whole new realms of forbidden territory that can piss a woman off.”
“I’m just doing my thing in there, like when I was at your apartment when you were married,” said Coleman. “Suddenly all this screaming.”
“Coleman, even I’m dumbfounded by the unfettered spectrum of forensic fluid that you bring into play.”
“It is what it is.”
“You existentialist, you.”
Coleman pointed toward the side of the road. “Weren’t you looking for a hardware store?”
“Hardware stores are the opposite of Pottery Barns. If the two ever collided in deep space, they would explode like matter and anti-matter.” He pulled into a dirt parking lot and chugged the rest of his coffee. “You always know where you stand in a Home Depot.”