“Mail!” a voice called out as a hand reached over the top edge of the cubicle, wagging a short pile of envelopes in the air. Looking up, Lisbeth knew that if she reached for the stack, he’d just pull it away, so she waited for the hand… and its owner… to turn the corner. “Morning, Vincent,” she said before he even appeared.
“Tell me you got something good today,” Vincent said, his salt-and-pepper mustache squirming like a caterpillar on his lip. He tossed the pile of mail on Lisbeth’s already oversubscribed desk. It wasn’t until it fanned out accordion-style in front of her that Lisbeth saw the tear in each envelope.
“You opened my mail?” she asked.
“I’m your editor. That’s my job.”
“Your job is opening my mail?”
“No, my job is to make sure your column is the best it can be. And when it is, and when every person in this town is whispering to their neighbors about whatever scandal you so cleverly unearthed, we usually get about twenty to thirty letters a day, plus the usual press releases and invitations. Know what you got this morning? Six. And that’s including the invites.” Peering over her shoulder and reading from the mostly empty grid on Lisbeth’s computer screen, Vincent added, “You spelled DMV wrong.”
Lisbeth squinted toward the screen.
“Made you look,” Vincent added, laughing his little huffing laugh. With his navy and red Polo-knockoff suspenders and matching bow tie, Vincent dressed like Palm Beach royalty on an editor’s salary.
Annoyed, Lisbeth pulled his left suspender back like a bowstring and let it snap against his chest.
“Ow… that… that actually hurt,” he whined, rubbing his chest. “I was making a point.”
“Really? And what was that? That I should find more stories about handjobs in hot tubs?”
“Listen, missy, that was a fun story.”
“Fun? I don’t want fun. I want good.”
“Like what? Like your supposed top-secret source who whispered all those promises in your ear, then jumped off the face of the earth? What was her name again? Lily?”
“Iris.” As Lisbeth said the word, she could feel the blood rush to her ears. Four months ago, a woman identifying herself only as Iris cold-called Lisbeth on the office’s main line. From the shakiness in Iris’s voice, Lisbeth could hear the tears. And from the hesitation… she knew what fear sounded like. For twenty minutes, Iris told her the story: about how, years ago, she used to do Thai massages at a local bathhouse… that it was there she first met the man she called Byron… and the thrill of secretly dating one of Palm Beach’s most powerful men. But what got Lisbeth’s attention was Iris’s graphic detail of how, on a number of occasions, he lashed out physically, eventually breaking her collarbone and jaw. For Lisbeth, that was a story that mattered. And that was what the letters on her wall were there for. But when she asked for Byron’s real name — and Iris’s, for that matter — the line went dead.
“She was yanking your ya-ya,” Vincent said.
“Maybe she was scared.”
“Or maybe she just wanted some attention.”
“Or maybe she’s now married, and therefore terrified her husband will dump her the instant he finds out his lovely wife used to be a bathhouse girl. Think, Vincent. Sources only stay quiet when they have something to lose.”
“Y’mean like their job? Or their career? Or their supposedly well read gossip column?”
Lisbeth stabbed him with a cold, piercing stare. Vincent stabbed her right back.
“Six,” he said as he turned to leave. “Six letters in the stack.”
“I don’t care if it’s one.”
“Yes, you do. You’re a great writer but a terrible liar, sweetie.”
For once, Lisbeth stayed silent.
“By the way,” Vincent added, “if a publicist calls for some art award for the John family… don’t be such a snob. Think Page Six. Good bold names are good bold names.”
“But if the story’s crap—”
“I hate to break it to you, pumpkin,” Vincent called out, already halfway down the hallway, “but there’s no Pulitzer for gossip.”
Alone in her cubicle, Lisbeth studied the empty grid on her screen, then looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her trash. She bent down below her desk to pull it from the garbage, and the phone rang above her. At the noise, she bolted upward, smashing the back of her head against the corner of her desk.
“Aaahh,” she yelled, rubbing her head fiercely as she reached for the phone. “Below the Fold. This is Lisbeth.”
“Hi, I… uh… I work over at the Four Seasons,” a male voice began. “Is this the place you call for—?”
“Only if it’s a good one,” Lisbeth said, still rubbing, but all too aware what he was asking. It was the deal she made with all local hotel employees. A hundred bucks for any tip she used in the column.
“Well… uh… I was serving some of President Manning’s old employees,” he said. “And… I don’t know if they count as celebrities, but if you’re interested…”
“No, I’m definitely interested.” She hit the Record button and scrambled for a pen. Even on her best days, there was no bigger bold name than Manning. “Those’re exactly the type of people we love to write about.”
17
Maybe it’d be better if we stepped outside,” O’Shea suggests, towering over me in the restaurant. He’s got a buckled nose that makes it clear he’s not afraid to take a punch. He tries to hide it with his sunglasses, but some things are hard to miss. The moment he flashed an FBI badge, people turned to stare.
“Yeah… that’d be great,” I reply, calmly standing from my seat and following him through the open-air walkway that leads to the pool area outside. If I plan on keeping this quiet, the last thing I need is to be spotted with the FBI in a public place.
Surrounded by palm trees on all sides, the pool is a picture of privacy — this early in the morning, all the lounge chairs are empty— but for some reason, O’Shea doesn’t slow down. It’s not until we pass one of the many oversize potted plants that I see what he’s looking at: two guys in a small wooden cabana folding towels, getting ready for the day. O’Shea keeps walking. Whatever he wants, he wants it in private.
“Listen, can you tell me where we’re—?”
“How was your trip to Malaysia?” As he asks the question, I’m staring at the back of O’Shea’s head. He doesn’t even turn around to see my reaction.
“Um… it was fine.”
“And the President had a good time?”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” I reply, annoyed.
“Anything else of note happen?” O’Shea asks, heading down a short path that’s covered with water. A wave crashes in the distance, but it’s not until a cascade of sand fills my loafers that I realize we’re on the private beach behind the pool. Empty lounge chairs, empty lifeguard stands. The vacant beach goes on for miles.
As we pass a tiny hut that’s used for snorkeling gear rentals, a man with finely combed brown hair steps out from behind it and pats me on the back. He’s got a small nick that’s missing from the top of his left ear.
“Say hi to my partner. Micah,” O’Shea explains.
I turn back to the hotel, but thanks to the wall of palm trees, I can only make out a few terraces on the top floors of the building. Not a soul in sight. It’s at that same moment I realize Micah has slowed his pace, so he’s now slightly behind me.
“Maybe you should take a seat,” O’Shea adds, motioning to one of the lounges.