“Well, he got my story this afternoon. I thought we were just having a man-to-man chat, but he was pumping me, because he thought I was you.”
“Just what is your story, anyway? Last I heard, you were quitting to write the great American novel.”
“Well, publishers have less taste than I thought. It didn’t exactly get snapped up. And what’s your story? Last I knew, you were writing bad house and home stuff and shaking your ass around the newsroom.”
“I finally got a shot at something gritty, and it worked out.”
"The highway bid-rigging thing?“
"Right, and I didn’t get the assignment by shaking my ass.” She grinned. “If I’d done that, I’d be city editor by now.”
He laughed. “Well, at least you know your strengths.”
“Listen, buster, my strength is investigative reporting, and I’m going to find out what’s going on up here, I promise you.”
“If I take the heat from Scully for you.”
“I have to believe you’re gentleman enough to help me,” she said, arranging her features into a semblance of vulnerability.
“Don’t pull that horseshit with me. You’ve been coming on like Walter Winchell all evening, and now you’re making like Scarlett O’Hara?”
She banged her glass on the heavy table. “Oh, godammit, can’t you see what a terrific story this could make? A country-fried drug operation that nobody knows about? You’ve got your Pulitzer, now give me a shot at mine.”
“Even if I have to give Bo Scully a shot at me?”
“You saved his life this afternoon. It would violate his dumb macho code to hurt you now.”
“What’s so dumb about that?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. He’s seen too many Clint Eastwood movies.”
“Don’t you think for a minute that Scully isn’t bright. He’s in the catbird seat up here, and he didn’t get there by being stupid. You sniff around him too much, and you’ll get a nose full of hot buckshot.”
“Jesus, I know he’s not stupid. Neither am I. Look, just go along with me for a while on this. Let’s see what happens.” She stared at him worriedly across the table.
Howell shoved a cracker into his mouth and chewed it silently.
“Besides,” she said smugly, “now you’re just as curious as I am. Once a reporter…”
He washed down the cracker with cold beer. “Now that’s the first smart thing you’ve said. Why didn’t you try that tactic first instead of all that other crap?”
She laughed. “Because I didn’t know it was true. I thought you really had become the novelist, but under that cruddy sport shirt beats the heart of an old newspaperman.”
“What do you mean, cruddy? It’s a damn fine sport shirt. And what do you mean, old?”
“How old are you?”
“None of your business.”
“I’d say, forty, ah…”
“I was thirty-nine last month, and I look thirty-five, tops. And you? You’re just a snot-nosed cub reporter on your first undercover…”
“I’m twenty-four, and I’ve got three years on a major metropolitan daily, and who told you you look thirty-five? Jesus, you look older than my father, and he’s forty-six! Oh, if we cleaned you up a bit, got you a shave and combed your hair over the bald spot…”
“I’m only balding if you’re taller than I am and stand behind me. You wouldn’t come up to my belt buckle if you stood on tiptoe… you could walk under tables… what’re you, four-ten, four-eleven?”
“I’m nearly five-two, and I’m probably stronger than you are. Want to arm wrestle?”
“Let’s see who can piss farthest – that’s what this is all about isn’t it?”
“Don’t be so sure you’d win, buster. You going to blow my cover on this one, or you going to do the right thing?”
“Oh, hell, all right, but I hate to do this to Scully; I sort of like him.”
“So do I; he’s a very attractive man.”
“He thinks you’re cute, too, but you’re too close to home for him. He suggested I give you a call.”
She started for the kitchen with the dirty dishes. “Why don’t you?”
“Taylor’s Fish Camp tomorrow night?”
“You’re on.” She grabbed her jacket.“ ”You’d better soak in a hot tub and get to bed.“
“Join me?”
She laughed. “I don’t think you’re up to it.” She skipped down the stairs and headed for her car.
He watched her drive away. It had been a long time since he had made a dinner date with a girl. He felt foolishly happy about it. He thought about Elizabeth, but she seemed terribly far away. While he was married, he hadn’t done a lot of fooling around, but he didn’t feel married anymore, somehow.
Scotty drove slowly back to the room she had taken at the home of an elderly widow, Mrs. McMahon. She could not believe how well this was working out. When John Howell had walked into the office that afternoon, she had nearly peed in her pants, but now it was going to be okay. It was going to be better than okay, because now Bo had a visible reporter to worry about.
She had gone way out on a limb with the paper on this one. They had always thought she was reckless, and maybe she was, a bit, but that got results. Still, she had problems; when she wanted the police beat, she got the society page; when she wanted to do investigative work, she got the second-string job at the state capitol. It annoyed her greatly that they hadn’t kept her on staff for this job, that she had to do it on her own time and money. If she pulled it off, she’d be a hero in the newsroom, but if she didn’t go back with the goods on Bo Scully, she couldn’t go back at all. She’d be writing about womens’ club meetings on some county weekly.
Quite apart from Howell’s taking the heat off her, she was glad to have him in town. In Atlanta, she had avoided tying herself to one man, but she was accustomed to an active sex life, even if she had to hit the singles bars to keep it up. In Sutherland, however, the only attractive man around had been Bo Scully, and he was for her, as she was for him, too close to home. Still, Howell had turned up just in time. Another week, she knew, and she’d have been in bed with Bo. Another day, now, and she’d be in bed with John Howell. She could always tell.
In her room, she dialed an Atlanta number.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hiya, kid, how’re you doing?”
“Okay, just fine.” Her father was a widowed orthopedic surgeon who practiced at Emory University Hospital, in Atlanta. Her mother had been dead for less than a year, and she made it a point to see him often. Since she had been in Sutherland, she had telephoned him two or three times a week.
“You’re really okay, now? You’re not doing anything dangerous.”
“Honest, Daddy, it’s just like I told you. All I do is work in the office. It’s less dangerous than writing society stuff for the Constitution.”
“Well, I know you’re a tough little nut, anyway. After all, dynamite comes in small packages.”
“You know it.” It had been his joke for as long as she could remember. “How’s the practice of medicine? Left any tools in patients this week?”
“Well, there’s a crowbar missing around the office, but it’ll turn up. When you coming home? I miss you.”
“I know, Daddy, I miss you, too, but I’ve got to stick it out up here for as long as it takes.”
“How long is that going to be?”
“Well, who knows, but if I can’t dig up something in three months, I probably never will.”
“Three months, huh? Is that a promise?” “Well… almost. Listen, I’d better run. Big day in law enforcement tomorrow.”
“Take care of yourself, now. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay, Daddy. I love you. Goodbye.” Scotty hung up and made one other call, to the answering machine in her Atlanta apartment. A couple of calls from guys. No point in returning them; it would just make her hornier. As she brushed her teeth before going to bed, Scotty reminded herself to take her pill the next morning. She was glad she hadn’t gone off it. She had always known something would turn up, and now, something had.