7
Sandy sat in his cubicle at The Light and looked around. Finally he was alone and nobody close enough to see what he was doing.
He'd shown up early and received an astoundingly warm welcome that took him totally by surprise. People he barely knew had shaken his hand and clapped him on the back, asking him how he was doing, what it had been like, how he'd felt, how he was handling it, and on and on. Any other day he would have basked in their attention, but not now when he had a pad full of notes from the interview of his life burning a hole in his knapsack. It took a good half hour before he was left on his own.
And now, just when he was ready…
"Hey, Palmer," said a voice on his left. "When do you expect to be kicked upstairs?"
Sandy looked up to see Pokorny gazing over the top of the divider that separated their cubicles. With his long thin nose and thinning hair he looked like one of those old time Kilroy Was Here doodles.
"Funny, Jay."
"Seriously," he said, ambling around the divider to slouch his beanpole bod against Sandy's desk, "your story's all anybody's talking about around here."
Sandy shrugged, tried to be humble. "Yeah, well, I thought that night on the train was the worst of my life. Now it looks like it might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me."
"You spun some gold, man." His envy was tangible.
"I don't know about gold. Someone handed me a lemon and I've been making lemonade."
He saw Pokorny wince and wanted to kick himself. I don't believe I just said that.
"What are you going to do for your second act?"
The question took Sandy by surprise. "Second act?"
"Sure. Now that you've got everyone's attention, how are you going to keep it?"
"I… don't know," Sandy said, playing dumb. "I never thought about it."
"You'd better think of something, my friend." He straightened from his slouch and patted Sandy on the shoulder. "You don't want to be a flash in the pan."
Condescending bastard, he thought as Pokorny slithered from sight. Flash in the pan was probably his fondest wish for Sandy.
But Pokorny didn't know that Sandy already had his second act scripted. All he needed was a little privacy to put it into production.
It took Sandy another half hour before he dared to pull out his cell phone and begin. He dialed The Light's main number and punched his way through the options tree until he got to an operator. Then he cupped his hand over the receiver and lowered his voice.
"I need to speak to Sandy Palmer."
"Do you know his extension?"
"No. But I must speak to him now."
"Here it is. I'll connect you."
The Savior was supposed to have gone though this same routine from three different pay phones during the first thirty minutes after he'd dropped Sandy off. It was his idea. He thought Sandy's walking in after two days off just in time to get a phone call from the city's number one mystery man was a little too pat. Sandy had to agree. So the Savior was to make sure he talked to a live operator each time and then leave hang-ups on Sandy's voicemail to show that someone had been trying to get in touch with him for a while.
Sandy jumped as his desk phone rang. He picked up the receiver, turned off his cell phone and began the charade of pretending to be talking and taking notes.
The Savior… Sandy wished he knew his name so he could call him something else. But what a cool guy. And what a life he'd led. This would make a great piece even if he weren't the Savior.
And that might be a problem. How to convince the editors that this was the real deal and not just some kook? The only way he could see to verify the caller's bona fides was the pistol. Sandy would say that the man on the phone named the make and model and explained how he'd used it. Only Sandy and the cops knew about the Semmerling.
Then the next question would be: Why you, Palmer? Why a nobody like you instead of some network anchorman or nationally syndicated columnist?
Easy.
The Savior and I were on the death train together. There's kinship there. We're blood brothers.
That should work, Sandy thought. Sounds reasonable.
The editors would check with McCann about the Semmerling. Once that was verified, they'd believe. Because they'll want to believe. They'll be dying to run the story.
Of course that would mean another call, or maybe even a visit from McCann.
Sandy felt his sweat begin to run. That was when the going would get rough. McCann would want all the details. Sandy had only one lie to worry about. Just one. But it was a whopper.
He prayed he wouldn't slip up.