Thursday morning I woke late. No way I’d make it to second period on time. I forged myself a note from my father and headed off for school, stopping in at the Clarion on the way. “Do I look as bad as you do?” Pete said.
“Do you feel as crappy as I do?” I said. I asked him if he could talk to his boss about killing the Burned Beauty’s Beau storyline. He said he knew nothing about it. I flipped the paper to the gossip page.
“You think I read this rag?” he said. “I just work here.”
“Can you get Puglisi to back off Nicole?”
“He’s not one of ours. We don’t have the budget anymore to do stakeouts.”
“He’s on your payroll.”
Pete frowned. “Now Jay, I’m not going to ask how you know that. Anyway, if we are cutting him checks, it’s on a freelance basis. I’m sure we pick up his pictures from the syndication pool. And even if he was in-house, the chances of my being able to freeze this story are zero.” He circled the cap line over the picture: BURNED BEAUTY BEHIND THE UMBRELLA. “This kind of trash is the only thing selling papers these days. Her best bet is to stop running. The story dies when the mark comes forward and sits for an interview.”
“The mark?”
“The object of attention. Nicole. Gossip junkies love the chase. End that, you end the story.”
“She’ll never sit for an interview. The only alternative is to nab him.”
“Say again?”
“The perp. Catching him would kill the story.”
Pete shook no way. “That’s when it begins. They’ll be running columns and talking-head interviews with so-called experts until the trial ends and they march the unrepentant nutcase to the psych ward. Your friend is going to be living with this for a long time, and the more she hides, the worse it’ll be.” Pete studied the picture of Nicole, her mother and me in the diner parking lot, doing our best to hide behind Mrs. Castro’s umbrella and only half succeeding. “My advice?” he said. “Stay the hell away from her.”
My phone had been buzzing with a text. Starbucks Cherry: Hey, have you been getting my texts? Swing in for a free coffee sometime. Don’t. Be. Scared. I don’t bite, promise. I merely gnaw.