The note on her desk the next morning, from Maisel, was to the point.
Sutton 's office. The minute you come in!
– Lee.
Rune had received a lot of notes like this and they were usually the preface to flunking a course, getting fired or getting yelled at.
Heart pounding, she left her Morning Thunder tea on her desk and walked out of the studio. In ten minutes she was standing in front of Piper Sutton's secretary. Yesterday's look of terror at Rune's unauthorized entry had been replaced by a subtle gloat.
Rune said, "I'm supposed to see-"
"They're waiting for you."
"Is it okay to-?"
"They're waiting for you," the woman repeated cheerfully.
Inside, Sutton and Maisel turned their heads and stared as she approached. Rune stopped halfway into the big office.
"Close the door," Sutton ordered.
Rune obeyed then walked into the room. She smiled at Maisel, who avoided her eyes.
Oh, boy, she thought. Oh, boy.
Sutton's eyes were flint. She said, "Sit down," just as Rune was dropping into the chair across from the desk. Rune felt a shiver down her back and the hairs on her neck stirred. Sutton tossed a copy of one of the city's tabloids on her desk. Rune picked it up and read a story circled in thick, red ink that bled into the fibers of the newsprint.
NETWORK WANTS TO FREE KILLER OF ITS EXEC
By Bill Stevens
The story was short, just a few paragraphs. It recounted how a reporter fromCurrent Events was investigating Randy Boggs's conviction for Lance Hopper's murder. Boggs's defense lawyer, Fred Megler, had no comment other than to say that his client has always maintained his innocence.
"Oh, shit," she muttered.
"How?" Sutton tapped her glossy fingernails on the desktop. They were as red and hard as the finish on a Porsche. "How'd it happen?"
"It's not my fault. He lied to me."
"Bill Stevens?"
"That wasn't the name he gave me. I was at the Department of Corrections and this guy came up and said he worked for the press department and could he help me and he was real nice and he even told me things off the record so I assumed it was okay to-"
"Assumed it was okay?" Sutton's voice rose. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "I don't believe it."
Maisel sighed. "This's the oldest trick in the book. Jesus, Rune, you fucked this one up. Stevens is a beat reporter for the paper. He covers the government agencies. When he sees a reporter who's new and doesn't recognize him he finds out what their assignment is then scoops them."
"You walked right into his arms." Sutton lit a cigarette and slapped the lighter down on the desktop. "A fucking babe in the woods."
"He seemed like a nice guy."
"What the hell does 'nice' have to do with anything?" Maisel asked, exasperated. "This is journalism."
All ruined. My one big chance and I blew it, right out of the gate.
Sutton asked Maisel, "Damage assessment?"
"None of the other nets are that interested." He touched the tabloid. "Even Stevens didn't follow up on Boggs. The focus of the story was thatwe're trying to get him out. So we look like idiots if it doesn't pan out." He toyed with an unlit pipe and stared at the ceiling. "The story's hit some syndicated news services but so far all we've had are a couple junior reporters call Publicity for statements. Nobody on Wallace's or Rather's level. Nobody fromMedia in Review. It's a pain in the ass but I don't think it's critical."
Sutton kept her eyes on Rune as she said, "I've already gotten a call from Semple."
Maisel closed his eyes. "Ouch. I thought he was in Paris."
"He is. TheHerald Tribune picked up the story in their third edition."
Dan Semple was the current head of Network News. He'd taken over when Lance Hopper was killed. He was, give or take a few miracles, God. One of the reasons that Hopper was so sorely missed was that he was an angel compared with Semple, who was known for his vicious temper and cut-throat business practices. He'd even punched a junior producer who'd carelessly lost an exclusive to CNN.
Maisel asked, "What was his reaction?"
"Not fit for human consumption," Sutton said. "He'll be back in a few days and he wants to talk about it." She sighed. "Corporate politics… just what we need now. And with the budgets coming up in a month…"Sutton looked at the newspaper, gestured at it then glanced at Rune. "But the big danger of this is what?" Maisel was nodding. But Rune didn't get it.
"Think," Sutton snapped.
"I don't know. I'm sorry."
Maisel supplied the answer. "That another magazine or feature program'll pick up the lead and bring out the story at the same time we do. It's a news policy -we don't spend time and money on a story if there's a chance we'll be preempted."
Rune rocked forward in the chair. "It won't happen again. I promise. I'll be so skeptical you won't believe it."
"Rune -," Sutton began.
"Look, what I'll do is ask people when I interview them if anybody from any other station has been asking them questions. If they have been I'll tell you. I promise. That way you can decide if you want to go ahead with the story or not."
Maisel said, "The only weapon journalists have is their minds. You've got to start using yours."
"I will. Just like the Scarecrow."
Sutton asked, "The what?"
"You know, The Wizard of Oz. He wanted a brain and-"
"Enough." Sutton waved her hand, managing to make her face both blank and hostile at the same time. Finally she said, "All right. Keep on it. But if anybody beats us to the punch – I'm talkinganybody: a rap station, MTV, Columbia 's student station – we drop the project. Lee?"
"Okay with me," Maisel said.
Lighting another cigarette, Sutton nodded and said, "All right. But this was your last strike, babes."
"I thought you got three," Rune said, standing up, retreating to the door.
Sutton tossed the lighter onto her desk; it skidded into a crystal ashtray. "We play by my rules around here. Not the American League's."
The chameleon sat on the wall, at an angle, frozen in space, hardly breathing.
Jack Nestor lay in bed and watched it.
He liked chameleons. Not the way they changed color, which wasn't so spectacular when it came right down to it. It was more the way they were fragile and soft.
He sometimes could get up real close to them – the ones around the Miami Beach Starlite Motor Lodge were used to people. He'd pick one up and let it walk along his massive tanned forearm. He liked feeling the baby-skin of the lizard and the pleasant tickle of its feet.
Sometimes he'd plop one down on his dark blurred tattoo, hoping it would turn to that deep blue color, but it never did. They didn't change to flesh color either. What they did was they jumped the hell off his arm and scurried away like long roaches.
Nestor was forty-eight years old but looked younger. He still had a thick wavy mass of hair, which he kept in place with Vitalis and spray. It was dark blond though with some timid streaks of gray. Nestor had a squarish head and a hint of a double chin but the only thing about his body that bothered him was his belly. Nestor was fat. His legs were strong and thin and he had good shoulders but his large chest sat above a round belly that jutted out and curled over his waistband, hiding his Marine Corps belt buckle. Nestor didn't understand why he had this problem. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat down to a proper meal, roast beef and potatoes and bread and vegetables and pie for dessert (he thought it was probably Christmas Day six years ago, when the prison cooks had laid out a really good spread). What he ate now was just Kentucky Fried and Whoppers and Big Macs. He missed Arthur Treacher's Fish 'N Chips and wondered if they were still in business anywhere. Anyway, he thought it wasn't fair that all he was eating was these fucking tiny meals and he was still gaining weight.
Nestor noticed two red-and-white-striped boxes in bed. The Colonel grinned at him. Nestor kicked the boxes onto the floor. They tumbled open and bones and coleslaw shreds scattered on the floor.
The chameleon took off.
"Ooops," Nestor said.
He pulled on his T-shirt and smoothed his hair back. He yawned and groped on the bedside table for a cigarette. The pack was empty but he found a used one, still an inch long, lit it and stacked the cheap pillows against the headboard. He sat back, yawned again, and coughed.
Flashes of sun shot off speeding car windows and burst against the wall. The room's window, as advertised, did overlook the beach; that much was true. However, the view had to get across six lanes of highway, two access roads and the hotel parking lot before it eased through the streaked window of room 258. Nestor listened to the sticky rush of the traffic for a few minutes, then reached over and squeezed the butt of the young woman lying next to him.
The third time, when he got a little rougher, she stirred.
"No," she mumbled with a thick Cuban accent.
"Rise and shine," Nestor said.
She was in her mid-thirties, with a body that looked ten years younger and a face that went ten years the other way. Her eye shadow and mascara were smeared. The lipstick, too, was a mess and it looked as if her lips had slid to the side of her face. She opened her eyes briefly, rolled over on her back and pulled a thin sheet up to her navel.
"No, not again."
"What?"
"Not again. It hurt last night."
"You didn't say nothing about it hurting."
"So? You wouldn't have stopped."
That was true but he would at least have asked if she felt better before they went to sleep.
"You all right now?"
"I just don't wanna."
Nestor didn't want to either. What he wanted was breakfast – two Egg McMuffins and a large coffee. He crushed out the cigarette and bent down and kissed her breast.
Mumbling, eyes closed, she said, "No, Jacky, I don't wanta. I have to go to the bathroom."
"Well, I gotta have either you or breakfast. So, what's it gonna be?"
After a moment: "What you want for breakfast?"
He told her and five minutes later she was in her orange spandex miniskirt struggling along the glisteningly hot sidewalk to the McDonald's up the street.
Nestor took a shower, spending most of the time rubbing his stomach with this green-handled pad with bumps on it. Somebody'd told him that if you did that, it broke up the fat cells and flushed them away. He thought he noticed a difference already even though on the scale he hadn't lost any weight yet. He kneaded the large glossy star-shaped scar six inches to the left of his navel, a memento of the time a hollow-point 7.62mm slug had made a journey through his abdomen. Nestor had never gotten used to the leathery feel of the flesh. He had a habit of squeezing and running his fingers over it.
He rinsed off, stepped out of the shower and spent a lot of time shaving then getting his hair into shape. He dressed in a dark-green, short-sleeve knit shirt and the gray pants he always wore. Dungarees. He wondered why anybody would call pants anything that started in"dung." Shitarees, Craparees. He pulled on thin black nylon socks, sheer like women's stockings, then strapped on black sandals.
He stepped out of the bathroom, which was filled with steam and hair spray mist, and smelled the food, which was resting on the TV. The woman was sitting at the chipped desk putting on her makeup. For a minute, looking at her buoyant breasts in the tight yellow sweater, Nestor's hunger for food wavered, but then the McMuffins won and he sat on the bed to eat.
He ate the first one quickly and then, with the edge off his appetite, lay back on the bed to read the paper and sip his coffee while he worked on the second one. He noticed she'd bought some insurance; a third McMuffin was also in the bag – to keep his appetites and his hands occupied. He laughed but she pretended she didn't know he'd caught on.
He'd gotten halfway through the front section of theMiami Herald, reading the national news, when he sat upright in bed. "Oh, shit."
She was curling her eyelashes. "Huh?"
But Nestor was standing up, walking to his dresser, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He pulled out a jumble of underwear and socks and knit shirts.
"Hey, iron these for me?" He handed her the shirts.
"Jacky, what is it?"
"Just get the iron out, okay?"
She did and spread a thin towel on the desk for an ironing board. She ironed each shirt, then folded it precisely.
"Whatsa matter?"
"I've got to go away for a little while."
"Yeah, where you going? Can I come too?"
" New York."
"Oh, Jacky, I've never been-"
"Forget about it. This's business."
She handed him the shirts then snorted. "What business? You got no business."
"I got a business. I just never told you about it."
"Yeah, so what do you do?"
Nestor began to pack a suitcase. "I'll be back in a week or two." He hesitated then took out his wallet and handed her two hundred and ten dollars. "I'm not back then pay Seppie for the room for next couple weeks, okay?"
"Sure, I'll do that."
He looked at the dresser again then said to her, "Hey, check in the bathroom, see if I left my razor?"
She did this and when she wasn't looking Nestor reached way back into the bottom drawer of the dresser and took out a dark-blue Steyr GB 9mm pistol and two full clips of bullets. He slipped these into his bag. Then he said, "Hey, never mind, I found it. I packed it already."
She came up to him. "You gonna miss me?"
He picked up the paper and tore out the story. He read it again. She came up and read over his shoulder. "What that about? Somebody getting some guy outta jail in New York?"
He looked at her with irritation and put the scrap in his wallet.
She said, "Who is that guy, Randy Boggs?"
Nestor smiled in an unamused way and kissed her on the mouth. Then he said, "I'll call you." He picked up the bag and walked outside into the blast of humid heat, glancing at a tiny chameleon sitting motionless in a band of shade on the peeling banister.