“We’re with the Metropolitan,” I said, and offered a hand. Merker didn’t even look at it. “We came to cover your demonstration.”
“I didn’t know the press was going to be here,” he said. “I don’t think you should be doing a story about this.”
I shrugged. “That’s really not up to you,” I said. “The police let us in.”
“Come on, Gary,” said Leo, who was in the elevator and holding the door open. “I’m starving. You know gettin’ electrocuted makes me really hungry.”
Gary Merker was still steamed and shook his head in anger and frustration. Before getting on the elevator, he slipped a finger in and out of his nose at lightning speed, then flicked it at me. “That’s what I think of your fucking story,” he said.
The elevator doors closed. Lesley Carroll looked stunned. “Welcome to the newspaper biz,” I said to her.
4
“I’VE HAD BETTER DAYS,” I told Trixie, who’d just been foolish enough to ask me how things were going. So I told her.
“Have you talked to Sarah since this morning?” Trixie asked.
“No,” I said. “She tried me on my cell but I didn’t answer it.”
“That’s mature.”
“I’m just pissed, okay? And I know it’s not her fault. It was Magnuson’s call. He put her in an impossible spot.” I shook my head, looked into my crème caramel decaf lattacino thingie. I had no idea what it was. Trixie offered to buy when we met at the Starbucks, and I’d told her to surprise me. We’d grabbed a small table in the back corner and had snared a couple of comfy, leather-covered chairs.
“And we had such a nice time last night,” I said, more to myself than Trixie.
“What, did you go out or something?”
“No, no, we stayed in. Cost me twenty bucks, though.”
“Really? Sarah makes you pay for it? That’s actually a very reasonable price, you know, and if there were any extras, it was a real bargain.” She grinned slyly at me. She was looking particularly fetching today, in a black cowl-neck sweater, black jeans and boots, her black hair pulled back into a ponytail.
I ignored all that and said, “She’s got this interview coming up, for foreign editor, and it’s Magnuson’s decision, so she probably didn’t feel she could come to my defense. Figured Magnuson would accuse her of not being objective.”
“Because she sleeps with the reporter in question. For twenty bucks.”
“The money actually went to Paul,” I said.
Trixie raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s too kinky, even for me.”
I took a sip of my drink. I didn’t know what it was, but it was sweet, and pretty good. “Anyway, look, these are my problems, not yours. When we spoke on the phone, you said you were in some kind of trouble.”
“Yeah, well, I did, didn’t I.”
“Sarah was wondering what kind of trouble you could be in that would bring you to call me. You need more chaos in your life? If that’s what you want, then I’m definitely your guy.”
Trixie smiled. “Sarah’s tough on you, you know.”
I went into self-deprecation mode and shrugged. “Look at what she has to put up with,” I said.
“I could put up with you,” she said, without a hint of sarcasm.
“So come on,” I said. “What’s up?”
She took a breath. “I figure, what with you being the only person I know who works in journalism, that maybe you could advise me on how to proceed.”
“How to proceed with what?”
“How to proceed with keeping some asshole from writing a story about me.”
“What asshole would that be?”
Trixie hauled her purse, a good-sized one, onto her lap and started rooting around. First, she pulled out a stack of mail and put it on our table so that she could better see what she had in there. “Just give me a minute,” she said. “I have a post office box, get as little mail as possible delivered to my home.” I noticed what looked like a Visa bill, possibly a property tax notice from the town of Oakwood, something from a car company labeled “Important: Recall Notice,” and a number of what appeared to be personal letters, none with return addresses.
I lightly thumbed them. “Fan mail?”
“Hmm?” Trixie said. “Oh, sometimes men write to me ahead of time, tell me what they want. They don’t want anything showing up in the ‘sent messages’ in their Outlook Express, if you know what I mean, in case the wife happens to read it.”
“Sure.”
She saw the recall envelope for, it seemed, the first time. “Oh shit, not another. Never buy a German luxury car, at least not a GF300. I thought the GF stood for ‘goes fast.’ Now I think it’s for ‘get fixed.’ It’s been recalled for the fuel injection, a power seat, cruise control glitches. Who’s got time to get all those things fixed? Open that, see what it’s for while I try to find this thing.”