Besides, when had he ever been known to say no to a lady in distress?
He stepped back and opened the door, motioning her toward the two straight chairs facing his desk. He kicked the file cabinet drawer shut with his heel and still got to his desk ahead of her in time to relocate an empty but smelly Chinese food carton and the latest issue of Maxim. He’d ranked the cover shot among his top ten faves, but she might take exception to that much areola.
She sat in one chair and placed her bag in the other. As he rounded the desk, he buttoned the middle button of his shirt and ran a hand across his mouth and chin to check for remaining drool.
As he dropped into his desk chair, he caught her looking at the gravity-defying champagne bottle. He rescued it from the corner of the desk and set it gently in the trash can to avoid a clatter. “Buddy of mine got married.”
“Last night?”
“Saturday afternoon.”
Her eyebrow arched. “It must have been some wedding.”
He shrugged, then leaned back in his chair. “Who recommended me?”
“No one. I got the address off your website.”
Trapper had forgotten he even had one. He’d paid a college kid seventy-five bucks to do whatever it was you do to get a website online. That was the last he’d thought of it. This was the first client it had yielded.
She looked like she could afford much better.
“I apologize for showing up without an appointment,” she said. “I tried calling you several times this morning, but kept getting your voice mail.”
Trapper shot a look toward the chair his phone had slid underneath. “I silenced my phone for the wedding. Guess I forgot to turn it back on.” As discreetly as possible, he shifted in his chair in a vain attempt to give his bladder some breathing room.
“Well, it’s sooner rather than later, Ms. Bailey. You said it was important, but not important enough for you to make an appointment. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like for you to intervene on my behalf and convince your father to grant me an interview.”
He would have said Come again? or Pardon? or I didn’t quite catch that, but she had articulated perfectly, so what he said was, “Is this a fucking joke?”
“No.”
“Seriously, who put you up to this?”
“No one, Mr. Trapper.”
“Just plain Trapper is fine, but it doesn’t matter what you call me because we don’t have anything else to say to each other.” He stood up and headed for the door.
“You haven’t even heard me out.”
“Yeah. I have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a piss and then I’ve got a hangover to sleep off. Close the door on your way out. This neighborhood, I hope your car’s still there when you get back to it.”
He stalked out in bare feet and went down the drab hallway to the men’s room. He used the urinal then went over to the sink and looked at himself in the cloudy, cracked mirror above it. A pile of dog shit had nothing on him.
He bent down and scooped tap water into his mouth until his thirst was no longer raging, then ducked his head under the faucet. He shook water from his hair and dried his face with paper towels. With one more nod toward respectability, he buttoned his shirt as he was walking back to his office.
She was still there. Which didn’t come as that much of a surprise. She looked the type that didn’t give up easily.
Before he could order her out, she said, “Why would you object to The Major giving an interview?”
“It’s no skin off my nose, but he won’t do it, and I think you already know that or you wouldn’t have come to me, because I’m the last person on the planet who could convince him to do anything.”
“Why is that?”
He recognized that cleverly laid trap for what it was and didn’t step into it. “Let me guess. I’m your last resort?” Her expression was as good as an admission. “Before coming to me, how many times did you ask The Major yourself?”
“I’ve called him thirteen times.”
“How many times did he hang up on you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Rude bastard.”
Under her breath, she said, “It must be a family trait.”
Trapper smiled. “It’s the only one he and I have in common.” He studied her for a moment. “You get points for tenacity. Most give up long before thirteen attempts. Who do you work for?”
“A network O and O—owned and operated—in Dallas.”
“You’re on TV? In Dallas?”
“I do feature stories. Human interest, things like that. Occasionally one makes it to the network’s Sunday evening news show.”
Trapper was familiar with the program, but he didn’t remember ever having watched it.
He knew for certain that he’d never seen her, not even on the local station, or he would’ve remembered. She had straight, sleek light brown hair with blonder streaks close to her face. Brown eyes as large as a doe’s. One inch below the outside corner of the left one was a beauty mark the same dark chocolate color as her irises. Her complexion was creamy, her lips plump and pink, and he was reluctant to pull his gaze away from them.
But he did. “Sorry, but you drove over here for nothing.”
“Mr. Trapper—”
“You’re wasting your time. The Major retired from public life years ago.”
“Three to be exact. And he didn’t merely retire. He went into seclusion. Why do you think he did that?”
“My guess is that he got sick of talking about it.”
“What about you?”
“I was sick of it long before that.”
“How old were you?”
“At the time of the bombing? Eleven. Fifth grade.”
“Your father’s sudden celebrity must have affected you.”
“Not really.”
She watched him for a moment, then said softly, “That’s impossible. It had to have impacted your life as dramatically as it did his.”
He squinted one eye. “You know what this sounds like? Leading questions, like you’re trying to interview me. In which case, you’re SOL because I’m not going to talk about The Major, or me, or my life. Ever. Not to anybody.”
She reached into the oversize bag and took out an eight-by-ten reproduction of a photograph, laid it on the desk, and pushed it toward him.
Without even glancing down at it, he pushed it back. “I’ve seen it.” For the second time, he stood up, went to the door, opened it, and stood there with hands on hips, waiting.
She hesitated, then sighed with resignation, hiked the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, and joined him at the door. “I caught you at a bad time.”
“No, this is about as good as I get.”
“Would you consider meeting me later, after you’ve had time to…” She made a gesture that encompassed his sorry state. “To feel better. I could outline what I want to do. We could talk about it over dinner.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“I’m paying.”
He shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”