“No hurry. You’re here to rest.”
“With a wedge of lemon,” Mary Andrea said. “Please.”
Sinclair scalded his tongue on the coffee, a gulp being his reflex to the sight of Tom Krome crossing the newsroom. Pressing a creased handkerchief to his mouth, Sinclair rose to greet his star reporter with a spurious heartiness that was transparent to all who witnessed it.
“Long time no see!” Sinclair gushed. “You’re lookin’ good, big guy.”
Krome motioned toward the editor’s private office. “We should talk,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I heard.”
When they were alone behind the glass, Sinclair said, “Joan and Roddy called this morning. I guess the news is all over Grange.”
Krome figured as much. He said, “I’ll need a week or so.”
Sinclair frowned. “For what, Tom?”
“For the reporting.” Krome eyed him coldly. He’d anticipated this reaction, knowing too well Sinclair’s unspoken credo: Big stories, big problems.
The editor rocked back in a contrived pose of rumination. “I don’t think we’re looking at a feature takeout anymore, do you?”
Krome was amused at the collective “we.” The newspaper sent its midlevel editors to a management school that taught them, among other insipid tricks, to employ the “we” during disagreements with staff. The theory was that a plural pronoun subliminally brought corporate muscle to an argument.
Sinclair went on: “I think we’re looking at a ten-inch daily, max, for the city side. robbers steal lotto ticket, unlucky lady laments.”
Krome leaned forward. “If that headline ever appears in The Register, I will personally come to your home and cut out your lungs with a trenching knife.”
Sinclair wondered if it would be smart to leave the door open, in case he had to make a run for it.
“No daily story,” Krome said. “The woman isn’t making any public statements. She hasn’t even filed a police report.”
“But you’ve talked to her?”
“Yes, but not on the record.”
Sinclair, fortifying himself with another swig of coffee: “Then I really don’t see a story. Without quotes from her or the cops, I don’t see it.”
“You will. Give me some time.”
“Know what Roddy and Joan said? The rumor is, the Lucks girl somehow lost her Lotto ticket and then made up this bit about the robbers. You know, for sympathy.”
Krome said, “With all due respect to Roddy and Joan, they’re positively full of shit.”
Sinclair felt a foolish impulse to defend his sister and her husband, but it passed quickly. “Tom, you know how short-staffed we are. A week sounds more like an investigation than a simple feature, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s a story, period. A good story, if we are patient.”
Sinclair’s policy on sarcasm was to ignore it. He said, “Until this lady wants to talk to the cops, there’s not much we can do. Maybe the lottery ticket got stolen, maybe it didn’t. Maybe she never had it to begin with—these big jackpots tend to bring out the kooks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We’ve got other stories for you, Tom.”
Krome rubbed his eyes. He thought about Alaska, about bears batting rainbows in the river.
And he heard Sinclair saying, “They’re teaching a course on bachelorhood out at the community college. ‘Bachelorhood in the Nineties.’ I think it could be a winner.”
Krome, numb with disdain: “I’m not a bachelor yet. And I won’t be for some time, according to my lawyer.”
“A minor detail. Write around it, Tom. You’re living a single life, that’s the point.”
“Yes. A single life.”
“Why don’t you sit in on the classes? This week they’re doing sewing—it could be very cute, Tom. First person, of course.”
“Sewing for bachelors.”
“Sure,” said Sinclair.
Krome sighed to himself. “Cute” again.
Sinclair knew how Krome felt about cute. He’d rather write obits. He’d rather cover the fucking weather. He’d rather have railroad spikes hammered into his nostrils.
With unwarranted hopefulness, Sinclair awaited Krome’s answer. Which was:
“I’ll call you from the road.”
Sinclair sagged. “No, Tom, I’m sorry.”
“You’re saying I’m off the story?”
“I’m saying there is no story right now. Until we get a police report or a statement from this Lucks woman, there’s nothing to put in the paper but gossip.”