Spoken like a true newshound, Krome thought. A regular Ben Bradlee.
He said, “Give me a week.”
“I can’t.” Sinclair was fidgeting, tidying the stack of pink phone messages on his desk. “I wish I could do it but I can’t.”
Tom Krome yawned. “Then I suppose I’ll have to quit.”
Sinclair stiffened. “That isn’t funny.”
“Finally, we agree.” Krome saluted informally, then strolled out the door.
When he got home, he saw that somebody had shot all the windows out of his house with a large-caliber weapon. Tacked to the door was a note from Katie:
“I’m sorry, Tom, it’s all my fault.”
By the time she got there, an hour later, he had most of the glass swept up. She came up the steps and handed him a check for $500. She said, “Honestly, I’m so ashamed.”
“All this because I didn’t call?”
“Sort of.”
Krome expected to be angrier about the broken windows, but upon reflection he considered it a personal milestone of sorts: the first time that a sexual relationship had resulted in a major insurance claim. Krome wondered if he’d finally entered the netherworld of white-trash romance.
He said to Katie: “Come on in.”
“No, Tommy, we can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”
“But the breeze is nice, no?”
“Follow me.” She turned and trotted toward her car—darn good speed, for a person in sandals. On the interstate she twice nearly lost him in traffic. They ended up at a Mexican restaurant near the dog track. Katie settled covertly in a corner booth. Krome ordered beers and fajitas for both of them.
She said, “I owe you an explanation.”
“Wild guess: You told Art.”
“Yes, Tom.”
“May I ask why?”
“I was sad because you didn’t call like you promised. And then the sadness turned to guilt—lying in bed next to this man, my husband, and me keeping this awful secret.”
“But Art’s been banging his secretaries for years.”
Katie said, “It’s not the same thing.”
“Apparently not.”
“Plus two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Krome backed off; he was a pro when it came to guilt. He asked Katie: “What kind of gun did Art use?”
“Oh, he didn’t do it himself. He got his law clerk to do it.”
“To shoot out my windows?”
“I’m so sorry,” Katie said again.
The beers arrived. Krome drank while Katie explained that her husband, the judge, had turned out to be quite the jealous maniac.
“Much to my surprise,” she added.
“I can’t believe he paid his clerk to do a drive-by on my house.”
“Oh, he didn’t pay him. That would be a crime—Art is very, very careful when it comes to the law. The young man did it as a favor, more or less. To make points with the boss, that’s my impression.”
“Want to know mine?”
“Tom, I couldn’t sleep Sunday night. I had to come clean with Art.”
“And I’m sure he promptly came clean with you.”
“He will,” Katie said. “In the meantime, you might want to lay low. I believe he intends to have you killed.”
The fajitas arrived and Tom Krome dug in. Katie remarked upon how well he was taking the news. Krome agreed; he was exceptionally calm. The act of quitting the newspaper had infused him with a strange and reckless serenity. Krome said: “What exactly did you tell Art? I’m just curious.”
“Everything,” Katie replied. “Every detail. That’s the nature of a true confession.”
“I see.”
“What I did, I got up about three in the morning and made a complete list, starting with the first time. In your car.”
Krome reached for a tortilla chip. “You mean… ”
“The blow job, yes. And every time afterwards. Even when I didn’t come.”
“And you put that on your list? All the details?” He picked up another chip and scooped a trench in the salsa.
Katie said, “I gave it to him first thing yesterday morning, before he went to work. And, Tom, I felt better right away.”
“I’m so glad.” Krome, trying to recall how many times he and Katie had made love in the two weeks they’d known each other; imagining how the tally would look on paper. He envisioned it as a line score in tiny agate type, the same as on the sports page.