So Sinclair was rattled to learn the managing editor had, without informing him, replaced Sinclair’s handpicked entry with Tom Krome.
“I meant to drop you a note,” the managing editor said, not apologetically.
Sinclair measured his response. “Tom’s turned out some super stuff this year. What category did you pick?”
“Body of work.”
“Ah. Good.” Sinclair, thinking: Body of work? The rules called for a minimum of eight stories, and it was generally assumed they should be upbeat and positive—just like the ones Amelia J. Lloyd used to write. Sinclair doubted whether Tom Krome had used eight upbeat adjectives in his whole career. And where had the boss found time to cull a year’s worth of clips?
“Do you know,” said the managing editor, packing his briefcase, “how long it’s been since The Register won a national award? Any national award?”
Sinclair shook his head.
“Eight years,” the managing editor said. “Third place, deadline reporting, American Society of Newspaper Editors. Eight fucking years.”
Sinclair, sensing it was expected of him, asked: “What was the story?
“Tornado creamed an elementary school. Two dead, twenty-three injured. Guess who wrote it? Me.”
“No kidding?”
“Don’t look so shocked.” The managing editor snapped the briefcase shut. “Here’s another hot flash: We’re about to win a first-place Amelia for feature writing. As in ‘grand prize.’ I expect Tom to be in the newsroom next week when it moves on the wires.”
Sinclair’s head swum. “How do you know he won?”
“One of the judges told me. An ex-wife, if you’re wondering. The only one who still speaks to me. When are you leaving for Grange?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Try not to embarrass us, OK?”
The managing editor was three steps from the door when Sinclair said, “Do you want me to call you?”
“Every single day, amigo. And seriously, don’t fuck this up.”
Chub believed he was making progress with Amber. Each night she seemed friendlier and more talkative. Bodean Gazzer thought his friend was imagining things—the girl chatted up all her customers.
“Bull,” Chub said. “See how she looks at me?”
“Spooked is how she looks. It’s that damn patch.”
“Fuck yourself,” said Chub, though secretly he worried that Bode might be right. Amber might be one of those women who weren’t aroused by scars and eye patches and such.
Bode said, “Maybe you oughta take it off.”
“I tried.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It’s the tire glue,” Chub explained. “It’s like goddamn see-ment.”
Bode Gazzer said he was glad it was Chub’s left eye that was sealed, because the right one was his lead eye for shooting. “But it’d still be better without the patch,” he added. “Patch like to give you a blind spot in a firefight.”
Chub bit into a chicken bone and noisily chewed it to a pulp, which he swallowed. “Don’t you worry about me when it come to guns. Even my blind spots is twenty-twenty.”
When Amber came to collect the empty beer bottles, Chub mischievously inquired about her boyfriend.
“He’s not here,” she said.
“I can see that, darling.”
Chub was tempted to say something about Tony the asshole’s sports car catching fire; drop a sly hint that he and Bode had done it, so Amber would know his intentions were serious. But he wasn’t sure if she was sharp enough to make the connection, or even if she was the sort of woman who was favorably impressed by arson.
“Another round?” she asked.
Chub said: “Time you get off work?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Real late.”
Bode Gazzer cut in: “Bring us four more.”
“Right away,” Amber said, gratefully, and dashed off.
“Shit,” Chub muttered. Maybe it was the patch. He suspected it wouldn’t bother her one bit, once she found out he was soon to be a millionaire.
Bode advised him to back off. “Remember what I told you about low profiles. Plus, you’re spookin’ the girl.”
With a thumb and forefinger, Chub deftly extracted a shard of chicken bone from the roof of his mouth. He said, “When’s the last time you fucked anything besides the palm a your hand?”
Bode Gazzer said that, being a white man, he had a duty to be extra scrupulous about spreading his seed.