On his lunch hour he would go out and buy her one.
When they returned to the motel, JoLayne changed to her workout clothes and went for a walk. Tom Krome made some phone calls—to his voice mail at The Register, where his insurance agent had left an oddly urgent message regarding Krome’s homeowner policy; to his answering machine at home, which apparently was out of order; to Dick Turnquist, who reported a possible sighting (in, of all places, Jackson Hole, Wyoming) of Krome’s future ex-wife.
Krome fell asleep watching a European golf tournament on ESPN. He woke up gasping for air, JoLayne Lucks astride him, jabbing his sides with her supernatural-blue fingernails.
“Hey!” she said. “Hey, you, listen up!”
“Get off—”
“Not until you tell me,” she said, “what the hell’s going on.”
“JoLayne, I can’t breathe—”
” ‘Helluva risk,’ that’s what you said. But then it dawned on me: Why in the world would a federal lawman tell you—a newspaper guy, for Lord’s sake!—that he’s about to commit a break-in. Talk about risk. Talk about stupid.”
“JoLayne!”
She shifted some of her weight to her knees, so that Krome could inhale.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Welcome.”
She leaned forward until they were nose to nose. “He’s a smart man, Moffitt is. He wouldn’t blab anything so foolish in front of the press unless he knew there wasn’t going to be any story. And there’s not, is there? That’s why you haven’t taken out your damn notebook the whole time we’ve been on the road.”
Krome prepared to shield his ribs from a fresh attack. “I told you, I don’t write down every little thing.”
“Tom Krome, you are full of shit.” She planted her butt forcefully on his chest. “Guess what I did? I called Moffitt on his cellular, and guess what he told me. You’re not working for the paper now, you’re on medical leave. He checked it out.”
Krome tried to raise himself up. Medical leave? he thought. That idiot Sinclair—he’s managed to muck up a perfectly splendid resignation.
“Why didn’t you tell me ?” JoLayne demanded. “What’s going on with you?”
“OK.” He slipped his arms under her knees and gently rolled her off. She stayed on the bed, stretched out, propped on her elbows.
“I’m waiting, Tom.”
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Here’s what really happened. My editor killed the lottery story, so I resigned. The ‘medical leave’ stuff is news to me—Sinclair probably made it up to tell the boss.”
JoLayne Lucks was incredulous. “You quit your job because of me?”
“Not because of you. Because my editor’s a useless, dickless incompetent.”
“Really. That’s the only reason?”
“And also because I promised to help you.”
JoLayne scooted closer. “Listen: You can’t quit the newspaper. You absolutely cannot, is that understood?”
“It’ll all work out. Don’t worry.”
“You damn men, I can’t believe it! I found another crazy one.”
“What’s so crazy about keeping a promise.”
“Lord,” said JoLayne. He was perfectly serious. A cornball, this guy. She said, “Don’t move, OK? I’m gonna do something irresponsible.”
Krome started to turn toward her, but she stopped him, lightly closing his eyes with one hand.
“You deaf? I told you not to move.”
“What is this?” he asked.
“I owe you a kiss,” she said, “from last night. Now please be still or I’ll bite your lips off.”
14
Tom Krome was caught by surprise.
“Well, say something,” JoLayne said.
“Wow.”
“Something original.”
“You taste like Certs.”
She kissed him again. “Spearmint flavored. I think I’m hooked on the darn things.”
Krome rolled on his side. He could see she was highly amused by his nervousness. “I’m lousy at this part,” he said.
“In other words, you’d rather skip the chitchat and get right to the fucking.”
Krome felt his cheeks get hot. “That’s not what—”
“I’m teasing.”
He sat up quickly. She was too much.
“Tom, you were sweet to quit your job. Misguided, but sweet. I figured you deserved a smooch.”
“It was… very nice.”
“Try to control yourself,” JoLayne said. “Here’s what you do now: Get in the car and go home. Back to work. Back to your life. You’ve done more than enough for me.”