“Don’t you want to hear a war story?” Wiley asked.
“Shut up,” Keyes said.
“You want the boat? Then you’ve got to listen. Politely.”
Keyes grabbed Wiley’s wrist and looked at the watch. It was half-past five; they’d be cutting it close.
“A few years back, a little girl was kidnapped and murdered,” Wiley said, turning to Kara Lynn, his audience. “After the body was found, Brian was supposed to go interview the parents.”
“The Davenports,” Keyes said.
“Hey, let me tell it!” Wiley said indignantly.
The rain had slackened to a sibilant drizzle. Keyes tore a piece of plastic from Kara Lynn’s makeshift poncho and sat down on it. He felt oppressively lethargic, bone-tired.
“Brian came back with a great piece,” Wiley said. “Mother, weeping hysterically; father, blind with rage. Tomorrow would be Collie Davenport’s fourth birthday. Her room is full of bright presents, each tenderly wrapped. There’s a Snoopy doll from Uncle Dennis, a Dr. Seuss from Grandpa. Collie, won’t be there on her birthday, so the packages may sit there for a long time. Maybe forever. Her parents simply can’t bear to go in her bedroom.”
Keyes sagged. He couldn’t believe that Wiley remembered the story, word for word. It was amazing.
“A real tearjerker,” Wiley pronounced. “That morning half of Miami was weeping into their Rice Krispies.” He seemed oblivious of pain, of the thickening puddle of blood under his leg.
“Kara Lynn,” he said, “in my business, the coin of the realm is a good quote—it’s the only thing that brings a newspaper story to life. One decent quote is the difference between dog food and caviar, and Brian’s story about Callie Davenport was chocked with lyrical quotes. ‘All I want,’ sobbed the little girl’s father, ‘is ten minutes with the guy who did this. Ten minutes and a clawhammer.’ A neighbor drove Callie’s mother to the morgue to identify her daughter. I wanted to lie down beside her,’ Mrs. Davenport said. ‘I wanted to put my arms around my baby and wake her up … ‘ “
Keyes said, “That’s enough.”
“Don’t be so modest,” Wiley chided. “It’s the only thing you ever wrote that made me jealous.”
“I made it all up,” Keyes said, taking Kara Lynn’s hand. He was hoping she’d squeeze back, and she did.
Wiley looked perturbed, as if Brian had spoiled the big punch line.
“I drove out to the house,” Keyes said in a monotone. “I was expecting a crowd. Neighbors, relatives, you know. But there was only one car in the driveway, they were all alone … I knocked on the door. Mrs. Davenport answered and I could see in her eyes she’d been though hell. Behind her, I saw how they’d put all of Callie’s pictures out in the living room—on the piano, the sofas, the TV console, everywhere … you never saw so many baby pictures. Mr. Davenport sat on the floor with an old photo album across his lap … he was crying his heart out …
“In a nice voice Mrs. Davenport asked me what I wanted. At first I couldn’t say a damn thing and then I told her I was an insurance adjuster and I was looking for the Smiths’ house and I must have got the wrong address. Then I drove back to my apartment and made up the whole story, all those swell quotes. That’s what the Sun printed.”
“The ultimate impiety,” Wiley intoned, “the rape of truth.”
“He’s right,” Keyes said. “But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, to go in that house and intrude on those people’s grief. So I invented the whole damn story.”
“I think it took guts to walk away,” Kara Lynn said.
“Oh please.” Wiley grimaced. “It was an act of profound cowardice. No self-respecting journalist turns his back on pain and suffering. It was an egregious and shameful thing, Pollyanna, your boyfriend’s no hero.”
Kara Lynn stared at Wiley and said, “You’re pathetic.” She said it in such a mordant and disdainful way that Wiley flinched. Obviously he’d misjudged her, and Keyes too. He had saved the Callie Davenport story all these years, anticipating the moment he might need it. Yet it had not produced the desired effect, not at all. He felt a little confused.