Chapter 5

On Monday morning, in real life, I found myself in the middle of Casablanca. I was at the governor's press office at eight on Monday morning. They apparently would be there at nine. Fortunately, there was a Java Cava just down the street within easy "wheeling" distance so I was able to pass the time by becoming even more anxiously caffeinated.

Even more fortunate, though, was the promised presence of Miss Krissy Mackley. The poor woman took her first step onto the ice at ten o'clock. She broke through precisely at 10:01, when she conflated the middle initial and last name of her boss, the Honorable Edward S. Platte. By 10:05, when she finished reading her statement, she was floundering in freezing water. The prey was wounded. The press moved in for the kill, their tongues firmly fixed in their cheeks.

"Will Governor Splat be doing any cliff-diving on this trip, Krissy?"

"Did you really mean to suggest, Krissy, that the Governor intends to ask the legislature to increase the size of the highway 'strut' fund?'"

"Could you explain the Governor's veto of the 'right at work' bill in any more depth?"

"You guys!" Krissy stamped her foot in frustration. We roared with laughter. The staff lined up behind her all found something fascinating to look at in the back of the room.

There's always one guy who doesn't get it, of course. One guy who, no matter how far out the envelope goes, has to push it just that little bit further.

"So, I'm sorry." My raised hand attracted Krissy's attention. "Did you say he was dove-hunting or duck-hunting?"

It seemed a legitimate question to me, but the entire room suddenly went as quiet as a graveyard. I looked around, conscious of the fact that I had just popped the bubble.

"And just what is the interest of the... ?" she asked. "Mr... ?

"Rick Handley?" I answered. "Uh, Charleston Messenger?" I had spoken in that tone of voice that suggests that I actually didn't know either my name or that of my paper, and I was beginning to hear snickers.

I had committed the cardinal sin of allowing Krissy to regain her composure. She stood at the lectern, her arms folded across her chest.

"You're obviously new," she said with as much condescension as she could. "Is there a problem? Is your editorial board against —" she paused to look at the press release from which she had started reading "— duck hunting?"

"No, ma'am," I said over the laughter. "Not in season. But my understanding is that there isn't a state in this country that allows duck hunting in May. Is he out of the country? Or perhaps I'm mistaken?"

That shut everyone up again. But this time they were all looking at Krissy. Krissy was looking down at the paper on her lectern, quite clearly the source of all her knowledge, and then back at the press office staff. They were again staring off into the distance.

"I'll have to, um, get back to you on that, Mr. Handley," she said. "If there are no further questions, thank you, ladies and gentleman of the press corpse."

We roared again at her pronunciation of "corps," and she left in a huff. With her assistant huffers right behind her.

I was instantly voted an assistant membership in the newly formed Reporters Corpse Association and given a nickname: "Skewer." I hung around for another hour, meeting the other men and women of the Association, all of them from other state newspapers.

"So, buddy," I said to Inigo that evening. "We were pretty damn good yesterday, weren't we?

"We won," he said coldly.

"Won?" I threw my head back and laughed. "We kicked their asses."

"They were idiots," Inigo said. "Paper thieves. Cardboard fencers. If they were any good, you would have been on the ground, 'buddy, ' and I would have had a sword in my back."

"I was great," I insisted.

"You were adequate," he said.

"Oh, fuck you. You're just jealous because you drank too much and fell asleep last night."

"Draw your sword!"

"Inigo," I protested, "come on..."

"Draw your sword," he growled.

I drew my sword. Three seconds later it was lying in the dust of the street and the townspeople were laughing at me. This time I didn't think I was going to be able to say anything clever to get them back on my side.

"You think six days is enough to learn fencing?" Inigo asked.

"No," I said, downcast. "I guess it's not."

"Pick it up, Handley. We have much more work to do."

The press conference on Tuesday morning was uneventful. A chastened Krissy Mackley confessed that the press release from which she had read was incorrect, although she evidently had no interest in taking responsibility for that herself. Governor Platt was in fact dove-hunting at a private reserve in Texas.

The RCA gave her a pass on that mistake. There wasn't any other news and no one, other than maybe some dove lovers, really cared what kind of birds the Governor was going to be shooting. We were done after a half hour, and I decided to stop by the Java Cava on my way home. I had developed a taste for their half-caf skim milk double lattéchino, and was headed back to drop another four bucks. I sat there for a few minutes trying to think up something for Wednesday's story. My story yesterday had been about the Governor's "right to work" veto and his coddling favor with the powerful state employees' unions. It wasn't that strong and I hadn't been surprised not to see it in this morning's paper.

"Are you the reporter?"

A woman slid into the seat across the table from me, furtively looking from side to side as if she were concerned about being followed.

"I am a reporter, yes," I said. "From the Messenger."

She nodded.

"I saw you at the press conference this morning. Can we talk somewhere else?"

I shrugged.

"Sure. Although walking down the street with a guy in a wheelchair's going to make you pretty conspicuous."

She looked down. Apparently she hadn't realized I was chair-bound.

"Can we meet somewhere?"

I was tempted to offer a parking garage late at night. But the parking garages in Charleston weren't as numerous as those used by Woodward and Bernstein. And I wasn't all that fond of the dark.

"Lunch?" I suggested.

"Where?"

I thought for a moment.

"Do you know Tony's Deli? Two blocks down on Fourth?"

"No."

"Good. Nobody else will either. Shall we say noon?"

"Noon," she agreed with a nod. She looked around again and pushed herself away from the table as if she had suddenly discovered I was a leper

"I'll see you then," I said to her retreating back.

Somewhat to my surprise, I did see her again. Given her attitude, I half-expected her to bag the whole thing. But as I sat there with my sandwich she suddenly appeared on the sidewalk outside, once again looking around to once again make sure that she wasn't being tailed. She was older than I was, in her middle to late thirties. She was very attractive, but I sensed that a few years ago she would have been even more attractive. Her face had fine worry lines. Her smile — when she was willing to let it be seen — was forced and tight. She was dressed in a relatively simple black knit pantsuit. And she was armed with sunglasses to preserve her anonymity.

She was determined to preserve it from me as well. She entered the deli, ordered a sandwich, and joined me. I introduced myself and waited for her to do the same.

"I'm sorry," I finally said. "I can promise you that we won't use your name in the newspaper. I can promise you that we won't quote you in a way that reveals your identity. But I can also promise you that if you won't tell me your name, whatever else you tell me won't make it anywhere near the paper."

She gave me an appraising look and nodded again.

"All right, but you have to swear that this is between us."

"I will treat it in the utmost confidence. My editor may ask your name, and if she won't print anything without knowing it, I will check with you first."

"Fair enough."

She took a deep breath.

"My name is Suzanne Dalrymple. I was the Governor's scheduling assistant from 2003 through 2007. I saw you yesterday in the press room. They circulate a feed throughout the statehouse. I know why they lied to you about the dove-hunting."

"They lied?" I asked. I had thought that Krissy had just fucked up. That wasn't an unreasonable assumption; it had never occurred to me she would have been lying.

The woman nodded. She looked around again. Her paranoia was starting to bug me. Perhaps I could put a quick end to this and send her on her way.

"I was actually just sort of going for a laugh there yesterday," I told her. "Krissy was right. It really doesn't matter to our readers if he's hunting doves or ducks or starlings or flying fish."

"How about if he's on a coal company sponsored trip with his mistress?"

I stopped my tuna salad sandwich an inch away from my mouth and slowly put it back on my plate.

"That might be different," I admitted.

I could feel my heart slamming against my ribs as I took my notebook out of the briefcase that I kept hanging on the back of my chair. I clicked my pen slowly, tested the ink even more slowly, and finally looked back at her.

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