Howie backed up to the partition separating her stall—as she thought of the cramped cubicle—from the neighboring one. Regardless of the season, he wore short-sleeved white shirts. Always. Always with black trousers that were always shiny. His neckties were clip-on. Today’s selection was particularly ugly and had a stain on its fraying tip, which reached only the center of his barrel chest, which was far out of proportion to his nonexistent butt and spindly, bowed legs.
Crossing his arms and ankles simultaneously, he said, “A story would be nice, Barrie. You know, a story. What you’re paid to produce, more or less on a daily basis. How about one for this evening’s news?”
“I was working on one that didn’t pan out,” she muttered as she booted up her computer.
“What was it?”
“Since it didn’t pan out, what’s the point of discussing it?”
Vanessa Merritt had said that the months leading up to her baby’s birth had been intolerable. Even without the strong, descriptive word, her demeanor alone had made it clear that she’d had a very rough time. Following the child’s birth, “intolerable” had gotten worse. But what had been so intolerable? And why tell me?
Howie rambled on, unaware that she was only half-listening. “I’m not asking for live coverage of somebody getting his head blown off, or man’s first steps on Mars, or some extremist from the Nation of Islam holding the pope hostage in the Vatican. A nice, simple little story would do. Something. Anything. Sixty seconds of fill between the second and third commercial breaks. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“How short-sighted of you, Howie,” Barrie remarked. “If that’s the best motivational speech you can give, no wonder you get such unsatisfactory results from your underlings.”
He uncrossed his limbs and drew himself up to his full height of five feet six inches, and that was with elevators in his scuffed wingtips. “You know what your problem is? You’ve got stars in your eyes. You want to be Diane Sawyer. Well, here’s a news flash for you—you aren’t. And you aren’t ever going to be. You aren’t ever going to be married to a famous movie director or have your own news magazine show. You aren’t ever going to have respect and credibility in this business. Because you’re a screw-up and everybody in the industry knows it. So stop waiting for the big story and settle for something that you and your limited talent can handle. Something I can put on the air. Okay?”
Barrie had tuned him out just after the “stars in your eyes” statement. The first time she’d heard this speech was the day he hired her, out of the goodness of his heart, he’d said. Besides, he’d added, management had been after him to hire another “skirt,” and Barrie was “okay-looking.” She’d heard the same speech almost every workday since. Three years of them.
There were a few messages on her e-mail, but nothing that couldn’t be handled later. She turned off her computer and came to her feet. “It’s too late to do anything for tonight, Howie. But I’ll have a story for you tomorrow. Promise.” Grabbing her satchel, she slung it back onto her shoulder.
“Hey! Where’re you going?” he shouted after her as she brushed past him.
“To the library.”
“What for?”
“Research, Howie.”
As she passed the cold drink machine, she banged it with her fist. A Diet Coke rolled out of the chute.
She took that as a good omen.
* * *
Juggling her satchel, an armload of library books, and her keys, Barrie unlocked the back door of her townhouse and stumbled inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, she was subjected to an ardent, wet kiss on the lips.
“Thanks, Cronkite.” She wiped the slobber from her face. “I love you, too.”
Cronkite and the rest of his litter had been destined for euthanasia at the pound on the day that Barrie decided she needed a four-legged companion after a two-legged one announced he needed space and walked out of her life forever.
She’d had a difficult time choosing which pup to spare, but she’d never regretted her choice. Cronkite was large and long-haired, with definite ripples of golden retriever in his gene pool. Big brown eyes adored her worshipfully now, while his tail beat a happy tattoo against her calf.
“Go do your thing,” she told him, nodding toward her patch of backyard. “Use your doggie door.” He whined. Barrie sighed. “Okay, I’ll wait. But hurry. These books are heavy.”
He watered several shrubs happily, then dashed inside ahead of Barrie.
“Let’s see if there’s anything interesting in the mail,” she said as she made her way to the entry where her mail lay in a heap beneath the slot in the front door. “Bill, bill, overdue bill. Invitation to dinner at the White House.” She looked at the dog, who tilted his head inquisitively. “Just checking to see if you were paying attention.”
Cronkite followed her upstairs to her bedroom, where she exchanged her dress and heels for a Redskins jersey that came almost to her knees and a pair of gym socks. After running a brush through her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail. Regarding her reflection in the mirror, she mumbled, “Stunning,” then put her appearance out of her mind and focused on work.
Over the years, she had cultivated numerous sources—clerks, secretaries, illicit lovers, chambermaids, cops, a handful of people in key positions—who occasionally provided her with valuable information and reliable leads. One was a young woman named Anna Chen, who worked in the administration office of D.C. General Hospital. The juicy scuttlebutt Anna Chen picked up through the hospital grapevine frequently led to good stories. She was one of Barrie’s most reliable sources.
Hoping it wasn’t too late to catch her at the office, Barrie looked up her number in her home Rolodex and dialed. The hospital operator put her right through.
“Hi, Anna. This is Barrie Travis. Glad I caught you.”
“I was on my way out. What’s up?”