Authors: Kathy Disanto
“Cosmo’s my dog now.”
“Wow, a consolation prize.” But Hank’s
sarcastic grin faded quickly under Cosmo’s cool, unrelenting stare.
“Listen, I’ve got to get going,”
said Eagan. “I’ll keep you posted on the case. Take care of her,” he added.
“I will,” Hank promised.
“Thanks, but I was talking to the
dog.”
“That guy scares the crap out of
me,” Ellison admitted as we watched Jack walk away. “He scare you?”
“No, but he tries.” When the Shrike
pulled away, I turned and started for the building. “I see you managed to get
through the door.”
“Yeah. Mr. Maxwell didn’t believe
me at first … you know, about me being your assistant.”
I’m having trouble
believing it myself,
I thought, as he added, “But Agent Eagan straightened
him out.”
My lips twitched. “Now
that
I
would have liked to see. By the way, nobody calls him
Mr. Maxwell
.”
“What do they call him?
“Lots of things, most of them
profane. Try Tug.”
“If you say so,” he agreed
doubtfully.
As we pushed through the double
glass doors, Burt Thompson smiled a welcome from behind his desk. “Ms.
Gregson! I sure am glad to see you back!”
“Not nearly as glad as I am to
be
back, Burt. Arrested any trespassers lately?”
Burt is a retired cop turned
security guard. The job isn’t as tame as it sounds, mainly because knuckleheads
with gripes against the media have a habit of trying to bull their way into the
building to air their complaints in person. Once in a while, they bring
firearms along for punctuation. Either way, they run into an immovable, six-foot-two-inch,
two-hundred pound Thompson. Or Sam Kingsford, his equally large daytime
counterpart.
“Not lately,” he admitted, “but I
live in hope. Nice dog you’ve got there.”
I almost beamed like a proud parent,
but caught myself in time. “Thanks.”
“What do you think Maxwell will say
when he sees him?”
“Dunno, but it’s bound to be
colorful. Wanna come along?”
Burt’s dark face broke into a wide
smile. “Nah, I figure I’ll be able to hear it fine from here. He’s in the
Swamp.”
“Okay. See you on the way out.”
Hank and I caught an elevator to the
fiftieth floor and exited into a wide hallway. Iconic news photos of historic
events lined one cream-colored wall. A three-foot-high crawler trailed
breaking headlines down the other. The hall opened into the Swamp, a sunken,
cavernous, almost circular room where reporters work UpLinks in cubbies crammed
cheek-to-jowl. Day and night the room simmers with the raucous babble raised
by hundreds of journalists shedding sweat, blood, and tears to get the story.
Any story.
“Why do they call it the Swamp?” wondered
Ellison. “Because it smells like one?”
“No.” Although he had a point. “We
call it the Swamp because working here is like being up to your ears in
alligators all day, every day.” I paused to drink it in. “God, I love this
place!”
“Rocks!” Tug Maxwell stood in the
center aisle, feet spread, arms akimbo, unlit cigar clamped between his
molars.
Maybe I can’t smoke ‘em in the building, but I can sure as hell
taste ‘em.
“About time you showed your face around here!” he yelled, his
foghorn voice barreling through the hubbub. “Well, don’t stand there gawping,
get in here and get to work. And lose that damned dog!”
“The dog goes, I go!” I hollered back.
I had never seen the newsroom
screech to a complete standstill before, but it did then, all heads swiveling
in my direction. People pushed back their chairs and stood. Someone, Mark
Tong maybe, started to clap, and before I knew it, every newshound in the place
was on his or her feet, giving me a standing ovation. Welcoming me home.
Never let them see you cry,
I scolded myself as my eyes started
to sting. Fortunately, the sight of Tug Maxwell bearing down on me was enough
to keep the tears at bay. He planted himself in front of us and glared at
Cosmo. Cosmo curled his lip and glared back.
Finally, Maxwell blew out a defeated
breath and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Good to have you back, kid.”
I let my gaze stray through the
Swamp before it settled back on him. He could be an insensitive, bullheaded SOB,
but he had taught me what it meant to be a reporter. He taught me to dig and
keep digging until I uncovered the truth. Then he taught me how to tell it.
“All in one piece, too,” I said,
although it had been close. Shoving the memories away,” I broke out a slow grin.
“Now let’s give the world an exclusive it will never forget.”
To paraphrase John Donne, no author
is an island. Granted, we do spend half our lives in cramped rooms, faces
bathed in the monitor’s eerie glow, our only company people we make up
ourselves. But we can do that and stay sane, because somewhere outside our
imaginations, real human beings (and pets) have our backs. That being the
case, I want to acknowledge a few of the wonderful folks (and animals) who make
up my support and safety net.
My sons, Leo and Nick. Creative
forces that you are, you never cease to inspire me. When I grow up, I want to
be as talented as you guys.
My brother, sister, nieces, nephews,
and all their assorted spouses and offspring. Thanks for loving me.
Patty Kelley. Thank you for being
my friend, confidant, and sommelier. Not to mention a terrific cheerleader,
proofreader, and guinea pig. (Note to my readers: Patty proofread the book
before she moved up north, but I’ve tinkered with it nonstop since. Ergo, all
typos and errors are mine alone.) Thanks, CB!
The ladies of the HDQLSG. Your
love, prayers, and support mean the world to me. Also your utter craziness,
the potlucks, and the Peanut Buster Parfaits.
Jan Esher. Thank you for walking
alongside me, showing me God’s grace, and making it possible for me to do
anything at all.
Emily and Travis Gasper. Thanks for
visiting and gorging on Lane’s with me, just when I needed it most (but didn’t
know I needed it most). Special thanks to Em for hooking me up with Jan and
Trav for reminding me to write it like it is.
Joy Abella. We haven’t worked
together for a couple decades, but you taught me so much about writing and
editing. And what do you know? I remembered most of it. Thank you again!
Molly. You sleep at my feet (or
chew on my silk plants) while I’m writing, then drag me along on your leash
when it’s time for me to rejoin the living. Thanks for the love, kisses,
exercise, and belly laughs.
And last, but never least, thank
God.
If I’ve forgotten anyone, it’s
because I’m getting old and forgetful, not because I don’t care and/or
appreciate the way you’ve been there for me. That’s my disclaimer, and I’m
sticking to it.