Power Play
Page 44
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Bennett John Bennett nodded to the paper. “Who did this?”
“You mean trashed my motorcycle?”
“No, that’s the police’s deal. I want to know who gave the Sun this story.”
Perry thought of the chill she’d felt when she’d seen her mangled Harley, the impotent rage. He didn’t care about that? “I can only think that someone saw the property damage report and somehow it ended up with a Baltimore Sun Sports reporter.”
“First the FBI invades our newsroom, now this? What are we here, writers or the story?” He tossed the paper in the trash basket beside his desk. It was already overflowing, and the paper bounced off onto the floor.
Lolita said from the doorway, “It was a cheap shot, Perry, even though it’s true. I’ve got a call into my buddy at The Baltimore Sun. He’ll tell me who wrote this and I’ll go punch out some lights.”
Alonzo peered in over Lolita’s shoulder, looking like Einstein after an extra-heavy bolt of current from the light socket. “I guess that Tebow story got one of your readers really pissed off. I wonder why.” He scratched his tangled mess of hair and wandered out, whistling the theme song from A Beautiful Mind. The song floated through the newsroom until he was back at his desk.
“This is freaking never-never land,” Bennett said. “Who attacks a sports reporter? Go away, Perry. Think about whether you want to be here. We’ve got a new owner who’s never been in the business, and soon they’re going to move the Post, take this building away from us, and put us God knows where. I’d rather worry about this paper than about you.”
Was she mistaken, or was there a flush of concern for her. “Why are you grinning?” he asked her.
She said, “I have something this morning you’re going to like—Tebow’s in love.”
Bennett snapped his pencil in half, nearly rose out of his chair. “In love? Tebow? Who told you this? Did you tell your source to keep his mouth shut? What’d you do, offer him money? Sleep with him? Did he tell you who she is? Her name? Jeez, I do hope it’s a girl. No, of course it’s a girl. Find whatever you need to, Perry, flush it out. You be first on this and I’ll murder anyone who writes graffiti about you in the men’s room again. Go!”
She was still grinning when she sat down at her computer and logged on. She’d taken Buzz Callahan’s call on the way in to the Post, with Davis, made him pull over next to a dumpster to make notes while Callahan filled her in. Callahan had been injured as a rookie this past season. She’d nurtured him since he was a sophomore at UCLA, rooted for him in print and on her blog, bemoaned the torn ACL and the year of rehab before he’d try again. He and Tebow were friends and, lo and behold, Buzz had sent her a photo of Tebow and a girl off his iPhone, taken in a tucked-away little restaurant off Mondaver Street in Boston. Was this Tebow’s way of thanking her for setting things straight?
She typed: Meet Tim Tebow’s girlfriend, Marcie Curtis.
She’d done initial research on Marcie Curtis, a senior at Wellesley, majoring in international banking. She was a brainiac, and the adoring look she was giving Tim in the photo had nothing to do with his bank account.
She posted it to her blog with its photo of Marcie Curtis after she turned in her copy to Bennett. She left him chortling.
Her brain jumped back to last night. Not for a minute did she believe it had anything to do with a pissed-off fan. Most people who were passionate about sports weren’t nuts—well, most of the time. No more than she was. No, it was about her mother. Who was doing this, and why? She could make no sense of it. She also knew she was going in circles.
She looked up to see a delivery boy with a bright yellow MACDONALD’S FLORIST logo on his jacket carrying a huge bouquet of red roses in a stylish green vase. He was making a beeline right for her.
What was this? Flowers? Had Davis sent her flowers, the idiot? She automatically pulled a five out of her wallet. “You Ms. Black?”
“That’s me,” she said, and she gave the boy the five and set the beautiful vase on her desk. He stuck the five in his pocket, gave her a salute, and took off.
She was opening the small card when her cell rang. “Yes?”
“The roses there yet?”
“Goodness, Day, your timing’s incredible. I’m looking at a dozen gorgeous red roses as we speak.”
“I wanted to thank you for last night, Perry, and to tell you I understand.” His voice was muffled for a moment, then he was back. “That was my mother. She sends you her best, says she’s worried about both you and your mom. And now your Harley’s been trashed. We’re all very worried. What’s going on, Perry?”
“You mean trashed my motorcycle?”
“No, that’s the police’s deal. I want to know who gave the Sun this story.”
Perry thought of the chill she’d felt when she’d seen her mangled Harley, the impotent rage. He didn’t care about that? “I can only think that someone saw the property damage report and somehow it ended up with a Baltimore Sun Sports reporter.”
“First the FBI invades our newsroom, now this? What are we here, writers or the story?” He tossed the paper in the trash basket beside his desk. It was already overflowing, and the paper bounced off onto the floor.
Lolita said from the doorway, “It was a cheap shot, Perry, even though it’s true. I’ve got a call into my buddy at The Baltimore Sun. He’ll tell me who wrote this and I’ll go punch out some lights.”
Alonzo peered in over Lolita’s shoulder, looking like Einstein after an extra-heavy bolt of current from the light socket. “I guess that Tebow story got one of your readers really pissed off. I wonder why.” He scratched his tangled mess of hair and wandered out, whistling the theme song from A Beautiful Mind. The song floated through the newsroom until he was back at his desk.
“This is freaking never-never land,” Bennett said. “Who attacks a sports reporter? Go away, Perry. Think about whether you want to be here. We’ve got a new owner who’s never been in the business, and soon they’re going to move the Post, take this building away from us, and put us God knows where. I’d rather worry about this paper than about you.”
Was she mistaken, or was there a flush of concern for her. “Why are you grinning?” he asked her.
She said, “I have something this morning you’re going to like—Tebow’s in love.”
Bennett snapped his pencil in half, nearly rose out of his chair. “In love? Tebow? Who told you this? Did you tell your source to keep his mouth shut? What’d you do, offer him money? Sleep with him? Did he tell you who she is? Her name? Jeez, I do hope it’s a girl. No, of course it’s a girl. Find whatever you need to, Perry, flush it out. You be first on this and I’ll murder anyone who writes graffiti about you in the men’s room again. Go!”
She was still grinning when she sat down at her computer and logged on. She’d taken Buzz Callahan’s call on the way in to the Post, with Davis, made him pull over next to a dumpster to make notes while Callahan filled her in. Callahan had been injured as a rookie this past season. She’d nurtured him since he was a sophomore at UCLA, rooted for him in print and on her blog, bemoaned the torn ACL and the year of rehab before he’d try again. He and Tebow were friends and, lo and behold, Buzz had sent her a photo of Tebow and a girl off his iPhone, taken in a tucked-away little restaurant off Mondaver Street in Boston. Was this Tebow’s way of thanking her for setting things straight?
She typed: Meet Tim Tebow’s girlfriend, Marcie Curtis.
She’d done initial research on Marcie Curtis, a senior at Wellesley, majoring in international banking. She was a brainiac, and the adoring look she was giving Tim in the photo had nothing to do with his bank account.
She posted it to her blog with its photo of Marcie Curtis after she turned in her copy to Bennett. She left him chortling.
Her brain jumped back to last night. Not for a minute did she believe it had anything to do with a pissed-off fan. Most people who were passionate about sports weren’t nuts—well, most of the time. No more than she was. No, it was about her mother. Who was doing this, and why? She could make no sense of it. She also knew she was going in circles.
She looked up to see a delivery boy with a bright yellow MACDONALD’S FLORIST logo on his jacket carrying a huge bouquet of red roses in a stylish green vase. He was making a beeline right for her.
What was this? Flowers? Had Davis sent her flowers, the idiot? She automatically pulled a five out of her wallet. “You Ms. Black?”
“That’s me,” she said, and she gave the boy the five and set the beautiful vase on her desk. He stuck the five in his pocket, gave her a salute, and took off.
She was opening the small card when her cell rang. “Yes?”
“The roses there yet?”
“Goodness, Day, your timing’s incredible. I’m looking at a dozen gorgeous red roses as we speak.”
“I wanted to thank you for last night, Perry, and to tell you I understand.” His voice was muffled for a moment, then he was back. “That was my mother. She sends you her best, says she’s worried about both you and your mom. And now your Harley’s been trashed. We’re all very worried. What’s going on, Perry?”
