Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant Page B

you want to take me out? I know I’m charming and gorgeous, but …”
    Declan’s laugh is like butter sauce: smooth and dreamy.
    â€œYou intrigue me. Is that so wrong?”
    â€œYou intrigue me too.”
    â€œDoes that mean you’ll join me?”
    â€œI would love to,” I say. “But I don’t know if I have anything in my wardrobe that costs more than the shoelaces for your Fluevogs.”
    Declan laughs heartily. “I play the part of the successful gallery owner, but underneath …” He pauses, and I can feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck. “Underneath I like blue jeans and T-shirts like everyone else.”
    My cheeks hurt from smiling.
    â€œOK,” I relent. “Pick me up at seven-thirty.” I write my address and phone number on a napkin and hand it to him.
    â€œI’ll be there.”
    His eyes sparkle.

Eleven
    â€œMy God, Dix,” Stoogan bellows across the newsroom as I stroll to the copy runners’ desk. “Gracing us with your presence twice in one day?”
    â€œIt’s always better the second time, boss,” I call over my shoulder.
    The baby-faced copyboy looks at me expectantly as I slide my rump onto the edge of his desk.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I ask.
    â€œJohn … Underwood.”
    â€œI’ve got an assignment for you, John. Up for it?”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œWrong answer.”
    He blushes slightly. “Yes,” he says. “I’m up for it.”
    I show him the Polaroid and explain that I want him to visit every gallery that carries Adamsky’s art to see if anyone recognizes it. If they do, he is to get their contact info. Simple.
    â€œWill I get overtime?” he asks.
    â€œDoubt it.”
    He accepts the photo. “Is it for a big story?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œWill I be mentioned?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œBut you’ll know I helped?”
    â€œYep.”
    John slips on his jacket, picks up a small stack of signed taxi vouchers, and takes off.
    I had been hoping for more enthusiasm, but copy runners—or editorial assistants as they’ve been renamed in our electronic age—are a different breed now. When I started in the news business, I was eighteen and full of cocky idealism.
    My first job was running copy at the San Francisco Chronicle . There, I spent my days tagging and redirecting page proofs, phoning the weather office, checking the crossword puzzle, and fetching files from the morgue (news morgue, that is, not the dead-body morgue). I also had the character-building chores of getting coffee, ordering pizza, and picking up off-sales.
    My first real break came courtesy of a veteran photographer who forgot the first rule of journalism: Report the story, don’t become it . Then again, maybe he had his eye on a television career, where the mantra seems to be the exact opposite.
    It was close to deadline and digital photography was still in its infancy. I was tasked with picking up film from a Rolling Stones concert in time to make first edition. That way, the photog could stay at the concert in case a better shot presented itself for the city run.
    Luckily for me, a minor riot broke out and the photographer had his skull cracked open by an irate drunk swinging a bottle of Jack Daniels. Before the paramedics rushed him to hospital, I grabbed his camera. After safely delivering the film, I talked the city editor into letting me write a few paragraphs on the incident.
    It made the front page, inserted into the middle of a staff reporter’s story. My byline was nowhere to be seen, but my words were mostly unchanged.
    Two years later, after studying journalism at college by day and working for the paper at night, I made staff reporter. Another three years and I was making good money as a seasoned senior.
    I resigned the following year, headhunted by NOW .
    NOW was a brand-new venture with few assurances and a riskier