campsites.”
“I think you should be talking to the police, sir.”
I just never seem to listen to my own advice.
She began punching buttons on her console, but not 911, I noticed. Their own security, more likely. I was obviously making the poor young woman feel threatened. Now she was sending for the people with the white coats and truncheons.
“In fact, sir, I can…” She ran her free hand through her hair, frowned once, hung up her receiver, picked it up again and punched some different buttons.
“I’ll talk to this gentleman, Pam.” The unexpected voice of calm came from a petite, dark-haired woman with a perfectly tailored suit and a bemused look. She had come out of the passing skyway pedestrian traffic, coat folded over one arm and thin leather gloves in her other hand. The receptionist named Pam looked surprised and relieved, and she gave the newcomer a palms-up gesture that said, “your funeral.”
“I’m Anne Packard,” she said, shifting her coat to her left arm so she could offer me her hand.
“Herman Jackson. Pleased to meet you.”
“Herman Jackson the bail bondsman?” Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman’s, and she held it longer than I expected. I looked at her face again and saw alert and probing eyes that had little laugh creases at the corners, a sharp nose, and thin, not-quite-smiling lips. She reminded me of a psychotherapist I once knew: very pleasant to chat with, but you wanted to be damn careful what you said to her. And she already knew who I was, which was more than a bit jarring.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “I didn’t realize I was known to the press.”
“You should be impressed. It’s part of being a reporter, and I work at it. I know the names of all the businesses that I pass regularly. Sooner or later, I will know all the faces and stories that go with them, too. You, however, have just missed your big chance to impress me. You’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, wow, Anne Packard! I read your column every day! Great stuff.’”
“Didn’t I say that? I was sure I said that. I certainly thought it. I probably thought ‘witty and incisive,’ too.”
“Nice try. Tell you what, though: buy me a cup of coffee at the little deli over there, and I’ll listen to your story anyway.”
“I was hoping for a real reporter. No offense.”
“A real reporter? You mean instead of a mere columnist? Well, I was hoping for a real scoop from an unimpeachable source, and a real Pulitzer Prize for writing it. No offense. How about if we both take a chance here?”
“When you put it so charmingly, how could I refuse?”
“God, I hope your story is better than your pickup line.”
Was that a pickup line? I hadn’t thought so, but in any case, we walked over to a little hole-in-the-skyway C-store and mini-deli that had wrought iron chairs and tiny tables, right out in the pedestrian traffic across from Pam’s desk. I got us two regular coffees in Styrofoam cups and we settled down to talk newspaper talk.
I told her all the parts of the previous night’s events that didn’t sound like lunatic raving. The very short version, in other words. I did not say anything about the kid with the snow shovel or my being followed.
“Between a murder right downtown and the fire in the Gulch, I thought at least one of the two stories would have found its way into your paper,” I said.
“Don’t be so disingenuous. You also think the two stories are related.”
“Okay, you got me. I wouldn’t have thought so, except that some street people over in Railroad Island told me a couple of federal agents were there last night, looking for the dead guy’s squat.”
“His what?”
“His nest, his patch, whatever you want to call it. The cardboard box he lived in.”
She nodded her understanding, and I went on. “This morning, the same feds were in my office, looking for something they thought I was holding for him. Turns out, they’re Secret Service.”
“Are you sure
“I think you should be talking to the police, sir.”
I just never seem to listen to my own advice.
She began punching buttons on her console, but not 911, I noticed. Their own security, more likely. I was obviously making the poor young woman feel threatened. Now she was sending for the people with the white coats and truncheons.
“In fact, sir, I can…” She ran her free hand through her hair, frowned once, hung up her receiver, picked it up again and punched some different buttons.
“I’ll talk to this gentleman, Pam.” The unexpected voice of calm came from a petite, dark-haired woman with a perfectly tailored suit and a bemused look. She had come out of the passing skyway pedestrian traffic, coat folded over one arm and thin leather gloves in her other hand. The receptionist named Pam looked surprised and relieved, and she gave the newcomer a palms-up gesture that said, “your funeral.”
“I’m Anne Packard,” she said, shifting her coat to her left arm so she could offer me her hand.
“Herman Jackson. Pleased to meet you.”
“Herman Jackson the bail bondsman?” Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman’s, and she held it longer than I expected. I looked at her face again and saw alert and probing eyes that had little laugh creases at the corners, a sharp nose, and thin, not-quite-smiling lips. She reminded me of a psychotherapist I once knew: very pleasant to chat with, but you wanted to be damn careful what you said to her. And she already knew who I was, which was more than a bit jarring.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “I didn’t realize I was known to the press.”
“You should be impressed. It’s part of being a reporter, and I work at it. I know the names of all the businesses that I pass regularly. Sooner or later, I will know all the faces and stories that go with them, too. You, however, have just missed your big chance to impress me. You’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, wow, Anne Packard! I read your column every day! Great stuff.’”
“Didn’t I say that? I was sure I said that. I certainly thought it. I probably thought ‘witty and incisive,’ too.”
“Nice try. Tell you what, though: buy me a cup of coffee at the little deli over there, and I’ll listen to your story anyway.”
“I was hoping for a real reporter. No offense.”
“A real reporter? You mean instead of a mere columnist? Well, I was hoping for a real scoop from an unimpeachable source, and a real Pulitzer Prize for writing it. No offense. How about if we both take a chance here?”
“When you put it so charmingly, how could I refuse?”
“God, I hope your story is better than your pickup line.”
Was that a pickup line? I hadn’t thought so, but in any case, we walked over to a little hole-in-the-skyway C-store and mini-deli that had wrought iron chairs and tiny tables, right out in the pedestrian traffic across from Pam’s desk. I got us two regular coffees in Styrofoam cups and we settled down to talk newspaper talk.
I told her all the parts of the previous night’s events that didn’t sound like lunatic raving. The very short version, in other words. I did not say anything about the kid with the snow shovel or my being followed.
“Between a murder right downtown and the fire in the Gulch, I thought at least one of the two stories would have found its way into your paper,” I said.
“Don’t be so disingenuous. You also think the two stories are related.”
“Okay, you got me. I wouldn’t have thought so, except that some street people over in Railroad Island told me a couple of federal agents were there last night, looking for the dead guy’s squat.”
“His what?”
“His nest, his patch, whatever you want to call it. The cardboard box he lived in.”
She nodded her understanding, and I went on. “This morning, the same feds were in my office, looking for something they thought I was holding for him. Turns out, they’re Secret Service.”
“Are you sure
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