Liver Let Die by Liz Lipperman

had the sinking feeling Dozerly had a lot more practice.
     
     
    “Shazam, McAllister,” Dwayne Egan said, giving her a thumbs-up. “The women of Ranchero absolutely love your new recipe. My old lady is even going to give it a whack, and she never cooks.” He attempted to wiggle his bushy eyebrows Groucho Marx–style, but only his right ear managed to move.
    Jordan turned her head so he wouldn’t see her smile, then decided to find out if he had bionic ears or not. “Can you hear me, Mr. Egan?” she whispered.
    “Speak up, Jordan,” he bellowed.
    Apparently, they were just for show, she decided. “I said I’m glad.”
    “Yep. You’d think these people had never tasted pork chops before.” He motioned for her to sit. “By the way, Loretta called this morning from rehab. She’s a little concerned about her job. Apparently, she’s heard the buzz.”
    This was the perfect opportunity to tell him she wasn’t interested in writing Loretta Mosley’s column on a permanent basis. With Egan in a good mood, she should pounce on the opportunity.
    “I hope you told her she had no worries.” Jordan shook her head to strengthen her statement. “I’m more interested in the sports column.”
    Egan eyeballed her for a second before leaning in. “You do know Jim Westerville has been the top guy in that department for years, right?”
    “And wasn’t Loretta at her job for years?” Jordan fired back. “Yet here I am writing the Kitchen Kupboard column for her.”
    “You’ve got a point,” he said, frowning. “I’ll keep that in mind in case Jim ever decides to crash one of those personal watercraft deals.” His eyes were unable to conceal his obvious amusement.
    Jordan knew he was not taking her seriously. “I’m only saying that’s where my passion is, and I’d like to be considered if something ever opens up in that department. I’d even be wiling to work under Mr. Westerville for the same money you’re paying me now.” She paused. “And I’d still do the personals, too.”
    The editor’s brow furrowed. “Lemme see. You’ve been at the new gig for two weeks now and you’re already coming to me with demands?”
    “No sir,” Jordan answered quickly, realizing she’d better backpedal fast or she might find herself without her own byline. Or worse. “I meant I would jump at the chance. I’m perfectly happy doing Loretta’s job while she’s out.”
    “She’d prefer you weren’t so good at it.”
    “Yeah, well, I would have preferred to be in the press box watching Ranchero High slaughter their rivals last night instead of writing about the Frito pie at the concession stand. But you know what that old Stones’ song says: ‘You can’t always get what you want.’ ”
    He laughed. “Get out of here, McAllister. You’re lucky I’ve taken a shine to you.” He paused, the pensive look on his face turning to a slow grin. “That and the fact that we’re selling twice as many newspapers as we were two weeks ago.” He walked around his desk and shooed her out the door.
    On the stroll back to her cubicle, her step had a little more bounce. There. It was out in the open that she wanted the sports column, and Egan hadn’t erupted like Mount Vesuvius over it. Maybe her life was changing for the better.
    Sitting down at her desk, she noticed a yellow phone message propped against her computer. Scanning the newsroom for a clue as to who had left it there, she was disappointed when no one bothered to look up or acknowledge her. She’d thought she’d broken through the wall of invisibility at the Ranchero Globe since her culinary column had become a hit, but apparently she hadn’t.
    Yet!
    Picking up the slip of paper, she bit her lip to hold back the grin. It was a phone message someone had taken from Alex that simply said, He wants you to call him , along with his number. Thinking he probably wanted to press her for more information before breaking into her apartment again, the fool-me-twice