Free Spider Season by John Morgan Wilson Page B

of piss and vinegar, in love with my bylines and in love with Jacques. It was a long time ago that seemed like yesterday.
    “Brings back memories, does it?”
    Conroy had her audio recorder ready, but with a notebook and pen to back it up, so she could jot down atmospheric detail and random thoughts and observations her recorder wouldn’t pick up. The same way I’d handled interviews, and later taught Alexandra Templeton, when she was still green and Harry had me teaching her the trade.
    “That’s why you got me here, isn’t it, Cathryn? Harry’s favorite hangout?”
    A waiter placed a fresh whiskey in front of her and took our orders: Caesars to start, two fillets, blood rare, with sides of sautéed spinach and rosemary potatoes that we’d share. Conroy ordered a bottle of cabernet that came with a sixty-dollar price tag, and asked for two glasses.
    “One glass will be sufficient,” I said. “For the lady.”
    “Come on, Justice. A nice cab with your steak. Just a taste. Can’t hurt, can it?”
    “One glass,” I repeated, and the waiter departed.
    Conroy sipped her fresh whiskey and asked casually, “Whatever happened to Harry Brofsky, anyway?”
    “He died nearly a decade ago. I think you know that.”
    “It wasn’t in your book.”
    “My book ended before he died. But I dedicated it to him. I imagine you know that too. Why not get to the point, Cathryn?”
    “He must have died a broken man, working at the lowly Los Angeles Sun just before it collapsed.”
    “Thanks to me, you mean?”
    “It’s obviously an uncomfortable subject for you.”
    “Is it?”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “What I did to Harry was unconscionable. In my book, I was up-front about that. Use whatever you want from it.”
    “One can never put everything in a book, Justice. You know how I work. I’m looking for something fresh, something you left out, an angle no one else is likely to run with. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
    “I didn’t hold much back, not anything that mattered.”
    “Maybe readers should be the judge of that. Or reporters like me, who aren’t satisfied with only part of the story.”
    “I included everything I felt was relevant. To the best of my knowledge, I was accurate and truthful. That’s all one can do.”
    “Frankly, I’m more interested in what you left out than what you put in.”
    “Like you said, one can’t include everything. Choices have to be made.”
    “Let’s look at some of those choices, shall we?”
    We’d gotten off to a bad start, so I tried to get the conversation back on a more productive track. I even smiled with my best fake sincerity.
    “If you feel it’s useful, Cathryn.”
    “Let’s go back a few years, before the scandal. To your high school and college days.”
    “I don’t see the importance of that. But if I can clear something up, I’ll try.”
    “You were apparently quite the ladies’ man in high school.”
    “That would be overstating it.”
    “You dated good-looking girls. You slept with a number of them.”
    “I felt that section of the book should focus on what my father did to my little sister, his death, and how it affected our family.”
    “How you killed him when you discovered him abusing her.”
    “She was eleven. It was rape. Yes, I killed him. It’s well documented in the book, as you know.”
    “Justifiable homicide. I believe that was the ruling.”
    “Correct.”
    “Let’s go back to your girlfriends, shall we?”
    “If you feel it’s necessary.”
    “You were quite the athlete, quite the stud. You even wrote angry poetry now and then, to show off for the more impressionable girls and get them into bed. Or into the backseat of your Chevy Impala, depending on the circumstances.” When I said nothing, she added, “I’ve done my own research, Justice. Found some fresh sources.”
    “Congratulations.” I put up the saccharine smile again. “Anything else?”
    “You’re admittedly gay—”
    “ Admittedly would be your word,