Free Several Deaths Later by Ed Gorman

couldn't hear a damn word if you stood right next to them and screamed and products for people who wanted even a few more mementos of Elvis and products for people who enjoyed American flag coasters and American flag clocks and American flag socks. The biggest issue they'd ever done was estimating the number of "major Hollywood stars" who were rumored to have AIDS. (One office pundit saying, "If we could just tie UFOs into this somehow, we'd have a 99 percent sell-through.")
        All of which made it virtually impossible for Iris to convince anybody that she was a bona-fide journalist. The thirty-seven-year-old beauty (and beauty she was and never forgot it) was a reporter for Snoop, but she was also holder of an M.A. in journalism from Harvard, former feature writer for the Chicago Tribune, and decliner of at least three hundred pitches to go into TV news-despite the fact that the camera would have gone sappy over her Hepburnish cheekbones and chills-down-the-spine smile. She wanted to have fun being a journalist and sitting behind an anchor desk was hardly her idea of that. So when Snoop's president, the surprisingly earnest J. H. Hoolihan, a shanty Irish muckraker who now got to put his fat white ass on the surface of a gold inlaid bathtub the size of a garage floor, offered her a job, she'd been, in equal parts, offended and intrigued. Her newspaper friends all ridiculed the idea, of course, and even her father seemed troubled by her impending decision ("Would you really want to see the Graves name on a paper like that, honey?"). But in the end, far more fascinated than she should have been, she took the job. And began learning about a new way of perceiving reality.
        While most of what Snoop reported was not true in the absolute sense, almost everything it reported was true in some sense. If so-and-so was not having an affair with so-and-so, there was a good chance that they had spent some idle time together. If the latest cancer findings were not exactly a breakthrough, then at least they offered some new hope. And if the cop in New Jersey did not see a UFO exactly, he saw some goddamn thing. And so it went. Not the truth exactly but not a lie exactly either. And it sure beat covering city council meetings and fashion shows and Pet News. For instance, the story-scandal, really-she was working on now…
        "You're tense tonight, darlin'."
        "I've told you, Sanderson. Don't call me darlin'. I hate that."
        "You're really one of them, aren't you?"
        "One of whom?"
        "Libbers."
        "Oh, Christ."
        "You deny it?"
        "No, I don't deny it." She laughed. "I don't appreciate being mocked, little girl."
        "I just didn't know anybody actually said that anymore."
        "Said what?"
        "'Libbers.' And especially in that tone. Sort of like 'Communist.'"
        She'd made him angry and she knew it and she didn't give the slightest damn. When you were born beautiful and your father had oodles and you maintained a 3.8 all the way through grad school, there was very little you did give the slightest damn about.
        He leaned forward, all cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke, and made his face mean. "You seem to forget I could have you arrested for what you did to me."
        "You'd have to prove it."
        "Oh, I could prove it, darlin'. I could prove it."
        She felt sad suddenly. She liked sitting here in the shadows of the stage, most of the people in evening clothes, a band providing lots of festive noise. She just wished she were with a man she enjoyed. Sanderson was too old for her, too stupid, too crude. The only reason she sat with him now was because he'd seen her the other night when, dressed in snap-brim fedora and trench coat, she left the cabin of Cindy McBain, where the dead Ken Norris lay on the floor.
        He'd insisted on her coming back to his cabin. She'd been prepared to give into him, of course, and assumed she knew