Free The Burnt Orange Sunrise by David Handler Page B

But, frankly, you carry this nice-guy act a bit far. It’s somewhat embarrassing.” Aaron broke thunderously but to no avail—he sank nothing.
    Mitch promptly went to work. “Three-ball, corner pocket,” he said, dropping it crisply.
    “Kindly explain something to me, Mitch,” Aaron said as he watched him line up his next shot. “Why don’t you get an honest television job instead of writing for that biased liberal rag of yours?”
    Mitch’s newspaper was by no means biased. It was scrupulously even-handed, and Aaron knew this. He was just trying to get a rise out of Mitch so he could show his pretty blond wife how devastatingly clever he was.
    “Nine-ball, side pocket,” he said, sinking it.
    “Seriously, you need to get your face on TV,” Aaron persisted. “The air time will double your book sales.”
    “I’m a journalist, not an entertainer,” said Mitch, who had turned down a number of offers to review movies on television.
    “God, that is so beneath you, Mitch. Those labels are demonstrably obsolete. We are
communicators
, nothing more or less. Accept it. Take advantage of it. You’re well-spoken, make a nice impression. And compared to Roger Ebert, hell, you’re Brad Pitt.” Aaron let out a big, booming laugh. “I like that line. I’ll have to use it.”
    “You just did, Acky,” Carly pointed out tartly.
    “I meant on the air,” he growled at her. “Mitch, I’m privileged to know any number of prominent people at CNN, Fox News… I’d be happy to put out some feelers for you.”
    “That’s very nice of you, Aaron, but I’m fine right where I am.”
    “But how can you be? That’s not possible.”
    “I assure you, it’s very possible.”
    “Acky, you’re doing it again.”
    Aaron arched his eyebrow at his wife. “Doing
what?”
    “Laboring under the misapprehension that someone is unhappy because he’s not you,” she said. “Mitch is a smart man. Good at what he does, successful at it. If he wanted to be doing TV, he’d be doing TV. Since he’s not, that means he doesn’t want to. So shut up about it, okay?”
    “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Carly. All except for the shut-up part.” Mitch scoped out the table, observing that Aaron was glowering at her, red-faced. Acky did not like to be spoken to that way. “Seven-ball, corner pocket.” It was a long rail shot, but Mitch sank it.
    By now the man from Panorama was done with his calls and charging toward Mitch with his hand held out. “Spence Sibley, Mitch,” he exclaimed. “Sorry about all of this studio business. You must think I’m ultra-rude.”
    “No, not at all.”
    “I’ve just got so many last-minute details coming together at once. The studio’s West Coast contingent jets into Teeterboro in the morning,filled to the overhead luggage rack with heavy-hitters. Plus Tve got carload upon carload of people coming out from New York. Many of these people are directors who, believe me, have egos that are roughly akin to Afghan warlords. Stars are cupcakes in comparison.” Spence Sibley was about twenty-eight, boyishly handsome and innately self-assured. He had an open, clear-eyed face, a good strong jaw, and possibly the cleanest shave Mitch had ever seen. In fact, he was clean all over. Clean blond crew cut. Clean symmetrical features. Not particularly tall, but he looked as if he were a runner or maybe a swimmer. He practically hummed with good health. He was also exceedingly polished in that way successful corporate people so often are—upon closer inspection, his open face revealed not one thing about the man inside. Spence wore a camel’s hair blazer over a burgundy cable-stitched crew neck, perfectly creased tan slacks of heavyweight twill and polished chestnut-colored ankle boots. “Mitch, may I introduce you to Hannah Lane? Hannah is Ada’s personal assistant.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Hannah,” said Mitch, thinking her name sounded familiar.
    Hannah clambered awkwardly to her feet, nearly