Free Hot Shot by Kevin Allman

already driven away by the time I got the rusty key in the door marked 17.
    *   *   *
    I unpacked my bag into a pressboard drawer and turned on the A/C. A trickle of air dribbled out of the ceiling, a wheezy wisp that could only be described as luke-cold. The room had a bed with a ratty chenille spread, a television on a swivel pole, and chocolate hi-lo carpeting that crunched under my sneakers. It smelled like the inside of a dryer. I turned down the bed and found something brown on my pillow.
    It wasn’t a mint.
    Well, I thought, at least I’ve got FREE L CAL CAL S .
    Information didn’t turn up any Sloan Bakers in the metro area. Next I tried a buddy of mine who worked for the phone company. We had a deal: free screening passes in exchange for access to what he called the “unlistings.”
    Still no Sloans in 310, 213, or 818, but there were three unlisted S. Bakers, one in each area code. I jotted down the numbers, for the first time feeling slimy about it. Before, using my pal at the phone company had felt like just another arrow in a well-connected reporter’s quiver. Now it seemed something a sleaze would do.
    What the hell. I dialed the 310 S. Baker. A woman picked up.
    â€œSloan?” I said cheerfully. Rule one: Disarm them. An unknown voice on the phone saying “I’m looking for Sloan Baker” would get anyone’s guard up.
    â€œYou’ve got the wrong number.” Click.
    From the sound of it, 213 S. Baker was an elderly black woman with a hearing problem. And 818 S. Baker was an answering machine: Steve and Stephanie couldn’t come to the phone right now, but I got to hear their toddler’s rendition of “Good Morning Starshine.” I made a vomiting noise at the sound of the beep and hung up.
    Strike three and out. I sighed and got out my long-distance calling card.
    The Celeb offices were in Cocoa Beach, Florida. A receptionist explained that Gina Guglielmelli was a staff writer in the L.A. bureau and gave me Gina’s extension. She picked up on the first ring. I explained who I was and why I was calling. She chuckled.
    â€œO’Connor, you wouldn’t give away your sources,” she said. “Why should I?”
    â€œI’m not asking you to betray a source. I just want to talk to ‘Desiree.’ Obviously she’s willing to talk. And I’m not your competition. Can’t you just pass my number on to her and let her make the decision?”
    There was a long pause. “Let me ask you something,” Gina finally said. “Would you ask the same thing of me if I worked for The New York Times? ”
    â€œâ€¦ No.”
    â€œO’Connor, I’m a reporter. Oh, I know that you people in the so-called legit media think we’re all a bunch of ambulance chasers and gutter crawlers, but I have standards the same way you do. Higher, probably. I double-check and triple-check my sources.”
    â€œI’m sure you do, but—”
    â€œBut nothing. You want my c.v.? I went to Yale and the Columbia School of Journalism. Did you?”
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œNow tell me again why you expect me to put you in touch with a source I cultivated.”
    â€œThat you paid for, you mean.”
    â€œLike you don’t. Like you’ve never taken a source to lunch, or a Kings game, or done all kinds of favors for them.”
    â€œI have never taken a source to a Kings game.”
    â€œA screening, whatever. Can you tell me you’ve never done that?”
    â€œOkay,” I said tiredly. “You win. Sorry I bothered you.”
    â€œThe world’s changed, O’Connor. What’s news has changed.” She laughed. “And you legitimate types are still playing catch-up. I love it.”
    Gina Guglielmelli was still laughing as she slammed down the phone.
    *   *   *
    Red numerals on the bedside clock read 2:17. The glow from the laptop and the