about the kids, the fire truck, the boat.
âI canât believe it. He seemed nice that day. Remember how sort of shy he was? He had been at a football game and he was having hot chocolate to warm up, and it was like he didnât want to look me right in the eye but he kept almost peeking at me.â
âHe was afraid of women. Especially young, attractive ones.â
âWell, what happened?â
âI donât know. They sayâthe medical examiner, I meanâsays it was an accidental drowning. But I donât buy it. Where he was is in the middle of nowhere, and he didnât even have a car. So what did hedo? Walk down there in the middle of the night to look at the view and get too close to the edge?â
âWhat do the police think?â she said.
âAccidental death until they find something that says otherwise.â
âThey must have their reasons, donât you think?â
âYeah, like they donât feel like worrying about it, like it might involve some work. Itâs a big rubber stamp. Bang, bang. Case closed.â
âDid he kill himself?â Roxanne asked.
âI donât know. Maybe. He seemed fine to me, though. Strange, the way he was, but happy enough. Basketball is about to start up and he really liked shooting basketball photos. It was warm, which is why he hated football. He said he had bad circulation, and heâd freeze standing around outside like that.
âBut itâs not just that. He wasnât the type to do something dramatic like that. I donât know. Something so final. He hemmed and hawed over everything. Which shot was better, which one to print, did I like this one, did I like that one better. Drive you crazy.â
I finished my beer and ate a spoonful of chili.
âThis is really good. You donât cook bad for a sexpot.â
Roxanne sat with her legs crossed. I was glad she didnât paint her toenails.
âSo what are you going to write?â she asked, fiddling in the chili with her spoon.
âI donât know. A news story. Write it straight. Thatâs all I can do right now. Iâll do some kind of profile, too. âStobit,â they call it. Part story, part obituary. But Iâll keep pushing. Do an editorial. Maybe if I write enough nasty things about the cops and the medical examiner, theyâll reopen the case. Bow to media pressure. Appoint a special commission to investigate allegations of neglect of duty and corruption.â
âHave you ever had that happen?â
âWritten stories that resulted in commissions being formed?â
âYeah.â
âActually, I was involved in one. The Journal , in Providence. They had this hotshot investigative reporter who did some stories on a Mafia judge. Guy ended up being booted off the bench. I was just a gofer. But that was the Journal . This is the Androscoggin Review . Thereâs something called the clout factor, and I donât know how much we have.â
I finished my beer and put it down on the floor by Roxanneâs shoes.
âI guess Iâll find out,â I said.
âYouâve got clout with me,â Roxanne said.
âJust so you donât want me to tie you up.â
âDo people really do that?â she giggled.
âDonât ask me. I just know what I see in Times Square.â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âNothing as nice as what I see right now.â
âYou didnât really go there, did you? To those movies, I mean.â
âHell no. I just went there to buy heroin.â
âWhat am I getting myself into here?â she said, putting her arms around me.
âIâve been asking myself that question,â I said, kissing her deeply, and then deeper than that.
6
I really had worked on a story like that. It was back when I was a young would-be hotshot working eighty hours a week at the Journal . The story had to do with bid-rigging and the