Free Killing Red by Henry Perez Page B

become good at through repetition, but Wormley would have none of it.
    “Maybe I should ask for your autograph, while I still have the chance,” Wormley said, then leaned back his small, burgundy upholstered office chair that Chapa always thought looked purposely uncomfortable.
    “What are you talking about, Duane?”
    “Ooh, someone’s way out of the loop, so far out he can’t even see it, not without a, you know, he needs—”
    “What, Duane? A telescope, a compass, an atlas, a GPS system, two Sherpas, whatever, just get there.”
    Wormley withdrew a little, like a threatened turtle. Pushing his narrow glasses up the bridge of his nose, he looked around the newsroom like he was some sort of secret agent.
    “There’s a buzz,” he said, leaning in toward Chapa, then ran a hand through thinning dishwater blond hair as though he were giving someone a signal.
    Zach, an intern Chapa had just about decided was okay, was sitting a few feet beyond Wormley’s sightline. He caught Chapa’s eyes, then rolled his.
    “What kind of a buzz?” Chapa asked.
    “The kind that results in cutbacks. The sort of cutbacks that sometimes put overpaid reporters on the street.”
    Chapa had heard that sort of talk before. It was a cyclical thing, but over the past few years, as more readers turned to the Internet and ad revenues softened, the cycles had become shorter. It was happening in every newspaper office, all over the country.
    “I wouldn’t be the first to go.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Wormley was feeling his oats again. “You have an office, the rest of us work in cubicles, or at a desk in the middle of a crowded room. You’re always out of the building, I’m always on time, and I’m an example to others.”
    Zach adopted a serious look, tightened his lips, and gave Chapa a mocking nod. Though he had a habit of putting a little too much purple in his prose, Zach had real potential.
    Wormley was still talking.
    “You have an attitude, I have a purpose. And you’re extremely well paid, while others have to count their peanuts.”
    That last line conjured up an image that Chapa did not want to dwell on. He also opted to not mention that a large portion of his paycheck went toward child support.
    “He’s Alex Freakin’ Chapa,” Zach jumped into the fray. Chapa rewarded him with a Right On point of his left index finger.
    “Big deal,” Wormley didn’t bother to turn and face the intern. “I got more email responses to my column last week than you did to yours, Alex. Probably more responses than you’ve gotten all year.”
    “You ran a column asking people to send in the story of their most exciting scrapbooking experience,” Chapa said, making no effort to mask his disdain.
    “That’s right, I’m in touch with what readers are into today. You’re not.”
    A few others in the office were doing their best to pretend they weren’t tuned in to this exchange. Most of the morning crew was still around. Reporters, editors, and layout artists working the night shift, and others like Chapa who punched their own clocks, were starting to stumble in.
    “Duane, you’re not a journalist. For shit’s sake, you named your column Wormin’ Around .”
    “That’s clever.”
    “It’s stupid.”
    Zach choked back a laugh. Chapa decided the kid was okay.
    “Taken literally, it suggests you’re either playing in dirt, or having sex with yourself.”
    A mix of anger and confusion flashed across Duane’s slender face.
    “What’s that supposed to—”
    “Worms have both male and female junk down there,” Zach chimed in.
    Wormley corkscrewed his brow and looked off into the distance, as if he was actually trying to picture how that might work.
    “I’m just saying you’re going to want to get your résumé together, that’s all.”
    Remembering he had work to do, Chapa shrugged, then started for his office.
    “Oh yeah, and Macklin was looking for you, something about needing to have a