Lucky You

Krome motioned toward the editor's private office. "We should talk," he said.

"Yes, yes, I heard."

When they were alone behind the glass, Sinclair said, "Joan and Roddy called this morning. I guess the news is all over Grange."

Krome figured as much. He said, "I'll need a week or so."

Sinclair frowned. "For what, Tom?"

"For the reporting." Krome eyed him coldly. He'd anticipated this reaction, knowing too well Sinclair's unspoken credo: Big stories, big problems.

The editor rocked back in a contrived pose of rumination. "I don't think we're looking at a feature takeout anymore, do you?"

Krome was amused at the collective "we." The newspaper sent its midlevel editors to a management school that taught them, among other insipid tricks, to employ the "we" during disagreements with staff. The theory was that a plural pronoun subliminally brought corporate muscle to an argument.

Sinclair went on: "I think we're looking at a ten-inch daily, max, for the city side. robbers steal lotto ticket, unlucky lady laments."

Krome leaned forward. "If that headline ever appears in The Register,I will personally come to your home and cut out your lungs with a trenching knife."

Sinclair wondered if it would be smart to leave the door open, in case he had to make a run for it.

"No daily story," Krome said. "The woman isn't making any public statements. She hasn't even filed a police report."

"But you've talked to her?"

"Yes, but not on the record."

Sinclair, fortifying himself with another swig of coffee: "Then I really don't see a story. Without quotes from her or the cops, I don't see it."

"You will. Give me some time."

"Know what Roddy and Joan said? The rumor is, the Lucks girl somehow lost her Lotto ticket and then made up this bit about the robbers. You know, for sympathy."

Krome said, "With all due respect to Roddy and Joan, they're positively full of shit."

Sinclair felt a foolish impulse to defend his sister and her husband, but it passed quickly. "Tom, you know how short-staffed we are. A week sounds more like an investigation than a simple feature, wouldn't you say?"

"It's a story, period. A good story, if weare patient."

Sinclair's policy on sarcasm was to ignore it. He said, "Until this lady wants to talk to the cops, there's not much we can do. Maybe the lottery ticket got stolen, maybe it didn't. Maybe she never had it to begin with � these big jackpots tend to bring out the kooks."

"Tell me about it."

"We've got other stories for you, Tom."

Krome rubbed his eyes. He thought about Alaska, about bears batting rainbows in the river.

And he heard Sinclair saying, "They're teaching a course on bachelorhood out at the community college. 'Bachelorhood in the Nineties.' I think it could be a winner."

Krome, numb with disdain: "I'm not a bachelor yet. And I won't be for some time, according to my lawyer."

"A minor detail. Write around it, Tom. You're living a single life, that's the point."

"Yes. A single life."

"Why don't you sit in on the classes? This week they're doing sewing � it could be very cute, Tom. First person, of course."

"Sewing for bachelors."

"Sure," said Sinclair.

Krome sighed to himself. "Cute" again.

Sinclair knew how Krome felt about cute. He'd rather write obits. He'd rather cover the fucking weather. He'd rather have railroad spikes hammered into his nostrils.

With unwarranted hopefulness, Sinclair awaited Krome's answer. Which was:

"I'll call you from the road."

Sinclair sagged. "No, Tom, I'm sorry."

"You're saying I'm off the story?"

"I'm saying there isno story right now. Until we get a police report or a statement from this Lucks woman, there's nothing to put in the paper but gossip."

Spoken like a true newshound, Krome thought. A regular Ben Bradlee.

He said, "Give me a week."

"I can't." Sinclair was fidgeting, tidying the stack of pink phone messages on his desk. "I wish I could do it but I can't."

Tom Krome yawned. "Then I suppose I'll have to quit."

Sinclair stiffened. "That isn't funny."

"Finally, we agree." Krome saluted informally, then strolled out the door.

When he got home, he saw that somebody had shot all the windows out of his house with a large-caliber weapon. Tacked to the door was a note from Katie:

"I'm sorry, Tom, it's all my fault."

By the time she got there, an hour later, he had most of the glass swept up. She came up the steps and handed him a check for $500. She said, "Honestly, I'm so ashamed."

"All this because I didn't call?"

"Sort of."

Krome expected to be angrier about the broken windows, but upon reflection he considered it a personal milestone of sorts: the first time that a sexual relationship had resulted in a major insurance claim. Krome wondered if he'd finally entered the netherworld of white-trash romance.

He said to Katie: "Come on in."

"No, Tommy, we can't stay here. It's not safe."

"But the breeze is nice, no?"

"Follow me." She turned and trotted toward her car � darn good speed, for a person in sandals. On the interstate she twice nearly lost him in traffic. They ended up at a Mexican restaurant near the dog track. Katie settled covertly in a corner booth. Krome ordered beers and fajitasfor both of them.

She said, "I owe you an explanation."

"Wild guess: You told Art."

"Yes, Tom."

"May I ask why?"

"I was sad because you didn't call like you promised. And then the sadness turned to guilt � lying in bed next to this man, my husband, and me keeping this awful secret."

"But Art's been banging his secretaries for years."

Katie said, "It's not the same thing."

"Apparently not."

"Plus two wrongs don't make a right."

Krome backed off; he was a pro when it came to guilt. He asked Katie: "What kind of gun did Art use?"

"Oh, he didn't do it himself. He got his law clerk to do it."

"To shoot out my windows?"

"I'm so sorry," Katie said again.

The beers arrived. Krome drank while Katie explained that her husband, the judge, had turned out to be quite the jealous maniac.

"Much to my surprise," she added.

"I can't believe he paid his clerk to do a drive-by on my house."

"Oh, he didn't pay him. That would be a crime � Art is very, very careful when it comes to the law. The young man did it as a favor, more or less. To make points with the boss, that's my impression."

"Want to know mine?"

"Tom, I couldn't sleep Sunday night. I had to come clean with Art."

"And I'm sure he promptly came clean with you."

"He will," Katie said. "In the meantime, you might want to lay low. I believe he intends to have you killed."

The fajitasarrived and Tom Krome dug in. Katie remarked upon how well he was taking the news. Krome agreed; he was exceptionally calm. The act of quitting the newspaper had infused him with a strange and reckless serenity. Krome said: "What exactly did you tell Art? I'm just curious."

"Everything," Katie replied. "Every detail. That's the nature of a true confession."

"I see."

"What I did, I got up about three in the morning and made a complete list, starting with the first time. In your car."

Krome reached for a tortilla chip. "You mean ... "

"The blow job, yes. And every time afterwards. Even when I didn't come."

"And you put that on your list? All the details?" He picked up another chip and scooped a trench in the salsa.

Katie said, "I gave it to him first thing yesterday morning, before he went to work. And, Tom, I felt better right away."

"I'm so glad." Krome, trying to recall how many times he and Katie had made love in the two weeks they'd known each other; imagining how the tally would look on paper. He envisioned it as a line score in tiny agate type, the same as on the sports page.

She said, "I almost forgot, did you take that picture for me? Of the weeping Mother Mary?"