Six

Lydia Soriano, Snapdragon’s features editor, called me at ten the next morning. Impressive, especially considering it was a Sunday. Stephanie, or Crazy Legs, must have had more clout than I’d estimated.

“Mr. Tucker, we’re interested in a 5,000-word piece on the murder of Louis Gibson. I understand you have some background on the subject.” Lydia had a very businesslike voice, but you could tell there was a human being in there somewhere.

“Call me Aaron. Please.” I started. “And actually, no. I don’t have any background at all. What I have is a knowledge of. . . Louis from his high school days and a very loose friendship with his wife from around the same time.”

“I understand that you’re reluctant,” she said without missing a beat. “But I’m told that you have investigated some murders before.”

Stephanie must have been very persuasive. “I’ve investigated exactly one murder, and I managed to solve it by annoying the murderers enough that they came after me. I wouldn’t exactly call that a stellar record.” I wanted Snapdragon to know exactly what it was getting, if it was getting anything.

“You know, Aaron, you keep this up, and I’m going to feel like you don’t want to work for us.” Well, what do you know? There was a sense of humor there after all.

“I’ve always wanted to work for Snapdragon. In fact, I’ve queried you guys maybe fifty times in the past five years. I just want you to have an accurate picture,” I told Lydia. “If you hire me, you’re paying, um. . .”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

I took a cleansing breath, the only useful thing I got from being a Lamaze coach twice. “. . . Ten thousand dollars, for someone who is not an investigative reporter, a crime reporter or a political reporter, and you’ll be hiring him to investigate a crime that is, in all likelihood, politically motivated. Don’t do it just because Stephanie Jacobs told you to.”

“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t call because of Stephanie’s reputation,” said Lydia. “But I do the assigning around here, not her. And it’s my ass on the line if you turn out to be a screw-up.”

“Don’t mince words, Lydia. Come right out and say it.”

She chuckled. “Aaron, have you ever been a magazine editor?”

“Not on your level, no.”

“One of the things you have to rely on is your own instinct. I called you because Stephanie recommended you. I did it because she’s a friend, and because her cooperation is going to be central to a story that everybody who covers politics is going to want. We’re tired of being thought of as Rolling Stone’s slow-witted cousin, and we want to make a big splash. She’s giving you exclusive access to her, and ‘exclusive’ means exclusive. She isn’t talking to anybody else. Also, I read as many of your clips as I could get off the Web. But still, I wouldn’t offer you the story if I called you and you sounded like you were going to read through the police reports on the Internet and write a story about the extinguishing of a strong voice for the fundamentalist right on Capitol Hill. Frankly, I thought Louis Gibson was. . .”

“. . . An asshole?”

“Pretty much.”

“He certainly was one in high school, and I haven’t seen him since then, but I’m willing to bet he got worse. Am I allowed to write that he was an asshole?”

Lydia didn’t miss a beat. “If you can back it up with facts, sure.”

“Well, stop beating around the bush,” I said. “Ask me if I want the ten grand.”