A SECOND BYLINE

By Sharon Ferguson

CHAPTER THREE:

“Rooooss!”

Deeply engrossed in the words lining the screen in front of him, Alex barely looked aside at the sound of his boss bellowing like a bullhorn from across the room.  It took him a few moments to think of why Ed Krantzberg would want to speak to him, another few to finish crunching the ice cube in his mouth.  He unbent himself from the slump in his chair.  He badly wanted a cigarette, but this place, the Morning Herald newspaper, had the ridiculous notion that cigarette smoke inside the building would make people fall over and die, so all smokers (well, all four of them) were relegated to the back alley for five minutes.  Alex noted that the way Ed Krantzberg worked himself up time and time again, red-faced and blithering, second-hand smoke was the least of his problems. 

“Be careful how you beckon me, boss.  A guy might get ideas,” he quipped as he sauntered in.  Ed’s secretary, a young collegiate, stood nearby and gave a small yelp of laughter as Ed fumed.

“Get your butt in here and explain yourself,” Ed retorted, waving his arm at the girl to clear out.  She threw Alex a look that said It's your funeral as she closed the door.

“I’m in like Flynn,” Alex quipped.  “But I might be able to explain if I knew what it was I was to explain about.”

“I ask you for an investigative series on that bio-technology company in town and you give me this drivel?”  Ed picked up a stack of papers on his desk and threw them back down in a fit of pique.  Still standing, he glared at his employee with all the wrath of Zeus…or a man with a serious case of heartburn.

“Can I help it if things have changed?” Alex shrugged, knowing that would only egg on the outraged editor.  He was in a perverse mood himself.

“If you work for me, you can!”

“I thought you trusted me.”

“Trust!  I’ll tell you what I don’t trust!  What I don’t trust,” Ed sneered, “is people who dither about with information that’s obsolete!  As of this morning, NanoCorp became obsolete.  And who do you think scooped it?”

Alex pursed his lips.  He and Ed had an on-again, off-again relationship: whenever Ed was on a rampage, Alex fell off his favorites list.  Not that he was high up in the pecking order to begin with. 

“The Daily in the metropolis!” Ed answered his own question for him.  “This is local, Alex, and we can’t get our news out faster than the Daily?  I thought you had connections!  I thought you had your beady little eyes on the place!”

“I did!  But today I made new ones and now I have something else to investigate.”

“Oh yeah?  What?”

Here, Alex clammed up and that made Ed even more mad. 

“When it was yesterday, Ross, I wanted what NanoCorp had been up to yesterday,” the editor growled.  “Now that it's today, I want what NanoCorp will do next.  Instead, you give me hints and allegations of a secret organization within the company and some conspiracy about a clone experiment.”

“My sources…”

“Your sources are outdated, too!”

“I have a real lead here,” Alex argued in irritation. “There have been some witnesses and movements within the company to at least point to a…”

“A cabal?  Secret military operations?  A rogue group?  C’mon, Ross,” Ed sneered.  “Are you saying this cabal is the one responsible for the explosion?  Got news for you, kid: it’s in the Daily!  Some environmental activist shit.  Can you top that?”

“Can’t say right now,” Alex said, softly.  Ed was making his point, loud and clear.

“No,” Ed sneered, “you can’t say, because you gave me this dreck!  Look, Ross, the Herald is a real newspaper, not some checkout stand rag.  I need professionalism.  I didn’t ask much about where you came from….” Here, Alex felt his shoulders slump.  The last thing he needed was pity.  “I put faith in what you could do, especially when I saw what you wrote as a freelancer.  Not to mention that you’re a fellow Marine.  But I don’t run a rat-shit tabloid here and I’m not going to print this until you can give me something that will put us ahead of the Daily…tomorrow morning.”

“I’m on it,” Alex promised, and skulked back to his desk, decidedly more in need of a cigarette than before.  After frowning at the jumble on his desk for several seconds, he flipped off the monitor and grabbed his jacket.  His hand hit the card in his pocket as he slipped it on and felt for his pack of cigarettes.  He pulled it out.  “Terence Thorne, CEO, NanoCorp SubSIDiaries, Inc. – Life is no small matter.”

Yeah, well, life had become a great big FUBAR for the man, that much was certain.  Alex knew he should have called them hours ago, but he’d been hesitating. The face of the CEO and his companion had not left his mind since that morning.  Something about them scratched at a part of his brain he didn’t like scratching, especially since the red-head was right – the map on that Aussie was awful familiar.  As in, wake-up-and-grunt-at-the-mirror familiar.

He glanced at the clock on the wall as he strode down the hallway – five o’clock - a cigarette in hand ready to light the moment he stepped outside.  It wasn’t seeing the same face that bothered him so much.  It was the feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was not right about that similarity, like there was an angle too crooked to crab.  When he felt like that, he needed to think, not pound the typewriter mill.

Seemed like a good time for a drink, too.

Fuck Ed and his professionalism.  He’d call tomorrow. 

The sun was setting at the far end of the canyon of office buildings and banks and Alex tipped the brim of his fedora down to block out the few orange rays that blinded him.  He headed for a little Irish bar he knew would not sneeze at a little smoke.  It was possible they were hurting for sympathy right about now, he mused.  They hadn’t looked like they were all that willing to talk to a news-hawk.  As if that would stop him, or any self-respecting reporter, but then again, Alex did have what those cats at the Daily didn’t have: direct access to Thorne.

Maybe he could get them to sing, if he played it right.

Night finally came, but hardly with anything like relief or solace.  It seemed to Deidre that no sooner did they turn from one inquisitor, they were greeted with three more, all with the authority to either haul them off to jail or destroy what little reputation they were holding onto.  By the time Terry’s lawyer arrived on the scene and swept them away to an office building downtown, Deidre was ready to find a corner somewhere and just cry her eyes out.  She really envied Terry’s military training, then.  If she didn’t know better, she’d say he had a heart of stone, at least as far as dealing with the more sensitive questions about who was responsible for the explosion.  So far, everyone seemed to be buying the assertion that an animal rights group had publicized their culpability, but he did not shoot down the speculation that perhaps grudges from his kidnap and rescue past had found a way to take revenge, either.

Interspersed with this were phone calls on Cort and Rachel’s arrival in Australia, and on Bud’s progress with Maximus.  Cort was highly apprehensive of their apartment in Sydney; and Bud delivered the very bad news about SID.  That became the underlying theme of the day: Sid was alive.  Sid was unrelenting.  Sid had something to do with Caroline’s death.  Sid.  Sid.  Sid.

They found themselves on the long leather couch in the lawyer’s office, Terry punching away at buttons on the phone while Deidre sat beside him and stared up at a large poster on the wall, a vintage advertisement that read: “Regie Air Afrique – Visitez L’Afrique En Avion”- visit Africa by air.  The androgynous person in the picture sat in a chair that was obviously housed in an air-ship, their face turned to look out over an idyllic landscape of trees and mud-brick houses.  Deidre leaned against Terry’s shoulder and closed her eyes.  She’d give anything to be lifted up in a dirigible, to float in lazy paths across an African sky and watch the world roll on and on below…

“Well, don’t know about you, Nolia,” Terry said, pocketing the phone and turning to her, “but I am ready to bog into some tucker.”

“Are you?  I’d have thought you’d be drained.  I know I’ve lost my appetite.”

“No,” he laughed grimly.  “If I don’t eat something soon, you’ll have to drag me back home, literally.”

“You’d be in a world of hurt, then.  I couldn’t drag a string,” Deidre replied.  “Did I just hear you tell Cort to leave Sydney?”

“I’ve sent them up to the family homestead,” Terry replied.  The lawyer could be heard in rapid-fire discussion on the other side of the door.  Deidre frowned slightly, trying to work out how Terry would have arranged that out since he, technically, did not exist.  “It’s really there,” he assured, seeing her look.  “But don’t ask me to explain right now.  Let’s tell Mr. Forster good night and then hit the pub downstairs.  Your shout, as always,” he teased, eliciting a weary grin from her.

But Forster did not let them go until an hour later, ending with an agreement to meet again in the morning, with more issues of confronting the legal tangle now unraveling.  The company was on the verge of bankruptcy and the vulture flock of investigators gathering.  They knew this going in, Deidre reminded herself.  Nevertheless, it was a shock to hear it from the lawyer’s lips, at least for her, and there were already implications of law-suits, ruined pensions, ruined lives…

She felt grateful that both the lawyer and Terry let her sit with her hands over her face while she processed the repercussions of what they had done.  The only thing that kept her from falling apart completely was Terry’s promise of a good dose of liquid fortification.

“You want to know what I can’t get over?”  Terry asked when they were in the elevator going down.  He leant in the corner and pulled Deidre to him, almost hiding the troubled look on his face. 

“What?”

“That smarmy bastard we met today,” he replied, almost unwillingly, as if torn between bringing the subject up and pretending it didn’t bother him.

“Which one?” Deidre snorted.  “I was sure we met a whole barbarian horde of smarmy bastards today.”

“You know who,” Terry groused, giving her a side-ways glance.  “Ross.”

Deidre’s eyes widened.  Oh, yeah.  She’d forgotten him.  She hadn’t been flirted with like that in ages, not to mention the fact that Alex Ross was the spitting image of…other people she knew.  She watched Terry’s expression harden slightly, enough to remind her how much he disliked their exchange, and found herself grinning.  Was he jealous? 

“He was obnoxious,” she agreed as she nuzzled him.  “He was almost funny.  But Terry, where the hell did he come from?  Does he even realize…?”

“I don’t know.  I couldn’t tell. He was so busy playing the fucking investigative reporter and I was so busy playing the fucking innocent,” he sighed, world-weary.  “Strewth, luv, I can’t suss this out ‘til I’ve had a pint.”

“Terry?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s just some flatfoot reporter, not a brave, gorgeous soldier like you.”

The bell for the ground floor dinged just as Terry cupped her face with his hand and kissed her, long and slow.  They heard a sigh and turned to find five people waiting for their elevator, one of which sounded her approval with a sigh.

“It was a long way down.  I got scared,” Terry told them sheepishly as they stepped out.  The group laughed.

The building where the company lawyer nested his offices was a grand brick edifice in the glittering crystal canyon of down town, a throwback to the turn of the 20^th century when architecture was less about efficient use of space and more a continuation of  extravagant Victorian sensibilities.  The lobby alone was a forest of carved white pillars, white walls, and reclaimed stained glass, vintage to the era it was built, released from the exile of post-modern sheathing.  Restoration had also revived the row of spaces lining the outer fringe of the hotel with new shops and businesses, one of which was an Irish bar by the name of Shenanigans.  A side door led into the bar from the lobby and here Terry opened the door for Deidre.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Suddenly your protagonist's sidekick arrives and starts to gossip.

Gayle Tresler looked up from the semi-inked page of the spiral notebook in front of her and glanced around the bar.  On the one hand, she realized that she was in the least likely place for composing a novel; on the other, that was the reason she chose this spot.  That and they had awesome potato skins (or so she had been told), the remains of which were still sitting on the plate to her side, waiting to be bussed, and her glass of tea, extra lemon please, was more ice than liquid, waiting to be refilled.  In the meanwhile, a growling stomach satiated, she had pulled out her ever-present tablet and forced herself to stare it down until something inspired her to discover the muse that would earn her the true title of best-selling author.

And because she could never fully get away from the computer that had become her lifeline to writing, she had her iPhone stationed to a plot generator she had downloaded.  So she played her little games with the paper, writing out random sentences to compel the muse forward ~ sidekick, protag, gossip.  Looking around the bar, she could easily see how she could use any one of the people that lounged or lurched their way around the bar as gossipers, sidekicks…aw, hell, she needed a protagonist didn’t she?  Maybe she’d come up with one in a minute.

At this point your antagonist arrives, bearing cookies.

Oh, great, now I need an antagonist, too, she fumed.  There was a rather large-waisted man sitting at the far end of the bar, newspaper spread out possessively over a large area, directly in front of a television set to the news channel.  He looked more like a long-suffering middle manager than an Antagonist.  Nope.  There were two women in a far booth, both chatting happily away. Both of them looked like soccer moms.  Nope, again. The bar tender looked busy…and relatively mundane in appearance, his hair spiked like some throwback to an eighties teen movie and his t-shirt said something she couldn’t quite make out.

No, no models for antagonists here, it would seem.

Suddenly a vampire arrives, dressed in black.

Oh, how goth!  Gayle snickered at the idea.  In an Irish bar?  Well, he’d be nothing like a
Viking vampire by Charlaine Harris, but…let’s put that one aside for another day, shall we?

Clearly, it is time for a cryptic prophecy.

No kidding.  Next!

She went on like this for several more minutes, becoming more engrossed with commenting on the postulations the plot generator offered than with actually writing.  It almost had her in a good mood, considering her real reason for lurking in a bar rather than going home.  At this juncture, looking and feeling a bit out of place in a smoke-filled bar was much better than looking and feeling isolated in a barely furnished loft apartment that she had just signed on for the next six months.  Her hand quivered as that thought crossed her mind again.  Six months of the biggest rent she’d ever taken on in her life, and she had no job with which to support it now.

The scene changes, and a perky cartoonist arrives and offers his/her help.

Bemused, Gayle looked up again, if only to give her eyes a break from staring down at the tiny screen, to glance around again to see who else had come in, for the noise level was increasing and she had the sudden sensation she was being watched. 

Confirmation of that suspicion came when her eyes wandered to the other end of the bar just behind her.  On a stool sat a young man dressed in a gabardine suit, slightly at odds with the surrounding casual attire of others, his jacket slung across the stool next to him and the matching fedora perched on top of that.  He was sitting at an angle that would give him full view of the main of the bar, a cigarette poised at his mouth to light while he searched his pockets.  His face was turned down, but only just, as if he were trying to act like he had not been staring.  Or at least, that was the impression she got.  She turned back around, a flush of excitement rushing through her.  Had he been the one watching her?  Even in the dimming light of the bar, she could see he was close to her thirty-something years of age and quite, quite good-looking.  How long had he been there?  Maybe he was looking at some sweet young thing behind her.  She’d check to make sure in a few minutes.

She clicked the button on the generator again, but did not see the new plot line that came up on the screen, her mind now completely intrigued…and hopeful.  He looked like he didn’t quite belong in the bar, just like she knew she didn’t quite belong.   Didn’t belong in this time-period, even.  Who wore fedoras anymore?  And even slouched at the bar like he was, he didn’t carry himself like most men did.  There was a certain raw power in his build and demeanor, a power born of long, hard trials and a healthy amount of testosterone.

All the more reason to check this guy out, she mused, but she knew she’d have to leave if she made a brazen play and he shot her down.

Get back to writing, the blankness in her tablet seemed to say.

Instead, she turned to look again.

And was met with a rather steady gaze from the man, cigarette now emitting curlicues of smoke from his hand, a rather bold expression on his face as if he didn’t care if she caught him staring or not.  A smile played about his eyes and lips.

Oh dear Lord!   She swallowed and reached for her drink – some of the ice had melted and tasted vaguely of the lemon-flavored tea.  Now she really needed to act unaware and offhand, especially if she was going to get out of the bar with any shred of grace, or…or…she would…

“May I buy you a drink?  Looks like you need a refill.”

Gayle looked up and saw that the man, fedora in one hand, jacket slung over the arm, had left his barstool and come to stand directly at her table, looking down with the same nonchalant bravery she had been trying to muster.  For several long seconds, choices warred within her: invite a stranger and possibly end up regretting it?  Or be a bitch and send him on his way…and maybe definitely regretting it? 

Oh, how could she resist those blue-green eyes?  The thought that she had merely been waiting to see what color they were overrode any hesitation, and before she could second-guess that, she mutely indicated acceptance.  He slid into the booth across from her, settled his jacket and hat next to him and waved to the waitress who stood nearby. 

“Just iced tea,” Gayle said when he asked.  She half-expected him to suggest getting something stronger, but was privately pleased when he asked for the same thing for himself. 

Then, several awkward seconds fell between them.  Gayle was sure she looked like a frightened chicken as her mind raced for something innocuous - and non-suggestive - to ask.

“Name’s Alex Ross,” he said, solving that dilemma handily.  He pulled the untouched ashtray that sat next to the salt and pepper close, jammed his cigarette into the middle of it, sending one last sliver of smoke up as a dying end to a burnt out sentence.  “I won’t smoke another one if you don’t want me to,” he added, sounding a bit shy. 

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me,” she replied automatically.  “I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to be around it.  A friend of mine warned me and I…well, I like it here.  So I don’t mind.  I’m Gayle, Gayle Tresler,” she said. 

“I like the name,” he smiled, a very nice smile with white even teeth and a sweetness to it that was hard to find in men.  “Nice to meet you, Gayle.  Not many places let you smoke anymore.”  He took a packet of Marlboros out of his jacket and gave it one quick flick to punch a single cigarette out and Gayle caught herself watching his every move.  He had long graceful fingers.

“No, they don’t,” she said.  Now that he was closer, she could see the shape of his lips and the planes of his face.  His hair was a dusty brown and he had a wariness about him, as if he had been wounded deeply, but was too interested in people to let that stop him from risking again.   She deliberately put her hands in her lap to lock her finger together, or she’d end up fidgeting with her notebook and iPhone.  Or reach out and grab his hands.  “Do you…I mean, are you from around here?” 

“Not originally,” he replied, and a slight shadow crossed his face.  “You might say I wandered into town and haven’t found a reason to leave.”  His eyes swept her in a way that made her think he could see through the wooden table-top and possibly past the silken top and skirt she wore. 

“Me, neither.  Except, I came here deliberately, but now I’m not sure I have a reason to stay.”

Instantly, he was concerned.  “What’s happened?”

“Oh….” Gayle unclenched her hands and gave in to the temptation to play with her iPhone.  She needed to shut it off anyway for the battery was getting low.  “I just got this new job.  Highest paying job I could have hoped for since I graduated from college.  Only now…” she faded off, not wanting to sound pitiful.  She was glad she had not decided to get an alcoholic drink.  She had a tendency to babble when she imbibed.  “The place I just started at doesn’t exist any more.”

This got a reaction.  Alex swore softly under his breath, straightened, and took another puff of his cigarette, his blue-green eyes becoming more intense in color.  “Let me guess: NanoCorp.”

“Yes,” she replied.  “I know probably half this city works for them, so I’m not the only one who’s been hit by what happened…but I doubt many of them didn’t just move from out of state and rent up a big ol’ loft apartment that she’ll never be able to pay.”  God, was she really spilling her guts to this guy?

“How long have you been working for them?”

“A week.  I was hired as a technical writer.  Manuals, diagrams, medical specifications.  I minored in Biology, so they figured I would at least understand the medical terminology.  I was so excited!  This is my first job away from where I grew up, my first job that had anything remotely to do with my degree.  Now…” she left off, wishing she had gone ahead and ordered a Rusty Nail or something.

“I’m sorry,” Alex offered, and looked like he meant it.  He focused on the tablet that had remained open and decided to redirect the subject.  “Are you working on something for them now?”

Now Gayle knew her face was turning seven shades of red.

“No,” she said, demurely.  “I like to write for myself, too.”

The grin on Alex’s face grew wider.  “I thought as much.  I’m a writer, too.”

“You are?”

“A reporter for the Herald.  Hard hitting journalism, action news, that sort of thing…”

“I’ve always liked journalism,” Gayle said.   “But I don’t think I have the knack for it.”

He leaned forward now, fastening her with a slight twinkle in his eye.

“It's not that hard,” he said.  “ It's mostly just saying Lord Jones is dead to people who never knew Lord Jones was alive.”

“G. K. Chesterson!” Gayle replied, surprised she could remember that particular bit of trivia from her days in school.  Alex looked pleased.

“Very good!  Actually, I’m more of a photographer, but that’s not what they need me for.”

“What do they need you for?”

“Torture.  My editor is brutal!” Alex sighed with exasperation and Gayle laughed.  “Don’t believe me?”

“I do!  I do!”

“Let me tell you a story,” Alex said, warming up.  “Three men were walking down the beach…an editor, a photographer, and a journalist. Halfway up the beach, they stumbled upon a lamp. As they rubbed the lamp a genie appeared and said ‘normally I would grant you three wishes, but since there are three of you, I will grant you each one wish.’ 

“The photographer went first.  He said: ‘I would like to spend the rest of my life living in a huge house in St. Thomas with no money worries.’ The genie granted him his wish and sent him on off to St. Thomas.

“The journalist went next. ‘I would like to spend the rest of my life living on a huge yacht cruising the Mediterranean with no money worries.’ The genie granted him his wish and sent him off to the Mediterranean.

“Last, but not least, it was the editor's turn. ‘And what would your wish be?’ asked the genie.

‘I want them both back after lunch,’ replied the editor, ‘the deadline for tomorrow's newspaper is in about ten hours.’  And that ain’t far off from the truth,” Alex concluded as she chortled.  By this time, he’d finished his second cigarette and was pulling at the packet for a third.  His eyes had never really left her face while he spoke, but a sharp clatter behind the bar caused them both to turn and when Gayle determined that it had only been the waitress dropping a tray, she turned back to find a strange look on Alex’s face as he stared past her toward the back of the bar.  He dropped the unlit cigarette into the ashtray and suddenly remembered he was sitting with her.

“I…,” he began and looked embarrassed.  Stammering, he explained in swift apology,  “I see someone I need to talk to.  I’ll be right back,” and slid out of the booth.

A bit stunned, Gayle watched him stride to the back where the side entrance of the pub opened up into the lobby of the high-rise building, mostly expecting to see some gorgeous goddess of a woman put her arms around him to greet him.  The more bitter, paranoid part of her was certain that he’d already forgotten whatever flirtation he was having with her at the sight of a former lover…or worse yet, was merely entertaining a lonely bar-fly while he waited for said paramour.  So the astonishment she felt doubled into shock when she turned and leaned out of the booth to catch Alex confronting a couple who had just come in.  There was a woman, after all, a tall, lithe woman with an amazing mane of auburn hair, her arm looped through the second person’s, a man.  She looked just as shocked as Gayle felt, and the man who was with her…

She couldn’t help herself then, and felt very glad she’d not had a drop of alcohol to drink, otherwise she would have been sure she was hallucinating.  Quite possibly she would have fallen out of the booth, as well, for leaning out so far to look.  She could see Alex’s back to her and the other man draw himself up into a commanding stance.  His short hair and broad shoulders shouted military discipline.  Most of all, and Gayle stared and stared as she realized it: anyone with a sober eye could have seen, even in the dim light of Shenanigan’s atmospheric Irish pub, could have distinguished the fact that the man facing Alex looked exactly like him.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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