Read Online As Dog Is My Witness by JEFFREY COHEN - Free Book Online Page B

his heart was in
it or not. “Okay, I get the message. Always have to shoot down the
pompous, eh?”
    “That’s me,” I said, “the old pompous-shooter.” It
doesn’t always come out the way you want it to.
    “Okay, Aaron,” he said. “How far have you
gotten?”
    “I made it all the way through college,” I offered,
but I knew that wasn’t what he was asking. I was stalling for
time.
    “You know what I mean,” Glenn said. “How are the
revisions going?”
    There was no point. I’d have to level with him.
“Great,” I told him. “I think you’ll be pleased.” Okay, so some
things are more level than others. I have the same philosophy when
it comes to home repair, which is why all the shelves on my walls
are slightly off.
    “Terrific,” Glenn gushed distractedly. “How far have
you gotten?”
    “How far?”
    “Yes.”
    “How far have I gotten?”
    I could sense him sitting up behind his desk,
suddenly concerned. “That was the question, Aaron,” Glenn
said.
    “Well . . .  Come on, Tucker, you make
stuff up for money—say something! “I’m not really doing it in
sequence, you know. I’m fixing the little things first, then moving
on to the heavy lifting.”
    The crinkling in the earpiece told me Waterman was
relaxing back into his leather chair (PETA be damned!). “You had me
worried there for a minute.”
    “Yeah,” I said, “me too.”
    “How soon do you expect to be done?” he asked.
    “How soon?”
    “Don’t start this again, Aaron,” Waterman warned.
    “Soon,” I said firmly. “Very soon. What’s our
drop-dead date on this?”
    Waterman thought for a moment. He was calculating the
real deadline versus what he thought he should tell me, so I’d be
done sooner, or, if I went over “deadline,” still be on time. I
understand the impulse—I do it to interview subjects all the time.
“I can give you a week,” he said finally.
    A week! I did everything I could to avoid an
audible intake of breath, then gritted my teeth and lied directly
through them. “No problem,” I said. “Nothing to it.”
    “Good enough,” said Glenn. “Aaron, if you want to
confer with me on anything, bounce something off me, feel free.
I’ll always take your call. You know that, I hope.”
    “Yes, boss.”
    I hung up as quickly as I could and opened the
“ Minivan ” computer file for the first time since I’d arrived
home. The changes Glenn wanted really weren’t all that extensive,
and if I put the effort into it, I could certainly finish in
time.
    The phone rang. I considered not picking up, what
with having all this newfound resolve and everything, but the
number, from within my own area code, was one I didn’t recognize.
Curiosity didn’t necessarily kill the freelance writer, but it more
than likely wasn’t going to make him a lot of money, either.
    “Hello?”
    “Mr. Tucker, this is Arnold Rezenbach.” He waited, as
if the very mention of his name usually brought awed gasps or
prayers muttered under one’s breath. I was pretty sure I’d heard it
before, but I couldn’t remember where. “I’m the attorney for Karen
Huston,” he added, realizing I wasn’t providing an adequate amount
of shaking-in-my-boots.
    “Oh yeah,” I said, mostly to myself. I immediately
switched into freelance reporter mode, noting with some pride how
quickly gungho screenwriter mode had evaporated. If I played this
right, I might be able to pave the way for eventually getting an
interview with Michael Huston’s widow. “I was calling about an
article I’m writing for Snapdragon. ”
    “Yes, I remember,” Rezenbach said. “I’m calling to
inform you that Ms. Huston has consented to an interview.”
    Damn , I’m good.
     
     

Chapter Twelve

    I had an hour and a half
before the kids would come home, so I rushed to Karen Huston’s home
in North Brunswick before she or her lawyer could change their
minds. He was already there, as it turned out, having called me on
the cell phone from