“Hmm…What do I feel like having today?”
Jazz held up his wrist so that Howie could see his watch. “School in twenty minutes.”
“You can’t rush my creative genius,” Howie said, “with your quotidian worries.”
“ Quotidian ? Seriously?”
“I would have said mundane , but that word is so…mundane.”
“I do have other tables.…” Helen reminded them.
“I think today,” Howie announced, “I’m going to try a nonfat macchiato with a double shot of caramel, lots of foam, and whipped cream on top.”
Helen’s pen hesitated at her order pad. “Foam and whipped cream?”
Howie pretended to mull it over. “Yep.”
“And you want nonfat, but then you want whipped cream?”
“I’m a complicated man, with complicated taste buds.”
Before Helen could move away entirely, Jazz stopped her. “Make those to go, will you?”
“Sure, Jasper.”
“What the—” Howie broke off. “Oh. I see. Sleazoid alert.”
He had seen what Jazz noticed moments before: Sitting at the Coff-E-Shop’s counter was none other than Doug Weathers, a reporter for the county’s weekly rag of a newspaper. When Billy had been caught and arrested, Weathers found himself in the catbird seat as the first reporter on the scene, and the one with all the background dirt. He knew the most recent victims’ families. He knew the area. He knew Billy’s friends and coworkers. He had even met Billy once, many years earlier, at some local political function.
And Weathers milked that for all it was worth when the time came. Suddenly he was in demand as a “local expert,” his mug plastered all over CNN and Fox News and all the major broadcast channels. For months, you couldn’t turn on a television without seeing Billy Dent…and right after Billy, you’d see Doug Weathers.
Doug was also responsible for pictures of Jazz showing up, first in the newspapers and then on TV. Jazz was sure there were people he hated more than Doug Weathers, but he was equally sure that it was a really short list. He wanted to get out of the Coff-E-Shop before Weathers could—
Too late. Weathers had turned on his stool and spied Jazz and Howie. His eyes—murky and dun-colored—widened, and he slid off the stool immediately.
“Oh, great.”
“Hey, there, Jasper,” Weathers said, grabbing a chair from another table to join the boys. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah, real fancy,” Howie growled. “Everyone knows we get coffee here. How long have you been waiting for us?”
Weathers grinned. He was in his thirties, medium build, with a face that looked sad even when he smiled. It was a bright, clear day outside, but he wore a trench coat anyway, probably because someone had once told him that reporters wore them.
“Hey, Gersten, if you want in on the fame, I can make it happen. Convince Jasper here to give me an exclusive. A one-on-one interview. Mano a mano. And I’ll do a nice sidebar with you as the ‘best friend who lived through the madness.’”
“Wow, Jazz.” Howie whistled with false appreciation. “A sidebar. I could be a sidebar!”
“Back off,” Jazz said to Weathers. “Did you not understand it the ten other times I’ve said it to you?”
“Check it, kid. Together we can—”
“Or the six times I e-mailed it to you?”
“—get your side of the story out there—”
“Or the dozen texts?”
“—and make a big splash with it,” Weathers rattled on as if Jazz had said nothing. “C’mon. Just a single interview. Been up to the penitentiary to see your dad lately? That’s even better. Good atmosphere. I’ll get a photographer and we’ll go together. One little interview. Won’t hurt anyone, and it’ll change your life.” His eyes danced with excitement.
“It’ll change your life. Put you back in the spotlight. Do you really miss being on CNN that bad?”
His eyes alight with fame-lust, Weathers laughed a modest little laugh. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be some demands for my time
Jazz held up his wrist so that Howie could see his watch. “School in twenty minutes.”
“You can’t rush my creative genius,” Howie said, “with your quotidian worries.”
“ Quotidian ? Seriously?”
“I would have said mundane , but that word is so…mundane.”
“I do have other tables.…” Helen reminded them.
“I think today,” Howie announced, “I’m going to try a nonfat macchiato with a double shot of caramel, lots of foam, and whipped cream on top.”
Helen’s pen hesitated at her order pad. “Foam and whipped cream?”
Howie pretended to mull it over. “Yep.”
“And you want nonfat, but then you want whipped cream?”
“I’m a complicated man, with complicated taste buds.”
Before Helen could move away entirely, Jazz stopped her. “Make those to go, will you?”
“Sure, Jasper.”
“What the—” Howie broke off. “Oh. I see. Sleazoid alert.”
He had seen what Jazz noticed moments before: Sitting at the Coff-E-Shop’s counter was none other than Doug Weathers, a reporter for the county’s weekly rag of a newspaper. When Billy had been caught and arrested, Weathers found himself in the catbird seat as the first reporter on the scene, and the one with all the background dirt. He knew the most recent victims’ families. He knew the area. He knew Billy’s friends and coworkers. He had even met Billy once, many years earlier, at some local political function.
And Weathers milked that for all it was worth when the time came. Suddenly he was in demand as a “local expert,” his mug plastered all over CNN and Fox News and all the major broadcast channels. For months, you couldn’t turn on a television without seeing Billy Dent…and right after Billy, you’d see Doug Weathers.
Doug was also responsible for pictures of Jazz showing up, first in the newspapers and then on TV. Jazz was sure there were people he hated more than Doug Weathers, but he was equally sure that it was a really short list. He wanted to get out of the Coff-E-Shop before Weathers could—
Too late. Weathers had turned on his stool and spied Jazz and Howie. His eyes—murky and dun-colored—widened, and he slid off the stool immediately.
“Oh, great.”
“Hey, there, Jasper,” Weathers said, grabbing a chair from another table to join the boys. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah, real fancy,” Howie growled. “Everyone knows we get coffee here. How long have you been waiting for us?”
Weathers grinned. He was in his thirties, medium build, with a face that looked sad even when he smiled. It was a bright, clear day outside, but he wore a trench coat anyway, probably because someone had once told him that reporters wore them.
“Hey, Gersten, if you want in on the fame, I can make it happen. Convince Jasper here to give me an exclusive. A one-on-one interview. Mano a mano. And I’ll do a nice sidebar with you as the ‘best friend who lived through the madness.’”
“Wow, Jazz.” Howie whistled with false appreciation. “A sidebar. I could be a sidebar!”
“Back off,” Jazz said to Weathers. “Did you not understand it the ten other times I’ve said it to you?”
“Check it, kid. Together we can—”
“Or the six times I e-mailed it to you?”
“—get your side of the story out there—”
“Or the dozen texts?”
“—and make a big splash with it,” Weathers rattled on as if Jazz had said nothing. “C’mon. Just a single interview. Been up to the penitentiary to see your dad lately? That’s even better. Good atmosphere. I’ll get a photographer and we’ll go together. One little interview. Won’t hurt anyone, and it’ll change your life.” His eyes danced with excitement.
“It’ll change your life. Put you back in the spotlight. Do you really miss being on CNN that bad?”
His eyes alight with fame-lust, Weathers laughed a modest little laugh. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be some demands for my time
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