Lizzie.”
Lizzie smiled thinly.
“And la nand Geena Deane.”
“Hang on, are you the guy who writes that column in the News?”
Ian looked a little edgy.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Mr. Ballantine really appreciated the mention you gave him last week.”
lana voided Jerry’s unamused gaze.
“It was just a gag.”
“You have an interesting sense of humor, Mr. Deane.” His expression lightened.
“But Mr. Ballantine knows how to take a joke.”
He glanced over at his boss. Ballantine was just leaving Bronfman’s table, and the security goon was making discreet little head motions, letting it be known Jerry was wanted, pronto.
“Listen, got to go,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket and handing me a card.
“It would be great to catch up. Talk some Maine talk.”
“You still playing hockey?” I asked, slipping him one of my business cards.
“Only in my dreams.” He glanced at my card.
“Regional sales director. Impressive. Listen, nice meeting everyone-even you, Mr. Deane. Call me, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“I mean it.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Geena said, “Well, I’m impressed.”
“What the hell did you say about Ballantine in your column?” I asked Ian.
“I just made a io key little aside about Ballantine’s new book,
saying it was full of great tips about how to go bankrupt but still hold on to your yacht.”
“A laugh a minute, my husband,” Geena said.
“Hell, it was the truth,” Ian said.
“Ballantine’s business collapsed like the Fall of Rome, but he kept on living like Donald Trump. And now he’s risen from the dead again. The man’s so indestructible he makes Rasputin look like a wimp.”
“Did you know that Jerry guy well in high school?” Lizzie asked.
“We were in the same homeroom, we hung out a bit during sophomore year-but then Jerry got to be a big-deal player on the hockey team, so he became part of the jock crowd.” Had Ian not been at the table, I would have also mentioned the fact that, besides being a killer on the ice, Jerry Schubert also had something of an infamous reputation at Brunswick High. Because, during his senior year, he was involved in a small local scandal, when he was accused (along with two other players) of helping throw a crucial statewide championship hockey game. Allegations flew that he had links to some local bookies who’d bet heavily on the game-but a police investigation turned up no hard evidence, and he was eventually exonerated. It was all ancient history now-but there’s no such thing as an old story to a gossipmonger like Ian. He’d have the tale in print the next day (“Word around town has it that Jack Ballantine’s personal assistant may have once been involved in a small town betting scandal….”). And I would rightfully stand accused of dredging up dirt about an old friend. So I said nothing, except, “I read in some local paper that Jerry tried out for the NHL after college. Guess he didn’t make it.”
“So now he carries the Great Motivator’s briefcase,” Ian said.
“You know what I love about you, darling?” Geena said.
“Your warm, all-embracing love of humanity.”
“How can you expect humanity from a journalist?” I said, flashing lana smile.
“Ned’s right,” lananswered.
“It’s like expecting subtlety from a salesman.”
I managed a hollow little laugh. Yet again, the bastard had gotten the last word.
In the taxi back to our apartment, Lizzie said, “I really wish you Would stop trying to outdo lana ll the time.”
48 DODGLiS IEIIEDT “It’s just banter.”
“To him, yeah. But to you, it’s serious.”
“No, it’s not….”
“Ned, as I’ve told you again and again-you don’t have to compete with anyone, or keep proving that you are a success. You are a success.
“T’.
I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“Then why did you pick up the check tonight?”
“Don’t worry about the cost of the dinner….”
“I am
Lizzie smiled thinly.
“And la nand Geena Deane.”
“Hang on, are you the guy who writes that column in the News?”
Ian looked a little edgy.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Mr. Ballantine really appreciated the mention you gave him last week.”
lana voided Jerry’s unamused gaze.
“It was just a gag.”
“You have an interesting sense of humor, Mr. Deane.” His expression lightened.
“But Mr. Ballantine knows how to take a joke.”
He glanced over at his boss. Ballantine was just leaving Bronfman’s table, and the security goon was making discreet little head motions, letting it be known Jerry was wanted, pronto.
“Listen, got to go,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket and handing me a card.
“It would be great to catch up. Talk some Maine talk.”
“You still playing hockey?” I asked, slipping him one of my business cards.
“Only in my dreams.” He glanced at my card.
“Regional sales director. Impressive. Listen, nice meeting everyone-even you, Mr. Deane. Call me, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“I mean it.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Geena said, “Well, I’m impressed.”
“What the hell did you say about Ballantine in your column?” I asked Ian.
“I just made a io key little aside about Ballantine’s new book,
saying it was full of great tips about how to go bankrupt but still hold on to your yacht.”
“A laugh a minute, my husband,” Geena said.
“Hell, it was the truth,” Ian said.
“Ballantine’s business collapsed like the Fall of Rome, but he kept on living like Donald Trump. And now he’s risen from the dead again. The man’s so indestructible he makes Rasputin look like a wimp.”
“Did you know that Jerry guy well in high school?” Lizzie asked.
“We were in the same homeroom, we hung out a bit during sophomore year-but then Jerry got to be a big-deal player on the hockey team, so he became part of the jock crowd.” Had Ian not been at the table, I would have also mentioned the fact that, besides being a killer on the ice, Jerry Schubert also had something of an infamous reputation at Brunswick High. Because, during his senior year, he was involved in a small local scandal, when he was accused (along with two other players) of helping throw a crucial statewide championship hockey game. Allegations flew that he had links to some local bookies who’d bet heavily on the game-but a police investigation turned up no hard evidence, and he was eventually exonerated. It was all ancient history now-but there’s no such thing as an old story to a gossipmonger like Ian. He’d have the tale in print the next day (“Word around town has it that Jack Ballantine’s personal assistant may have once been involved in a small town betting scandal….”). And I would rightfully stand accused of dredging up dirt about an old friend. So I said nothing, except, “I read in some local paper that Jerry tried out for the NHL after college. Guess he didn’t make it.”
“So now he carries the Great Motivator’s briefcase,” Ian said.
“You know what I love about you, darling?” Geena said.
“Your warm, all-embracing love of humanity.”
“How can you expect humanity from a journalist?” I said, flashing lana smile.
“Ned’s right,” lananswered.
“It’s like expecting subtlety from a salesman.”
I managed a hollow little laugh. Yet again, the bastard had gotten the last word.
In the taxi back to our apartment, Lizzie said, “I really wish you Would stop trying to outdo lana ll the time.”
48 DODGLiS IEIIEDT “It’s just banter.”
“To him, yeah. But to you, it’s serious.”
“No, it’s not….”
“Ned, as I’ve told you again and again-you don’t have to compete with anyone, or keep proving that you are a success. You are a success.
“T’.
I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“Then why did you pick up the check tonight?”
“Don’t worry about the cost of the dinner….”
“I am
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