pick-up. But times were good, so the publisher laughed it off. Kavanaugh sent me a couple of belittling e-mails, calling our coverage “sloppy” and “yesterday’s fish wrap.”
I texted her back, saying she was cute when she was channeling Ann Coulter.
Of course, there was no way Moretz could afford an attorney on a reporter’s salary, and we weren’t about to send the corporate lawyer into the fray. As far as the Picayune and its parent corporation were concerned, Moretz had not in any way acted on behalf of his profession in committing whatever he had or hadn’t committed. And I’m sure the firm billed the company four figures to issue that assessment.
The publisher asked if I thought we should sideline Moretz until the investigation was complete. His implication was that we might get a black eye in the community for harboring, or at least tolerating, a felon.
When I pointed out that our circulation had increased 125 percent since Moretz had arrived, which likely meant performance bonuses for the entire staff, he softened a little. Funny how journalistic prudence gives way to the weight of a wheelbarrow full of dollars.
For his part, Moretz played it cool around the office. Brianna, the front-desk clerk who took phone messages and classified ads, batted her fat, fake eyelashes at him but he didn’t seem to notice.
I don’t know. Maybe he was homosexual. He never said anything about a wife or kids, and any man who reaches 30 without a track record must have something wrong with him.
Except me, of course. I’m just fine.
Baker and Westmoreland got past their jealousy enough to welcome Moretz fully into the fold, even taking him to lunch one day, though they neglected to invite the sports guy. They asked him for tips, and their copy actually got stronger as a result.
I was almost starting to believe in this “teamwork” stuff.
Then Kavanaugh gave me a call and accepted that offer for dinner.
11.
The lasagna sat heavy on my stomach as I swilled my iced tea. I’d chosen Roman Joe’s, an Italian joint with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and candles with electric teardrop bulbs. Joe was American enough to sell beer and pizza but added a few bucks to your tab because he occasionally waltzed through with an accordion, singing an off-key version of “That’s Amore .”
Kavanaugh was as cold as the frozen cubes tinkling in my glass. She’d had spaghetti, and a little tomato sauce stuck to her chin.
“So, you want to talk,” I said.
“I thought I’d bring this to you first, since we go way back,” she said. She was having her second Bud Light, and she punctuated her sentence with a belch.
“Yeah. I appreciate the respect.”
“So, what did your background check on Moretz turn up?”
“My what?”
“Check. You looked him up before you hired him, of course.”
I clacked the cubes in my glass. “Sure.”
“So you know about the rap sheet.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance.” I was dying to know what she was talking about. Hardison might have fed her some information under the table.
“A little bit risky. I mean, I could see letting shoplifting slide, or even a Driving While Impaired. But aggravated assault is pretty serious when you’re expected to earn the public trust.”
“The past is the past. His clips were solid.”
“ Recent past. He pled down on the charge, got six months’ probation and 200 hours of community service. Didn’t the gap show up on his resume?”
I didn’t want to admit that he’d put in his hours on a publication serving Medicare recipients. I’d assumed he was on salary, but he must have been working with the threat of jail time over his head.
“Well, I never did get the full details,” I said.
Roman Joe came over, smelling of garlic, and asked how our food had been. Kavanaugh said “Swell” and ordered another Bud Light.
“You’re one of those who never scratches beneath the surface,” she said. “It’s the hallmark of
I texted her back, saying she was cute when she was channeling Ann Coulter.
Of course, there was no way Moretz could afford an attorney on a reporter’s salary, and we weren’t about to send the corporate lawyer into the fray. As far as the Picayune and its parent corporation were concerned, Moretz had not in any way acted on behalf of his profession in committing whatever he had or hadn’t committed. And I’m sure the firm billed the company four figures to issue that assessment.
The publisher asked if I thought we should sideline Moretz until the investigation was complete. His implication was that we might get a black eye in the community for harboring, or at least tolerating, a felon.
When I pointed out that our circulation had increased 125 percent since Moretz had arrived, which likely meant performance bonuses for the entire staff, he softened a little. Funny how journalistic prudence gives way to the weight of a wheelbarrow full of dollars.
For his part, Moretz played it cool around the office. Brianna, the front-desk clerk who took phone messages and classified ads, batted her fat, fake eyelashes at him but he didn’t seem to notice.
I don’t know. Maybe he was homosexual. He never said anything about a wife or kids, and any man who reaches 30 without a track record must have something wrong with him.
Except me, of course. I’m just fine.
Baker and Westmoreland got past their jealousy enough to welcome Moretz fully into the fold, even taking him to lunch one day, though they neglected to invite the sports guy. They asked him for tips, and their copy actually got stronger as a result.
I was almost starting to believe in this “teamwork” stuff.
Then Kavanaugh gave me a call and accepted that offer for dinner.
11.
The lasagna sat heavy on my stomach as I swilled my iced tea. I’d chosen Roman Joe’s, an Italian joint with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and candles with electric teardrop bulbs. Joe was American enough to sell beer and pizza but added a few bucks to your tab because he occasionally waltzed through with an accordion, singing an off-key version of “That’s Amore .”
Kavanaugh was as cold as the frozen cubes tinkling in my glass. She’d had spaghetti, and a little tomato sauce stuck to her chin.
“So, you want to talk,” I said.
“I thought I’d bring this to you first, since we go way back,” she said. She was having her second Bud Light, and she punctuated her sentence with a belch.
“Yeah. I appreciate the respect.”
“So, what did your background check on Moretz turn up?”
“My what?”
“Check. You looked him up before you hired him, of course.”
I clacked the cubes in my glass. “Sure.”
“So you know about the rap sheet.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance.” I was dying to know what she was talking about. Hardison might have fed her some information under the table.
“A little bit risky. I mean, I could see letting shoplifting slide, or even a Driving While Impaired. But aggravated assault is pretty serious when you’re expected to earn the public trust.”
“The past is the past. His clips were solid.”
“ Recent past. He pled down on the charge, got six months’ probation and 200 hours of community service. Didn’t the gap show up on his resume?”
I didn’t want to admit that he’d put in his hours on a publication serving Medicare recipients. I’d assumed he was on salary, but he must have been working with the threat of jail time over his head.
“Well, I never did get the full details,” I said.
Roman Joe came over, smelling of garlic, and asked how our food had been. Kavanaugh said “Swell” and ordered another Bud Light.
“You’re one of those who never scratches beneath the surface,” she said. “It’s the hallmark of
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