underneath me set me on edge.
Peter finally broke the silence. “I just wanted to apologize, again,” he said. “If you give me and the show a scathing review for your magazine, I completely understand. In fact, I encourage you to.”
“I don’t take orders from my review subjects,” I replied drily, twirling my straw around and around my milkshake. I always waited a minute or two before taking the first sip----I liked the ice cream to melt to the perfect consistency first. But Layla had made this milkshake super-thick. I dug into it hard with my spoon, trying to get the ice cream to melt faster.
Peter smirked at me. “Do you always attack your prey before eating it?”
I shot him a dirty look. “I like my milkshakes to be just so, that’s all.”
“At that rate, it won’t be a milkshake anymore, it’ll just be plain old milk.”
I leaned forward and took a long, slow sip of the malted through my straw. It was still a little too thick to be sipped easily that way, but it just added to the dramatic effect. Peter’s eyes widened as I sucked up the frozen concoction, then licked the excess chocolate off my lips. “Perhaps as a foreigner you aren’t aware of this, but it’s considered rude to criticize how other people drink milkshakes in public.”
He blinked twice. “Nancy, I’ve lived in the U.S. since I was fifteen years old, and this is the first I’ve ever heard about proper milkshake manners. But I’ll study up on it if you think I’m being gauche.”
I smiled to myself. In true undercover-reporter fashion I’d just managed to get some background information out of my subject without asking for it directly. Peter had just opened a window that I intended to turn into a floodgate. “So you moved here when you were fifteen,” I repeated. “Tell me about that. What was it like, being a teenager in a foreign country? What brought you to the United States? Did you speak any English?”
His mouth pressed into a hard line. “I don’t recall consulting to an interview.”
“Oh, I’m just making small talk.” But he obviously wasn’t buying the innocent routine. I would have to try another tack. “Honestly, what did you expect me to do? I’m a reporter. It’s my job to find things out about people.”
Layla appeared with Peter’s own malted. He dug right into it with a long-handled spoon. “Point taken,” he said. “But to be perfectly honest Nancy, I don’t particularly enjoy talking about myself. I prefer to let my art do the talking instead.”
“Except tonight your art did a little too much talking.”
He winced for the third time that evening. “Yes, you might say that. Sometimes I make errors in judgment.”
I smelled another opportunity. “What do you mean? What kinds of errors in judgment have you made in the past?”
“Oh, the usual kind,” he replied, taking a generous scoop of ice cream from his milkshake and swallowing it whole. “Here and there.”
Boy, this guy sure was good at evading my questions. I thought back to my Introduction to Re porting class sophomore year to the lecture Professor Willis did on how to handle hostile interview subjects. “When all else fails, just back them into a corner,” Professor Willis had told us. He’d won two Pulitzers as a young reporter at the Plain Dealer in the seventies, exposing corruption in Cleveland city government. I’d had a chance to scan Eric Burgess’ email on the walk over while I pretending to send my roommate a text message to let her know I’d be late. Eric hadn’t lied when he said they’d gotten in some juicy tips in about Rostovich. If even five percent of what was in that email was true, Peter Rostovich was a total freak.
“My sources say that you have ties to the Russian Mafia,” I said, hardening my tone, “and that the sexually explicit images in your art are created in part through sex trafficking. Care to comment?”
Peter became noticeably uncomfortable. He set down his spoon and
Peter finally broke the silence. “I just wanted to apologize, again,” he said. “If you give me and the show a scathing review for your magazine, I completely understand. In fact, I encourage you to.”
“I don’t take orders from my review subjects,” I replied drily, twirling my straw around and around my milkshake. I always waited a minute or two before taking the first sip----I liked the ice cream to melt to the perfect consistency first. But Layla had made this milkshake super-thick. I dug into it hard with my spoon, trying to get the ice cream to melt faster.
Peter smirked at me. “Do you always attack your prey before eating it?”
I shot him a dirty look. “I like my milkshakes to be just so, that’s all.”
“At that rate, it won’t be a milkshake anymore, it’ll just be plain old milk.”
I leaned forward and took a long, slow sip of the malted through my straw. It was still a little too thick to be sipped easily that way, but it just added to the dramatic effect. Peter’s eyes widened as I sucked up the frozen concoction, then licked the excess chocolate off my lips. “Perhaps as a foreigner you aren’t aware of this, but it’s considered rude to criticize how other people drink milkshakes in public.”
He blinked twice. “Nancy, I’ve lived in the U.S. since I was fifteen years old, and this is the first I’ve ever heard about proper milkshake manners. But I’ll study up on it if you think I’m being gauche.”
I smiled to myself. In true undercover-reporter fashion I’d just managed to get some background information out of my subject without asking for it directly. Peter had just opened a window that I intended to turn into a floodgate. “So you moved here when you were fifteen,” I repeated. “Tell me about that. What was it like, being a teenager in a foreign country? What brought you to the United States? Did you speak any English?”
His mouth pressed into a hard line. “I don’t recall consulting to an interview.”
“Oh, I’m just making small talk.” But he obviously wasn’t buying the innocent routine. I would have to try another tack. “Honestly, what did you expect me to do? I’m a reporter. It’s my job to find things out about people.”
Layla appeared with Peter’s own malted. He dug right into it with a long-handled spoon. “Point taken,” he said. “But to be perfectly honest Nancy, I don’t particularly enjoy talking about myself. I prefer to let my art do the talking instead.”
“Except tonight your art did a little too much talking.”
He winced for the third time that evening. “Yes, you might say that. Sometimes I make errors in judgment.”
I smelled another opportunity. “What do you mean? What kinds of errors in judgment have you made in the past?”
“Oh, the usual kind,” he replied, taking a generous scoop of ice cream from his milkshake and swallowing it whole. “Here and there.”
Boy, this guy sure was good at evading my questions. I thought back to my Introduction to Re porting class sophomore year to the lecture Professor Willis did on how to handle hostile interview subjects. “When all else fails, just back them into a corner,” Professor Willis had told us. He’d won two Pulitzers as a young reporter at the Plain Dealer in the seventies, exposing corruption in Cleveland city government. I’d had a chance to scan Eric Burgess’ email on the walk over while I pretending to send my roommate a text message to let her know I’d be late. Eric hadn’t lied when he said they’d gotten in some juicy tips in about Rostovich. If even five percent of what was in that email was true, Peter Rostovich was a total freak.
“My sources say that you have ties to the Russian Mafia,” I said, hardening my tone, “and that the sexually explicit images in your art are created in part through sex trafficking. Care to comment?”
Peter became noticeably uncomfortable. He set down his spoon and
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