it’s only going to get worse—Blair got a call this morning from the Post asking for a response to some very damaging shit. And word is that Taylor’s people are the ones doing this. Wanted to gauge The Department of Lost & Found
57
your response. (Which must make you spectacularly happy.) While I hate to admit it when I need your help, I know that you’ve played this game many times before. So how should we move forward? Should we leak something back? Let’s ruin him.
KR
I felt my blood rush through me like a tidal wave. Though Kyle and I didn’t always agree on everything, when it came to feasting on our prey, we had no problem working in harmony. I grabbed a stress ball from my desk and picked up the speed of my pacing.
Circling, circling, circling, until I knew exactly how to proceed. I sank into my lumbar-supporting chair—the one that Ned had insisted on paying far too much for, but that I did admit provided quite the cozy feel—and typed frantically, occasionally madly hitting the delete button to correct the typos that came with such frenzied keyboard pounding.
From: Miller, Natalie
To: Richardson,
Kyle
Re:
Let’s Play Ball
K—
Feeling okay. Thanks for asking. Been better, but what am I going to do?
First off, have you actually gotten your hands on her tax returns yourself? Before we say anything to the press, it’d probably be smart to do so. (Obviously, right?) I think you might have mentioned it awhile ago, but yeah, I suspect that some gifts from dignitaries might not have been appropriate/
legal/totally up-and-up. But we always accept them—no one 58
a l l i s o n w i n n s c o t c h
cares. Call Gene Weinstock, Dupris’s accountant, and ask him directly.
Yes, let’s screw with this bastard. He’s a sinking ship, so he’s doing anything he can to torpedo Dup. F-it. Call Larry Davis, 212-872-0419. He’s the guy I hired to get back-up dirt.
I know, don’t get pissy—you were kept out of the loop so you could deny any accountability in case Taylor found out.
Turns out that Taylor likes hookers. Think his wife will care?
—Nat
“Take that, you little shit Taylor,” I actually shouted out loud, as I spun my chair in a circle and let out a whoop of victory. Jake used to tell me that he’d never seen someone sent so high from a win at work; that he thought that at least half the time, the only reason I drove myself at 160 miles an hour was to beat everyone else at the race.
“Will you be satisfied once you’re elected president?” he asked one night when I was paged back into the office at 11 o’clock at night to oversee a Middle East policy crisis.
“Only if I’ve stomped on the little people on my way up,” I replied, leaning down to kiss his forehead while he sat propped up reading in bed. I walked toward the door and turned back to see him shaking his head. “Kidding, Jake. I’m kidding.” But I could tell that he wasn’t so sure.
The microwave timer dinged, and I bolted up to take my medicine. As I pried open my orange prescription container, the rush slowly wore off, the way that a tide might when it begins to ebb.
I needed another hit, so after gagging on my pill and eventually swallowing it, I moved back to my computer screen and leaned over on my elbows and stared. Stared for a good twenty minutes until my sight grew fuzzy and the muscles between my shoulder The Department of Lost & Found
59
blades ached. I straightened up and ran my fingers through my hair. Clumps. For the first time, it wasn’t strands, five here, twenty there. It was a massive, heart-sinking, spine-chilling clump. Whether or not I had evidence that Taylor was screwing hookers had no effect on my cancer or my impending baldness. Nothing it seemed, not even the fleeting rush of victory, would slow that down.
◆
◆
f i v e
’d gotten into the habit of not setting my alarm—a far cry from Imy prior 5:45 a.m. daily wake-ups to NPR, but now I didn’t see much of a point. It
57
your response. (Which must make you spectacularly happy.) While I hate to admit it when I need your help, I know that you’ve played this game many times before. So how should we move forward? Should we leak something back? Let’s ruin him.
KR
I felt my blood rush through me like a tidal wave. Though Kyle and I didn’t always agree on everything, when it came to feasting on our prey, we had no problem working in harmony. I grabbed a stress ball from my desk and picked up the speed of my pacing.
Circling, circling, circling, until I knew exactly how to proceed. I sank into my lumbar-supporting chair—the one that Ned had insisted on paying far too much for, but that I did admit provided quite the cozy feel—and typed frantically, occasionally madly hitting the delete button to correct the typos that came with such frenzied keyboard pounding.
From: Miller, Natalie
To: Richardson,
Kyle
Re:
Let’s Play Ball
K—
Feeling okay. Thanks for asking. Been better, but what am I going to do?
First off, have you actually gotten your hands on her tax returns yourself? Before we say anything to the press, it’d probably be smart to do so. (Obviously, right?) I think you might have mentioned it awhile ago, but yeah, I suspect that some gifts from dignitaries might not have been appropriate/
legal/totally up-and-up. But we always accept them—no one 58
a l l i s o n w i n n s c o t c h
cares. Call Gene Weinstock, Dupris’s accountant, and ask him directly.
Yes, let’s screw with this bastard. He’s a sinking ship, so he’s doing anything he can to torpedo Dup. F-it. Call Larry Davis, 212-872-0419. He’s the guy I hired to get back-up dirt.
I know, don’t get pissy—you were kept out of the loop so you could deny any accountability in case Taylor found out.
Turns out that Taylor likes hookers. Think his wife will care?
—Nat
“Take that, you little shit Taylor,” I actually shouted out loud, as I spun my chair in a circle and let out a whoop of victory. Jake used to tell me that he’d never seen someone sent so high from a win at work; that he thought that at least half the time, the only reason I drove myself at 160 miles an hour was to beat everyone else at the race.
“Will you be satisfied once you’re elected president?” he asked one night when I was paged back into the office at 11 o’clock at night to oversee a Middle East policy crisis.
“Only if I’ve stomped on the little people on my way up,” I replied, leaning down to kiss his forehead while he sat propped up reading in bed. I walked toward the door and turned back to see him shaking his head. “Kidding, Jake. I’m kidding.” But I could tell that he wasn’t so sure.
The microwave timer dinged, and I bolted up to take my medicine. As I pried open my orange prescription container, the rush slowly wore off, the way that a tide might when it begins to ebb.
I needed another hit, so after gagging on my pill and eventually swallowing it, I moved back to my computer screen and leaned over on my elbows and stared. Stared for a good twenty minutes until my sight grew fuzzy and the muscles between my shoulder The Department of Lost & Found
59
blades ached. I straightened up and ran my fingers through my hair. Clumps. For the first time, it wasn’t strands, five here, twenty there. It was a massive, heart-sinking, spine-chilling clump. Whether or not I had evidence that Taylor was screwing hookers had no effect on my cancer or my impending baldness. Nothing it seemed, not even the fleeting rush of victory, would slow that down.
◆
◆
f i v e
’d gotten into the habit of not setting my alarm—a far cry from Imy prior 5:45 a.m. daily wake-ups to NPR, but now I didn’t see much of a point. It
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