Page 11 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 5
MacKenna
IWALKED OUT. What else could I do after I made a fool of myself. Again! Granted I have every right to be upset after he stood me up. But the reason I'm angry has nothing to do with him blowing me off, but with the reason. Or what I thought was the reason. The entire hour I waited for him at the diner, I pictured him having sex with the floozies from Platinum. And the longer I thought about it, the angrier I became.
So when he breezed into theWindy City Chronicle, expecting all to be forgiven because he's the Chicago Outlaws' golden boy, the fire I'd been stoking all morning burst into flames. He didn't help matters when he railroaded me into going to lunch with him. Sure, I went along. What else could I do with my boss pushing us out the door? But when he suggested I should start the interview like he'd done nothing wrong, I went off like a firecracker, not stopping to think about the inappropriateness of such questions or the consequences of my action.
After the stunt I pulled, I'm sure to lose my job. Doubt Mr. Bartlett will keep me after failing to deliver not one, but two interviews. How could I have acted so irresponsibly?
Hoping to escape his notice, I creep into the newspaper office. But as soon as I step in the reception area, my name's called. "Perkins. Get in here." No help for it. I'll have to face the music. I'm not going gentle into that good firing, though. I'm going to take it on the chin with my head held high. I walk into Mr. Bartlett's office and shut the door. I'll be damned if I let that little pipsqueak, Randy, witness my defeat.
"Back so soon?" Mr. Bartlett asks, chomping on his cigar.
"Yes, sir."
"How did it go?"
Before I have a chance to answer, his phone interrupts us, and he jabs the speaker button. "Yes."
"Chief." Dotty, the receptionist. She likes to call him chief. "Mr. Mathews is here again."
"Tell him to come on back."
"Roger that." Did I mention she used to be in the military?
Seconds later, Ty Mathews walks in Mr. Bartlett's door, hair all windblown. He must have run all the way to get over here so fast. "There you are. I thought you'd wait while I had them box our lunch to go."
Huh? No idea what he's talking about. But it's a reprieve from getting fired, so I snatch at the lifeline. "Sorry."
"I get it." He smacks his forehead. "You were so eager to get your boss's approval to cover the Outlaws visit to the Boys and Girls Club that you rushed back to your office." He glances at Horace Bartlett, flashing a bright smile that would put the sun to shame. "It's a promotion event. Some of the Chicago Outlaws will be tossing a few balls to the kids."
"And the press is invited?" Mr. Bartlett's voice rises with excitement. Of course he's thrilled. It's the kind of feel-good, human interest story our subscribers eat up with a spoon and go back for seconds.
"Of course."
"When and where?"
"Four o'clock, the Lamont Boys and Girls Club."
Lamont is an inner-city neighborhood where some of the poorest residents of the city live.
Mr. Bartlett picks up his phone, punches some numbers. "Peter, you doing anything this afternoon?" A couple of seconds' pause. "Never mind that. The Chicago Outlaws will be at the Lamont Boys and Girls Club this afternoon. Get over there and snap a few pictures. Starts at four." He hangs up. "The photos will go great with Perkins's article."
What article? There isn't going to be an article, not after the way I embarrassed myself at the restaurant. "About that, Mr. Bartlett."
Mr. Bartlett's phone buzzes. Again. He punches the speaker button. "Yeah?"
"There's a delivery guy here," Dotty says. "He's got some food for Mr. Mathews."
Ty rubs his hands together. "Great. I'm starved. Horace? You don't mind if I call you Horace, do you?"
The cocky quarterback is sure to suffer a setdown. I've heard not even Mr. Bartlett's wife calls him by his first name.
"Of course I don't mind," Horace says.
My jaw drops.
"Great. Well, MacKenna got the great idea to conduct the interview here rather than the restaurant. That place's great, but it's too public. People are always stopping by to get my autograph." He curls a massive arm around his best bud's shoulders. "You understand, don't you, Horace?"
