Page 4 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 2
MacKenna
"PERKINS? GET IN HERE!" Horace Bartlett, my boss and the editor of our small newspaper, yells as soon as I walk in the door of theWindy City Chronicle. A grizzled veteran from the old newspaper days, he calls everyone by their last name. Thanks to his hard work and business savvy, he's kept the newspaper afloat in today's fast-paced, social-media crazed world.
"How did it go?" he barks as soon as I step into his office.
I'm not about to 'fess up that I made a fool of myself, so I fudge things a little. "He was not available to interview." It's the truth, isn't it? Ron Moss walked out on me.
"Knew you'd mess it up." Randy Brennan, nephew of the newspaper's owner and all around pain in the ass, yells from his cubbyhole which sits right outside Mr. Bartlett's office.
Mr. Bartlett's bushy brows thunder down while biting down on the cigar he chews on more to express his feelings than smoke. "How can that be? That interview was confirmed a week ago."
"Some miscommunication with the press office, maybe?" God, I'm going to hell for this. "But the good news is I got another one lined up for Monday."
"With Ron Moss?"
"No. Ty Mathews."
Randy's head pops out of his cubicle, like one of those whack-a-mole games at a carnival. "The God Almighty quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws? That Ty Mathews? No fucking way."
Happy that Ty Mathews was telling the truth about his fame, I calmly turn to him, and give him my most brilliant smile. "Way."
The word barely makes it out of my lips before Mr. Bartlett slams shut the door. "Damn eavesdropper."
Yeah, pretty much what I'm thinking.
"How did you manage that? Ty Mathews doesn't give out private interviews." He pins his famous Bartlett inquisitorial stare on me, the one known to make seasoned reporters squirm.
I'm not immune to it, what with me being a wet-behind-the ears rookie reporter, so I fidget about a bit. "He doesn't?"
"No. Which makes me wonder what you had to do, or promise to do, to get it."
One thing about Mr. Bartlett, he's a straight arrow. He doesn't cotton to reporters providing favors to anyone in exchange for access. "He noticed my disappointment and volunteered as an interview subject."
"Just like that, huh?" More cigar chewing. At the rate he's going, that nasty thing will be in shreds soon.
"Yes, sir." I'm not lying. Ty Mathews did volunteer. And I didn't do anything wrong, at least not with him. Ron Moss, however, is another matter. If he complains about my behavior, I'm toast. I make a mental note to contact him and explain what happened so things don't spin out of control.
"Perkins, I hired you on the strength of your academics and the expose you wrote for your school paper on the women's shelter. You might be a natural for the social issues, but Ty Mathews is another kettle of fish entirely. He's brash, cocky, wins games for the Chicago Outlaws. And he's a hard nut to crack. Nobody knows his real story. That's not by accident. The only information he and the Outlaws have ever divulged is that he came from Texas, graduated from Nebraska State, and took his college team to the national championship. The rest is one great big mystery."
"How is that possible in this day and age?" Nowadays you can find out anything on the internet.
He jerks the smelly cigar from his mouth and waggles it at me. "You get the answer to that question and every media organization in the country will be pounding on your door wanting to hire you."
"I'm not looking for another job, Mr. Bartlett." It's true. I like working for a small paper where I can hone my journalistic skills without the pressure of a big conglomerate.
He holds up a hand in the universal stop sign. "I know you just started working here, but you'd be a fool not to set your sights higher. And an interview with a quarterback whose past is shrouded in mystery would get you there. But things may be demanded you may not want to give. Ty Mathews plays hard both on and off the field. You get my drift?" Another down boom of his bushy eyebrows. Those things take up enough real estate to have their own zip code.
I cross my arms against my chest and give him a steady stare of my own. "He likes women. I get it." I would have been blind not to notice the way Ty Mathews looked at me. Like I was a great big ole turkey sandwich and he couldn't wait to gobble me up. Thing is I've been ogled my whole life. Been fighting off boys since I turned fourteen and grew into 36C cups with the hips to match. Granted none of those boys had been a famous football player with enough charm to melt the panties off any living, breathing female, but Ty Mathews does not impress me as the kind who won't take no for an answer. And, believe me, I won't be saying yes. No matter how much he flexes his muscles at me. "Don't worry, Mr. Bartlett, I can handle him."
He must be reassured by what he sees because he drops the cigar into an ashtray and drops into the chair behind his desk. "So when and where does this interview take place?"
"Monday, at a diner close to where he lives."
"In a public setting. That's good. Have your piece on my desk no later than Wednesday. If it passes muster, I'll include it in the Sunday edition."
"Yes, sir." I smile, thrilled about the possible inclusion of my first piece in the Sunday edition.
