„Who knows?“ he said, shrugging. „Whole industry's going down the tubes. Maybe I should do the whole roots thing, come back and work at the Town Crier.“
Or maybe not, I thought, since he'd left town one step ahead of several juicy libel suits. „I should think going back to the business magazine would be more interesting,“ I suggested.
„Don't rub it in,“ he growled.
„Don't rub what in?“
„The magazine's dead,“ he said. „Bigger company bought it out and sacked the whole staff. I got out just in time, moving to the Snooper.“
„Sorry,“ I said.
„Yeah,“ he muttered, and took a gulp from his drink. „So am I. I did some good work there.“
„Charlottesville Businessman Kidnapped by Aliens?“ I suggested. „Elvis Sighted in Norfolk Shopping Mall?“
„Real work,“ he said. „Legitimate journalism. Not the crap I'm doing now. It ruined my career when the Intelligence folded, if you want to know the truth. If I could just break a story, a really juicy story, something I could use to land a job on a legitimate publication….“
He chugged the rest of his drink.
„Hell, even a better tabloid,“ he added. „Then I'd still be a scum-sucking bottom feeder, but at least I'd be a well-paid one.“
To my surprise, I found I was starting to feel just a little sorry for Wesley. It was a novel sensation, and I pondered it in silence, while Wesley crunched an ice cube from his glass.
„So help me out, will you?“ he said, through a mouth full of ice. „You know everything that goes on in this burg; you always did. Your mother said you could find me a story, something juicy I can run with.“
„Get lost, Wesley,“ I said. „The only story I know is that we're having a fabulous celebration of Yorktown Day, with the biggest crowds the town has seen since the Bicentennial, and everyone's having a wonderful time.“
„That's not news, it's PR,“ Wesley grumbled. „Why don't you – hey, what's that?“
„That“ was Tad and Roger Benson, raising their voices in another argument. Wesley scurried over to get closer to the action, reaching into his pocket for his notebook as he went.
I decided I could hear just as well from where I was. Neither was trying to keep his voice down.
„I never touched your damned booth,“ Benson was saying. He was holding a bloody handkerchief handy, as if he expected his nose to begin bleeding again at any moment.
„The hell you didn't,“ Tad shouted back. „I know damn well you went through everything in the booth; you didn't put things back carefully enough to hide that. But it won't do you any good. I've put the evidence where you'll never find it.“
„Evidence,“ Benson snorted. „You haven't got a shred of real evidence and you know it.“
„I've got enough to prove everything.“
„Should we do something?“ Michael said, appearing at my side.
„No,“ I said. „Not yet anyway.“
„I suppose this would be a bad time to bring up the fact that if anyone rifled the booth it was me, looking for another pad of receipts when I was filling in for Faulk.“
„A very bad time, I should think. Later, when Tad has calmed down. I wish Tad would stop going on about how he's got the evidence put away in such an incredibly safe place.“
„Why?“ Michael asked. „Don't you think he has evidence?“
„I bet he has,“ I said. „But I'm not all that sure my purse is such a safe hiding place. I have this sneaking feeling the evidence is on a CD-ROM Tad handed me earlier.“
„Good grief,“ Michael muttered.
The shouting match reached a crescendo, and Tad stormed off. He hit a stray lawn-bowling ball on his way and for a few seconds, he pedaled and flailed his arms furiously like someone trying not to fall off a unicycle. Then he recovered his balance, if not his dignity, and strode out into the darkness beyond the glow of the lanterns.
When Tad disappeared, I glanced back to see what Benson was doing. And saw, though I couldn't hear, that Faulk, too, had a few things to say to the software pirate. He stopped talking as I watched, and they stared at each other for a few minutes. It was scarier than watching Tad square off with Benson, partly because of what had happened earlier. I think everyone at the party was watching, fearing – or hoping for – a rematch. And partly because Tad and Benson were about the same size, while Faulk towered over either one of them. And maybe partly because, despite the sturm und drang, I'd never heard of Tad hitting anyone, but I'd seen Faulk lose his temper and finish an argument with his fists, especially in college, when I first knew him. He'd worked a lot on controlling his temper over the last fifteen years, but I still kept my fingers crossed every time I saw him get angry. And, apparently, accidentally bloodying Benson's nose hadn't done a thing to improve his temper.