The One & Only(28)

Two days later I drove to the famed steak house on Lemmon Street, wearing a navy pencil skirt, a white button-down blouse, and low pumps. I skipped all makeup except for a dab of lip gloss and put my hair up in a simple twist. My aim was to look like a serious reporter, without a trace of sex appeal.

Arriving at Bob’s twenty minutes early, I checked in with the maître d’ and waited for Smiley at the polished bar, sipping a club soda and glancing around the room. The crowd was mostly male and appeared conservative, wealthy, and important—or at least self-important—which, based on dining experiences in New York with my father, seemed to be a standard steak house phenomenon. The power scene felt exaggerated today, on steroids, the way things often were in my home state. Big was bigger. Loud was louder. Rich was richer. And less was never more. Then again, maybe I was just nervous, out of my collegiate comfort zone, where you could get away with wearing sweats to work if you really wanted to. In ten years on the job, plus the two I had interned in sports information as a student, J.J. had never once reprimanded me. He hardly even felt like my boss most of the time, offering suggestions rather than assignments or deadlines. My life was a regular cakewalk, and although I had doubts lately about the direction it was going in, I didn’t understand why so many people seemed to have the philosophy that easy was inversely proportionate to worthwhile. Was it really such a bad thing to phone it in—as long as you were happy and doing clean, honest work? Wasn’t there something to be said for working to live, as opposed to living to work?

As I contemplated this question, Frank Smiley walked into the restaurant in a brown corduroy jacket, suede patches at his elbows, a bow tie, and his standard hat—this one more trilby than fedora. His expression was gruffer than usual, and I could nearly read the words in a bubble over his head: This is a waste of my time. I took a few deep breaths as the maître d’ pointed at me too quickly for me to glance away. I gave Smiley a little wave as he tipped his hat in my direction, then barreled toward me, the bubble changing to Let’s get this shit over with.

“Shea Rigsby,” he barked when he got to the bar, the hostess standing demurely behind him with two oversize menus. He removed his hat with his left hand and extended his right. Neither of us smiled.

“Yes, sir,” I said, my hand falling into a stranglehold. I squeezed back as hard as I could, our hands pumping up and down three times.

“Pleasure,” he said, looking like it was anything but.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Smiley,” I said, though we had met before, or at least collided, in postgame press conferences.

He did not offer his first name, further unnerving me. I stood, catching my heel on my barstool and stumbling a little. A dash of club soda sloshed onto the bar. The bartender swiped it away almost instantaneously, yet Smiley’s eyes stayed critically fixed on the site of the spill.

“Whoops,” I said, righting myself. I smoothed my skirt as the hostess led us to a choice mahogany booth in the corner, obviously reserved for him, as inferior tables were filled around us.

He slid in with his back to the wall and fired off his first question. “So Coach Carr said you can write?”

“Well, I’m certainly not one to contradict Coach Carr,” I said. In my mind, it was a deft reply—a way to combine modesty, humor, and confidence.

“Do you love it? Writing?”

I hesitated, then gave him the risky truth. “It’s a love-hate relationship. I love the feeling after I’ve finished writing something. But the actual writing? Sometimes not so much.”

Smiley nodded, not disapprovingly, then said, “Yes. I’ve always said finishing a column is a lot like leaving the dentist.”

“Or the gym,” I added.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, as a young waiter with perfect hair and posture arrived to offer us beverages.

Smiley made perfunctory eye contact, but looked annoyed by the interruption and said, “We’re ready to order … Aren’t we?”

“Yes,” I said. Then, without looking at the menu, I told the waiter I’d like the rib eye, medium.

“And for you, Mr. Smiley?”

“The usual,” he said.

“And any sides for you today?”

“The usual,” he repeated, with a wave of his hand, practically shooing him away from the table.

When the waiter left, Smiley took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “So. I know all about your Walker ties.”

“Yes, sir. I have … a lot of Walker ties …” I stammered, reminding myself to answer as simply as possible. Less likely to screw up that way.