Part 26 (1/2)
I sat up. It wasn't beer, but it was wet and cold.
”Thanks!”
Kenny nodded.
”How's the picture business going?” I asked.
”Great! Really great. You haven't dropped by the kiosk for a sitting yet.”
I shook my head. ”That's right. And I won't be any time soon.”
”Oh? Why is that?”
I made a face. ”What woman in her right mind would sit for an artist's rendering looking like this?” I did an up-and-down wave of my hand. ”Gotta be honest. That artist's eye of yours could use prescription lenses, dude.”
”So...when you've cleaned up?”
I shook my head. ”I wish. Even on days where I have access to soap, water, and hair care tools, my hair does its own special wild and crazy thing, the essence of which would be almost impossible to capture on canvas. Being the caring, compa.s.sionate person that I am, I couldn't in all good conscience inflict such a hopeless and daunting challenge on a poor starving artist. You understand. Right?”
”Oh. Sure. I guess so.”
”You lure any celebrities to your booth yet?” I asked, feeling sort of sorry for the fledgling artist. ”How about that reality star you favor? Has she stopped by yet?”
He shook his head. ”Not yet.”
”Well, it's early days,” I reminded him, seeing his hangdog look. ”But you said business was good, right?”
He perked up. ”It's fabulous. Everybody wants a picture to remind them of the bike ride. Er, almost everybody.”
My cell rang. I pulled it from my f.a.n.n.y pack.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”Turner? That you?” Stan's growl left me little doubt what kind of mood my boss was in. And why.
”I think you have the wrong number-”
”Give it up. I know that's you, Blondie.”
”Oh, hey, Stan. How's it going?” I took my fingertip and scratched back and forth on the microphone. ”Sorry. What's that? I can't hear you! You're cutting out!”
”Can you hear me now, Turner?” Stan's voice boomed out of the phone. ”You're fired!”
I blinked.
Fired!
I hauled the phone back to my ear. ”Now, just a minute! You're telling me I'm fired!”
”I knew that would get you back on the phone,” Stan said.
I could imagine the ”gotcha!” grin gracing Stan's face.
”I'm having issues with the 4G network,” I lied. ”I can hear you fine now. How's everything in Grandville? What big news stories am I missing out on?”
”That's a good question, Turner. Maybe you should go to Drew Van Vleet's blog at the New Holland News to find out. Like. I. Did.”
I winced.
”I can explain,” I said.
”You can explain? You can explain how a compet.i.tor managed to scoop a news story my own reporter was in the middle of? This I gotta hear.”
”Well, you see, I'm not quite used to this phone yet-”
”Cut the c.r.a.p, Turner. How come I have to read a compet.i.tor's blog to find out my reporter stumbled onto a big shot a.s.sault vic, after partic.i.p.ating in a seance, while spending the night in a haunted murder house with the cast of one of the most popular reality TV shows? What do you have anyway? A career death wish?”
”Hey. I'm doing the best I can. Van Vleet has an iPad at his disposal. Built-in web cam. Camera. Nice big keyboard to type on. It takes me an eternity to tap out a blog update on this teeny tiny keyboard.”
”Excuses, excuses. Whine. Whine. Whine. Can't you borrow a laptop from someone and post something more substantial than 'Stumbled onto big time agent, Vinny Vincent. Literally! Location Villisca Ax Murder House.' We need pictures! We need details, Turner! Details! You know. The who, what, where, when, why, and how.”
”Okay. I'll play. Let's see. Who went behind my back and made a wager on whether I'd finish TribRide or not? What kind of boss would send a novice biker employee on a tandem bicycle on a risky bike ride? Where is the appreciation for the effort this boss's ace employee is making? When will said valuable employee be appropriately compensated? And finally, why does this outstanding employee have a hint of a hemorrhoid? So, how do you like those for details, Mr. Who, what, where, when, why, and how?”
I waited, fully expecting to hear, ”You're fired!”-this time for real.
Okay. So maybe I'd stepped over the insubordination line with the boss man. Still, surely there is such a thing as justifiable insubordination. If not, there should be.
”Geez, Turner? Back off on the pedals, would you? I'm not altogether displeased with your performance. After all, you're still on the ride. Which means I'm still in the game. And you've managed to garner a h.e.l.luva lot of attention with this Bikezilla war you've got going with Keelie Keller. Now if you could be so good as to actually report what's going on, too-you know-the job I pay you to do, then everything will just be hunky dory.”
I made a face. Hunky dory, my half-developed hemorrhoid. Stan wasn't sweaty, gross, and disgusting and running through lawn sprinklers to shower.
”I'll see what I can do,” I managed.
”You do that, Turner.”
”And you keep your checkbook handy, Boss Man. 'Cause in a week, it's pay-up time!”
”Just keep telling yourself that,” Stan said, and ended the call.
”You lead an interesting life,” Kenny observed.
I shrugged. ”What can I say? I got a gift.”
”A gift? A gift for what? Stalking? Knocking old guys over the head? Having the worst hair ever?”
The scent of a pricey designer fragrance over-powered the pungent odor of my own sweat, and I knew even before I turned, who had invaded my s.p.a.ce.
The Captain of Team Reality Red and Kompany.
”Doesn't that 'same tune, different day' stuff ever get old?” I asked. ”You know. You accusing. Me denying?”