Magnuson eased back in his chair. “I’ve asked around a bit about you. You know what I hear back?”

“I’m somewhat hesitant to ask, sir.”

“People say you’re annoying.”

“You should talk to more people than my wife, Mr. Magnuson.” I was hoping that might spark a smile, even a small one. It did not.

“When you were hired there, at The Leader, did they give you a notepad, a pen, a tape recorder, and a .45?”

“No, sir, they didn’t.”

“Because I was thinking, if it was okay for reporters there to do that kind of thing, to ride around in cars shooting off guns, that might explain why you thought it was okay when you got hired here. Maybe no one told you.”

“You see,” I said, swallowing, “what happened last night was kind of an unusual set of circumstances because—”

“Mr. Walker,” Magnuson said, leaning closer to me and pointing his finger, “we write the news. We try not to create it. It’s nice when we can be there as it’s happening, but as a rule we don’t hold the steering wheel so that others can fire wildly into the night. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. Because if you do, maybe I won’t have to rewrite this manual.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair. “Good day, Mr. Walker.”

I understood what that meant, too, so I got up and walked out of the office, and as I headed for the elevator, thought I’d rather take my chances with those guys in the Annihilator than have another run-in with Bertrand Magnuson. The guys in the Annihilator didn’t have control over my paycheck, and with a new car and a daughter in college, it was the Magnusons of the world who could really put the screws to you.

Chapter 11

11

I’d picked a bad time to leave the office. It was rush hour, and it took me the better part of half an hour to get uptown to our place on Crandall.

As I was approaching our house from the south, I saw a blue Jag coming from the north. I scooted into our driveway, pulling far enough ahead to allow Lawrence to pull in behind me.

“Nice timing,” I said, walking up to his car as he got out.

“I wants ma money,” he said. He was leaving the car running, which I took as a signal that he didn’t have a lot of time to chat.

“Hang on,” I said, running up the porch steps to the front door. I noticed, sitting in one of the wicker chairs we keep on the porch, a backpack I didn’t recognize. I unlocked the door, ran upstairs to my study, where I keep the checks for our line-of-credit account, and went back outside.