“Oh. I hope it was a successful,” Natalie said, aiming for a neutral tone.

“Yes, great game. Jazzmyn had to head home with a family emergency. Maybe you want to join me for dinner?”

Shivering, she got off the bike, found a gym towel, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She’d heard the Chief’s words and knew she should be excited—dinner in Jazzmyn’s place. In Miami. That’s an offer any reporter would kill for—but instead felt rolling anxiety. What if he wants more than dinner? Pulling the towel in tight she thought no, there’s no way. With all the MeToo stuff, there’s no way he’d risk it. Would he?

“I really want to see you do well, Natalie,” the Chief was saying. “And I think if we put our heads together, we can make it happen.”

An offer you can’t refuse.

“That’d be great,” she heard herself agree.

“Wonderful! I’ll have my assistant contact you with details. See you this evening,” the Chief exclaimed, as if he was surprised by her reply. As if he thought she had a choice.

17

SexualPolitik

The Nuit Noir Lounge had a certain brothel feel to it, with indigo velvet curtains you didn’t want to brush up against and the kind of seedy splendor that only sticky seats and the scent of Pine-Sol-over-dried-beer confers. It was still early afternoon so the dim interior was cool and relatively quiet. There were plenty of booths but Natalie, Matt, and Dasha had slid into seats at the bar, drawn by the warm glow of several television sets. It was a professional hazard, particularly when the screens were all tuned to local news.

They’d agreed to meet for a midafternoon council of war which they now put on hold to watch a wide-awake-looking anchor nod emphatically at her coanchor and say, “That was a really fascinating story, Rob.”

Matt pointed at the TV. “That means, I wasn’t listening to anything you said, in Reportuguese.”

“In what?” Natalie asked.

“The language of television reporters,” he said. “It’s probably more like a dialect, actually, but it’s totally different than print. I’m studying it.”

Perched on her stool, Natalie leaned slightly away from Matt. “Really? Give me another example.”

Matt pointed at the screen where a reporter had just said, “Time will tell. Back to you, Rob.” Matt continued, “Time will tell. Translation, I have no fucking idea how to end this live shot.”

“Yes!” Natalie laughed, getting into it. “Sometimes that also means ‘Olive Garden closes in twenty minutes so let’s wrap this up pronto.’”

“Or Yarmouk Martyrs Brigade has laid siege to the town,” broke in Dasha. “Turn off all lights and take cover before RPGs strike.”

“Wow, duly noted,” Matt said as he stared straight ahead, eyes wide.

After a moment of consideration Natalie added, “You know which is my favorite? Stay tuned.”

“What does stay tuned mean?” Matt asked.