Benson said nothing.

“So. I think she’d be willing to come in if you let me hold on to your camera phone while she joins us.”

Benson ran his tongue over his lips. “So let me see if I understand this. You, a reporter for the Metropolitan, want to take from me, a reporter for the Suburban, my camera phone, in case I want to use it to do my job. Is that what’s going on?”

I had to admit that it sounded bad when he put it that way.

“You know what?” Benson said. “You fucking reporters, you work for these big fucking dailies, you have no respect for what a guy like me does for a smaller paper like the Suburban. You think we’re some kind of joke, don’t you? That we just exist to wrap around a bunch of advertising flyers, that we don’t care about journalism, that we don’t care about what we do.”

I said nothing.

“Well, I may work for a small neighborhood rag, Mr. Walker, but when I hear that a woman is running some sort of sex dungeon in the middle of our community, I think that’s a story, and I’m not going to let some smartass hot-shit city writer try to warn me off it.”

“What have I said?” I said. “Have I threatened you? Have I tried to get you off this story?”

“Here’s what I don’t get. Why aren’t you writing about Trixie Snelling? Any reporter worth his salt would be taking a run at this.”

“She’s a friend,” I said. “She—”

Benson pushed his coffee cup aside. “We’re done here,” he said, shifting his weight across the seat and getting out. “See ya later.”

My cell rang as he walked out the door. I reached into my pocket, flipped it open.

“Zack,” Trixie said, “I’m reading this story of yours in the paper, about these guys trying to get the cops to buy stun guns. Jesus Christ, Zack, do you have any idea who these guys are?”

“Trixie,” I said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass who they are. The meeting here is finished. Benson’s walked out. You set me up. Thanks a fuck of a lot.” I slapped the phone shut and went back downtown.

One day he went too far.

Miranda was in the kitchen, making an after-school snack. It hadn’t been a good day. The guidance counselor wanted a word with her. Brought her in for a meeting. He said he’d tried to reach her mother, to discuss her school performance, but wasn’t having any luck when he phoned the house.

Miranda thought, Good luck. Mom’s there, but she’s probably watching Family Feud and getting smashed.

“Then I tried calling your father at work,” he said.

Oh no, Miranda thought.

“And he was very helpful. Good to talk to. Says you just haven’t been pulling your weight. He knows you could do better if you just put in some effort. You stand to lose your year,” the guidance counselor told her. “You’re failing all of your subjects, with the exception of math. You’re a natural at math. Why can’t you bring that sort of effort to your other subjects, huh, Miranda? What’s the problem? Is it drugs? Are you getting into drugs, Miranda?”