“I’m not a writer, not like James Baldwin or Richard Wright. I’m just a reporter. International correspondent, that’s what I wanted to be, to see my byline in the New York Times. I was so certain that’s what I’d be, I got a passport the day after I turned eighteen. Then, well, time goes by, and hell-bent as I am on being an international correspondent, I begin to understand that the only way the New York Times gonna hire someone like me is to be pushing a broom, daddy-o.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I been working for the Challenger since I was eight, delivering papers on my bike, running stats for the sportswriters when I was in high school, writing obits, and filling in weekends when I was at UCLA, so taking a job there was just like stepping into a shoe already comfortable. It’s a great paper, and August Branch is a great man. He insists that your copy’s on time, that it’s the truth, and that you haven’t violated the code of ethics or the English language. He’s very particular about the code of ethics and the English language. Other than that, what I write, well, that’s up to me. The column is my own.”

“Are you the colored Hedda Hopper?” I asked, thinking myself witty.

“I’m not the colored anything, Roxanne, and I’m sure as hell not a Red-baiting gossipmonger.” He swooped up the check. “I need to get back to the office.”

We left, and walked back to the Challenger’s office in silence, the moment of alliance shattered with my stupid comment. Here was the most interesting man I had met since Jerrold Davies, who didn’t count since Jerrold was old enough to be my father. If I didn’t speak up, apologize . . . A premonition of regret wavered before me, almost visibly. At the parking lot Terrence said a crisp goodbye. I put my hand on his sleeve. “Terrence, I’m sorry for what I said about the colored Hedda Hopper, I wasn’t thinking.”

He actually looked suddenly tired; his shoulders sagged. “People like me get tired of hearing ‘sorry’ from people like you.”

“Well, next time I’ll think.”

“Next time?”

“Look,” I said cheerfully, “it’s Tuesday. Why don’t you come out to my place on Saturday? I live in Malibu,” adding awkwardly, “at the beach.”

“Can I bring my wife and kids?” he asked, suddenly solemn.

Keeping my face frozen to conceal my shock, I said, “Sure. How many?”

“Three.”

“Well, sure, bring them all. I’ll make lunch.”

“What’s your address?” He took out a pen and opened his palm, and wrote down the address. “See you Saturday around one.”