The Scoop

by Fern Michaels

  Abby laughed. “In his dreams. Rag wasn’t so bad until he started gambling. I think that’s what led to his drinking, and the rest…needless to say, I can’t stand the sight of him. No one else can either. What’s left of the staff stays out of the office as much as they can. I’m the only reporter besides Rag who shows up in the mornings. When he decides to show up. Come on, let’s get this tour started,” Abby called to Chester. Apparently, Coco was going to take direction from the shepherd. As soon as he trotted to the door, she followed.

  “Why don’t you quit?” Mavis asked, trailing behind, her gaze glued to her little dog, who was more intent on Chester than on her owner.

  Smiling at the thought, Abby said, “I can’t do that. In spite of Rag, I love my job. I know it doesn’t come with a lot of respect, but someone has to do it.” Abby led them down the hallway to a door on her left.

  “Once we’re downstairs in the basement, it’s pitch-black, so don’t do anything until I give you the word. There’s a problem with the electricity in this old building. The lights don’t always work.”

  Once Abby reached the door to the basement, she turned around to make sure her mother and godmothers were behind her. “The steps are steep, but there’s a handrail, just be careful.” She fumbled with the light switch, and a second later, the basement lit up.

  The German-engineered printing press stood like a ghostly monument in the middle of the basement. Different-size round gears with hundreds of metal teeth meshed with precision even a fine watchmaker would envy. Abby could almost imagine the deafening noise emanating from the machine of days long past. Other than the frayed wiring hanging from an electrical workbox, the machine appeared in pristine condition. Operational status would be only minutes away were a qualified electrician hired.

  Rolls of paper stacked floor to ceiling beside several fifty-five-gallon drums of ink lay in waiting for the next breaking story. Off to the right was a small office where the typesetters had toiled endlessly with the tedious task of setting the small typeface backward from right to left.

  Multiple dye-setting tools on ink-stained workbenches lay in military precision, as if keeping a vigilant watch over their domain.

  The women gathered at the foot of the printing press, where Abby briefly explained how the massive machine worked.

  “Why is this junk still here?” Sophie asked. “How can you be competitive if you don’t keep up with the times?”

  “It’s not junk. When William Randolph Hearst purchased this machinery in the early 1900s, it was top of the line and could still produce a paper to this day if need be,” Abby explained.

  Across the large room, Chester and Coco waited patiently at the foot of the stairs.

  Mavis toddled over to stand next to the two canines.

  “The dogs are getting antsy. Let’s go back upstairs, and I’ll show you all the rest of the building,” Abby said.

  At the top of the stairs, they waited as Mavis struggled to catch her breath midway up. “Sorry, this is just one more reason for me to lose weight.”

  “Why don’t you take the dogs and wait in my office while I show Mom and Sophie the remaining three floors. That will cover the mailroom, distribution, sales, and marketing. You won’t be missing a thing.”

  “Thanks, dear. I think I’ll do that.”

  Twenty minutes later, the trio returned to Abby’s office. The scene that greeted them caused all three to burst out laughing. In front of Abby’s desk, Chester and Coco lay cuddled closely side by side, with Chester’s baby toy wedged between them. Mavis was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with her canine accomplishment.

  Bewildered, Toots asked, “How in the world did you ever manage that?” she asked, pointing to the two dogs.

  “What can I say, dogs love me.”

  “With good reason. We all love you,” Abby said with a smile.

  “We better be going, we’ve taken up enough of your time today. I’m sure you have dozens of stories to write.” Toots gave her daughter a quick hug. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Abby said, returning her mother’s hug. “Didn’t you mention to me one time, way back when, that you’d like to own a newspaper?”

  Toots stopped in her tracks and whirled around, caught off guard by her daughter’s unexpected question. She thought about the question before she answered, “I may have said that, but I don’t remember. What was that, a hundred years ago? Why are you asking, dear?” she inquired nonchalantly.

  “Just a thought, nothing important,” Abby said.

  Toots felt a ripple of apprehension course through her body. She did not give birth to or raise a stupid daughter. Abby smelled something.

  “Whatever. This is way above my pay grade,” Toots said. “Mavis, if you’re ready, we’d better get back to the bungalows. I want to check on Ida, make sure she took her medication.”

  Reluctantly, Mavis reached for Coco, hating to end her reign of victory over the canine duo.

  As they made their way to the waiting limousine, Toots promised a get-together later in the day. Abby waved to them until the long white stretch was out of sight.

  Micky heard voices coming from the hallway. He drew in a deep breath, releasing it as he heard the group exit the building. With the coast clear, he carefully made his way outside, racing down the block to where he’d parked his royal blue Corvette in an alley behind a Japanese restaurant. He circled the vehicle, making sure there were no scratches or dings. Satisfied, he slid into the driver’s seat before taking his cell phone out of his pocket to check his voice mail. He listened to a message from the pal who’d made the documents for Rag. All he could hear was a string of profanity.

  “Rodwell Godfrey had better have nine lives because I’m planning to take eight of them the second I lay eyes on the lowlife slimeball. Old Rag has messed with the wrong man.”

  Barreling down the alley, Micky almost lost control of his wheels as he skidded onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Slamming on the brakes, merging with the rest of the slow-moving traffic, he contemplated what he was going to do to the SOB who had ripped him off. It wasn’t pretty. He envisioned scalping the hair off Rag’s head, at least what little hair the con artist had left, then one at a time he would remove his shiny fake white crowns with a pair of dirty pliers. Yeah, he liked that visual.

  No one, and he meant no one, got away with ripping off Micky Constantine. The asshole Rag had moved up to number one on his very long shit list.

  When all was said and done, Rodwell Godfrey would be begging to give him the fifty thousand dollars he’d screwed him out of.

  Chapter 26

  Chris checked his watch for the hundredth time. Twenty-eight seconds since he’d checked it the last time. Today seemed like the longest day of his life. It kind of reminded him of being a kid at Christmas. He remembered as a child he was positive Christmas only rolled around every other year because it took so long to arrive. Smiling, he remembered his father telling him to wait until he was older, then it would come and go so fast, it would seem as though it never even happened. Dad had been right.

  Waiting for his big night out with Abby was like waiting for Christmas morning all those years ago, when he’d barreled out of his bed and raced downstairs to tackle the pile of presents placed beneath the tree. Always anxious, excited, butterflies dancing in the pit of his stomach in anticipation of the big event.

  He pictured tackling Abby in the middle of a pile of presents beneath a giant blue spruce. What a present that would be! And it wasn’t even close to Christmastime. He thought back to the many Christmases he’d spent with Toots growing up. She’d always made sure he felt as special as Abby even though he and Abby didn’t spend much time together. He didn’t know how he knew that, it was just one of those things that he knew.

  Suddenly, thinking about Typhoon Toots put a damper on any fantasy he’d ever had about her daughter. She’d wring his neck if she knew his feelings for Abby were not of a brotherly nature, but he didn’t
have to worry about that because she would never find out, simply because there was nothing to find out.

  He glanced at his watch again. One minute sixteen seconds. At this rate he’d be an old man before it was time to meet Abby at the Buzz Club. The reason she’d asked him out for the evening did nothing to advance his status as one of LA’s top ten bachelors either; he felt like she was doing him a favor.

  However, Chris knew if Abby needed him for a story, a scoop, about any of the starlets he’d dated, as long as he didn’t have a legal contract with them, he’d spill his guts in a heartbeat. Anything for Abby. Maybe he wouldn’t provide all of the sordid details, but he would come to her rescue this time because he knew how hard it was for her to ask for help. Her fierce independence was something he’d always admired about her, but there were times when he didn’t care for it at all. He wanted Abby to need him, to want him as much as he needed and wanted her. He told himself to forget about it because it wasn’t going to happen anytime in the near future or ever for that matter.

  With two hours to kill before he had to leave, he whipped out his laptop. Accessing the Internet, he checked his e-mail, hoping for some news on The Informer. He scanned through sixty-four e-mails, answered three that were business-related, then sent his friend of a friend’s hacker friend an e-mail inquiring into the status of his investigation. Chris had a bad feeling about the entire transaction. Toots just might have to write this one off as a loss, a lesson learned, and move on. He cringed at a ten-million-dollar write-off. If the paper failed, which he expected, which he would bet money on, Abby could get another job as a reporter. She was good. Any of the metropolitan papers would hire her, but he knew that wasn’t where her passion lay. She loved tabloid reporting, and Chris didn’t think she was going to switch one style for another anytime soon. He didn’t blame her either. Hell, if anything, he admired her for her determination despite the rotten reputation the paparazzi had. Abby was the consummate professional, he had to give her that. She didn’t stalk the celebrities she wrote about, didn’t force herself on them if she just happened to “bump into them” while out and about. No, Abby took everything seriously.

  Except him.

  Abby turned the lights off in her office, packed her briefcase with three lighthearted articles she’d found on the Internet concerning a certain celebrity she planned to interview down the road, then called her dog. “It’s time to go, Chester. I have a hot date this evening.”

  As she made her way down the hallway, Abby could have sworn she smelled Rag’s cheap cologne. She knew for a fact Rag wore three-dollar-a-bottle Brut because she remembered giving Chris a bottle of the smelly stuff for Christmas light-years ago. Maybe he’d slipped inside while she’d been engrossed in her reading. She paused outside his office, thinking that if he was inside, she would hear all the televisions blaring. Nothing. As she did earlier, she tried the knob, and the door opened immediately. She entered Rag’s nasty office and noticed right away that something was different. Chester emitted a low growl from his position at the door. Abby twisted around to look at her dog. That was not a happy growl. That was Chester’s alert growl.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Tail tucked between his legs, ears flat against his head, Chester growled again, the sound ominous in the quiet room.

  “Shhh!” Abby whispered. Something was wrong.

  Her gaze ricocheted around Rag’s office, searching for something, anything that might be different from hours ago. She drew in a sharp breath when she realized what it was. When she peeked inside earlier, she recalled, the desk chair had been far away from the desk, which was nothing unusual because Rag usually got up and never bothered to push his chair back under the desk. Someone had pushed the chair so close to the desk, the wheels were stuck on the edge of the hard-plastic floor mat. Maybe Mavis had wandered off while she’d been showing her mother and Sophie around. But Mavis hadn’t smelled of Brut. The rest of the staff had come and gone while she’d been in her office. If anyone had been in the hallway, Chester would’ve alerted her. It was one of many reasons she liked having the big dog with her at all times. The building had its creaks and cracks, but she had worked there long enough to become familiar with them. Someone had definitely been inside Rag’s office. Abby was positive it hadn’t been her boss. Chester appeared to be just as sure as she was.

  Fearing one of his gambling buddies had come looking for Rag to collect a debt, Abby hurried out of his office.

  “Let’s go, Chester! I don’t want to be around when Rag gets his ass beat.” She led Chester to the exit, practically running to her MINI Cooper. Inside, she secured hers and Chester’s seat belts before careening out of the parking lot.

  Abby was grateful that traffic wasn’t a total washout, which was extremely unusual for that time of day. She made it to Brentwood in record time. She pulled into the driveway beneath the small carport on the side of the garage. Someday she planned to empty the garage of the last owner’s possessions so she could park in it, but for the time being, this worked. She removed her keys from the ignition, grabbed her briefcase, then released Chester from his seat belt. She glanced at her watch. She had exactly ninety minutes to shower and change for her date with Chris.

  Inside, Abby tossed her keys along with her briefcase on a side table in the foyer. She hung Chester’s leash on its hook. Kicking her shoes off, one flying left and the other right before she headed to the kitchen for a bottle of cold water.

  “Woof!” Chester’s signal that it was dinnertime.

  “I know you’re hungry.” Abby filled his bowl with fresh water and scooped out three cups of kibble from a plastic container in the pantry. She added a few tablespoons of homemade gravy to the bowl, gave it a stir, and set it down on the floor. “Okay, buddy, you’re on your own for a bit.”

  While Chester dined in private, Abby hurried to her bedroom, where she spent fifteen minutes searching for an outfit. Nothing too dressy, though she could dress knockout hot if she chose because she was going out on the town for work. She didn’t want Chris to think she’d dressed up for him, so she settled on a pair of skinny black jeans with a shiny silver tank top. She’d wear her slut shoes, the silver ones. Chris always called her Shorty. She’d show him shorty.

  Abby took a long, hot shower, relishing the feel of the water as it ran down her neck and back. She lathered up, washing her hair twice with a fragrant, sweet green-apple shampoo. Wrapping a giant bath sheet around her, she combed out her hair, deciding to go “au naturelle,” curls and all. She applied a smoky eye shadow, lined her eyes with kohl eyeliner. Blush and a sheer pink lip gloss and she was good to go. She didn’t want to glam up too much. Maybe later at some point in time she’d glam it up and blow old Chris’s socks off. Ha!

  Abby rummaged through her drawer, finding a pink lacy bra with matching panties. Before she could change her mind, she slipped on the sexy lingerie, telling herself she simply wanted to feel feminine tonight. Who knew? Maybe she’d meet the man of her dreams.

  Right.

  The man of her dreams was off-limits.

  Chapter 27

  The Buzz was the current hot spot for celebrities in Hollywood, or so said the Style Network. Twenty minutes early, Chris scanned the crowd, hoping he wouldn’t see any clients or any female who could possibly be dangerous to his bachelor status. Couples, both gay and straight, were stacked against one another like sardines. He inched his way through the crowd, hoping to find an empty table. Rock music blared from speakers the size of small houses. Chris wanted to stick his finger in his ears, but that would not be the cool LA thing to do. Not that he followed LA’s so-called socially accepted rules, but he always seemed to manage to fit in with just about any group while remaining true to himself. More or less.

  Spotting a tall table with two empty barstools across from the bar, Chris beelined to claim it. He’d just sat down when a leggy cocktail waitress with pillow lips greeted him.

  “Just you?” she asked in a low, kittenish purr, n
udging him with her voluptuous breasts. Chris hated the place already. It reminded him of why he was so burned out on the party scene.

  “Actually, I’m meeting my wife here. I hired a sitter for the night to give her a break. Four kids isn’t a walk in the park, you know?” The waitress went from kitten to mountain lion in 0.2 seconds because husband-wife teams were not known for big tips.

  “What will it be?” she asked, impatient now that she knew the tip would be the standard 20 percent. Four kids more than likely meant 10 percent. If she was lucky.

  “I’ll have a Coke, and my wife will have a…water with a slice of lemon.”

  The waitress scribbled something on a napkin, and dropped two cardboard coasters on the table before racing over to three older men who looked like big tippers.

  Chris checked his watch. Ten o’clock. Abby should be here any minute. He knew for a fact that she was punctual, hated when anyone showed up late, because she made it a point either to be early or right on time. Maybe his watch was a bit fast. He continued to search the crowd for a petite woman with long blond curly hair.

  “Who are you looking for? Your latest bimbo?”

  Chris whirled around. “You sly little devil, sneaking up on me.” He offered up a grin as wide as the Pacific Ocean. “Take a load off, Shorty.” He got up and pulled the barstool out for her. “You want me to help you, is that what this is all about? So spit it out, Miss Reporter.”

  “No, I don’t want your help. Well, I did, but now I don’t. I’m just short, Chris, not helpless,” Abby snapped. Why was she always so…persnickety with him? She suddenly felt like she was sixteen years old again.

  “Actually, I think you’ve grown”—he peered at her spike heels—“about four inches. How in the hell do you women walk in those things?”