Page 19 of Slow Burn

Amy’s ghost hadn’t shown up in the night; it never did. Amy was the forgiving one of the family.

Velvet let the phone fall back into the cradle, and curled up on her side while the sun beat down and tried uselessly to warm her.

When the phone rang again, she ignored it. Three rings. Four. A click, and the answering machine rescued the call.

She didn’t recognize the voice.

“Hi, um, Miss Daniels, my name is Lenny Bradshaw and I’m a reporter, um, with theBig D Gazette.You know, the one with the color cover? I understand you have some information about the fire at the Adolphus. Give me a call and we’ll talk it over. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He gave a number. As she slowly twisted around to look at the answering machine, he hung up. The tape whirred. The light blinked.

She played the message again, listened to the number, one finger on the erase switch.

Money.I’ll make it worth your while.

What was it Ming had said?Don’t cause any trouble?

Velvet tapped the switch with a fingernail, lightly, then again, harder. Not quite enough to erase.

That sonofabitch Paolo had laughed at her.

She moved her finger over and hit play. While his message recited again, she found a scrap of paper and a pen.

Really, it was just another slower way to commit suicide.

She met him at Fong’s Deli on Maple, a dusty little place that even the hungry hordes of downtown workers avoided. A parade of them passed outside, second-rate suits and boring ties and women in ugly skirts and walking shoes. She was on her second Ginseng Special when Bradshaw slid into the booth with her.

She had expected a guy in a hat. In the movies reporters wore hats and leisure suits that had celebrated Nixon’s inauguration. It bothered her that Lenny Bradshaw was a clean prep-school kid with short hair and a button-down shirt. He didn’t look old enough to bedeliveringpapers, much less writing for them.

“Hi,” he said, and stuck a hand in her direction, palm sideways. She shook it limply. His smile brought out dimples, not the Kirk Douglas aggressive kind, but suburban ones, inoffensive. “Hope you weren’t waiting long. Can I buy you another one of those—uh—”

“Nope.”

“Right. Fine. Well, I’ll just get a Snapple …” His voice trailed off vaguely as he looked around at the bottles in the case. He had a little crisp frown that started right in the center of his forehead. “They don’t have Snapple?”

“Here, have the rest of this, I’m not thirsty anyway.” She shoved her Ginseng Special over. He eyed it and pushed it back into neutral territory. She smiled. Too good to drink after a hooker, but probably wouldn’t turn down a free blow job. “Let’s not beat around the bush, okay? So how much?”

“How much for what?”

She stared at him until his dimpled smile faded.

“You trying to be funny?”

“Well, no, I—I’m sorry, maybe I didn’t understand you. You’re asking me …” He paused. She didn’t help him. “How much I’ll pay you for the story?”

“Ooh, you’re so smart. Yeah, that’s what I’m asking, you think I’m trying to buy your watch or something?”

“I’m sorry. I’m authorized to offer you the standard fee, three-fifty.”

She got up and started to slide out of the booth. He reached out to put a hand on her arm, but thought better of it and just waved her to a stop instead.

“Four hundred,” he amended, and she sighed and sat back down. “But that’s only if you give me some very interesting information.”

“Five, and it’s the best shit you’ve ever heard, kid. Let’s see cash.”

They settled for five hundred, two-fifty up front. She counted the bills and stuffed them in her purse. He took out a pad of paper and a pen and waited expectantly.

And suddenly she had no idea what to say. She looked around at the rice-paper menus glued on the walls, the faded paper dragons fluttering overhead. What did he want to hear? Always give the customer what they want, that was Ming’s first rule. Ming’s second rule was, always charge more than they intend to pay.

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