Page 58 of Slow Burn

Two pimply teenaged boys in oversized pro football jackets were staring at her. Velvet pointed her shoulder at them and curled closer around the pay phone, wishing the wind would let up, wishing she had her day-glo blue jacket with the fake fur lining. Damn, that thing was warm.

Instead, she had to settle for Robby’s hiking shit—L.L. Bean or something, made for one-hour hikes in the fall, not for winter windstorms. Besides, she looked like shit in flannel.

And the goddamned penny loafers were killing her feet.

A thin recorded voice in the phone receiver saidThe number you have reached is not a working number. Please check your number and—

“Fuck you,” Velvet grumbled, and slammed the receiver down. She chewed her lip and fingered a quarter in her pocket. She’d lost Lenny Bradshaw’s number, of course; never had been able to hang onto things like that, not even when her life depended on it. And here she had things to tell him, too. Big things.

She needed to replace the money she’d lost, fast. What the hell was that rag he worked for?Weekly World—no—Dallas Met—no—Big D Gazette.That was it.Big D Gazette.

She dialed 1411 and demanded the number. A computer that sounded like the one she’d just told to fuck itself gave her a number that didn’t sound at all familiar. She scribbled it on the back of her hand with a ballpoint pen, and fed her last quarter into the phone.

The two teenagers were still staring, nudging each other. She gave them a shark smile and dialed the number, listened to the grinding blurry rings. Five. Ten. Jesus, didn’t they ever—

“BigDGazette. Holdonaminute.” Before she could tell him to fuck off, he’d jammed her on hold—silent hold, not Muzak hold—and she spent another minute rubbing her chilled hands together, smearing the phone number. Great. She’d have to get it again, if she needed to call back. “Yeah. Whatdoyouwant?”

“Lenny Bradshaw.” She had to say it slow, because her teeth were chattering. The plastic of the phone felt like a block of ice on her ear. “Hey, buddy, hurry it up, I’m dying out here.”

The guy grunted and put her back on hold. Silent hold. She danced uncomfortably from one foot to the other, thinking about central heating and peeing. She was on her left foot when a voice picked up and said, “Yeah, go ahead.”

Not right. Didn’t sound right.

“Hey, you got two seconds to start talking or I’m gone.” He breathed heavily into the phone, a wheeze at the end like a three-pack-a-day addict. This wasn’t Mr. College Boy Dimple-Chin. No way.

“Lenny Bradshaw?” she asked, like an idiot. He wheezed some more.

“Yeah, yeah, you got him. What?”

“Lenny Bradshaw, like, the reporter, with theBig D Gazette?”

“No, baby, Lenny Bradshaw with the fucking Peace Corps. What are you, crazy? You called me, right? So?”

So. She leaned heavily against the pay phone, almost rested her forehead on the cold metal, but realized it was covered with some mysterious white stuff that could have been snot.

“So—let’s say, just for grins, I been talking to a guy who says he’s Lenny Bradshaw. Only he isn’t you. He’s been giving me money for information.”

“Money?” Bradshaw’s laugh sounded more like springs squeaking. “Baby, you got a guy paying you to talk, I’d hang on to that bad boy, ’cause it damn sure ain’t me, and anyways, I don’t pay for information. I’m a journalist. People give it to me.”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, this guy, he’s been pretending to be you. Isn’t that like, against the law or something? ’Cause, you know, I told him a lot of stuff.” She hesitated. “Personal stuff.”

“Like what?”

Here she was, scared to go home, stranded at a snot-laced pay phone in the freezing wind wearing L.L. Bean shit, for god’s sake, shacked up in a house that Ringling Brothers decorated. Why worry about one more asshole?

“Like, I’m the one who was in the hotel room with Burt Marshall when he burned up.”

The silence seemed to go on forever. Papers shuffled, or static hissed, she wasn’t sure which. Finally, he said, “Burt who?”

“Come on, you did a big story about it, I read it. Guy burned up in a hotel. You were offering a reward. I was there. I saw it.” She sucked in a deep breath. “That isn’t all, not by a long shot. I saw plenty. I think it was murder, and I think I know who did it.”

“Yeah, I remember this guy. That waslast week, fer crissake. But, uh, yeah, there’s a reward. If you’ve got good info. What’s your name, honey?”

“Velvet. Velvet—uh—look, don’t print my name, okay? Just call me an unnamed source or something. Look, I need the money. I need to get out of town, like, fast. Get it?”

“Got it. Okay, Velvet, you want to come down here?”

“Here where?”

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