Page 118 of Poison Wood
“Um.”
“Do you ask the men who sit in this chair if they are grateful?”
“I—”
“I doubt it. So you can move on to the next question, and while you’re at it you can suck my—”
“Okay,” one of the show producers said, scurrying out to us. “Let’s take a break.”
Rick’s face turned a hideous shade of red. He removed the mic from his shirt and stood up. “This interview just got canceled.”
I doubled down. “Great.” I removed my own mic and stood as well. “What a waste of time.”
Rick glared at me, and as he moved past me, his shoulder knocking into mine, he whispered, “Stupid little girl.”
And then I did something I really regretted; I let my anger turn to tears. I cried on the spot, in front of him, humiliating myself and giving him ammo for the smug look on his face as he watched me. I’ll never forget that look.
Then he smiled and called me something even worse: “Amateur.”
I shut my eyes and remind myself I’m not an amateur anymore. But I’m certainly dressed like one today in my baggy clothes. A fact that just might work to my advantage here.
And when I open my eyes, I spot my prey.
He’s at the end of the bar, and he’s just received a fresh drink. He’s talking to the bartender about SEC football and getting louder by the second. Bingo.
A couple of old men make their way to the pool table as I move back to the bar.
The guy with his fresh drink glares at me. “What are you staring at?”
Great. I offer him a quick smile.
“Leave her alone, Bones,” the bartender says.
“She looks like trouble,” Bones says to the bartender.
“She looks like less trouble than the other ones who have come by,” the bartender says.
The other ones. The other crews are moving as quickly as I’d expect them to.
“You look like you know things,” I say to Bones.
He squints at me.
“You a reporter?” His words slur a little.
“Good eye,” I say and hold out my hand. “Rita Meade.” I decide on the fly to go full speed. I don’t have time for games.
Recognition dawns on his face. “Shit,” Bones says.
The bartender has worked his way back down to us as he dries a lowball glass in his calloused hands. Good. The more the merrier.
“Your reputation precedes you,” the bartender says.
“I hope that’s a good thing,” I say.
“You’re here about Poison Wood,” the bartender says.
Bones chokes on his sip. No going back now. The look on the bartender’s face tells me I can leave drunk Bones alone now. He’s not the man I need to be talking to after all.
