Tate smirked doubly. “If he doesn’t then I’ll put my foot so far up his ass he’ll be able to taste the dogshit I stepped in on West Street this morning. But don’t worry about it, it ain’t gonna happen. Kirby’s never missed a deadline yet.”
“That’s what I mean, boss. He’s usually a week early with each piece. If I don’t have his copy by tomorrow noon, we’re going to have to re-lay the entire section. That’s a fifteen hundred word block, plus a three-by-four picture grid. It’s not like we can fill it in with ads at the last minute.”
“Maybe we can fill it in with prints of me kicking you in the ass for bothering me with bullshit,” Tate proposed. “How many times I gotta say it? Don’t worry about Kirby; his copy’ll be in on time.”
“It’s just kind of weird—”
Tate glared. “You’re still here?”
Brice took a hesitant step forward, a lamb straying into the lion’s den. He was a worry wart but he was also a good layout man, so Tate tolerated him. The newspaper business was like any business—give and take. You want good people, you put up with their quirks. “I gave Kirby a call today,” Brice finally said.
“You have a nice little chat?”
“He hung up on me.”
Tate’s smirk quickly dulled. “What do you mean he hung up on you?”
“I was just double-checking, you know. This is the first time he hasn’t had his material in early. I thought maybe he forgot about it or something.”
“He better not have,” Tate remarked. “I’ve already paid him for half the goddamn series. What did he say?”
Brice’s eyes looked distant. “That’s the weird part, boss. He sounded hungover or something, or like I’d just woken him up. Didn’t even sound like he knew who I was.”
“All right, so he was tired. Big deal.”
“I reminded him of the deadline… ”
Tate tapped his blotter with a red pen. “And?”
“He hung up on me. Just like that.”
Tate gave this some thought. God knew he’d met his share of pretentious journalists, people whose egos were bigger than the fucking Sears Tower. But this didn’t sound like Kirby. Kirby was low key and very professional. He never caused a fuss and he didn’t make waves. And he’d never been known to be rude.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tate repeated after a pause. “Go back to the dungeon and haunt your own office. You let me worry about Kirby.”
“Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
Brice left. Tate couldn’t figure it. Maybe the kid was exaggerating…
Tate thumbed through his Rolodex, to the Ks. kirby, paul, west wind apartments. He dialed the number and waited.
Six rings, then: “Hello?”
“Kirby, this is Tate. One of my people says you’re lollygagging on the singles piece. Is—”
“Who?” Kirby’s voice drifted. “Who is
