had even fashioned some detachable wooden blocks so he could reach the pedals.
After Granddad died, Nathan found out that the fun farm would be his one day, but that he couldn’t visit the place anymore because some lawyer in New York had rented it to somebody who turned it into a bowling alley. Nathan didn’t even like bowling.
A year ago, Nathan had made it nearly twenty-five miles in Uncle Mark’s truck before the cop pulled him over, and that was in the middle of the day when everybody noticed a kid driving a car. He smiled as he remembered dragging Uncle Mark’s prized vehicle along fifty feet of guardrail and into a maple tree before surrendering to the police. He realized that it was this final act of defiance which likely got him thrown into Juvey, but he still thought it was funny.
If he could do his traveling at night and avoid the major roads with their roadblocks, and if he could keep the car on the road, he might just be able to drive himself right out of the country!
Like everything else in this palace, the garage was huge. Closest to the door from the kitchen was a blank space, the home for the vehicle currently in use by the family. Dry stains on the concrete floor told the story of a once-leaky transmission. In the middle slot, there stood a gleaming fiberglass speedboat with twin Evinrude motors, mounted securely on a trailer.
Huck Finn’s book would have been a lot shorter if they had one of those babies, he thought as he ran his fingers wistfully over the slick, sparkle-flecked surface of the hull. Waterskiing was one of the skills his father had promised him, way back when promises were still kept.
The item he’d hoped to find was in the third and final stall, covered by a light-olive tarp. Only the very bottom radius of the wheels showed beneath the cover. Without hesitating a beat, Nathan grabbed the front corner of the tarp and pulled it off the car.
“Wa-hoa!” he exclaimed aloud, showing the purest possible admiration. Before him rested a brand-new cherry-red BMW convertible, the coolest-looking car on the street. The keys, bearing the handwritten tag, BMW, were on a hook labeled KEYS that was mounted on the wall just to the left of the driver’s door. The other keys on the peg were labeled BOAT and RANGE ROVER. He figured they took the Rover on vacation.
The driver’s door was unlocked, so he opened it and slid into the front seat. The leather was softer even than his dad’s old lounge chair, and a hell of a lot more comfortable than the torn vinyl in Uncle Mark’s 61 pickup. His jaw was slack with wonder as he stroked the seats and gripped the steering wheel, navigating the vehicle in his mind through the turns in the highways he’d soon travel. Almost as an afterthought, he put the key in the ignition and turned it just enough to arm the electrical systems. By process of elimination, he found the buttons controlling the seat position and adjusted it all the way forward, till his feet could touch the pedals. It would be a stretch, but at least they reached.
A grin crossed Nathan’s face. This could work. It had to work. As he played the scenario in his mind, he felt his confidence grow geometrically by the second. All the ifs and maybes were of no consequence to him. He’d beaten the odds to this point, and he’d beat them the rest of the way. Whether it would work or not was irrelevant. What mattered was that he had a plan.
Denise felt like dancing. In the hours since she’d signed off the air, she’d received countless phone calls and faxes from people expressing interest one way or another in the day’s show. Each of the three network morning talk shows had asked for live interviews the next day, but only Good Morning America offered to bring her to their Washington studios via limousine, so that was the one she accepted. The rest wanted to interview her from her home, and as someone who obsessed about cleaning up for relatives, she wasn’t equipped to entertain 40 million Americans before dawn.
If Denise looked ecstatic, Enrique looked like he’d taken a beating. The show had been over for hours, yet calls kept pouring in. Denise had only spoken to the people who got past Enrique, and he had personally spoken with over three hundred people. Even his hair was disheveled, and his hair was never anything short of perfect. Per the secret pact he had made with himself at the conclusion of the show, at exactly four o’clock, he laid the receiver on its cradle, with a caller still running her mouth, and turned off his telephone, routing all calls electronically to The Bitch Phone, a glorified answering machine that was billed as a way for people to sound off during hours when the usual lines were jammed.
Relieved at last to be in a quiet room, Enrique rocked lazily back into his leather chair and crossed his feet atop the corner of his desk. He knew about Denise’s agreement to go on the tube tomorrow morning, which meant that she wouldn’t sleep the entire night. Instead, she’d spend the night preparing for her two and a half minutes in the spotlight. As her producer, sounding board and designated hand-holder, he knew that, like it or not, sleep was not in the cards for him, either.
If any rest lay in his immediate future, it would be during the next couple of hours, while Denise was basking in her recent glory. It wouldn’t be till 2:00 A. M. that her serious self-doubt would materialize, and that’s when his real work would begin. He’d never understand why she kept doing this to herself. Before drifting off for his power nap, he checked his watch. It was 5:03.
Enrique nearly fell backwards when his sleep was shattered by a ringing phone. His watch now read 5:08, and he prayed that it had stopped working.
“I thought I turned you off,” he grumped at the phone, but by the second ring, he realized that it wasn’t the 800 line. It was Denise’s private line. By the third ring, it was clear that she wasn’t going to answer it herself, so he snatched it to his ear. “Bitch,” he answered. It was the usual one-word salutation to callers, but this time it seemed to ring with emotion.
The female voice on the other end of the line was at once cordial and efficient. “Mr. Dorfman calling for Ms. Carpenter.”
Enrique’s feet shot to the floor, and he was instantly wide awake. “One moment, please,” he said. Ronald Dorfman was president of Omega Broadcasting. Headquartered in New York, Omega was the company that syndicated Denise’s show and wrote their paychecks. In all the five years that The Bitch had been on the air, Mr. Dorfman had never called the show personally. Whether his presence on the phone was good news or bad, he had no way of telling. But one thing was certain: he needed to find his boss right now.
As he’d expected, Enrique found Denise at the coffee pot, accepting kudos from a group that rarely showed interest in the work she did—the news staff.
A card-carrying pessimist at heart, Denise naturally assumed that she was in trouble. Unlike Enrique, Denise had, in fact, spoken with Mr. Dorfman twice: once on the day she signed her syndication contract, and a second time when a caller pushed her a little too hard and her language exceeded FCC standards by a significant margin. That latest occasion was three years ago, and since then she’d been perfectly content to limit her contact with the Big Guy to the sterile holiday greetings he sent to all on-air personalities at Christmas.
Three minutes after Enrique had pushed the hold button, Denise was on the line. “Hello, this is Denise Carpenter,” she said, her voice full of business, and totally devoid of the talk host jive. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Not at all, Ms. Carpenter,” the secretary said. “Please hold for Mr. Dorfman?’
So now it was Denise’s turn to wait. Enrique sat anxiously on the worn sofa across the tiny office from her desk. There were many perks in radio, and countless ways to stroke the substantial egos of on-air talent, but among these was not plush office space. Hers was little more than a cubicle, ten by ten feet, if you cheated a little with the yardstick. The walls were adorned with pictures, mostly of or painted by her children. There was no degree to post, no brag wall in the traditional sense of lawyers and doctors. Her bragging rights belonged to her single-handed rise through the ranks to command a top-rated show. As she waited for Mr. Dorfman to pick up her line, she sent up a private prayer that she hadn’t inadvertently done something to risk all of this.
“Good afternoon, Denise, this is Ron Dorfman.” His tone was quite friendly, causing Denise’s shoulders to slump a little, a visible sign of relief that made Enrique relax as well. “It’s been a very long time since we talked. How have you been?”
“Really quite well, Ron, thanks for asking. The show seems to be doing rather well.”
The smile stayed in her boss’s boss’s boss’s voice. “Indeed it has,” Dorfman agreed. “In fact, I had the opportunity to listen to you today. Please don’t take offense, but with my job, I really don’t get that opportunity very often:’ She could tell that he was talking around his ever-present stogie.
“Oh, I certainly understand?’ Her shoulders tensed again, bringing Enrique to the edge of his cushion. This was going somewhere.
“This business with the boy who killed the prison guard. Tell me what you think about it.”
