'No,' he snapped.
She backed away as if he'd hit her.
Jesus, he kept making it worse. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to… it's just that…' Just that what? How the hell could he tell her he couldn't ride in a car with anyone?
'It's okay, don't worry.' She smiled faintly. 'Sarah, Mark, I won't say it's been fun. See you soon. It was nice to meet you,' she said to Colin.
He nodded, wanting to say something but unable to. And then she was gone, walking across the street to her blue Ford Escort.
Mark said, 'You sure have a way with women, pal.'
'Yeah, don't I? Talk about getting off on the wrong foot.' He ran his thumb and forefinger down his black Zapata mustache.
'Oh, Annie's not going to think anything of it, Colin. After all, it wasn't exactly an ordinary day.'
Colin felt it incumbent upon him to say something about what had happened to him. 'Listen, I'm sorry about taking a dive like that.'
Mark put a hand on his shoulder. 'No sweat, pal.”
“We understand, Colin. As long as you're all right now.'
'I'm fine.' It was obvious they didn't want to discuss it. He couldn't blame them.
'So how about dinner?'
The Griffings got in their car.
'No. I want to write the story, grab something, get some sleep.'
'Leave him alone, Mark.'
'Nice big juicy steak you're gonna miss.'
'Thanks anyway.'
'See you Monday.'
Sarah said, 'If you get lonely, come on over tomorrow.'
He thanked her, started for his station wagon, stopped. 'Hey,' he called, 'who is she, anyway?'
'Annie?' Mark asked. 'She's the minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church. So long, pal.'
They pulled away, leaving him standing by his car, mouth open in surprise.
Colin liked being in his office at night, one light on in the whole place. Some people might have found it creepy. To him it was cozy, safe. At the
Ryan had said, 'Kid, you can grow all the garbage you want on your face, but it don't mean kaka to me if you don't produce. Get it?'
He got it. Still, he kept the mustache. It gave him confidence.
Then it became a habit. Without it he'd feel naked; it was as much a part of him as his cleft chin.
For four years they shuffled him around, and he covered obits, the courts, the suburbs, high school sports, the weather. It was mean. But he hung in and it paid off-he got the crime beat. Squalid and seamy as it sometimes was, he loved it. The excitement, the cops, the rhythm. He never understood why it spoke to him. Maybe it was the possibility of danger, an illusion of living on the edge. He didn't know. But he stayed in it for nine years until everything came down on him, until everything was over.
Colin rubbed his eyes as though he were trying to wipe them clean. Maybe he was. He lit a Marlboro and blew a ring in front of him. He didn't want to think about that now, start it all up again. Jesus, couldn't he have just one free night? But this night was more unlikely to be absent of ghosts than any he'd had for a long time. Don't pick up the first thought, Dr. Safier had told him. It was good advice. So try it for once, goddammit!
He turned away from his desk to his typing table, stuck a piece of paper in his old Royal. Mark kept making noises about getting computers, but meanwhile both of them used manual machines. He hit the keys.
BODY FOUND IN MAYOR'S POOL
Colin knew there wasn't a single person in Seaville or any of the towns on the North Fork who'd give that headline a pass. He also knew Gildersleeve was going to have a coronary. Too bad.
He stared at the head, his two hunt-and-peck fingers poised on the keys. Nothing came to him. The trouble was, he kept thinking of Annie Winters. He kept seeing her smile and hearing her say his name. And thinking, too, of what an asshole he'd been.
Reaching down into his bottom drawer he pulled out the phone book, flipped to the back, and ran his fingers down the W's. He found it right away.
Winters, A., Rev.
Could he just call up a reverend and ask for a pardon? Lifting the receiver, he punched out the number, then hung up. He did it again but this time let it ring.
She answered on the third.
'Hello,' he said, 'it's Colin Maguire.'
'Oh. Hello,' she said, sounding surprised.
'I just wanted to apologize. I acted very badly. I'm sorry.'
'Thank you, that's nice.'
He smiled. Most people would've said, 'No need, it's okay, don't bother.' She hadn't. He liked that.
She said, 'Are you feeling better?'
'Yes, thanks. I hope next time we meet it'll be under better circumstances.'
'It's bound to be,' she said.
'Well, listen, I just wanted to say that to you. You were awfully kind.'
She didn't say anything.
'Have you eaten dinner?' he asked impulsively.
She laughed. 'Yes, have you?'
'Not yet.'
'Don't let Sarah know that-I think she wants to mother you.'
Smiling, he said, 'I think you're right. Would you like to meet for a drink or something?' He was astonished, as if a ventriloquist were operating him. Jesus, what if she was married? He tried to remember if there'd been a ring but couldn't.
'I'd like that,' she said, 'but I don't have my sermon written for tomorrow.'
He'd almost forgotten: Reverend Winters.
'Another time?' she asked.
'Sure. Why not?'
A second of silence. 'Thanks for calling, Colin.'
He said goodbye and they broke the connection.
Slamming his hand down on the phone book he said, 'Shit.' Why did he have to say 'Sure, why not?' like some teenager? Well, it had been a long, long time since he'd tried to date a woman. The few women he'd had contact with in the last three years were almost strangers. Casual sex. Not very satisfactory. But this woman was different.
At least he knew one thing: she wasn't married. She wouldn't have said she'd have a drink with him if she was. On the other hand, maybe she'd have a drink and try to convert him. What a joke if the old altar boy became a Unitarian Universalist-whatever the hell that was.
No, Annie Winters wasn't married. So why not? Hadn't met the right guy? Or maybe she was divorced. Could ministers get divorced? He squashed out his cigarette in his metal ashtray. Enough.
As he turned back to his typewriter he heard the light sound of a woman's footsteps coming down the hall.
'Hello, Maguire.' It was Babe Parkinson, feature writer for the paper.
Colin figured Babe called him by his last name because she thought it made her sound more like a real
