“Writeyour story,” he said. “Say what you need to. But do it without me. Iwon’t answer any questions. Now, get out.” He hopped off his table,went to the door, and opened it.
“Youcan’t do this. You’ll have to talk to someone. Sooner or later.”
Ihooked my arm around hers and pulled her to the door, glancing at Macyover my shoulder one last time. I met his gaze. He seemed calm,determined, without an ounce of trepidation. Before I turned away, hesmiled at me, gave a little nod. He was a wolf confident in histerritory. I’d do best to slink away and avoid his wrath.
Larsonand I left, and the door closed behind us.
Silent,we made our way back to the lobby of the arena. I said, “That wentwell.”
She’dgone a bit glassy eyed and had lost the purposeful energy in her stride.
“Areyou okay?” I said.
“Ithink I’m going to be sick,” she murmured.
“Youneed to get to a bathroom? Go outside?” I started hurrying.
She shookher head, but leaned against the wall and covered her face. “This mustbe what the rabbit feels like, after it gets away from afox.”
Post-traumaticstress from a simple interview? Maybe. Most people consideredthemselves the top of the food chain. Few of them ever encounteredsomething that trumped them.
“Idon’t know,” I said. “I’m usually not on the rabbit side of things.”
She stared at me and didn’t have to say it: I wasn’t helping.
“Ishe going to come after me? Was he really threatening me? If I run thisstory, am I in danger?”
Iurged her off the wall and toward the doors, so we could get outsideand into the air. The closed space and pervasive odor of sweat wasstarting to get to me.
“No.It’s intimidation.” It was what people like him—boxer or werewolf—weregood at. “He can’t touch you without getting in trouble, even if heis a werewolf.”
Afew more steps brought us outside, into the night. I turned my face tothe sky and took in a deep breath of fresh air, or as fresh as city airever got.
“Whatare we going to do?” she said. “The story’s going to look prettyhalf-assed without a statement from him.”
Thelack of an exclusive interview wasn’t the end of the world. I’d dealtwith worse. We could still break the story.
“You’llhave a statement from me,” I said. “And I’ll have one from you. We’lldo the best we can with what we have.” What Larson had told Macy wastrue: the truth would come out eventually. Maybe by beingpart of the revelation I could mitigate the impact of it—mitigateLarson’s ire over it.
“It’snot fair,” she grumbled. “It’s just not fair.”
Iwondered if Macy was thinking the same thing.
Asit turned out, Jerome Macy scooped us both. He held a press conferencethe next morning, revealed his werewolf identity to the world, andpromptly announced his retirement from boxing, before anyone could kickhim out. Jenna Larson’s exposé and call to action, and my interview ofher on my show, were lost in the uproar. Almost immediately, there wastalk of stripping him of his heavyweight title. The debate was ongoing.
Abouta month later, I got a press kit from the WWE. For the new season ofone of their pro-wrestling spectacle TV series, they were“unleashing”—they actually used the word unleashing—anew force: The Wolf. Aka Jerome Macy.
So.He was starting a new career. A whole new persona. He had chosen toembrace his werewolf identity and looked like he was goinggangbusters with it. I had to admire that. And I could stop feelingguilty about him and his story.
Thischanged everything, of course. He was going to have to do a lot ofpublicity, wasn’t he? A ton of promotion. Sometimes, patience was avirtue, and sometimes, what goes around comes around.
Ipicked up my phone and called the number listed in the press kit. I wasbetting I could get that interview with him now.
KittyBusts the Feds
"I’M JUST SAYING if anybody should know about this, it oughta be you, right?”
Puttingmy elbows on the desk, I rubbed my scalp and winced at the microphone.“Yes, you’re right, of course. If anyone ought to know the effects ofrecreational marijuana on lycanthropes it should be me, even thoughI’ve never actually tried the stuff, even though I live in Colorado.I’m so sorry to disappoint you.”
Iwasn’t sorry, and I seemed to be completely unable to steer the showoff this topic.
“Allright, checking the monitor . . . and all the calls are about pot.Okay. Fine. Matt, are we violating any FCC regulations by talking aboutpot on the air this much?” Pot might have been legal in Colorado, butthe show was syndicated all over the country and I didn’t want to getany affiliate stations in trouble. On the other side of the boothwindow, Matt, my engineer, gave me a big shrug. I figured if I was introuble, Ozzie, the station manager, would have called by now to axthis whole line of discussion. “What the hell, NPR has done a millionnews stories on pot, right? It’s not like we’re telling people how toget the stuff. Next caller, you’re on the air.”
“Imean, if you don’t live in Colorado how do youget the stuff—”
“Icannot help you with this. Next call, please. Linda, what’s yourquestion?”
“Hi,Kitty, thanks so much for taking my call. There really are so manymedical applications for cannabis, especially in terms of reducinganxiety and alleviating chronic pain, it seems that if we wanted tolook anywhere for a cure for lycanthropy it would be with CBD oil.”
Ihad voted in favor of legalized marijuana. It seemed like a good ideaat the time.
“It’snot magic, okay? It’s not a cure-all. Alleviating symptoms and curingthe underlying condition are two different things. Even medicalmarijuana advocates know that. And frankly, I can’t get past the notionof a werewolf with the munchies. Can you imagine?”
“Isuppose I didn’t think of that . . .”
“Thelaw of unintended consequences, people. Thanks for your call, Linda.Look, if any lycanthropes with any actual, real experience with potwant to chime in here, please call me.” None had yet, according to themonitor. I hit the line for the next call at random because mycarefully reasoned choices sure hadn’t helped
