Body Count

she added, “he was away on vacation.”

“She was that bad?”

“Walking proof that a good copy editor really can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. She couldn’t spell. She had no concept of grammar. She paid no attention to detail. She put streets on the wrong side of town. She misidentified people in her stories.”

Pringle’s eyes widened. “How did she ever make it through probation?”

“She slept well.”

“She-? Oh, I get it.”

“Seemed like her only talent. It was unerring the way she could pick out whose star was rising at the paper. Then she’d practically throw the poor boob into bed and almost literally rape him.”

Pringle giggled. “Poetic license?”

“Only a little. But not grossly exaggerated.”

“Well, what happened to her? I mean at the Freep?”

Pat half smiled at the memory. “She picked the right guy, as usual, but he moved.”

“Moved?”

“Moved on. He’s in Hollywood now. He writes for TV mostly.”

“She couldn’t go with him?”

“Uh-uh. He didn’t need a waif then and he needs one even less now. Like the song from Pajama Game says, ‘He’s living in the Taj Mahal/In every room a different doll.’”

“And at the Freep?”

“Karma at last. When the winner she picked left town, the guy who took his place near the top of the totem pole was someone she had royally screwed-and I don’t mean sexually.”

“Aha! A variation on the Golden Rule: Be nice to people on the way up; you’re likely to meet the same people on the way down.”

“Exactly. It was a foregone conclusion; he made life so miserable for her, she had no alternative. Somehow- and I’ve never been able to figure out how-she walked away with a fat severance check.”

They rested their voices for a few moments and sipped their drinks. Pringle got up and moved to the railing to watch the action. Having again spotted Lacy De Vere, nee Sally Dean, she could scarcely take her eyes off her. Pat sat and sipped. After a couple of minutes Pringle returned to the alcove.

“I still don’t get it,” she said at length. “According to your story, when she left the Free Press, she was at the bottom of the heap. Now she’s got practically a new body and one of the most feared word processors in Detroit. I mean, how did she get from there to here?”

Pat shrugged. “You can’t keep a bad apple down. As far as her body is concerned, as some astute observer once remarked, Lacy doesn’t get a new wardrobe; she just gets reupholstered.”

Pat was thoughtful for a moment. “Actually, I’m one of the few who knows where she went after the Freep. For some incomprehensible reason, she confided in me-and I have no idea how many others-just before she left the paper and this town. She got a job-if you can believe this-teaching journalism at Mankato College in Minnesota. With that cachet in her suitcase, she got a few honest jobs and began the overhaul and repair of her body. Her ultimate aim was just what she’s accomplished: to return and become a force to be reckoned with.”

“But to really get even, wouldn’t she have to be back with the Freep … or the News?”

“Don’t sell the Reporter short. Especially since the JOA, the Suburban Reporter has become a pretty popular and potent vehicle with a growing circulation. Personally, I don’t think she’s done settling the score. But God knows what she’s got in mind-uh-oh.” Pat nodded toward the far end of the railing along the stairs. “That’s what comes of talking about her. The ESP is working: She must have spotted us. Here she comes.”

“That’s okay,” Pringle said. “Now that you’ve filled me in on her background, she’s not nearly as intimidating.”

“Good. But don’t let down your guard for an instant. Just remember: The first ten priorities in Lacy De Vere’s life are the things she wants. And she’ll do anything and use anybody to get them. So watch it.”

For a fleeting instant Pat considered bailing out. She would never be in the mood to mingle socially with Lacy De Vere. But actually, the urge to beat a hasty retreat was more for Pringle’s sake. Pat glanced at Pringle, who had stood and moved to the railing with a smile of anticipation. Pat rose to join Pringle. This did not bode well. Why was she put in mind of the unsuspecting doe in the sights of the hunter?

As she approached them, Lacy resembled a powerboat sweeping aside from its path all lesser obstacles, in this case, people.

When she reached them, Lacy dove directly at Pat, embraced her, and kissed the air. “Pat,” she enthused, “how good to see you again.”

“Hi, Lacy.” Pat’s tone was noncommittal, several degrees less enthused than Lacy’s.

“It’s been too long,” Lacy said. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

“Working. Writing.”

“Of course you have. I read you just about every day. As usual, your stuff is good and, more often than not, on page one.”

It was obvious that this last remark was a fishing maneuver for a reciprocal compliment. But Pat withheld comment.

“And who’s your lovely friend here?” Lacy pursued.

“Lacy De Vere, meet Pringle McPhee.”

“Pringle McPhee! At last! I’ve wanted to meet you but our paths haven’t crossed till now.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course I do. I’ve read your byline in the News Frequently. Everybody says you’re the next Pat Lennon.”

“Lacy,” Pat said, “there’s no need for a new Pat Lennon. I’m not retiring. And I’m not writing my autobiography-or my obit.”

“Of course you’re not, dear,” Lacy said with mock affection. “It’s just that Pringle here is going to be knocking you off the front page one of these days.”

“Oh, no!” Pringle protested.

“Page one is big, Lacy-no ads. There’s plenty of room for lots of bylines,” Pat said.

“Well, of course there is, sweetie.” Lacy regarded Pat head-on. One of them had thrown down a gauntlet and the other had picked it up. It didn’t really matter which had done what; the battle was joined.

“Besides,” Lacy continued to address Pat, “there have been rumors lately that your work has begun to slip a bit. I mean, ever since your lover boy … your significant other-my glory! what do they call paramours these days? — anyway, ever since good old Joe Cox slipped the tether and ran off to Chicago.” The touche was implicit.

Pringle gasped. It was common knowledge that Joe Cox had been lured from the Detroit Free Press to the Chicago Tribune by an offer he found impossible to refuse- especially in the face of the hodgepodge that the JOA had made of Detroit’s newspapers. It was also common knowledge that Cox and Lennon had been living together for more than ten years. Common knowledge, that is, mostly to the local media people. Readers of both metropolitan dailies knew only that Cox and Lennon were the premiere reporters on their respective papers, and that Cox had moved on.

But now, that information was grist for Detroit’s foremost gossip columnist.

Pringle went livid. “Pat’s work hasn’t slipped one bit. She’s as sharp as she ever was. And that means she’s the best. And besides, you’re insinuating that she and Joe have broken up. That’s not only untrue, it’s malicious!”

Only by a stretch of the imagination could Lacy’s smile be described as sincere. “Whether Pat’s stuff is as good as it ever was is in the eyes of the reader. And an informal Reporter poll says she’s slipping.”

“And when you publish the results-as I’m sure you’re about to,” Pat said, “I suppose you’ll qualify it as ‘unscientific’”

“What’s science got to do with anything?” Lacy was still smiling. “As for absence making the heart grow fonder, my sources tell me Mr. Cox’s testosterone has gone berserk. He’s at Chicago’s Playboy mansion more often