Dead of Night (Dead of Night 1)

“Count me out of that, Billy. ”

Trout speeded up to pass a school bus. “I’m not talking about threatening to break his legs. If this is the same Selma Conroy from when I first landed out here, then she’s an old hooker. We could play up some kind of connection between the Doc and the hooker. Doesn’t matter if it isn’t true, because he’d have to prove a negative, and you can never do that on social media. Twitter, as you well know, is mightier than the sword, and in this economy no business owner needs bad press. ”

Goat turned in his seat and stared at him. “You’re kind of a dick. You know that, right?”

Trout drove for a few seconds before he responded. “And you’re what? A saint?”

Goat sighed and shook his head. “You really know someone in Hollywood you could pitch this to?”

Trout nodded. “I have an agent, but so far I haven’t had anything this juicy to send her. Nothing remotely this juicy. She’ll know exactly where to go with this. ”

“What if Hartnup stonewalls us?”

“We do an end run and go to Aunt Selma. Her past gives us a lever. And if that doesn’t work we write the story anyway and force it to break. Every story breaks, kid. Every one. ?

??

“You should put that on your business card. It’s worlds better than ‘Fishing for News with Billy Trout. ’”

“Blow me. ”

Goat grinned as he fished out his iPhone and pulled up his Twitter account. “Hey, we’re doing okay. We got three hundred retweets of the coming-soon post. Nice. Give me something else so this doesn’t get cold. ”

Trout thought about it. “How about … ‘Homer Gibbon: Does Witness X know where he buried the bodies?’”

“Lurid,” said Goat, and he posted the message. “I like it. ”

They turned off of Doll Factory onto Transition Road. Trout immediately stamped on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt, slewing sideways and kicking up gravel.

The road was blocked with police cars and ambulances.

“What the fuck?” yelped Goat. “Oh, man … someone else found out about our story. ”

“No,” murmured Trout, shaking his head slowly, “this is something else. But … it looks like we’re the first press on the scene. I think we just got even luckier, kid. ”

Trout pulled the car onto the shoulder, turned off the engine and got out. As Goat unfolded himself from the passenger side, they saw two police officers staring at them. One of them, a woman, began walking toward the Explorer with the kind of determination that, in Trout’s experience, never boded well. No surprise, either, because even at that distance he could tell who it was.

Trout gripped the wheel with white-knuckled fists.

Dez. They had avoided each other for months now, but here she was. Any foolish thought he might have entertained about being over her crumbled into dust. His heart hammered suddenly in his chest but he couldn’t tell if it was excitement over seeing Dez or fear that she’d kneecap him the second he stepped out of the car.

“Brace yourself, kid,” said Trout under his breath. “We’re about to experience Hurricane Desdemona. ”

“Her? Is that the chick in those pictures in your cubicle? She’s got a serious ass on her. Nice rack, too, and I—”

“Goat,” said Trout quietly, “if you would like to continue having your nuts attached to your body, do not—absolutely DO NOT—let Dez hear you say that. She is not a tolerant woman at the best of times, and when I’m around she’s a lot less tolerant than, say … Hitler at a bar mitzvah. ”

“Yeah? You got some real history?”

“Kind of. ”

Goat shrugged. “Who’d play her in the movie?”

“The shark from Jaws,” muttered Trout.

Dez Fox stormed up to the Explorer and kicked the door shut. Trout had to do a fast sideways shuffle to keep from getting clipped by it.

“Jesus Christ, Dez,” he barked, “you dented the whole—”