Disclaimer: They're not mine, and don't remind me.
Chapter Four
New Ground
"Three weeks, Terri! Three freakin' weeks!" Bookie yanked off his hat and tossed it onto the hotel bed. "Can you even believe that?"
On the other side of the country, Terri suppressed a sigh, instead pulling her blond hair into a ponytail. "You're exaggerating, I'm sure."
"No, I ain't!"
"No, I'm not, Bookie," she corrected, as she let her good grammar get the better of her.
"What?"
"Never mind. What did you say this man's name was again?"
"Worthington. Warren Worthington. The third," he intoned, stressing the last word. "And apparently, he's so freakin' important it takes a month to return a phone call!"
"You only said three weeks, dear," Terri corrected, threading the phone cord between her fingers. Where had she heard that name before?
"It's the same thing!" he snapped. Which made Terri smile.
"At least you're out of the office," she purred into the receiver, absolutely sure that would calm him down.
"Yeah," he admitted after a short breath.
"No stifling four walls ready to pounce on your creativity," she continued.
"True..."
"And, no more Jack," Terri finished. "Well, for a little while anyway."
"You make a great case," he mused on the other end, though, noticed Terry, without the fury in his tone he'd used before.
'He's rich, this guy?" She leaned over to paw through her magazines (she didn't have many).
"Gee, I don't know. Maybe. He only has a international company named after him."
"Don't get sarcastic," she warned softly. "I hate it when you get sarcastic." She grabbed the one she wanted and thumbed through to the page. If her hutch was right...
"Sorry. I'm just annoyed, is all."
"I know. You need to calm down. You always manage to get yourself in a knot when you've got something like this under..." she trailed off as she scanned over the list in front of her. "I think you should where a tie."
"What's that?"
"Very funny. I'm not kidding...did you pack a tie like I told you to?"
"Terri, you're starting to sound like my mother."
"Well, someone has to take care of you. And it may as well be your girlfriend." Terri shifted her weight. "But really, I'm serious."
"And here I thought you were just making conversation."
"My dear, if you thought McCoy's office was classy, just wait till you get a load of Worthington."
"I hate ties. I only brought two."
"Is one of them the one with the little ships on it?"
"No."
"Then you're fine."
"I told you, I hate ties."
"Warren Worthington is the seventy-ninth richest man in America. Wear a tie." She ticked her eyes over to her clock on the wall. "It's late here. I have to go."
"Alright. I have to find a tie to wear, anyway."
"I love you."
"I know you do."
"Oh, and don't wear your old brown hat."
Bookie was about to inquire what exactly was wrong with his old brown hat, but Terri had already hung up.
He had only himself to blame that he didn't listen to his girlfriend. In an act of blatant defiance, he had proudly entered the building of Worthington Enterprises with the floppy old brown hat perched on his head. The scattered suits in the lobby didn't bother him; no sir, he was fine indeed. There was guy standing to operate the elevator when he got in, which freaked him out a little bit, but other than that, it was empty, which made Bookie pretty happy. Apparently not many executives rode the elevator at three o'clock in the afternoon.
Compared to the office of Worthington Enterprises, Bookie realized as he stepped out of the elevator onto the eighty-third floor, the neatness of the lobby downstairs was small change. The hat was off Bookie's head faster than you could say 'overstuffed leather chair'.
He stepped up to the woman stood next to her desk with a headset attached to her ear. She was speaking rapidly into the little microphone, hands sorting though a file folder and gesturing wildly every second minute.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said politely, a smile glued to his face, as he felt very intimidated by this woman. "I'm looking for Mr. Worthington's office."
The woman gave him three seconds of her attention. "Good for you." She adjusted her headset and continued to ignore him.
"Do you know where it is?" Bookie tried again, positive he had given her the wrong idea.
Meanwhile, the hat in his hands was getting the fidgeting of its life. If this kept up, he wouldn't have a hat by the end of the day.
The woman rolled her eyes and dismissed him with a harsh jerk of her hand, before she whipped around and sat in her chair, dialing in another phone number.
Bookie frowned. What did it take to get some service around here?
"Oh, I'm sorry," a voice spoke up behind him. Bookie turned around to see a tiny little lady in pastel pink walking up to him with her hands clasped together. She was older than the other women in the office, by more than a few years, with her hair tucked into a tight bun and a flower in her lapel. "Hello dear, I'm Wanda. I was supposed to be here to greet you, but I had to run downstairs to copy a few things."
Bookie smiled widely. Finally, someone was acknowledging his presence! "Oh, hey, no big deal."
"This way, please." She smiled so warmly Bookie felt a tickle in his spine. She was like a grandma in heels. She stopped however, halfway down the hall and whipped around, a slight frown on her face. "You are the reporter, right?"
Bookie nodded quickly, and the smile returned to her face. "Right this way, then!"
He was led down a tunneling hallway, that eventually opened up into a wide receptionist's quarters. The receptionist was not there. Wanda, however, ducked behind her desk and pulled out a large date book.
"I just have to double check your appointment," she explained as her fingers deftly speeded past the pages. "Mr. Worthington is a very busy man, you'll understand." Bookie nodded, his eyes scanning over the prints of some obscure artist lining the walls.
After a moment, she straightened up, smoothing her dress as she did. "Here you are, Mr. Palmetto, as scheduled."
Palmetto? Uh oh, Bookie realized, this was Washington all over again. "Oh, wait, Wan-" he began, but was quickly pushed with urgency through a pair of blood red oak doors.
Wanda mistook his protest for directions. "His office is the second door. The middle door. Remember that."
But when Bookie didn't move, or give any indication he even understood English, Wanda grew a smatter annoyed. "Now hurry along, dear, Mr. Worthington hates tardiness." She gestured for him to get a move on, and Bookie swallowed a sigh and turned to walk down the dim hallway.
When he came to a set of three doors he remembered Wanda had expressly mentioned the middle door.
Not that he could have missed it. The set of door stretched as high as the ceiling, and was adorned on either side of the wall by exquisite gold vases that held fresh roses.
He guessed this guy was rich, but this was pouring it on a bit thick.
He grabbed the shining gold doorknocker (last time he'd seen a door knocker was on a castle in Ireland) and waited for some sign of being acknowledged.
All he heard was a short mechanical buzz and a click that released the lock on the door. Bookie entered.
There was a desk placed directly in the sunlight at the far end of a small hallway, with a chair that was turned with its back to Bookie. The only sound in the room was coming from that chair; the sound of a man's voice.
"Yes, I'll try and make it, but you know how these meetings go, Bets." A shock of brilliantly blond hair was barely visible from the back of the turned chair. This, Bookie assumed, was Warren Worthington.
The leather chair spun around, its passenger sensing another presence in the room. And Bookie nearly gasped. This guy was a freakin' Adonis! Blond hair that sucked up the sunlight in the room, an impeccable suit (probably Armani) and a smile as he gestured for Bookie to take a seat. Bookie made a quick note to research his subjects more carefully.
"Yes, seven at the latest. Well, in that case, you should give me more notice. No, I didn't mean it that way. Look, sweetheart, I've got to go, the guy from People is here...yes, I'll mention it. I love you too. Goodbye."
Worthington placed the phone down and shrugged. "My wife. She hates it when I work late." He took a moment to shuffle some papers together and stuff them into a desk drawer. Then he stood and offered his hand. "Hello. I'm Warren Worthington."
Bookie returned the shake. "Bookie Johnson."
Worthington sat back down in one smooth gesture. "I haven't seen you before. Are you new?"
It took Bookie a moment to realize he meant if he was new at the magazine. He let out a little laugh. "Actually, Mr. Worthington, I'm not from People." He noticed the quick raising of Warren's eyebrow and quickly continued. "I do have an appointment, I think, but your...secretary, I guess, got me mixed up with someone else."
Warren paused with an air that led Bookie to believe this was not the first time this had happened. "So I assume then, you're some kid fresh off the bus from Wisconsin looking for a job."
Bookie shook his head instantly. "Oh no, sir, I'm a reporter. From the Chicago Advocate."
Put slightly at ease, Worthington relaxed a bit. "Chicago? Aren't you a little far from the nest?"
"Well, sir-"
"Call me Warren. I have enough people bending over to please me. I don't need complete strangers to get into the habit as well."
Bookie nodded, but had little intention of actually calling him 'Warren'. "I'm here doing a piece on-"
"If you say anything about decline of business in America or the growth of economics I'll kick you out..."
"Charles Xavier."
Warren said nothing for a beat, then broke into a wide smile. "What a relief! Finally, a reporter with no interest in my bank account!" he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desk. "So, what would you like to know?"
"I've already talked to your friend Dr. Henry McCoy. And..."
"That was you? Oh, yes, I remember that! I didn't really think he was serious! Otherwise, I'd have let you in a lot sooner."
"That would have been nice," Bookie forced with growing resentment.
"Where did Hank leave off?"
"Excuse me?"
"Well, he told me he was in a hurry, and didn't have time to go over the whole story with you." Warren leaned back in his leather chair with an authority that he must have been born with. "I'll just pick up where he left off."
Bookie hesitated. He didn't want to admit he wouldn't have been able to beat the information out of Henry McCoy with a generous piece of two by four. "The original members."
"The X-Men?"
Bookie nodded quickly. He HAD meant members of the school, but who in their right mind would stop someone who obviously just wanted to hear themselves talk? "'Yes, that's it," he lied through his teeth. "The first members of the X-Men."
Warren nodded. "I guess in that case you know all about how Charles headed the whole thing. It came out a while ago."
"How did you know about that?"
"Well, I know the story broke a few years ago. I managed to smother it to a few no-name papers out west, instead of the media frenzy it could have been," Warren said simply. "The old man deserved a little peace."
Bookie nodded, quickly fumbling for his tape recorder. "Start at the beginning."
"Well, there were five of us, way back when Charles enacted his great big dream. Recruited us when we were barely teenagers."
"For the X-Men?"
"Right. the originals. Forget all those that came afterwards; we started it all."
Something clicked in Bookie's head, and he skipped back a few pages in his notes. "You...you're the Angel?!?" he said slowly.
Warren chuckled. "Well kid, drop that 'the', and any present tense, and yup, you got me. I know the name's a tad...contrived, but I always liked it." Warren saw the look on Bookie's face and continued. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking..."
"Where are your wings?" Bookie asked, astonished and trying not to stare.
"Strapped down," he sighed. "It still hurts, but you really get used to it. I'd prefer a little discomfort to having people stare at you."
Bookie nodded for no reason.
"I had it easy, compared to some...people out there," he continued. "I mean, Hank's got to wear an image-inducer every day of his life, except among friends, and Scott can't-"
"Hank? As in Henry?" Bookie swallowed gently. "McCoy?"
"What? Oh yeah, try not to get confused. I think I called him Henry once in my life. Anyway, like I said, wings aren't half so bad as green skin or scales..."
Son of a bitch, Bookie thought as he mentally kicked himself. Secretive little son of a bitch...
Warren interrupted his train of thought. "Uh, Mr. Johnson?"
"What? Oh, right. Sorry, I was just trying to connect the names to the faces," he improvised instantly.
Warren immediately understood and reached into his bottom desk drawer while Bookie waited awkwardly. Finally, he handed something to Bookie over the desk.
"My wife doesn't know I kept this; she'd kill me if she found out." He gestured to it half-heartedly. "That's the only picture of all five of us I have left."
Bookie had his first picture of the original X-Men in color.
"That's all of us. The professo- I mean, Charles made us get together for one group at least once every year."
"You were very close?" Bookie asked quietly, noticing the wide grins on every face.
"Like family."
"Tell me about them," Bookie said, leaning back in his chair (which was growing more uncomfortable by the minute).
Warren smiled like he had waited years to hear someone say that. "I'll start with Hank, since you've met him already. It's not too hard to pick out Hank in that picture; he's the one with the gigantic hands and feet."
"He was Beast?" Bookie guessed aloud.
"Yeah, but talk about miscasting." Warren gestured to the picture. "That guy was not beastly in the slightest. Smart, smart, guy. Read poetry and Shakespeare in his spare time. He was the only one who looked forward to our classes more than our free time."
"He's a doctor now?"
"Yes, and I'm not surprised. Charles helped him out with that. None of us knew it at the time, but the professor arranged for Hank to take special classes at the local university. He zipped through those, and it was only a matter of years before he was enrolling in medical school." Warren smiled slightly. "And even with all that on his plate, he still made time to help any of us with our school work. I tell you, it was his fault I passed that test on the undertones of Othello."
Warren to the picture. "Now Bobby is the one with the huge grin on his face." Bookie looked down and found him, and indeed, there was the impish grin Warren had mentioned. "The reason he's grinning is because he's about to drop an ice cube down Scott's shirt." Warren actually laughed out loud. "Scott tried it play it off, but Bobby didn't let it go for days."
"A real jokester, was he?"
"You have no idea. Oh, he was Iceman, by the way." Bookie paused to scribble that one down. "He put more energy into his pranks than his school stuff sometimes. The absolute worst was when he teamed up with Hank, though. Hank would think up these detailed plans, and Bobby would carry them out. And be the one to get into trouble. Come to think of it, they usually only targeted Scott..." He trailed off, only to pick up again quickly. "We were all young, but Bobby was the only innocent among us for a long time. He'd crack jokes when it was the last thing he should be doing."
Warren stopped smiling and sat up a little straighter. "But I'm not giving he all the credit I should. Sure, he joked around a lot, but his laughter helped more than one person to cope. He always tried to make everybody laugh...everybody but himself, that is. If he'd only just let it go, just once, he probably wouldn't be in the mess he's in..."
"What mess would that be?"
Warren's gaze snapped back to Bookie. "I'm sorry, I can't talk about it," he said sharply. Bookie nodded quickly and let it drop; he'd heard that tone of voice too many times to pursue the matter.
"Well," Bookie said after an appropriate pause, "who's the girl?"
Warren didn't even look at where Bookie was pointing. "Oh, that's Jean. Marvel Girl. God, she really hated that name. But none of us could come up with anything better, so it stuck..." He leaned his chin onto his hand and smiled knowingly at Bookie. "Oh, I could go on for days about that girl...I was convinced I was in love with her for a great chunk of my youth."
When his silence extended for one moment too long, Bookie prodded, "But that passed?"
"What? Oh, no, I was in love with her all right. I think we were all a little infatuated with her."
Bookie nodded and looked again at the outdated picture. He could see why.
"She was a beautiful girl, though. Still is. She could charm the shirt off your back, and then come back to ask for your shoes. Unlike any girl I'd met before...or since. And, the only friend from my past I still keep in touch with." He stopped himself. "Scott is the guy second to last in the picture. The only one not smiling."
Bookie spotted him right away. "What's up with the glasses?"
"He had to wear them. Otherwise, he'd have leveled Manhattan by now."
Bookie caught on. "Cyclops, right?"
"Yup. He says he thought up the name himself, but I have my doubts about that."
"Why is that?"
"Well, because...I always got the feeling Scott would have picked something more formal, more intimidating." Warren thought a moment. "Like...Leader Boy. Or Lap Dog."
"He was in charge?"
"Well, yes. Partly because not of us wanted to be, and partly because he was born to give orders." Warren leaned forward. "Don't get me wrong, I always looked up to him. He was like...my over achieving older brother. I admired how seriously he took his position, but sometimes, I'd wish he'd just drop it."
"Drop it?"
"Yeah. I'd take out with me sometimes, you know, to my clubs, and try to introduce him to people. I'll admit I was mainly trying to dissuade him off Jean at the time, but my intentions were for the most part honorable. I always thought Jean deserved someone with a bit more...class, vitality. Lust for life."
"Not unlike yourself?" Bookie interjected with a smile.
"Took the words out of my mouth." Warren admitted slyly. "Anyway, he was never comfortable around new people, or any people, for that matter. He'd just mutter 'hello' and make his twenty ninth trip to the bar. He was never comfortable unless he was playing field leader, barking out orders and thinking up strategies."
Immediately, good ole Jack sprung to mind. "Yeah," Bookie agreed, "I know a guy like that."
"Well, I admit I was surprised when I found out what eventually happened to him, a couple years after Charles died."
"And what happened?"
Warren's mouth formed an odd, almost hollow smile. "Look it up. It's not hard to find," he said as if he knew from countless attempts.
Bookie nodded absently, his gaze slowly ticking down to his terrible handwriting on his handy notebook in his lap. "That's not all, though, right?" he muttered absently, fingers deftly flipping pages. "I've got more than five names here."
"Yes, Mr. Johnson, but if I tried to recount all the denominations that came out of the original X, we'd be here all day," Warren replied coolly. "And I've only got you penciled in for an hour of my time."
"I don't really understand, Mr. Worthington."
"Call me Warren," he sighed. "It's a long story, But I'll try to explain."
Bookie took a moment to turn the tape over in his recorder. "Go ahead."
"We stayed with Xavier for most of our youth," he continued. "But Jean was the first to leave. She was about eighteen, I'd guess, and just left for home to take up her normal life again. I followed her lead soon after. That's when I came here, to be taught the ropes by my father."
"So that left three people on the X-Men."
"Exactly. And, from what I've heard from the others, Charles felt that was hardly enough to achieve the global peace he wanted. So he started to recruit new members."
"Did you have much contact with your former team during that time?"
"With Jean, yes. We ran in the same circles, you see. I'd see her around. She picked up her life right where she left off. I had a harder time of it, though."
"Anyone else?"
"No, I barely spoke to the other three. I made an effort, of course, in the beginning, but it was just too difficult. Scott, especially, resented me for leaving. Hank and Bobby, well, none of us knew how to relate to one another after that."
"What about the new additions?"
"Oh, them." There was a slight annoyance to his voice. "I think the first new blood Charles scooped up was Ororo, or Storm. She really was a lovely person, I met her not long after she joined, and Nightcrawler. They were both great people; personally, I have nothing against them...but there was a certain impurity to having new members on the team that we had founded."
"Then came the rest-most of which, by the way, did not work out after all. Those ones, I can't even remember their names. I talked to Scott once or twice while all this was going on and he hated it. Absolutely hated it. He disliked the entire idea of any new members, and especially the ones Charles had picked out. Keep in mind that Charles was like a father to Scott, and he didn't often disagree with his holy opinion."
"And the other original members? What did they think of the changes?"
"Bobby loved it, of course, because no one else did. Hank, I heard, was usually locked up in his room studying or experimenting so as not to form an opinion."
"And Jean?"
"Jean went back. Yes, right in the middle of all these new members, Jean waltzed right back into the mansion ready to be an X-Man again."
"Did Xavier take her back?"
"Of course. He was delighted to have her back. They all were, and I myself was tempted to rejoin, just so the old gang could reign again." Warren took a thoughtful pause and gazed out the window.
"She still hasn't told anyone why she decided to go back after all that time."
"Did you eventually return?"
"Oh, yes, but that's not for years, yet. I finally listened to Bobby and Jean, who wrote me almost every week begging me to come 'home'. I always said no, though. Took years of being an asshole before I finally realized I missed the old life." He chuckled. "And speaking of assholes, that brings me to the member of the new team that joined just before Jean went back. Logan."
"Logan?" Bookie's brain went in search of that name in his memory.
"Yes, but he went by Wolverine."
Bookie nodded as he recongnized the name. "I take it you didn't get along so well?"
"We didn't get along. Period." Warren said in a flat voice. "He didn't get along with anyone. And didn't try, either. Except maybe-"
"What?"
"No, it's nothing. Let me think..." Warren tapped his pen off his desk as if it would jog his memory. "I think that was about the time that Gambit joined, too. There was a whole breed of them, all these newcomers to X-Men. I can't say I ever warmed up to the idea."
"So," Bookie said, looking over his hastily scribed notes. "Lemme get this straight. You and your," he paused to search for the right word, "...friends made up the original team. Right?" Warren nodded. "And as time passed, a couple of you left for home again, during which time Xavier packed the team full of newbies."
Warren nodded. "However, it wasn't the drastic change I made it out to be. More like..." He was at a loss for words, so he simply reiterated. "It took a lot of time until everyone who would be was recruited."
"So when did you go back?"
"Well, that I remember perfectly. It was right after the Mason deal fell through. I finally realized that I wasn't cut out for wheeling and dealing just yet."
"Xavier took you back?"
"Yes, and no. He wasn't as sure about me as he had been about the others."
"That seems a little unfair."
"Not really, Mr. Johnson. I admit that I had...changed a great deal." He nodded slowly. "Charles sometimes had a knack for seeing what no one else could."
"What convinced him?"
"To let me come back? Well, if I were to guess, it was probably Hank, Bobby, Scott and Jean. They wanted me to come back. I never told them how grateful I was for that."
"How many people were on the team when you came back?"
"Oh, I don't know the number. Let's see, besides us, there was Ororo, Remy, Kurt, Logan, Jubilee and..." he trailed off, adding it up in his head. "And of course, Betsy. So I'd say about a dozen, give or take."
"Did it bother you being in the papers so much?"
"Hell no. I never really got the reason for all our secrecy in the first place." He brushed a piece of invisible lint off his spotless jacket. "I think we deserved some recognition once in a while."
"But what about-"
Warren held his hand, a surprisingly commanding gesture for all its simplicity. Bookie shut his mouth immediately. Then Warren pointed to the right, to where a ornately carved grandfather clock sat. Bookie understood perfectly, but he carefully pulled his face into a confused look.
"Mr Johnson, I've given you over ninety minutes of my time. That's a great deal to give away when you're me." He stood up and Bookie already knew his exact words. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Johnson."
Bookie didn't budge, but instead poised his pen over his notes. "Just one more thing, Mr Worthington...Warren," he improvised quickly. Warren seemed to relax, resting his weight against his desk., and looking at Bookie intently.
"One more question," Warren said firmly, his tone softening. Bookie grinned-on the inside. He took a deep breath and finally settled on a ending question.
"What happened to you after Xavier died?"
Warren smiled, an odd haunted smile. "I married the girl of my dreams," he said slowly, his hand drifting to pick up a framed picture and hold it for a few seconds before turning it so Bookie could see. "After Xavier died, we both left the X-Men behind and never looked back. Mind you, they broke up months later, so I don't think it would have mattered if we stayed."
"Name?"
"Excuse me?"
Bookie shrunk under the sudden change in his voice. "Her name, sir?"
"Elizabeth Worthington," he answered swiftly, returning to his previous subject in a breath. "I came here to pick up my business," he said 'business' as if it were a store around the corner and not a national corporation, "and we started a family together, me and Bets. We have one boy, Warren Worthington the fourth, and a girl, Katherine."
Bookie looked up at him expectantly.
Warren knew what he was wondering. "No, I don't keep in touch with any of them-" He changed his mind mid sentence. "With the exception of Hank and Jean. I helped Hank out with funding on his research a few years back."
"So you don't know what happened to anyone else?"
"That would probably make it a lot easier fro you, hmm?" Bookie nodded desperately. After a spilt second, Warren looked as though he'd just figured out the cure for the common cold. "I know. I'll give you Jean's number, and address too, of course."
Bookie graciously accepted the paper, devouring the information on it.
Warren spoke again. "Yes, she'd definitely be more help to you. She still tries to bridge contact between us all," he sighed deeply. "I don't know why she bothers, though."
Bookie nodded absently. "Thank you so much, Mr. Worthington. For everything."
Warren brushed off the acknowledgment, with a simple sentence, "Call me Warren." He swopped over and pressed a button on his intercom. "Wanda, would you escort Mr Johnson out?"
"Mr Johnson, sir?" came the slightly confused voice of the kind old Wanda.
But Warren ignored the reply and walked over to shake Bookie's hand. "It was good to talk about it all again, Mr Johnson. I've got to rush...my son's playing a soccer game in twenty minutes."
He walked over and grabbed a crisp looking overcoat from a hanger by his desk and pulled it on. "Send me a copy if the story ever prints."
Bookie stood and watched as Warren began to head for a door on the side of his office. "Don't you want to know what the story's about?" Bookie called out.
Warren paused at the doorframe, wearing a smug grin on his face that suited him, and answered in that superior voice that betrayed his privileged upbringing.
"Surprise me."
He watched TV for an hour before realizing there was nothing on. He tried reading a cheap paperback he'd brought at the airport, before realizing he had been staring at the same page for five minutes. He reviewed his notebook before he realized he couldn't concentrate.
He knew what nagging him. But Bookie refused to succumb.
The small slip of paper was burning in his pocket. On it was the name, the number of a women who, for someone he'd never met, disturbingly intrigued him. He pulled it out of his pocket and held the paper in front of his face.
It's too late to call her, his mind said bluntly. Do it tomorrow morning.
Bookie disregarded his mind and picked up the phone.
I'm warning you, he warned himself. Put down the phone.
Bookie ignored himself and dialed the number.
He never listens to me anyway, complained his mind, giving up the battle.
After three short rings, a crisp voice answered on the other end. "Hello."
"Hi, I'd like to speak to Ms. Jean Grey, please?"
"I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name."
"Oh." Bookie narrowed his eyes, wondering if Worthington hadn't given him a fake lead. "You're sure?"
"Yes sir," came the reply.
"Oh. Okay." He must have gotten the number wrong. "Sorry to bother you."
"Wait," said the other end. "You couldn't have meant Mrs. Evans, could you?"
Bookie's eyes widened. "Is her first name Jean?"
There was a moment of hesitation, and a muffled whisper. "Yes, it is."
It had to be her. "Then that's it. Can I speak to her?"
"No."
Bookie bit back a curse or two. "Why not?"
"Well, the Evans are at their lodge in Colorado this week, sir."
"Oh." That was better than nothing. "Any idea when they'll be back?"
"By Tuesday, I imagine. Is it urgent, sir?"
"Well...could you have her call me the day she gets back?"
"Certainly. If I could have your name and number, sir?"
Bookie placed the phone back into its cradle and thought for a moment he might go to bed at a reasonable hour. Then his eyes drifted to his notebook, then to his stack of little tapes that held so much, then to the makeshift desk in the corner of the room, cluttered with newspapers, scrawling notes, and inky photocopies.
And he realized, with a sigh, he had no time for sleep. After all, what was rest when he had a whole night of grainy instant coffee to look forward to?
Author's Note: Does anyone know who was best man at Scott and Jean's wedding? It would be great to know. Why not...leave it in your review? *SHAMELESS HINT*
