(See previous disclaimer.)

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Shooter wasn't a man to shy away from unpleasant tasks, but it took him a little while to collect himself before picking up the phone. He had to go about this in the right way. That damn fool Rainey had trampled all over Miss Nadine's feelings like cows in a cornfield, and he was the one who had to mend those fences without making matters worse.

At last, he picked up the handset of the old green phone and dialed her number from memory. After four rings, there was an answer, of sorts. The sound of an old-fashioned typewriter going great guns came on the line, and he heard, "This is Nadine, I'm busy writing, leave a message after the -- " Her voice stopped, and a carriage return bell dinged loudly.

Shooter hung up the phone and took a deep breath. A machine. He hated talking to those machines, foolish things. Ideally, he ought to be making his apologies in person, but going over there after dark might alarm her, depending on what she'd heard from folks in town. However, he didn't want to allow her to sleep on the unpleasantness; he had to talk to her tonight.

He attempted another call. This time, after the bell, he said, "Miss Nadine, this is Morton Rainey. I wanted to talk with you about this morning -- " There was a click on the line.

"This is Nadine." There was no indication from her voice as to her state of mind.

"Miss Nadine, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about this morning. What I said was unkind, untrue and I am ashamed of myself."

"Uh-huh."

"The truth is," Shooter paused. What he was about to say was easier for him to admit than for the man he pretended to be, and besides, it was true. "I have a great deal of admiration for your work and right now, my own isn't going so well. I've spent the better part of a year trying to whip a miserable pile of droppings into shape, and I'm not having much luck."

"I see." Shooter had to admire her composure.

"Yesterday, after I talked to you," Shooter picked his words with care, so as not to lie the way Mort had, "I spent a long, frustrating night staring at a little screen, and I didn't have any wonderful ideas. I didn't have any ideas a'tall."

"I've had that night," she replied, and warmth coursed through him. Four whole words out of her! -- and maybe, a little understanding?

"So, when you came by in the morning, well...I took my problems out on you. I hope you won't hold it against me." He waited for her response, unconsciously holding his breath.

"I do understand," Nadine's voice had taken on a sympathetic tone, and he relaxed a bit more. "I've had some dry spells of my own, and it is purely the worst kind of hell. It feels like your brain's turned to tapioca and any trained monkey can write better than you. You put things in and take things out and move it around, and it never gets any better."

"That's about it, ma'am."

"Apology accepted. I can't hardly hold a thing like that against you, 'less of course, you make a habit of it."

"I'll try to reform my uncouth nature." he promised, wishing he didn't have to allow Rainey to emerge at all. But of the two of them, Rainey was what people expected. Rainey was the guy who dealt with agents and editors and legal beagles, Rainey was the one who put the words on paper, most of the time. (Except for my story, the one he sabotaged -- but I suppose if it wasn't for that, I'd still be Rainey's idle daydream. Maybe the danged fool did me a favor, in the long run....)

"And I'll try not to catch you first thing in the morning," Nadine chuckled.

John Shooter thought, Miss Nadine, I believe you already have.

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Shooter's smoothed things out with Nadine, but will Rainey keep the peace? Stay tuned!

(And don't just sit there -- hit review!)