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Chapter 11-The Taxman

Let me tell you how it will be
There's one for you, nineteen for me
'Cause I'm the taxman
yeah, the taxman.
-The Beatles
-Taxman


Ethan Rayne, Editor-in- Chief of the tabloid Whispers, sat at his desk eating takeout from the neighborhood Chinese restaurant. Since his third wife had walked out two months ago, this particular meal had become an unfortunate staple of his weekly diet.

Irreconcilable differences, my ass. The bitch always did read my magazine way too much.

Sitting so he couldn't see the cold Seattle rain beating against his office window, he glumly stabbed another piece of Kung Pao chicken. Dropping the plastic fork onto the cluttered desk, he pulled the frayed sleeves of his sweater -a gift from wife number one 25 years ago- over his bony wrists.

He wondered once again why his office didn't have better central heating or at the very least a decent space heater. For the tenth time that day he sourly cursed all bean counters everywhere, with special regard for those who worked for his board of directors.

His hatred of the weather was exacerbated by the fact that he was in his office late in the evening awaiting a phone call from his reporter.

A reporter, who along with her requested photographer, was currently assigned to sunny and warm southern California. A reporter who seemed hell bent on having an actual vacation on the company's dime. At least that's how it looked to Ethan. They had been there a week and still didn't have a story yet, only some vague rumors.

Ethan's readers enjoyed two things: smut and massive screw ups by famous people. Preferably at the same time. Not vague rumors. They liked specific dirt, preferably with lots and lots of glossy pictures. Right now he didn't have either one to offer.

Watching a cockroach scurry around on the floor in front of his desk, he eagerly reached in and searched the restaurant bag. God damn it, they forgot the fortune cookie again!

While thinking of ways to smear the Chinese restaurant-maybe a subtle story about the hazards of msg in Chinese food or several mysterious cat disappearances in the neighborhood?-the telephone rang shrilly.

He threw the bag, missed the garbage can by at least ten inches, and snatched the telephone up, growling. “This better be you Faith.”

Faith Lehan, standing outside the 7-11, wearing a tee shirt, short shorts and holding a Coors Lite, smirked. “How ya doin' Ethan? The weather channel said its 48 and raining in Seattle. I'll bet you're wearing that ratty old orange sweater right now.”

He muttered Bitch. Speaking louder, he asked, “Where the hell's my story? I paid damn good money to that source at the publishing company. Now I need you to get off your lazy ass and find out what's going on, preferably before the goddamn story is as old as the fuckin' sweater.”

Faith winced. She knew that tone of voice too well. “He's harder to get to then we thought. For one thing, he's not drinking, at least not enough to be able to pal around with him in a bar. I guess the rehab bullshit made a temporary impression.”

She offered a bone. “He's making the usual moves on a local bimbo. In fact, Robin's got some great shots of Spike with his tongue down her throat in the water. She shot well, too, a real hottie. A small blonde in an even smaller black bikini. Do you want him to messenger them?”

Ethan's eyes gleamed. Perfect. I knew he couldn't stay away from women. Spike likes giving his dick a workout as much as his smartass mouth. “Yeah, go ahead. I can use them as a teaser later for the story. Provided you get a damn story.”

“Don't worry. I'm working an angle now. I'm looking at the next day or two at the most.”

“That doesn't sound very positive. You need to quit fucking Robin and get the confirmation- preferably a quote and at least two more good photos. Then get your asses back here. I want you two back before your expenses. If I get the goddamn charge card bill before my story, you're both out on the street.”

Faith knew when to kiss ass. “No problem, Ethan. We'll have it really soon and it's gonna be great. Spike will be front page again, I promise.”

“If you weren't such a good reporter Faith, I'd be really pissed right now.”

“Love you too. And Ethan, wash the sweater.” She hung up.

Ethan leaned back in his chair. Idly, he watched the roach climb noisily into the take out bag. Kicking his feet up on the scarred desk, he wondered if he could get free fortune cookies if he showed the restaurant their negative article before it printed.

Damn it, he wanted those cookies. He didn't give a shit about the fortunes. Ethan knew they didn't matter at all, because no one's future is ever that promising.

******

Faith hung up the telephone. She swallowed the dregs from the can and threw it into the trash barrel in front of the store. Ethan would get his article. Spike's face would be staring out from the front page and her byline would be right underneath. After all, Faith wasn't one of Ethan's best reporters by accident. If she couldn't get the story one way, she'd get it another.

Leaning against their rental car, Robin watched her walk toward him. Visions of sexy Faith peeling those short shorts off for him flashed through his head. It's never gonna happen now. I know that look. Ethan just gave her hell and we've got to go to work. Damn.

Straightening up, he passed her the end of the leash he'd been holding.

“He wants the beach pics for a teaser.”

Robin nodded his understanding and looked down at the fluffy white dog panting at the end of the dog leash. “I can't believe you're going to try the dog idea again. It backfired last time. Remember what happened with that Bones guy? Don't you think Spike's a whole lot smarter than what's his name? He had us figured out right away. I almost lost a good lens runnin' through that damn hedge.”

She snickered. “David something, the guy with the forehead. Yeah, Spike's definitely way smarter, but he's too busy thinking with his dick right now instead of his brain. He's gone soft. Besides he's seen us enough now. That was part of the problem last time, no set up. I guarantee Spike won't be suspicious at all.”

Robin still looked unconvinced. “He's never seen us with a dog.”

Faith was undaunted. “Which is why I'm going to run into him today. We have to wind this up, Ethan's getting antsy. Come on, we need to run through a pet store on the way back and pick up some food. We'll need enough to last until we return the mutt to the pound in a couple days.

She sat the dog on the backseat. “Come on --.” She glanced over at Robin. “What's the dog's name again?”

He shrugged and looked down at the form from the dog pound. “Poofy.”





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