((ooc: Continued from
A visit, a favor and a lot of questions; takes place around the same time as
Secret meetings are secret.))
‘Hate’ is such a strong word. Let’s go with ‘justifiably resented,’ instead.
Many of the senior reporters at Wolf News
justifiably resented Maxine.
The usual career path for a newscaster went like this. College, internship, slave labor, their name mentioned in the credits, a flash of their face on air, more slave labor, and finally, after years of background work: the break that got them their first one-minute segment in the sun, holding that glorious microphone while America watched.
Maxine’s career path thus far had been: college, internship,
five minutes on air every single Friday while
still interning, being abusively sent for coffee any time she was seen, college graduation, hire letter,
ten minutes every Friday for her
cheap gimmick of a slot.
There was a lot of justifiable resentment over that, amongst her seniors.
Quentin, now. Quentin didn’t resent her: he just plain didn’t like her. If Maxine were on fire, he probably wouldn’t waste his spit to put her out. He didn’t mind giving her a little
advice now and again, though.
“Word of advice, Ralls?” The crimes reporter said, plucking that eight and a half by eleven glossy right out of her hands and dangling it in front of her face. “Keep your stories local. We’re used to dealing with you. You step foot on Washington’s turf, you’re going to make some
serious enemies. They’ve got a Queen B**** in charge of crimes, over there.”
“Now why would I be poking around Washington?” The red head smiled. See, that smile: that was one of the reason he didn’t like her. The innocent, don’t-know-fish-from-water look? Not exactly the most believable.
“Ralls,” he said, companionably shoving a stack of papers off to the side so he could lean his rear on her desk, “Don’t s*** with me. If you’re going to keep shoving your nose into mutant crimes, stick with the Order. God knows
I don’t want to touch them.”
“Now what would a department store opening have to do with mutant crimes? I don’t recall this one being attacked.” She batted her eyelashes. Quentin took a sip of his coffee, wondering how many hours she’d spent practicing the innocent look in front of her mirror.
“Ralls,” he said again, with a disappointed sigh, “you’re s****** with me. What did I just tell you not to do?” He flicked the paper back onto her desk, and took his coffee elsewhere.
Maxine gave him a forty second lead, then grabbed for her keyboard.
A photograph sat at her elbow: a still from the department store opening that had caught so much of Gawain’s attention. From a different angle than he’d be familiar with, though. The senior reporters might have some justifiable resentment for her, but the interns and new hires? They didn’t mind doing a rising star a favor, now and then. Eight stations had been filming in the area that day, from slightly different angles, at slightly different times. She had seven of the tapes. The unedited takes made for quite a different show.
The picture was of Mommy, slightly out of focus in the fore. Centered in the background was the man who’d been trailing her through the crowd.
Like Gawain said: reporters
love that super-secret stuff.
So: Washington. DC, or state? The red head hedged her bets, by sending out a blanket e-mail to the crime reporters at each. Just a photo, and a little interpret-as-you-please phrase:
Look familiar?Thomas Langley, Washington DC crimes reporter, never got back to her.
Gloria Kingston, Washington State, was down her throat in five minutes flat. Not an email: she actually called, like some of the oldies still did. Maxine had to give her credit on the choice: her low voice, and that mother cat’s hiss rolling off her tongue, just wouldn’t have worked through e-mail. The red head was glad they were on opposite ends of the country for this.
“Ms. Ralls.”
“Mrs. Kingston.”
“What concern is Michael Yan to you?” The older woman’s voice was crouched to spring.
“No concern,” the red head returned, scribbling on the back of the photo:
Michael Yan. She let out a breath: the man. That made things simpler. “I just like to know what I’m getting into. What does Quentin Jones have against you?”
That set the woman back on her haunches. “Jones? What does he have to do with this?”
Maxine reclined in her chair. Posture: it couldn’t be seen through phone calls, but it could certainly be heard. “He flipped that onto my desk not ten minutes ago. Mentioned ‘Washington’, and ‘mutant crimes’; but he seemed to think I should keep this on the down low from you. So you tell me: what does Quentin Jones gave against you?”
“I got him transferred out of Seattle.” The hiss was back, but it wasn’t for her. “What are you going to do with this, Ralls?”
The red head caught her pen out of the air as it tried to fly off, and twirled it between her fingers. “Are you working this, too?” No need to define what ‘this’ was. She doubted that her definition and Kingston’s would match.
The silence on the other end was like a lion’s mouth: dark, deep, and lined with teeth. “Ralls. I’ve got a year of my life tied up in this organization. Michael Yan is one of my contacts. If you so much as—”
“Mrs. Kingston, I’m not interested in Yan. I’m running a parallel case, on a woman who was seen with him in my neck of the woods, but has—let’s say ‘distinct’—ties to yours. I’m trying to get an interview out of her. I think we could be useful to each other.”
“…What do you want, Ralls?”
“A phone number, an address; somewhere to reach her. Get me that, and I’ll make sure my report doesn’t air until at least two days after yours.”
“Two weeks.”
“One.”
“…I’ll see what I can do.” Maxine was sure the woman was going to hang up then, but something held her on the line. “Ralls. How the hell did you even find out about this?”
“I have my sources.” There was something so satisfying in being the one to end the call.
Yes, there was a bit of
justifiable resentment going around for the upstart red head. But that wasn’t to say that the old timers didn’t have their own dog fights, or that a sudden rise in fame hadn’t left people feeling a bit—
threatened is such a harsh word—let’s go with
uneasy.
She could work with that.
