Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [109]
The question she’d said she wanted to ask was more a statement of her goals in life, including, of course, the sort of journalism job she sought. In a sense, she’d managed to choreograph a job interview when none had been offered. Good for you, he thought. Good reporters weren’t shy, nor were they necessarily honest when going after a story. He liked her spunk and directness. He also liked the smell of her when they sat next to each other in a booth in a dark bar not far from campus, and the press of her thigh against his.
“Where are you going now?” he’d asked, feeling the two bourbons he’d consumed. She’d nursed a frozen peach margarita. It was four in the afternoon; he’d promised Mimi he would take her to the movies that night.
“Home, I guess, unless you have a better suggestion.”
“I’d suggest we have dinner together but I’ve already made other plans.”
“Maybe another time,” she said.
“Yeah. That would be great. Let me have your number.”
He drove her to Crystal City. They pulled into the circular driveway in front of the building. He put the car in park. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,” he said, “and—”
She interrupted with a long, wet, open-mouthed kiss, her tongue finding his. His hand found a breast through her blouse.
“Please call me,” she said, moving his hand away. “You’re a very nice man, and I really feel we have something in common.”
With that she exited the car and trotted to the building’s entrance, where the doorman opened the door for her. She paused, turned, threw Paul a kiss, and was gone.
• • •
They’d begun this particular evening with dinner at the tony Citronelle, in the Latham Hotel in Georgetown. Kelly had commented on how expensive every item on the menu was, which he dismissed with a cavalier sweep of his hand. Truth was, he wasn’t happy at how much the evening was costing but chalked it up to the cost of doing business—monkey business to be sure. A Tribune colleague from the international desk was having dinner there with his wife, and stopped by Morehouse’s table. His slightly raised eyebrows and sly smile told Morehouse what he was thinking.
“Meet Kelly Ames,” Morehouse said casually, “soon to join my staff.”
“A pleasure,” the foreign editor said, shaking her hand. “Good luck. He’ll work you to death.”
When he’d gone to rejoin his wife at a table on the other side of the room, Kelly said to Morehouse, “Were you serious?”
He shrugged, picked up the menu, and said, “Let’s order.”
Morehouse enjoyed not having to keep track of time this particular evening. Mimi was away visiting her aged mother in Des Moines and wouldn’t be back for another two days.
“You’re amazing,” Kelly said after they’d gone to her apartment. She propped herself on an elbow and looked down at him in bed.
“How so?”
“You’re such a wonderful lover, like you were a lot younger.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. Some of the younger guys I’ve been with aren’t nearly as good as you. You’re—well, you’re experienced, I guess.”
“Got anything to drink?” he asked, sitting up. Uncomfortable with his nakedness, he reached down, grabbed his boxer shorts where he’d dropped them next to the bed, and put them on.
“There’s some beer in the fridge, I think,” she said, not at all self-conscious about her nudity as she went with him to the kitchen where he pulled two bottles from the refrigerator. He sat at a small table wedged into a corner. “Put something on,” he said.
She giggled. “Getting all hot and bothered again?” she asked.
“Go on,” he said, “get a robe or something.”
She returned wearing an aqua sweatsuit and joined him at the table.
“Did you mean what you said to the man in the restaurant, about me being on the Metro staff?” she asked.
“I don’t have any openings at the moment,” he said.
“Did you talk to anyone else at the paper about me?” she asked after taking a swill of beer from the bottle.
“Yeah, I did.”
“What did they say?”
“I talked to an editor with the Panache section.