Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [76]
“Sure. She wouldn’t give even a hint of what this is about?”
“No.”
“She’s not planning to marry that Curtis guy, is she?”
“Joe, stop asking questions. I don’t know what she’s doing. You will be here.”
“Of course I will. I’ll be late tonight though. Don’t hold dinner.”
He decided to have lunch at the press club, and went there a little after noon. It was a pleasant day in D.C., sunny and warm but not hot. He rode the elevator to the club’s floor and took a seat at the Reliable Source Bar.
“Mr. Wilcox, sir,” the barman said. “How are you on this fine day?”
“Okay, thank you. A bloody, extra horseradish.”
The drink had no sooner been placed before him when John Grant, his friend from the Associated Press, sidled up, slapped him on the back, and took the adjacent stool. “How goes it, Joe?”
“Pretty good. You?”
“Could be worse. I got up this morning, took a breath, and it worked. That puts me ahead of the game. What’s new on the crime beat?”
“Not a hell of a lot. I’m working some leads on the young girl-killer story.”
“Oh, speaking of that—” The bartender stood waiting for Grant to order.
“—martooni, up, with two olives.” Grant resumed his conversation with Wilcox. “What’s with this hooker angle?”
Wilcox, who’d just taken a sip of his drink, coughed, and swallowed hard. “What hooker angle?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“I was talking this morning to someone in the shop who covers D.C. She said something about Jean Kaporis’s roommate working for an escort service. That true?”
Wilcox didn’t want to admit he knew nothing about it. At the same time, he didn’t want to acknowledge that he did know but had decided not to use it.
“I’ve heard the rumor,” he said, taking another drink. “I don’t see any relevance to the murder.”
Grant leaned close. “Is it possible, Joe? I mean, could Kaporis have been turning tricks after hours and pissed off some client?”
“I doubt it, John. I really doubt it. Where did your friend get it?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Are you moving it on the wire?”
“This morning.”
They enjoyed their drinks in silence until Grant said, “What’s with your buddy Hawthorne?”
Wilcox turned to him. “My buddy?”
Grant laughed and ordered a second drink. Wilcox declined.
“Yeah, your buddy, the hotshot reporter with the attitude. I heard you and he got into it up here.”
“I’ll be damned,” Wilcox said, reconsidering and asking for a second drink. “What’s this place become, a little old ladies’ club? Yeah, I brought the bastard here for lunch and got into it with him. He left in a huff, which was fine with me.”
“That’s not the way he tells it,” Grant said.
“You talked to him?”
“No, but I heard him talk about it.”
“How did that happen?” Wilcox asked, feeling increasingly agitated.
“I was in the Trib Bar, that little joint up the street from you,” Grant said. “Hawthorne was there with a half-dozen yuppie friends, pontificating and shooting off his mouth after a snootful of booze, trying to impress the gals who were with him—who, by the way, were knockouts. Anyway, our young Mr. Hawthorne is giving a lecture on how journalism has changed, and how people who’ve been in it for a while can’t keep up with the changes.”
“Changes for the worse,” Wilcox muttered.
“That’s not the point, Joe. Hawthorne starts telling a story about this over-the-hill reporter who took him to lunch here at the club. God, he went on about how the club is nothing but a haven for hacks and losers. Tickled his audience, who were all about his age. I was tempted to take a shot at him, but my pugilistic days are long gone.”
“He mentioned me by name?” Wilcox asked.
“Yeah, once. At some point in the story, one of the gals asked who the reporter was who took him to lunch. He said it was Joe Wilcox, which was not an unfamiliar name to one of the nubile young ladies because she associated you with the serial killer stories. That triggered recognition from the other, who said she’d seen you on TV. So did I, Joe. You’ve got a new career ahead of you. Let’s have lunch. I’m starved.