Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [38]
Potamos hadn’t expected the outburst, even though Bowen’s temper was legendary. Being called a greaseball brought back an instant memory of high school. When another student had called him that, Potamos punched the student in the face, knocking him down.
“You pathetic little hack,” Bowen said, voice rising. “Your story is junk. Your source is crap. You don’t mess with George Alfred Bowen!”
Other staffers in the newsroom inched closer to the office. Potamos’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. His breathing was heavy; he snorted through his nose like a bull. He looked up into Bowen’s distorted, smoldering face. “Get out of the way,” Potamos said. Bowen placed his hands on Potamos’s chest and pushed. As he did, Potamos saw Bowen’s face disappear in a blinding white light. The next thing he remembered was being held down in a chair by two other reporters.
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, opened his eyes and looked down at his right hand. It hurt. Voices buzzed around him like a swarm of hornets. “Get the police,” he heard someone say.
“Hell, no,” someone else said. “No police.”
“You okay, George?”
Potamos looked to his right; the blurred scene came into focus. George Alfred Bowen was slumped in a chair. His half-glasses, tethered to him by a thin strap, were broken. A tiny trickle of blood came from his nose. People hovered over him.
“You idiot!” The managing editor’s face was inches from Potamos’s. “You bloody idiot. What did you hit him for?”
“Hit him? I—I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
Two security guards had been summoned from their position in the lobby.
“We called for an ambulance,” one said.
“Jesus,” the other said. “Who hit Mr. Bowen?”
“Potamos.”
“How come?”
Bowen stood unsteadily with the help of others.
“Why don’t you sit until the ambulance comes?” a woman suggested.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Bowen said.
As he came to the door, he stopped, turned, and glared down at Potamos. “Write your obituary, Potamos. You’re dead!”
“… and so I punched the bastard and that was that,” Potamos said to Languth.
“You’re lucky he didn’t press charges,” Languth said.
“Maybe it would have been better if he did. Hey, Nathan, I’ll have one more.”
The bartender had been standing alone at the far end of the bar reading the new issue of the Washingtonian, which had been delivered that day. He came to Potamos and Languth and laid the magazine on the bar. “Mr. Potamos, look at this.”
The story on the open page was a roundup of Washington’s top society pianists. The first profile was of Roseann Blackburn, Potamos’s friend. The color photograph showed her dressed in a gown and sitting at a gleaming black Steinway.
“You know she was gonna be in the magazine?” Languth asked.
“She mentioned something about a writer and photographer months ago. I didn’t know when it was running.”
“Hey, you’re mentioned,” Languth said, who’d pulled the magazine closer to him.
Potamos retrieved the magazine and read the final paragraph:
When she isn’t pleasing the ears of well-connected Washingtonians with the melodies of Cole Porter, Duke Ellington, or Mozart, Ms. Blackburn soothes the savage breast of Post reporter Joe Potamos, who played his own dissonant chord two years ago when he allegedly assaulted political pundit George Alfred Bowen.
“You’re famous, Joe,” Languth said, laughing and slapping Potamos on the back with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.
“My fifteen minutes.”
“At least you kept your job,” Languth said.
“Yeah, they didn’t release me, just sent me to the minors.”
“You know what I always wondered, Joe?”
“What?”
“How come you didn’t pick up and get the hell outta DC, hook up with another paper someplace. You could’ve gotten another job, right?”
“Right.”
“So? How come you didn’t?”
“Because I don’t run from anybody or anything. You run, the bad guys win. Every day Bowen sees me, he feels that shot to his nose again. I like that. I also like DC. Enough of an explanation?”
“You havin’ another?”
“No, but go ahead. I’ve got to