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Richard pats James on the leg. “I’ve read your stuff in Esquire. You must lead a wild life.”
“Untamed,” James says. He doesn’t look at Winnie.
“I’ve got a column in X,” Winnie says, naming the magazine she works for.
“Oh, we always knew you would succeed,” Richard says.
“Let’s get together sometime,” Winnie says, cocking her head to the side and smiling. “Are you married?”
“Me? Nah. Listen guys, I’ve got rounds. Nice to see you, Winnie,” Richard says. He points at James. “Can’t wait to read your next piece. Stay alive, huh, big guy?”
Richard walks out of the room. Winnie turns to James. “Untamed?” she says. “Oh James, now I’ve heard everything.”
James looks at her. He feels like sticking his tongue out. But he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles.
SOMETHING GOOD HAPPENS
James slips into the back of the grand ballroom in the Hilton Hotel just in time for the commotion in the front of the room.
An attractive (on second thought, make that very attractive) dark-haired girl in a tight-fitting purple top (her breasts look like they could spill out at any second) is waving her arm frantically. “Hey, Danny. Danny!” she says in a raspy voice. “Where were the customs agents in all this?”
Danny Pico, the head of customs, a greasy-haired balding guy in a cheap navy blazer, glares at her. “Not today, Amber,” he says. “Not today.”
Amber! James can imagine what her breasts would look like. Full and soft. And quivering. He hasn’t had breasts like that in a long time.
“Please, Danny,” Amber says. “Why are taxpayer dollars being wasted on completely irrelevant scientific experiments?”
“Next,” Danny says.
“Hello. The fourth amendment,” Amber says, waving a hand with blue fingernail polish.
(The fourth amendment?)
“This press conference is over!” Danny Pico says. The room erupts. Amber turns and clomps towards the door on a pair of four-inch platform sandals. She’s wearing a short skirt. Leather. White. She’s headed straight for James.
“Excuse me,” he says, touching her arm as she passes.
She stops and turns. “Huh?” she says. “Do I know you?”
“I’m James Dieke.”
Her face lights up. “James Dieke. Ohmigod,” she says. “You’re one of my heroes.”
“I am?” (He is?)
“Sure. I loved your piece on satellites. You’re the only writer who could make magnesium sulfide interesting. Important. You know?”
“Really,” James says. (Magnesium sulfide?)
She switches some papers from one arm to another. She holds out her hand. “Amber Anders.”
“Wow,” James says.
“Wow?” she says.
“Your name. It’s great.” (It sounds like a porno star’s.)
“You think so? I always thought it was a good name for a byline. I write for X,” she says, naming the same magazine Winnie works for. “I’m a staffer. But I hope not a lifer.” She leans closer. “Some people never get out of there, you know? I swear, there are dead editors in obscure offices hidden behind piles of back issues.”
