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“I’ll tell you something,” James says. “There are always dead editors. Lurking in obscure little offices. Torturing writers.”
“Hey, you’re funny, you know that. Nobody ever said you were funny.”
“Maybe they don’t know me,” James says. He wonders if she knows Winnie. (He wonders if she knows he has a hard-on.)
“Who are you covering this for?” she asks.
“The Sunday Times Magazine,” he says.
“Cool,” she says. She sticks her finger in her mouth and nibbles at her nail. She looks up at him. Her eyes are large and brown. Uncreased. “These guys aren’t talking. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the address of the warehouse in Brooklyn where they’re hiding these monkey fuckers.”
“Monkey fuckers?” James says.
“The monkeys. The chimps. The chimps they’re doing the secret government experiments on. Get it?”
James can’t help it (how could he help it?), he follows her right out of the hotel and onto Fifty-sixth Street. “And you’ll never believe where I got the address,” she says. “Danny Pico’s driver. Can you believe that?” They’re on the sidewalk, walking toward Fifth. “Got a cigarette? No? Well, never mind. I didn’t figure you for a smoker. Hey, why
don’t you come with me?”
“Come with you?” James says.
“To the warehouse, dummy. The warehouse in Brooklyn. I’ve got the address, remember?”
“Oh, right. The address,” James says. “But how are we going to get to Brooklyn?”
Amber stops and looks at him. “Company car service. How else?”
“Car service?” James says.
“Well, I’m not taking the IRT in this outfit.”
Fifteen minutes later, she says, “Hey, James. I have an idea. Why don’t we cover the story together? Like Woodward and Bernstein. Only I don’t want to be the short one. What’s his name again?”
“Who?” James says, looking at her breasts. “Woodward? Bernstein?”
“Yeah,” Amber says. “That’s the one.” They’re sitting in the back of a Big Apple town car. Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Amber leans across the seat and puts her hand over his. “Isn’t this a blast?”
“Have I told you my theory about alpha males?” James asks.
WINNIE MAKES A DECISION
Winnie wants to be loved.
She wants to be cherished. She wants to be valued. (She doesn’t really know what “cherished” means. Does anyone?) She wants a man to say, “I love you, Winnie. You’re so beautiful.”
She wants him to give her a nice piece of jewelry.
Is that asking too much?
Was she ever really loved? Her mother loved her. (She would rush home from school to see her mother. They would go to the supermarket together. And to Ann Taylor. Her mother bought her sweaters and skirts in bright colors. Kneesocks. She wore kneesocks even in college. Headbands too.)
Her father criticized her. A lot. About everything she did. (If she got straight As, and she did get straight As most of the time, he said, “That’s what I expect. That’s what I expect from a child of mine.”)
Her father made her feel like she wasn’t good enough. Like she was missing something (maybe some brain cells). That was his favorite trick.
“Winnie,” he would say. “What’s your address?”
“One, one, one . . .”
