Wrestling With Gabriel

By David Lynn

The story is told from the point of view of Baltimore reporter, Jason Currant. He is a recently divorced, Viet Nam veteran. His ex-brother in law has been accused of rape in a small Iowa town and he is asked to look into it. Lynn tells this story in a way that causes the reader to really consider all possibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dzanc Books
• Release date: Nov 1, 2002
• ISBN: 9781936873401

David Lynn

Youth and family ministry worker and counselor David Lynn has worked with young people and their families for more than three decades. He’s the creator of TalkSheets and author of numerous books, the creator of Building up Your Ministry, and he conducts several leadership training workshops. He lives with his family in Tucson, Arizona.

Book preview

Wrestling with Gabriel

by David Lynn

Dzanc Books

1334 Woodbourne Street

Westland, MI 48186

www.dzancbooks.org

Copyright © 2011, Text by David Lynn

All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

Published 2011 by Dzanc Books

A Dzanc Books rEprint Series Selection

eBook Design by Matt Bell

eBook ISBN-13: 978-1936873401

Printed in the United States of America

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

CONTENTS

Wrestling with Gabriel

They are all we have, you see,

all we have to fight off

illness and death.

You don't have anything

if you don't have the stories.

—Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony

PART I

Prologue: A Story

Gabriel bangs again at Juanita's front door but knows already it's no good. The gray weathered wood creaks. Another blow may splinter it. Frustrated, angry, he slams the heel of his palm against the plastic doorbell, cracking it like a child's toy. He glances quickly over his shoulder, but there's no one on the street. Windows closed, doors bolted, lights out, the small house waits for a new tenant. Might be it's been months empty. Except three days ago he caught Juanita staggering up the walk on spike heels with a sack of groceries. He held the bag for her while she fumbled with keys. Leroy around? he asked.  She stepped inside the door and tugged the sack from him. Shook her head.  Thanks, she said, already shutting the door on him with her shoulder.  When's he back? Try Thursday, she said.

Shit, he says out loud. These people—never dependable. There's no counting on them. He doesn't suppose Juanita lied. Probably just forgot. Or didn't think. Maybe she'd already got a new place and didn't remember to mention it.  Maybe Leroy spooked again and yanked her somewhere new with no warning.

Gabriel turns and stands on the stoop, hands in his pockets. Shit, he says again.  All day he's been looking to this and now there's nothing. All day hauling paunches on the kill floor he'll be thinking about cool, sweet air in the night and now, after sweating in that stench and heat for eight hours, the chill blows right through him and he shivers.

Even with Grey on the nightshift at another packing plant, the only thing he can keep in the house without being hassled by her and the Party is some beer. And he doesn't want beer. That won't cut it tonight, not after all the thinking and planning.

The house where Tammy Jean has a room is painted pink, was painted pink. In the streetlight the peeling strips of paint are dark along the edges with a hint of something garish, like fruit rotting from the inside. He raps on the screen door.

What you want? cries a woman from back in the kitchen. Tammy Jean leans out her window above the porch. You looking for me?

He backs away from the door so he can see her. Her head's wrapped in a green towel. Her large breasts billow over the sill in her bathrobe. You know where Juanita and Leroy moved? he calls.

I know about Juanita. Who the hell knows about Leroy?

Yeah, well, I need to find him.

She snorts. I bet you do. Go on and toss me up one a them rocks.

Gabriel picks a small stone out of the alley and tosses it up underhand. Tammy Jean claps it between her hands and retreats into her room. In a moment she's flinging the stone in a little arc towards the street. A scrap of newspaper's fastened with a rubber band. Across it she’s scrawled an address in crayon, no, lipstick. Maybe you shouldn't tell her you heard it from me, Tammy Jean cries with a rough caw of a laugh and slams the window.

Gabriel jams the scrap of paper into his pocket. 29th Street is only half a mile, but he's impatient and annoyed. The International Socialist Alliance assigned him here better than two years ago, but he's never had time or inclination to explore the city in any systematic fashion. So he cruises right past 29th the first time because the sign is down. Loops around in a liquor store lot and discovers on the second pass that the street is one-way at this end. Goddamn mother, he growls. He wrenches the wheel, hits the gas, his tires squeal as they bounce over the edge of the curb.

He's sweating and a headache has swooped out of nowhere. Only one of the street lamps along this block is shining. Half the houses sag vacant, their lots strewn with debris—tires, oil cans, beer cans—tangled weeds uncut this summer or last. Gabriel cruises slowly, looking for a number. He's not sure if it's this block or the next one down. A boy, maybe fourteen, is sitting on the curb, bouncing a basketball between his feet in the darkness. Gabriel pulls over and pushes the passenger door open. Hey—You know the numbers along here?

The boy keeps bouncing the ball, shakes his head.

Shit, man. Gabriel tries not to shout. You know a Juanita Harris or a Leroy Johnson?—they just moved around here somewhere.

The boy catches the ball but looks away down the street. You got some change? I sure could use somethin' cold.

Gabriel digs in his pocket and comes up with a quarter and some pennies. He tosses them at the cement. Kneeling, the boy sweeps them together and picks them up daintily one after the other into his palm. Leroy's house up there, third one, leftside.

Lights are on inside, but the closed-in front porch is dark. No number he can see.  Why the fuck can't anyone put fucking numbers up?

Tugging the screen door open, he steps up into the porch. Inside, it's dark and musty, smelling of dog, though he doesn't see or hear any dog. Some kind of tools clutter up against the walls. He presses a doorbell. No ring or buzzer he can make out, so he pounds on the heavy front door. Nothing. He pounds again.

"Just hold on—I'm coming. The door swings open with a blast of light and MTV noise. Standing in front of him she’s pretty, sixteen probably, what with the bad perfume and the swelling chest. Behind her on the floor sits a younger girl in front of the tv. What you want?" she demands, shutting the door to a crack between them.

This 4847? I'm looking for 4847.

That ain't here—I don't know where that is. Maybe next block.

Gabriel is patting his thigh with one hand. Rage gathers, swelling in his chest. It shoots hot currents through his legs and crotch and arms, stokes his headache.  Look, he says with magnificent calm, what about Juanita Harris? Or Leroy Johnson—you know them?

"I don't know no Juanita. Leroy's my daddy—Leroy Jackson—and he's a big mean sonofabitch. You better get out a here."

Yeah, he says sourly and turns away. He pushes open the porch door and stares out into the night. It's early but quiet. A streak of light spills out past him and he knows the girl’s watching him. What's she so damn curious about?  Sounding not scared or angry but full of herself, strutting her old man and her own cockiness.

He isn't going to find any stuff tonight. There's no time to keep looking. He's supposed to be putting up some political friends from out of town. Any minute now they'll be showing up at his house. Gabriel takes a deep breath of the cool night air. It doesn't help. It leaves him panting.

What you doing?—Go on and get the hell out, says the girl. You go on.

Gabriel swings round. Shut up, he snaps. Shut the fuck up. The door's still open a crack. The girl's scared now. She's frozen, eyes dark pools. Annoyed at her helplessness, he slams his hand against the door, just to scare her good.  She tries to shut it against him and, because she tries, he kicks at it. Kicks it again, this time with the sole of his boot. The door crashes open as the girl falls aside. Before she can run, he catches her by the wrist. Come here, he growls. Her sister is caught in the middle of the floor, unsure whether to help or flee. Go hide in your bedroom, he yells at her.

Panting but otherwise silent, the girl is writhing, tugging, slapping at him with her free hand. He drags her out onto the porch. "Stop—don't hurt me, mister," she whimpers at last, too scared to cry out.

He catches her free hand and bends it behind her. I'm not, he says into her hair, breathing her smell—it's potent with fear, drowning the rank perfume.  He's controlling his rage and proud of it. He tugs her close, runs his hands over her ass, squeezing, up round to her breasts. He reaches into her shirt to push the bra up. She's standing still, whimpering, trembling. Oh man, he murmurs as he bends to suck one breast, then the other. Oh man. He pulls at the front of her sweat pants, trying to loosen the cord. He's pushing at the pants, shoving them down over her hips.

No—please no, she cries and starts to struggle, pulling up at the pants, twisting away from him. She flails an arm and scratches his ear.

"Jesus.  Bitch." He tugs her forward and trips her. Together they fall, she crumpling under. Her head strikes something hard on the floor, a car battery. Swooning, she’s stunned. He's got to have this if there's nothing else to have. And he's pushing at her pants again. She rolls from side to side but doesn't really struggle anymore. As he rears back to work himself free, he pries her legs apart with his knees. He's hard, brilliantly hard, triumphant. Again he sucks her breasts, works up, holds her head in his hands. She's awake but staring past him into the night, her eyes blinking as she chews at her lips.  He's watching her eyes. They explode wide as he grinds his hips against her.  No need for his hands. He'll find home, digging, thrusting, driving. She's open to him.

A car brakes heavily in front of the house. Gabriel hesitates. A radio squawks. He's pulling back now, rising. Colored lights flash through cracks in the porch door. Quick, measured steps. Someone raps hard.

Gabriel's fumbling, tripping on his own pants.

Daddy! the girl shrieks as if she's been playing possum. She darts to the door, pushing free into the street, only her shirt dark-bright against the flashing lights. The cop falls back as she rushes past him.

Gabriel's pants and underwear grab like tangled sails as he yanks at them with one hand.  Banging into the house with his shoulder, he stumbles towards the back, searching for another way out. The sister huddles on the couch cradling a phone, digging away into the cushions with terrified eyes. Gabriel rushes past into the kitchen, but the back door's sealed with plywood. He lunges into a bedroom.

All right—hold it. No way you'll get through a window like that anyway. You're under arrest, asshole. The cop catches him by the arm and jerks him around.  He steps back and looks Gabriel up and down with a grin as he takes out his cuffs. And a pretty sight you are too. Gabriel's still trying to tug his pants back up over his dwindling cock. The cop grabs one wrist, twists it daintily and with absolute assurance as he wraps the cuff on.

Another Story

Sara, hi—yeah it's me. You heard Marta and Gene are coming in? Yeah, for the Rural Women's program. They're staying here. Look, I'm running over to cash our paychecks and pick up some food. Grey's working the midnight shift again.  Keep an eye out for them, okay? If they show up in the next half-hour or so, tell them the door's open. Drop by later if you want.

Gabriel picks up his keys and hurries down the steps. His car’s an ancient Falcon beat all to hell, but it runs well enough. He's already worked a full shift today hauling paunches on the line, attended a protest for seventeen Latino workers busted in the packing plant last week by INS, and afterwards shared a pitcher of beer in Los Caballeros to celebrate the big turnout. Forcing himself into a quick pace helps him keep focused on what will surely be a long night still ahead. Gene and Marta will want to hear the latest.

For March the night is chilly, but he keeps the window rolled down to shock himself awake. The engine thrums at a red light—he's been putting off a new muffler. Suddenly a shadow darts out from over by a bar. It rushes into the street, flashes across his headlights. She slaps at the passenger window, startling him as if he's half-asleep, watching from a great distance. "Hey, Mister, come on, let me in—please." She's panting, pleading.

Gabriel's arms hang heavy on the wheel. He hesitates. This kind of attack, the tight green dress very low and very short, are signals he knows how to read. The heavy rouge on her cheeks, now that he peers more closely through the glass, may be covering darker bruises. All the energy that'll be soaked into talking with her, discovering whether's she's got a pimp on her tail, ferrying her to a social-worker friend of his, just that instant's thought exhausts him—and then he shrugs it away and pushes the door open. Get in, he says and waits while she settles next to him. How long you been doing this scene?

She's gulping air. Just drive, okay? My boyfriend's gone off after me again and he'll kill me sure this time if he can.

Nodding as he acts, Gabriel shifts gears and the car jerks quickly away from the light. Where you heading? Got any friend to hide you? I wouldn't bother with the cops.

For a long moment she doesn't stir. Maybe she hasn't heard. She gives a little hiccup of a laugh and gnaws at a ragged nail. She's younger than he first guessed. Eighteen, maybe twenty. Yeah, cops sure be happy to help me out.  She hiccups again. Look, man, just give me a ride home, okay?—ain't no other place for me.

Anything you say. He's staring straight ahead, trying to calm her, reassure her.  After another half-block he tries again. Listen, you ever hear about the women's crisis center? Woman who runs it—she's this friend of mine. They can put you up for a night or two, maybe give you some help.

Unh-unh.  No way. That's all nice and good, but I got to get back to my place, okay?  29th Street. Back the other way.

Unsurprised, Gabriel swings left at the corner. It would be easy to give in, but she's so damn stubborn and he can be stubborn too. No reason to run scared of this guy. Lots of women have figured out they don't have to put up with that shit anymore.

What're you, a preacher? It's my life and I know how to take care of myself from any damn asshole.

She's pointing to a bungalow and he draws to the curb. Without a word she climbs out of the car, slams the door, stands still. Turns back and leans in his window.  I got this bad feeling, man. It's stupid, you know, but I'm scared. Just come up to the porch with me, okay? Just and make sure he ain't already inside.

Glancing at his watch (Gene and Marta may not think to knock next door at Sara Oliver's), Gabriel gets out. Together they climb the steps. The street is dark, the house is dark, everything is very quiet. If the boyfriend's somehow beat them here, he's hiding. Her nervousness is catching and Gabriel's gut grows tight and hollow as a drum. He tugs the porch door open. Inside it's even darker.

She's hanging back to dig for keys in her shoulder bag. I think it's cool, she says too loudly, as if to scare away ghosts. I'm just checking round. Then you take off. She pushes the front door open, standing for an instant peering ahead into the dark, and finally hurries inside. Her elbow shoves at the door, closing it on the crack.

Gabriel's straining to hear as well as see. She’s rustling about inside. A click and faint light pokes through. Almost at the same instant a car pulls up in the street. It's big, powerful—the vibrations rattle through the floor. What if this is the boyfriend? Jesus, he mutters under his breath.

Footsteps trot on the gravel. Gritting his teeth, he figures he'll talk to the guy, make it loud, give her time to slip out the back. Stupid shit, he mutters, feeling foolish and vulnerable hanging out alone like this. What if the guy has a knife, a gun?

A fist pounds on the door frame. Gabriel, scarcely breathing, stands still.  Another fierce rap—"Police," a voice barks. In the echo, the porch door is ripped open. A dark figure, pistol drawn, is silhouetted by flashing colored lights and a single blinding search beam aimed at the house. Gabriel raises a hand to shield his eyes and steps aside. Could she have called 911?  Could the cops arrive this quick?

For a single perfect instant everything's frozen. The cop's staring, a statue.  Between breaths, still all but blinded by the light, Gabriel is struck by the incredible silence.

The patrol car's radio breaks the stillness with a sharp squawk. The cop holsters his gun. Gabriel, shielding his eyes, turns to glance behind him, surprised that the woman hasn't appeared. She must still be terrified. Suddenly, his arm is grabbed. He's smacked up against the heavy front door, banging it open.

Hey, no—we thought the guy was already inside, he says, astonished, furious, in pain—his lip is split and bleeding. Maybe he’s still in there.

Sure he is. Just shut the fuck up. The cop jams him hard in the back and through the door. All Gabriel has time to notice is a single table lamp glowing in the corner. There's no sign of the woman he drove here, no sign of anyone.  Move, the cop orders. He shoves his prisoner toward a bedroom in back.

Cut it out, Gabriel shouts, anger drowning out his initial bewilderment. Bumping into a mattress on the floor he struggles to spin and face his adversary, but the cop has him again by one arm, twisting it expertly even as he tugs out the cuffs. The flash of pain bends Gabriel over and the rush of blood in turn makes him dizzy. He's afraid he'll vomit or pass out. Not me, he manages to whisper. One cuff on, he's yanked straight again. His other wrist is pincered and cuffed behind him.

Okay, says the cop. His blue eyes are small and jovial. Acne has long ago ravaged his face. Let's see what we got. He unbuckles Gabriel's belt and unzips him. Christ, I hate even touching fuckers like you, he says with cheerful disgust. Jerking the pants down, he pushes Gabriel in the chest so that he topples back across the mattress. Hey, Stan—he's in here.

On cue another cop enters. Gabriel doesn't glance at him. He's sprawled in shadow, half on the floor, half on the mattress, trying to work his pants up to cover himself. With his hands pinioned behind it's almost impossible.

Must have been trying to get out the back, the new cop says. Jesus. You'd think he'd at least want to get his pants up.

Chapter I

At 2:15 Monday afternoon, after morning arraignment and a percentage of $30,000 bail was raised, the police released Gabriel Salter. Released him: a guard let go of his arm and Gabriel staggered forward like a drunk six paces into the noise and chaos (shrieking children, bleary relatives, impatient lawyers) of the city jail's waiting room. Angry welts and bruises distorted his face. One eye was swollen shut. It was hard to tell as he stumbled towards us whether he was grinning in relief or grimacing in acute pain. His wife Grey, fierce in her worry, leapt to catch him. Simon Yoo helped settle Gabriel onto a chair to catch his breath.

His head hung forward, chin nearly touching his chest as he panted. Grey squatted next to him, whispering in his ear, hawkish and fierce, stroking his hand. Her long black hair brushed his battered cheek. From where I stood leaning against a bulletin board it was hard to tell whether Gabriel was taking in what she said or not. He gave no sign.

At last he gathered himself, wagged his head gently back and forth to test how wobbly he’d be. With an effort he looked up and stared directly at me. The one visible eye was unexpectedly sharp. What surprised me was his lack of surprise. He even managed a faint smile as he winced with pain.

Grey had been poised to catch her husband because of what we'd discovered at the earlier arraignment, though the lawyer had warned us beforehand. Grey's own immediate dismay—Gabriel's injuries were worse than she'd expected—were quickly displaced by fury. Not only the eye but the whole left side of his face was swollen above a cracked jaw. A large swatch of his scalp had been shaved around a seam of purple stitches closing a long gash. Two days old, the bruises were already yellowing. To the original rape charges against him had been added several counts of assault for attempting to snatch a policeman's revolver (from an empty holster) and wrestling wildly with two officers in the jail’s elevator.

Let's get him out of this place, Simon said to Grey as if Gabriel couldn't hear.  Gently but firmly, they each took an arm and raised him to his feet. He seemed stronger now, more certain, and he strode steadily out of the jailhouse into the bright March afternoon. Grey helped Gabriel into the back of Simon’s car and slid in beside him. I jogged around the corner to the Dodge I'd rented at the airport and gunned it through a changing yellow light. They hadn't waited for me—I didn't expect them to—but I caught them turning at the next block and followed them to the north side of town.

By the time I walked in the front door of the spartan two-story frame house, Gabriel had been arrayed on a ragged sea-green couch in the front room. His hair was matted with sweat. Although he was dozing, the business at hand was for Simon to snap a dozen photos of Gabe's wounds from different angles. A naked overhead bulb and a standing lamp tilted close to the couch illuminated the welts and abrasions.

Simon moved quickly, efficiently, snapping off shots as if he'd apprenticed with a wedding photographer. (He was striving for the close-up drama of the posed face. Were he a shooter sent along by my paper, he'd be circling further back, aiming for context, for the unposed, for the casually glimpsed horror.) As soon as he finished the roll Simon shifted the lamp away and Grey settled protectively next to Gabriel. She placed a wet cloth on his forehead and stroked his neck awkwardly with her fingers—she was wary of touching his face.

I'd only met Grey for the first time that morning after arriving on the red-eye from Baltimore. She greeted me at their door with a grim face. But as the connection came clear a certain flickering surprise, an unexpected recognition, crossed her face briefly. I assumed she knew who I was—the Salters, even Gabriel, were always big on family history. I'd certainly heard about her, though not as much as I might have; the family discovered she was living with Gabriel just about the same time three years earlier that Hilary, Gabriel's older sister, was divorcing me.

Her name was Grey Navarro, and as I learned later she was Laguna—not Cherokee as I’d assumed when told she was Indian. Apparently there'd never been any question of changing her name to Salter. There was a question of whether she and Gabriel had ever bothered with a wedding. It was hard to imagine him participating in any formal ceremony, especially one sanctioned by the state. Common-law traditions offered greater appeal.

I watched as Grey moved about their house with a powerful grace—that of a dancer who's neither feminine nor masculine. There was nothing particularly feminine about her at all, as if such a category were a confining irrelevance. Sharp, almost crudely chiseled cheekbones framed her dark eyes under a hawkish brow.  Her fine hair fell to the small of her back, gathered by a turquoise barrette.  The only contrast to the severity was her birthmark, striking as a brilliant flaw, a silver-dollar-sized dab of crimson that rode high on her right cheek, just brushing the corner of her eye.

Although she’d quickly come to accept my presence, Grey’s concern for Gabriel that afternoon swept up all her attention. Simon Yoo certainly didn't bother making me welcome. As far as he was concerned I could stand and observe by the door for the purpose of reporting to Gabriel's mother, but that entitled me to no special notice. Annoyed, bored, professionally curious about what Gabriel was accused of doing and what had been done to him, I decided to hang around a little while longer, as if witness must be borne or a vigil endured so that I could report in all good faith that my (former) brother-in-law, rather the worse for wear, had been delivered home safely.

As afternoon wore to early evening, three or four friends who'd helped raise bail drifted in to check on Gabriel, to pay quiet sympathy and declare the first blossomings of outrage. They stood in doorways or sat on the floor. An African American woman, Sara Oliver, silent but imposing, appropriated Grey's stool and sat next to Gabriel, holding his hand in her lap. But given Gabriel's political ministry this struck me as rather a paltry turnout. Others were probably waiting to hear more about what actually happened. The story in yesterday's Sunday Register (I'd lifted one that morning from a trash bin at the airport) had taken its lead, naturally enough, from the police blotter: 15-year-old girl brutally attacked. Local man, Gabriel Salter, meatpacker and socialist, charged.

I assumed Gabriel's other acquaintances couldn't believe he'd do such a thing, but... Maybe that's why Simon Yoo was moving so swiftly. As Iowa chapter head or director or whatever (they preferred to downplay such titles) of the International Socialist Alliance, Simon stayed on the phone at the kitchen table, never for more than five minutes with the same call, jotting notes furiously on a yellow pad. His wire-rimmed spectacles were pushed up on his brow as he wrote. His dark hair was trimmed very short. At a distance his voice sounded perpetually hoarse, and he spoke in direct, impatient monosyllables. Every half-hour or so Simon would step out on the porch for a few quick tugs at a cigarette.

At five o'clock I rose to leave, my bad knee stiff already. Gabriel hadn't opened the eye he could for some time. His breath was shallow but steady. I waved a hand at Grey but said nothing. She gave no sign at all that she noticed. A reporter has to be patient, but I'd pretty well reached my limit.  New developments seemed unlikely and I was spent. I'd arrived in Iowa at six in the morning—in fact there'd been precious little sleep since Hilary woke me two nights earlier. But as I reached the front door Gabriel called out, Jason.

Limping across the room, I stood at Grey's shoulder. Gabriel was smiling at me, though faintly. I felt a distant but familiar twinge. Battered as he was, the smile revived something of the waifishness of his pale skin and sharp, thin features. That smile had always been the secret of his charm. It made the recipient special, the center of the universe for an instant, someone in on a precious secret. And although Gabriel was capable of self-mockery, he seemed to bank on the effect.

He tried to raise himself on an elbow then fell back. You haven't even said hello and now you're sneaking away without a goodbye? he said.

Your mother asked me to check things out. She wants to make sure you're okay.

You can tell her I'm better than I look, he said. He laughed (and winced again).  No, you better not tell her how I look. Do I look as bad as I think?

If you think pretty bad.

He shrugged and turned his head on the greying bed pillow.

Grey's lips were pressed thin. It's their turn to look bad, she said. Wait until Simon's pictures get around. They'll tell the story.

Part of it anyway, I murmured. So, what the hell happened, Gabe?

He pressed his head back and closed his eyes. There's this elevator in the jail, the one that carries you from intake to the cells. It's famous all over town.  They call it the Wonderland Express. People step on feeling just fine and step off in a different state of being. If you're poor or Black or Latino in this city, you know about the Express. He coughed and reached for a glass of water on the floor next to him. Simon had emerged from the kitchen with his yellow pad and was taking notes.

"These two goons loaded me on and stopped the thing between floors. For interrogation, they said. This boy wants to help our wetbacks, one says to the other. I hear he loves nigger ass, says the other. And boy, did they interrogate me. Twenty-three stitches it took to close this eye."

What about you going for a gun?

Yeah, he said with a laugh that twisted hard into the cough again. He took another sip of water. I may be stupid, Jason, but I'm not blind. There wasn't any gun in any holster. Anyway, they throw me naked in a cell for the night, no blanket, no toilet, no heat, nothing. How's that for a story your paper can run?"

He was looking at me expectantly. They all were. Their deliberate misconception first embarrassed then irritated me. Yeah, well, I'm sorry—but like I said, I'm out here because your folks asked. Not on business. His story sickened but didn't shock me. These things