Too Easy

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO

MY BROTHERS

BEAU AND WAYNE

(Guys who don't read novels . . . but now they'll have to read this one.)

When we want to read

of the deeds that are

done for love,

whither do we turn?

To the murder column.

—George Bernard Shaw

•
 Robert walks toward the water fountain, frowning, wondering how he's going to handle this thing. Two of his best reporters want the bank story. The one who wants it most is least suited for it. They're yelling at each other in his office.

Why can't people be reasonable? But then, he thinks, they wouldn't be working for a newspaper, would they?

He's not wearing his jacket, the shirt sleeves are rolled up. He's a tall man, just turned thirty-six, maybe an athlete once but a little soft around the middle now. The brown hair is long. He walks with a big man's slow confidence, smiling absently to himself. Damned reporters, he thinks, if they're not a little crazy they're no good, isn't that the truth?

Robert snaps out a cup, fills it from the water fountain. So, what's it going to be, which maniac gets the story, and what does the loser get?

Robert drains the cup, puts it down, sees a woman he
doesn't know. She smiles as though he does. Standing only a few feet in front of him. He makes an expression that says, Yes?

“Oh,” she says, “I'm Kathy Becker. In marketing.” She tilts her head, still smiling. “You must be Robert Saunders . . . the distinguished managing editor.”

“You want—” he gives her a quizzical smile—“what?”

She puts out her hand. “People always
want
something. Must be rough.”

He shakes her hand. Warm, strong. He sees the dark hair, not too long, the good-looking face, perhaps midwestern. He glances down for a second. She's dressed in a subdued way, a little formal for the office, maybe for something after work. Still, it's a tailored outfit and he gets a sense of her as trim, in good shape. Actually, great shape.

“Sorry,” he says. “Well, as a matter of fact, they usually do. That's my job, basically. Telling people what they can't have.” He almost laughs, thinking that's fairly witty.

“Well, you're home free,” she says. “I don't want anything.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I've been working here a month or so. Bound to run into you eventually. Uh, your picture's in the annual report.”

“Oh, yeah. . . . Right.”

“Of course, in person, you're . . . ”

His eyebrows go up.
Yes?

She laughs. “Larger.”

Maybe that's funny, he's not sure. It's cute. Anyway, she's cute. “Right,” he says.

She's still looking at him the same way, smiling, tilting her head to the side. In a way he thinks of as flirtatious or close to it. He turns a little away from her, glancing back toward the large open office. Twenty people working at desks. Maybe, he thinks, she's trying to make somebody jealous. No, nobody's watching them. She can't be flirting with me, he thinks. She must have seen the thick gold ring on his left hand.

He leans to fill the cup again. Something to do. “Marketing? What's that mean?”

“Fancy word for advertising. We make people buy the paper. Or maybe an advertiser needs a little help, we can do that.”

“Oh, creative,” he says, as though it's a slightly risqué word. Sipping the water more slowly this time.

“On a good day,” Kathy says brightly. “Oh, I heard some people talking about you.”

“Good God—gossip!”

“No, quite harmless. Seems you went white-water rafting.”

“Oh, well, that was in the fall. Yeah, made it down the Delaware in one piece.”

“Sounds very adventurous.” Again the warm smile. “Maybe dangerous.”

“Only for the rocks,” he says.

“Come again.”

He waves vaguely. “We hit them a lot.”

“Oh. No, really, it sounds very exciting. I've always wanted to do that. Any other adventures?”

Robert sighs. “No, I'm a flatliner.”

She gets this, smiles appreciatively. “What a terrible thing to say about yourself. A young man in his prime.”

“Well, if you want to stretch a point.”

She puts her hand gently on his forearm. At once forward and grandmotherly. “In his prime,” she insists.

She leaves the hand there a second, long enough for him to feel the warmth of it. And a little tremor in the groin. He still can't figure this. She's leaning at him, smiling at him, giving him more heat than he expects. But all in this really innocent way, right out in public. Anyone can look over and see them chatting. Like they're old friends. If she does want something, he almost admires her directness. If she doesn't, he wonders how she survives carrying on like this. But hell, what could she want? They're in different parts of the business, completely.

Robert glances at her hand as she draws it away. Then at the curve of her shoulder, then her chest.

“Well, Kathy, I've got domestic politics to sort out. By the way, I'm an associate managing editor. One of three, I'm afraid. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise, Robert. We'll talk again.”

She says this as if it's a simple fact. Not to be disputed. He almost says,
We will?
Just to test her. Instead he nods vaguely, says, “Bye.”

He walks back toward his office. Of course, he has to do what's best for the paper. Give the story to the best reporter for the job, the hell with that they want. Jesus, they're almost children, always squabbling, posturing, parading their egos. He sees her in his mind. This Kathy—what'd she say? Becker. Yeah, Becker. What, she's the friendliest woman in Manhattan? She's on happy pills? She's in heat? What? Funny thing. The mood was all wrong for the office. Suppose they were at a bar. The next step is you start necking, then go home. Yeah, the good old days. I can remember. Man, suppose I'm not happily married. I'd be curious, that's for sure.

He can still see her smile, a few feet in front of him. Damn. The kind of smile that says, Come on over here, and we'll do anything you want. Really, he thinks, that's what it said, right? What the hell?

Robert goes in his office, stares at the two reporters. “You guys still here?”

“You said to wait,” one says petulantly.

“It's a joke, Armstrong. Alright, I'll tell you what's going down. Then there won't be any further discussion. Are we clear on that?”

They're staring at him. Usually so soft, so laid back, the big den mother, that's his style. They sense some change. Robert realizes his chest is a little tense, his pulse hammering away so he can feel it. Kathy Becker, huh? What the hell was all that?

•
 The train arrives right on time. 8:43
A.M.
Robert moves along wth the thousand other commuters, through the huge space of Grand Central, down a large passageway, out onto East 42nd Street.

He wonders if he'll see her today. Let's see, Wednesday. Nothing this week so far. She's got this way of turning up unexpectedly, casually. Hey, it's the Big Editor! Yo, Big Rob, who's winning the newspaper wars? Hi, Robie, what's happening?

He smiles as he trudges along. The
New York News
building is two blocks up, on the right. A quick little commute down from Westchester, forty minutes door to door.

He's got a gray suit on, a big green parka over that, a soft brown stetson on his head. He walks along hunched over against the cold wind, hands in his pockets. It's a bright day but still the middle of winter. He notices dirty slush in the gutters, from the big storm a week ago.

Yeah, he thinks, she's due. Let's put some money down. A hundred dollars even money she shows. Yeah, I'll take that bet.

The woman's lively, he thinks. Got to give her that. Couldn't be from New York. You just know it. The amazing thing is she's really very pretty. But not that fine, delicate beauty that the models have. Something weak about that. Kathy's more robust. A down-to-earth, soap-and-water kind of beauty, he thinks. You don't imagine her at a fancy ball, making empty talk. Maybe on a horse, doing something. Hell, riding the south forty. Doesn't matter. Point is, she's capable, confident. A real easygoing way about her. What was it she said? Kicking ass and taking names. . . . Right. How's it going in marketing? I said. And she says, Oh, I'm kicking ass and taking names.

Robert Saunders laughs as he crosses Third Avenue.

Yeah, truth is, I hope she shows up. Makes me feel good.

Then he shudders, not from the cold. Thinking how crazy it is that he would flirt, no matter how harmlessly, with this woman. Why's she do it anyway? That's the question.

He's never had this problem before. Always sort of formal. A tough guy if he has to be. A woman's too friendly, you just don't notice. Hell, he thinks, it's like they say. L.A. is about money, New York is about work. People don't have time to mess around. You want messing around, go to the sticks. People bored out of their brains. Man, there's nothing to do but get in trouble.

He reaches the building, trudges straight across the big lobby, making it a point not to look around, not to check for her.

“Well, Big Bad Robie.”

There she is.
The voice ripples a thrill down his arms. But he keeps going a few steps, pretending not to hear her. Then, almost as an afterthought, he half turns. A little smile of recognition. Oh, you. Last thing I expected.

“Oh . . . Kathy.” Like he can't even remember her name. “How're you doing?”

“Doing good, Big Rob. And you?” She gives him that hot little smile. Cool and knowing. Mischievous eyes.

But she stays a few feet from him. The way she holds herself is very guarded. Anybody seeing them would think they hardly know each other.

He just stares for a few seconds, pretending to be preoccupied, something else on his mind, looking at something else. Certainly not at the way her black hair waves down almost to her shoulders, not at the tendons in her white throat, not at the curve of her lips.

“Robie, my man,” she pushes with her voice. “What's up in newspaper land?”

Robert shrugs, hunches his wide shoulders, his hands still down in his pockets. “Well,” he says confidentially, “we in newspaper land are all atwitter this morning. Mayor's giving a press conference. Amazing man. He does something dumb. Then he says he didn't do it. Then he apologizes for doing it. Then he says this thing he didn't do, it was necessary to do it. And besides, he's appointing a commission to make sure it never happens again. Not that it ever did.”

Kathy smiles. Hey, look at all the words she got out of him.
“Look out,
Dan Rather. Robie, they ought to put you on the tube.”

Robert Saunders laughs. Playing the cool big brother. “Everything all right, Kathy?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Good.”

“You know,” she says in a musing way, “that's something you could teach me about. Politics.”

“Maybe,” he says vaguely.

They reach the elevators, go into a crowded cab. They stop talking, pretend to ignore each other.

•
 “So run this by me again,” Kathy says to her friend Louise. “He's nice or he isn't?” She sees the friend take out a cigarette. “Hey, give me one of those. I've quit.”

“Me, too,” Louise says, and they both laugh. “I only smoke after meals. And coffee. And sex. And when I really need one.”

“Hell,” Kathy says, “you
really
have quit, haven't you?!” She lights a Carlton and watches her friend through the smoke. They used to be real close. Oh, well. “So come on, Louise. What's he really getting at?” Talking about her ex.

“You?”

Kathy shrugs. “You have to figure.”

“Where's he been the last year? I asked him, and he says, Around.' ”

“Probably in jail,” Kathy says. “Best place for him.”

“You used to say he was a hell of a man.” Louise pushes
her cup around, waits to see how Kathy will answer that. They're in a coffee shop near Fifth, people and traffic moving by outside the plate-glass window.