Hard News

interrupt anything.”
    “I’d have told you if I didn’t want to be interrupted.” Maisel returned to the cumulonimbus of suds. “The bar’s over there.” He nodded. “Food?”
    “Uhm, I just ate.”
    Maisel dove into the dishwater again. Surrounded by implements—scrapers, sponges, metallic scrubbers like tiny steel wigs. A typhoon crashed over the granite countertop. A pan surfaced and beached itself on the Rubber-maid and he examined it carefully. His face was pure contentment. She envied him; cooking and cleaning were loves that Rune knew she would never cultivate.
    In the living room, a projection TV set was showing an old movie, the sound low. Bette Davis. Who was the dude? Tyrone Power maybe. What a name, what a face! Men sure looked good back then. She could watch him for hours.
    Finally Maisel wiped his hands and said, “Come on.”
    They walked into the living room.
    Rune paused, looking at a framed newspaper article on the wall. From the
Times
. The headline was: “TV Correspondent Wins Pulitzer.”
    “Excellent,” Rune said. “What was it for?”
    “A story in Beirut a few years ago.”
    She asked, “A
Current Events
segment?”
    “No. It was before we developed the show.” He looked at the article slowly. “What a beautiful city that used to be. That’s one of the crimes of the century, what happened there.”
    Rune skimmed the article. “It says you got an exclusive.”
    But he was troubled. “It was a mixed victory,” he said. “We did what journalists should do—we looked under the surface and reported the truth But some people died because of that.”
    Rune recalled the incident from the information Bradford had brought her. Remembered too that Lance Hopper had stood up to the criticism and defended his news team.
    “Come here,” Maisel said, his face brightening. He led Rune down a long corridor, lit by overhead spotlights. It was like an art gallery.
    “Hey, this is pretty cool.”
    There were dozens of framed maps, most of them antique. Maisel paused at each one, told her where he’d found it, how he’d dickered with the booksellers and vendors—and how he’d been taken by some and gypped others. She liked the New York maps best. Maisel pointed to a couple of them, describing what buildings were now on the spots that the maps showed as empty fields or hills.
    Her favorite was a map of Greenwich Village in the 1700s. “That is fantastic. I love old New York. Doesn’t it just do something to you? Okay, you’re out on the street eating a Nedick’s with onions—I really love those pickled onions—and you suddenly think, Wow, maybe I’m standing right on the very spot where they rubbed out a gangster or where two hundred years ago there was an Indian war or something.”
    “I don’t eat hot dogs,” Maisel said absently and she caught him glancing at his watch. They walked into a low-lit den, filled with leather furniture and more maps and framed photos of Maisel on assignment. They sat. He asked, “So what’s up?”
    Rune said, “I got an offer for something and I don’t know what to do about it.”
    “Publishers Clearing House?” he asked wryly.
    “Better than that.” She told him what Piper Sutton had said.
    Maisel listened. She got almost all the way through before she realized that his face was growing a frown. “So she offered
you
the Brit spot, huh?”
    “I was kind of surprised.”
    She could see that he was surprised too. “Rune, I want to be honest. No reflection on you but it’s a tough assignment. I had a couple of people more senior in mind. I’m not saying you couldn’t get up to speed but your experience is …”
    “Like, pretty much not there.”
    Maisel didn’t agree or disagree. He said, “You’re a good cameraman and you’re learning a lot with the Hopper story. But producing involves a lot more than that.” He shrugged. “But I asked Piper to fill the spot. It’s her call. If she wants you in the job it’s yours.” He looked across the room. More antique maps. She wondered what country he was focusing on.
    “I’m pretty tempted,” she said.
    “Wonder why,” he said wryly. “Couldn’t be more than ten, fifteen thousand reporters in the country that’d kill to have that assignment.” Maisel stretched his feet out straight. He was wearing bright yellow socks.
    “But,” he said, “you’re worried about the Boggs story.”
    She nodded.
“That’s
the problem.”
    “How’s it coming?”
    “Slow. I don’t