Private Scandals

he knew his mother’s elegant penthouse on Central Park West.
    He couldn’t even say if he preferred one to the other. Any more than he could say that he minded putting in a few days on Wake Up Call.
    At the moment, Finn put New York out of his mind and concentrated on the ball whizzing toward his nose. It wasn’t self-defense nearly as much as it was the spirit of competition. And God knew the exertion of the court was a welcome change from the hours he’d spent sitting on a sofa on the set the last four days.
    He sliced out with his racket, letting out a grunt of effort that was lost as the ball caromed off the wall. The power sang up his arm, the echo of the smash reverberated in his head. Adrenaline raced through him as his opponent cracked the ball back.
    He met it with a solid backhand. The sweat dribbled satisfactorily down his back, dampening his ragged CBC T-shirt. For the next five minutes, there was only the smashand echo of the ball, the smell of sweat and the sound of labored breathing.
    “Son of a bitch.” Barlow James sagged against the wall as Finn blew one by him. “You’re killing me.”
    “Shit.” Finn didn’t bother with the wall. He slid straight down to the floor of the Vertical Club. Every muscle in his body was weeping. “Next time I’ll bring a gun. It’ll be easier on both of us.” He groped for a towel, mopped his soaking face. “When the hell are you going to get old?”
    Barlow’s laugh barked off the walls of the racquetball court. He was a brawny six-foot-four, flat of stomach, broad of chest, with shoulders like concrete blocks. At sixty-three, he was showing no signs of slowing down. As he crossed toward Finn, he pulled an orange neon sweatband away from his silver mane of hair. Finn had always thought Barlow had a face that belonged on Mount Rushmore. Craggy, huge and powerful.
    “Getting soft, kid.” Barlow pulled a bottle of Evian out of his gym bag and tossed it underhand to Finn. The second one he kept himself, drinking in deep, greedy gulps. “Almost took you that time.”
    “I’ve been playing with Brits.” Since he nearly had his breath back, Finn grinned up at him. “They’re not as mean as you.”
    “Well, welcome back to the States.” Barlow offered a hand, hauling Finn to his feet. It was like being gripped by a friendly grizzly. “You know, most people would have considered the post in London a promotion, even a coup.”
    “It’s a nice town.”
    Barlow let out a sigh. “Let’s hit the showers.”
     
    Twenty minutes later, they were stretched out on massage tables being pummeled.
    “Damn good show this morning,” Barlow commented.
    “You’ve got a good crew, solid writers. Give it a little time and you’ll be competitive.”
    “Time is shorter than it used to be in this business. I used to hate the goddamn bean counters.” He bared his teeth in agrimace. “Now I’m a goddamn bean counter.”
    “At least you’re a bean counter with imagination.”
    Barlow said nothing. Finn held his silence, knowing there was a purpose to this informal meeting.
    “Give me an opinion on the Chicago bureau.”
    “It’s tight,” Finn said cautiously. “Hell, Barlow, you were bureau chief there for more than ten years, you know what we’re working with. You’ve got a solid combination of experience and fresh blood. It’s a good place to work.”
    “Ratings for the local evening news are weak. What we need is a stronger lead-in. I’d like to see them shift Angela’s to four, pull her audience along.”
    Finn shrugged. He didn’t ignore ratings, but he did detest their importance. “She’s been at nine in Chicago and most of the Midwest for years. You might have a tough time pulling it off.”
    “Tougher than you think,” Barlow murmured. “You and Angela . . . ah, there’s nothing going on there anymore?”
    Finn opened his eyes, cocked a brow. “Are we going to have a father-son chat, Pop?”
    “Wiseass.” Barlow chuckled, but his eyes were keen. Finn knew the look. “I wondered if you two had picked up where you left off.”
    “Where we left off was in the toilet,” Finn said dryly. “And no.”
    “Hmmm. So are relations friendly or strained?”
    “Publicly, friendly. Realistically, she hates my guts.”
    Barlow grunted again. It was good news, he thought, because he was fond of the boy. It was bad news because it meant he might not be able to use him. Making up his mind, he shifted on the table, wrapping the sheet