Colin explained that he wanted to write the story while it was still fresh in his mind.
Mark said, "You have to eat, and it's not like we put the paper to bed tonight. Join us after you write the story."
The four of them were standing in front of Gildersleeve's house, and Colin knew he had to get out of it. This wasn't the night to make new friends. "I'll see, Mark, okay?"
Sarah said, "What'll you do, Colin, grab a slice of pizza or something?"
That was exactly what he'd do. Pizza Heaven was almost as good as their local place in Chicago. Shit. He had Chicago on the brain tonight. "I have stuff at home," he said.
"I think I'd better go," Annie said.
The gate opened. Two men in white carried her out in a green body bag. Colin felt woozy again and reached out to touch the hood of the car for support. When he glanced at Annie he knew she'd seen. It pissed him off. Quickly, they each turned back to the body bag entering the ambulance. The door slapped shut.
Annie touched Colin's arm. "I don't mean to be a pest, but if you're feeling shaky or anything, well, I could drive you home. You could get your car later or-"
"No," he snapped.
She backed away as if he'd hit her.
Jesus, he kept making it worse. "Sorry. I didn't mean to… it's just that…" Just that what? How the hell could he tell her he couldn't ride in a car with anyone?
"It's okay, don't worry." She smiled faintly. "Sarah, Mark, I won't say it's been fun. See you soon. It was nice to meet you," she said to Colin.
He nodded, wanting to say something but unable to. And then she was gone, walking across the street to her blue Ford Escort.
Mark said, "You sure have a way with women, pal."
"Yeah, don't I? Talk about getting off on the wrong foot." He ran his thumb and forefinger down his black Zapata mustache.
"Oh, Annie's not going to think anything of it, Colin. After all, it wasn't exactly an ordinary day."
Colin felt it incumbent upon him to say something about what had happened to him. "Listen, I'm sorry about taking a dive like that."
Mark put a hand on his shoulder. "No sweat, pal.”
“We understand, Colin. As long as you're all right now."
"I'm fine." It was obvious they didn't want to discuss it. He couldn't blame them.
"So how about dinner?"
The Griffings got in their car.
"No. I want to write the story, grab something, get some sleep."
"Leave him alone, Mark."
"Nice big juicy steak you're gonna miss."
"Thanks anyway."
"See you Monday."
Sarah said, "If you get lonely, come on over tomorrow."
He thanked her, started for his station wagon, stopped. "Hey," he called, "who is she, anyway?"
"Annie?" Mark asked. "She's the minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church. So long, pal."
They pulled away, leaving him standing by his car, mouth open in surprise.
Colin liked being in his office at night, one light on in the whole place. Some people might have found it creepy. To him it was cozy, safe. At the Chicago Tribune he was never alone, no matter the time. But he'd loved it. God, he'd been young and green when he started! Right out of the University of Michigan. That's when he'd grown the mustache to make himself look older. He hadn't fooled his editor.
Ryan had said, "Kid, you can grow all the garbage you want on your face, but it don't mean kaka to me if you don't produce. Get it?"
He got it. Still, he kept the mustache. It gave him confidence.
Then it became a habit. Without it he'd feel naked; it was as much a part of him as his cleft chin.
For four years they shuffled him around, and he covered obits, the courts, the suburbs, high school sports, the weather. It was mean. But he hung in and it paid off-he got the crime beat. Squalid and seamy as it sometimes was, he loved it. The excitement, the cops, the rhythm. He never understood why it spoke to him. Maybe it was the possibility of danger, an illusion of living on the edge. He didn't know. But he stayed in it for nine years until everything came down on him, until everything was over.
Colin rubbed his eyes as though he were trying to wipe them clean. Maybe he was. He lit a Marlboro and blew a ring in front of him. He didn't want to think about that now, start it all up again. Jesus, couldn't he have just one free night? But this night was more unlikely to be absent of ghosts than any he'd had for a long time. Don't pick up the first thought, Dr. Safier had told him. It was good advice. So try it for once, goddammit!
He turned away from his desk to his typing table, stuck a piece of paper in his old Royal. Mark kept making noises about getting computers, but meanwhile both of them used manual machines. He hit the keys.