Day 8 (Payroll)

The conversation wandered after that point, as did Wynn's
attention. Eventually the co-workers began to leave, one by one.
He handed them all his business card as they went, even if he
didn't imagine they'd call him. He'd learned a long time ago that
this was never a bad idea; more than one lead - even if on a
different story - had come to him from casual handouts of his
card.

Finally, after hours of mostly listening with a question or two
added every now and then, he was alone at his table with only his
notes for company. There were parts he liked about his job -
talking to people who were willing to help him with a story was
one. Getting a story out of the unwilling was perhaps even more
enjoyable, on those few occasions when he managed to pull it off.
Seeing his work in print was always satisfying. The part coming
next, however, wasn't on the list. That part was, of course, the
painstaking creation of a rough draft and near-constant revision
it would require to become presentable.

He drove home in the dark easily - one advantage to keeping the
insane hours that he tended to was that there was nowhere near
rush hour's volume on the roads. He didn't really have to pay
much attention to the road, which worked out well for him given
he was already constructing a the story in his mind. It didn't
have to be a long story, it had that much going for it. Tomorrow
he'd have to stop by the hospital, find out why Caster had
refused treatment. That was a detail that kept nagging at him
and, even though the place was entirely out of his way, one he
wouldn't let go. He'd also have to go back down and talk to
VonCannon. Most of him just wanted to steer clear of the old
coot, but he owed it to himself to find out what the connection
was. It simply seemed odd to him that Caster and VonCannon hadn't
spoken in years, and the day that the former was apparently
driving close to the latter, the former died under strange
circumstances.

It was probably just a coincidence, he rationalized. He'd seen
stranger things happen that also had turned out to be
meaningless.

Ten thirty. That was the time his car informed him of as he
pulled into his familiar driveway. A bit long a day, granted, but
a productive one. He wandered inside and started preparing for
bed. Not because he planned to get up all that early, simply
because he knew he'd put it off for another few hours.

He was lying down and shutting his eyes when he remembered the
one thing he'd forgotten to accomplish.

``Call Rosetta!'' he exclaimed, almost literally jumping out of
his bed.

His alarm clock beamed the numbers '11:45' at him redly, and he
cursed under his breath. He knew that in some schools of thought
it was better to wait a while - days, even - before calling
someone who'd given you their number. The problem with this
approach in Grant's experience was that the woman in question was
likely to have forgotten who he was and why he was calling by
that point. This was moot in this case, he considered while
rifling through his dirty laundry pile in a likely futile attempt
to locate his pants. Rose already knew who he was. No, she'd do
worse than forget why he was calling. She'd hold his tardiness
against him.

He located his discarded jeans and rummaged through the pockets,
finally locating the card she'd given him. He raised it
triumphantly and got as far as picking up his bedside phone to
dial the number before he considered.

Eleven fifty one. That wasn't really all that late for him, in
fact he was going to bed somewhat early tonight, but he realized
that the vast majority of people tended to have sane bedtimes.
When would Rose have gone to bed? Which would she be more angry
about, his waking her or his forgetting, then remembering but not
calling?

To hell with it, he decided, and dialed the number.

A ring.

Two.

Three. Most answering machines and voicemail services picked up
after the fourth ring, a fact which annoyed him because it
usually took him two rings of his own phone for him to even
realize it was ringing. He mentally began preparing a message. It
was the best of both worlds, really, he wouldn't have woken her
up but he'd have called -

``You're late.'' Rose's voice seemed somewhat detached, but it
wasn't sleepy.

``At least I didn't wake you up?'' He ventured.

``Ha! I wish you had. That'd at least mean I'd gotten some sleep.
I've been catching up on work, the outage really put us behind.
How about you, how's the paperboy business?'' Her voice had
picked up steam now.

He had to stifle a laugh at how she'd described his career. ``I
was thinking of that exact term last week when I was doing a
story about the city's largest teacup collection.''

``You know, if you can't tell me the story you're working on
because it's confidential, you can just say so. You don't have to
make up these ridiculous stories. Who'd read about a teacup
collection?''

``That's exactly what I said to my boss when he gave me the
story.'' Grant pointed out. ``He said I needed to do more human
interest stories.''

``I thought they had to be interesting to be human interest
stories.''

``That's the next thing I said.''

There was a pause for a moment, and Grant found himself wondering
if the line had cut out. Then Rose's voice returned.

``I guess the question I need to ask you at this point,'' she
began, ``is: Are we going to just talk on the phone about your
boss, or are you going to ask me out?''

Grant feigned ignorance, never a difficult task. ``You want to go
out and talk about my boss?''

``I guess if you're not int-''

He didn't give her the chance to continue with that line of
thought. ``Want to go out?''

``Hmmmm.... ``He'd played dumb, and now he was paying for it. ``I
guess I could. It'd have to be at a restaurant, though, no movie
or anything. You're going to have to talk.'' She spoke up again
right as Grant was about to say something: ``And no, you can't
gripe about your boss there, either. In the spirit of fairness, I
won't complain about mine either.''

``You're self-employed.''

``And yet I'm still making myself do things like stay up and
finish work, lucky for you. The point is, you now have my terms.
Take them or leave them.''

She could get away with these things, he reflected, because she
knew he wasn't about to turn her down. It'd always been that way.
Still, it wasn't every day he had people demanding to go on
dates. ``It's a deal.''

``Good. You want to pick me up after work? Assuming, that is, you
can find your way to the recycling plant this time.'' there was a
teasing note in her voice, even though he hadn't mentioned his
earlier failed attempt. He'd have to ask about that later.

``Sounds good, when's after work for you?''

She laughed. ``You want me to give you another card?''

``Right. I'll see you at closing time.''

``Bye.''

``Bye.'' he replied reflexively, as they both hung up.

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